Less and More

Does it make her           less British that she doesn’t support the monarchy?

                                     less English that she doesn’t drink tea?

                                     less Singaporean that she doesn’t like to shop?

                                     less Chinese that she doesn’t like Math and grew up in Timaru?

Does it make him           less Thai that he’s not Buddhist?

                                     less Australian that he doesn’t know the national anthem?

                                     less German that he is imprecise and incessantly late?

                                     less Samoan that he is half Palagi?

Does it make them         less Korean because they are also Japanese?

                                     less  Turkish becasue they don’t speak it?

                                     less Ethiopian becasue they consider themselves Kiwis?

                                     Less Maori because it’s only one fifty-sixth?

IS my cultural identity just

a matter of how

others

see me?

How strongly they connect

me

with certain

values, ideals and

ways of being?

Perhaps.

Knowing where I came from

loving it

learning from it                                   Makes me More

Knowing what I value

why I do

who else shares this                           Makes me More

Knowing who others are

why

where they come from

loving it

learning from it                                  Makes me More

Knowing God

as creator

of creativity

newness/diversity/unity                      Makes me More

It helps me know

Myself

which

Makes me More

My bus driver is a pirate

My bus driver is a pirate

His gold earrings, no doubt the loot

gathered raiding a Spanish galleon

A bushy mass of black hair engulfs his chin,

flows down his chest.

His head a shining dome

not unlike               

the sacred Muslim rock

He holds the wheel with muscled forearms

spread by the width of

massive shoulders

just as he would

a ships wheel

in a howling gale

From port to starboard

he barrels down Kent Terrace

I see him

aboard a heaving ship

feet planted firmly

legs bent

ploughing through enormous waves

When he checks passengers

in the mirror

I notice the eye creases

carved out by

gazing toward the horizon

across vast oceans

and seven seas

But all these things may have passed my notice

were it not for the gleam in his dark flashing eyes

when I presented a gold doubloon.

They glittered

and I’m sure I heard him whisper:

“Yo ho ho and a bottle of rum

Avast me hearties and shiver me timbers!

To Kilbirnie we shall go,

or I’m not Long John Silver”