Anzac Day 2014

Anzac Day 2014

I stood in the sun today

a cool breeze in my hair

Honouring the memory

Of men I have never met

Their hair was full of sand and grit

I have no way to know if the sun shone

on their doomed push

up a beach that no-one had heard of

A shore that meant not much to anyone

Except the local villagers

Who despaired at the boats

The guns, the battle on their shore

The aircraft streaming overhead

For what?

So that I can stand in the sun

Enjoying the cool wind in my hair

With my small children at my side

And honour those men with sadness and pride

In a small village that not many have heard of

But which I call home

Hope

Just a glimpse in the corner of my eye
A retina imprint, a slice of sparkly light
Occasionally caught off guard
Among clouds of salt that mist the vision
Private night tears, unseen in bright sun
I dare, and take the challenge
Chasing the daylight stars
Splinters of light piercing my head
Up the pebbled beach
Over the bracken covered shore-hills
To the tussocked hill tops
And catch the sunshard in my hand

The Foreigner

Though storm and calm both overcome
Or murky channels hide
Plotting his course, steadfast and true
His warm heart open wide
Why then does he lonely stand
His maps in ciphers speak
The stony wheel resist his hand
The lodestone fail to seek

One hundred days and more he's tried
To reach the greening shore
It wavers tempting lines of hills
But the mirage eludes him more
On land his hopes and dreams were built
His blood it runs of old
Down bracken tufted river silt
And rocky cliffs so cold

See, there he played when life was young
When grass was tall as trees
And giant steps round worlds were run
It's scars but scabs on knees
Now stranded in this iron boat
His scare'd dreams do ride
While on the wind strange tongues cry out
"My God?" to silent skies

Sept 2000

Patchwork Scraps (in return)

PATCHWORK SCRAPS(in return)

A patchwork of memories

some jewel bright

unsullied by time and place

others with frayed edges

worn and familiar

oft-used, oversewn many times.

The scraps of life are not discarded

but meld together

to make a mesh of life

capturing me in its net forever

Untitled

Anna, my daughter

Has given me a coat of many colours

Made from the scraps of life

fabric discarded along the way,

Fragments sent flying

by the winged things metamorphosis.

 

 

The pattern I remember has

been changed and colours show

in places strange to me.

Surely the fish sign

Came from someone elses sea !

Not that it matters, we

all need fish and bread and wine.

 

This coat of stars and shadows

that others see as such a present fit

Sits awkwardly on me

But keeps me warm

and is my treasure.

My Dad

MY DAD

Did you see him pull in a Kahawai, hand over hand?

standing on southern rocks

spray, wind, cold

an oilskin parka

shining eyes

"A good one to grill" he told us

proudly slitting from tail to rib

with his knife

Did you see him making rabbit finger shadows?

in the tent at night

two poles, a vee of orange

"No room for kids" he told us

banished to the tin trailer

or to sleep under the stars

satellite tracking

Did you see him polishing boots?

first scrape off the mud

drying them in front of the Juno

brushes and cloths

spit and polish

"Every Sunday, you're judged by your shoes" he told us

Did you see him whittling with his pocket knife?

slivers of wood

poked into the Thermette

smoke everywhere

no matter where you sit

Did you see him tightening my seatbelt?

while I sat

nervous and excited

wedged into the fibreglass glider body

soon to be aloft in the quiet wind

cars, sheep and grass below

wheeling above the world

like a dream

Did you see him sitting by the fire in a rocking chair?

us with our hair wet

Dickens and towels

Oliver Twist, Treasure Island

all beloved

"just five more minutes before it's bedtime" he warned

yet caught in the story

we eke that out to another half hour

Did you see my Dad?

Montana-Rose's first Poem

For Christmas this year my little girl received a Sewing Machine from Santa.  She spent the whole of Christmas day learning the names for the different parts of the machine, and sewing little bags and bits of paper and making all sorts of things.  She also made her first poem which went like this.

SEWING MACHINE POEM

Put down the needle
Put down the presser foot
Sew!