taste foreign to my recollection.
boats jumping about,
the action of tacking again.
long ones on her hands
record a somewhat envious one.
mess ready for mothers
and hang on a line again.
bright red and orange,
chill wind of winter onset cools.
barbeque fired up to hot
taste of fish wanton this time around.
the weight of winter snow
acorns wind up in squirrel burrows.
likes of hugs and cuddles
friends aren’t averse to the actions.
The Lady and the Killing stroke.
right hand, beholder of beauty
left, the closed fist of power,
time on Earth, not wasted
Pakistan her family, the prize
of power, for the people
the consciousness of self
Bhutto Lady of the Right,
from exile to lead them home,
promise of sensibility in leadership.
melting pot of religion and politics
Islamabad the radical clerics spread their word
Karachi and Lahore
home of moderation
picture to become clearer, as it does
Musharraf declares martial law
the clerics and supreme court.
The Middle Ages and Kings.
onerous taskmaster, Castle Nevermore
inhabitants as dreary and as onerous
parsonage nestled within full this Sunday
a gathering of town folks mustered by the Master.
Maidens swim with their washing in the stream
light of summer sun drying their endeavours
lads stand on the bridge and choose one for life
marriages conducted in the parsonage, aplenty.
unions bear fruit, children’s voices echo in the woods,
mothers and fathers gathering the crop, fruit
wares to be sold in Nevermore’s marketplace
travellers and locals, the money to be donated.
Knight ‘Thane of Nevermore’ rides home now
journey to the Crusades finished, another win
saved for the ones that follow, forced
schoolhouse for the well to do breeds good news.
bring goods and fare for his arrival,
hero, the man that does the job, his retinue
on bearing gifts for the gentry, his honour
patron saint of Nevermore, the Laird, Sir Geoffrey.
a public holiday, all the land shall exult,
the peoples shall share the good Thane’s arrival,
children dress in glad rags trying to match the gentiles,
and Fathers in Sunday Rags, to honour.
approaches Nevermore’s ramparts, drawn
draught horses, a wizard atop with mischief,
clown in front making merry, dancing and frolicking,
children run to usher forth the wizard and clown
to for urchins, maidens, fireworks for the Thane
especially for Sir Geoffrey, sage advice on matters
forthcoming death of the Good King John,
return from afar of King Richard
the Lion Heart.
the day after all the fun, children sleep,
and Thane’s go about their political business
wizard and amiable clown move on to London,
wives and maidens go about their washing.
tend to crops and other affairs of state
tending of horses, the cleaning of a church,
market empty except for the naysayer’s
preach their daily doom to anyone that cares.
years when snow rained down.
an august month
with wind and snow
don warm cloaks
about the white fluffy stuff.
visitors shiver anon
their heads in beanies
in alcohol to warm
frozen with ice
that the season has changed,
last year, remember.
morons wear shorts and T shirts
never once thinking of the cold
to good ideas, not sensibilities,
been the same for eons now,
Barbie dolls dressed by kids
crossed lovers separated
snow spears, not Brittney.
is normally Y fronts
hauled up around the arse
when pulled too tight
does it best, hauls highest
ones still littering the floor,
lock their gates when the snow comes.
pulls a strong bow,
for new days to come,
sail past the country
snow hides the growth of spring,
we scale new temperatures
by lawyers just because.
form up on frozen lakes,
hitting the puck, scores a goal
from the crowd thrilling,
Latifa from Samoa calls it a day
being too cold, goes home
she lives, the Pacific
thoughts leaving her mind
for the warmth of homelands.
week the Daily Neptune predicted
on the roads, ice apparently
was called upon many times to save
my best to stop the carnage
enough influence to see the skies clear
enough for the warm wind to melt snow
the Ice to trickle away as rivers.
Johnson at 48 was found stuck to his heater
rescued him, you know Dave, No 5
said he helped too, saved a life
thoughts where snow storms are around
next year and I’m moving.
Leaving Las Hacienda des Gringo
across this place
to bring drunks around
seventeen years into a good drunk
need to straighten out very dire.
had me on oats and wholemeal
a breakfast meant to soak up the rubbish
the drink of the day, occasional soda
meal at lunch and dinner sparse.
I left after four months of abstinence,
to Las Vegas and my night job as croupier
house emptied of alcohol, as it should be,
need to go to a bar after work distorted.
poetry when I was drying out, yes
to write about things in my life
out the desire to reoffend,
in order a life of misery for those around me.
Rhetoric the Dinosaur
could walk and show you?
could understand the dinosaur
as we called ourselves.
you could see the world from our eyes,
the lushness of woodlands
grey drear of deserts
marshiness of swamps.
to understand you ask?
and death a fine balance,
bar belching volcanoes
warming fuelled by greenhouse gases,
nature riding it’s course
species not necessarily the best
day a long protraction of life on Earth
we called this Planet Erath too)
of us survive,
not entirely correct
and Tuatara abound
the reptiles were borne out of us,
there is a hint Humans are aliens
were aliens too, ships long gone
Garden Of Eden for us all,
we perished, as surely you will perish,
is the way the cosmos works
is the will of God (Yes he was here too)
life Humans, we Dinosaurs applaud you.
Kimi Chandler makes moves
dog shat on the front lawn, as dogs do
flies were fast for the feast, as always here
year ol Kimi Chandler washed his bike,
Hog, Harley original, now a roadster,
Grady walked up the path, skipping along
was fifteen, and in love with Mimi, a child love
come over to help him rub the chrome clean,
of liked her around, but she too often cried,
snoring inside was Kimi’s drunken lay-about father
bottle or two of Jim Beam washed down, soda
usual Saturday afternoon, his mother out working
younger sister playing catch-up with friends on email,
reasons for living, life at 42 Garmons
day rolling with cleaning, polishing, oiling, testing
climbs aboard as he revs it up, the vibration
from her thighs to the top of her head, exciting,
her to get off, his turn to feel the rhythm anew,
his Blazer Zero One helmet, drops the stand,
roars out the gate at break neck speed, eating tarmac,
Father coming too at the noise, curses the world.
buried him on Tuesday, his headless corpse
result of the glass truck and his bike’s impact
Father managed another bottle to help forget him,
cried for hours, as did his sister and mother.
paper reported him as a motorcycle gang thug,
he’d had no time to learn the meaning of it all,
public once again painted with the wrong picture,
family ostracized as a result, except maybe an uncaring dad.
A Murder Mystery Poem
died on the spot
like murder in the zoo
aflutter screaming monkey talk,
position the body was found
tigers growl, their teeth washed daily,
mind open to debate
lies the tool of deathliness
dollars indicates a hurried escape,
News at Six eschews
body of a Man/woman located
eye witnesses to report to the Police,
of a wealthy man
details to the news hounds
Police arrest her for being an accessory,
time steals respite
murdered moved on to the morgue
lady – crime of passion, settles for court.
Headline 73 buried in Page Forty of the Newspaper.
it is, found it. I’d been waiting for the snippet of information since
the interview seven days hence. The Cub Reporter was true to her word, within
one week and there it is, “Mentally Ill have been Great People”
Churchill it is said
a life coupled with depression
sure he was Manic Depressive
window of Depression is always dark
mood of the bearer often slouchy
light of day darkened when passing through,
Mania, so can’t comment
I’m sure it’s as debilitating.
article was two hours of interview, though the short piece surely doesn’t warrant mentioning. Maybe I wasn’t that interesting, though in my own mind I find myself highly worthy of mining, yet
I get the feeling the gold I tried to pass off as my illness was subjected to editorial dismantling.
of stars of stage and screen
from drug abuse
maybe alcohol too,
Lap Dancers in some hotels
cocaine to stop the pain,
degradation of self
kid in a classroom shows disinterest
signs of fidgeting,
he not fitting in
got puberty to wait for the outcome
illness part hereditary
to often seriously underrated.
the article another time, just to be sure that it would articulate with fellow
sufferers, to accept my invitation to join our consumers group, to offer peer to peer assistance, to let them know they are
not alone. She highlighted the meetings every second Wednesday. I think ‘is this enough?’ then ruminate that maybe it could be too much for some. Such is life.
every second Wednesday
the pace of the meetings going
crafts and the likes
week we hope after the paper article
will pick up, improve, increase,
buried on Page Forty
many would have the patience to read that deep,
as hell wouldn’t,
register we sign when we clock in shows a marked increase. Maybe the Winston
Churchill reference or the elucidation of famous actors, but this week coming indications
are more people will be there, the phones of the organizers running red hot. Someone
read, yes, and they read me, now time to meet and mingle as fellow humans afflicted with likewise ailments.
Under a Blood Red Mountain
not read the plays of Sophocles
passion for the written word
lifetime 123 plays, seven survive
Oedipus and Antigone remain.
marked him a man of means
how great the Tragedies,
battle for Troy
a passing passion
Helen and her minions, Carthagans.
a blood red mountain in Italia
citizens of Pompeii run a kilter
remnants now a site for tourists
death of both countries cultures - highlighted.
Your standard car versus pole
one today lasted four hours
pole taken out by speeding car,
inhabitants apparently OK, BUT!!!
left me without power for four hours
– did they not consider me,
they not think twice about my PC time
had they would have gone the speed limit.
did that thought crop into my mind,
this one – Bush is a shining example of power failure,
and his cronies - or does power corrupt all?
Clinton had the power to tell the country, we did
not do it?
that’s right, Monika Lewinsky, where is she now,
power corrupts, makes minds wander,
where they think they are when having sex,
the wife or other, where is there mind?
Sadly they don’t win, love at all costs conquers all,
of country, love of the planet, love of the cosmos,
realise, yes even the car crash victims,
supercharged power corrodes everything.
(as is plainly obvious) I have my internet back,
power to me – have no fear, I’m incorruptible.
Iliad – absence of sense
start this poem with “o’ Behold – Iliad”
continue with ‘thine eyes beholdeth death’
that’s not my style, far from it.
start with what’s a Grecian Urn, about a dollar,
hope you didn’t miss the joke, yes finger dancers,
you’re starting to gather I have naff all to say.
this little masterpiece, Life, the preserver of Love
your interest is piqued, throw open the doors
the gaiety of variety, the promise of lust.
secret smile indicating a return expected
face screws up, what the fuck did that mean?
you, secret lovers have secret messaging regime.
my virginity, happens to young good looking men,
was a wanton hussy, her boyfriends photo
proud on her nightstand, I knew him too. Ouch!!
the Iliad, some Greek tragedy, eons past,
inspired by some Greek maiden, naked,
you didn’t need to know that, but I told you anyway.
my wife, first and only one, she’s a beacon
around her shine when she looks upon them,
her when I was drunk, best investment ever.
didn’t need to know that, I just slipped it in,
do need to know that this poem is bloody hard to write,
nothing poems, normally, I need to smoke!
while I’m at it, Cleopatra, wanton hussy
milk baths and suitors aplenty, gracious too
accounts, though lost her head with M. Anthony.
listening to cricket as we write, we are enjoying it
we, you’re along for the ride) so dooly up and hi ho,
time for recompense overdue due to sexuality.
I’ll put you out of your misery, SLAM!!!!!!
up, you’ve been dreaming, wake up I say,
back what we wrote, tell me nightmare??
A Life of Dreams and Possibilities
study of green versus red
light through a stained glass window
Christ suspended from wooden cross,
Pew, across the church where bums sit,
when they slide off for prayer
priest stammers on Job.
coven with fire blazing high
devil thrusts his engorged penis in all ways,
of the coven all now seated as the chosen
the baby due in nine months
Eskimo slay seals
of their life for eons now,
blubber used to purify children and maidens,
in deepest Congo dance a love dance,
the spirits, many a male loses
virginity in marriages.
down your condom
have done your bit for the planet
growth rate slowed by necessity and commonsense,
layman on the street with his porno movie,
with actresses and admires,
The Story of Alfred E Neuman as of yesterday
a kid once
antics of Alfred
it each week
a bob or two
with the readies
in hand, hiding time
my derangia was self evident
to make me laugh
the day go by,
was a geekie
before geeks were around
to fill my space
copy was passed on to a mate, he was nuts too
share a chortle
stories of family
the mad ones
ended up mad
of had to, upbringing
tried to tell me
psychotic, who - he?
sago pudding with fried rice and lemon rind.
icing on the cake, blue
the sky and blues
out from a trumpet sound
my feet tapping on the ground.
taste Alfred leaves
Sir, all too close.
baby me, I baby you, together we make babies true.
The Daybreak Orchid
we lived in Auckland,
orchids for fun.
had many varieties,
lily white with colour streams,
a purple backdrop
bright orange flame,
she called it.
died, as did her passion
I never had a green enough thumb
her artful trade.
A Pregnant Cow and an overdue Calf.
around 3.45 pm
constant drumming of heavy machinery
epicenter of eruption
have been a ditch digger
a jackhammer attachment
another prefabricated hole
have been a hammer machine
breaking bricks and mortar for hardfill
have been Mary
to put her new shoes on.
have been the speakers from my stereo
out Dance Music at 140 RMS,
heavy and pure tribal fusion, dance I said
on my chair swaying too and fro
hump, hump, hump of the next song bites,
have been the hairdryer being smashed.
have made it all up, all day, all night,
thump, thump of a nightmare causing sweats,
have been Jerry next door banging away,
vibrating with my snoring and his ministrations
toe swollen from when I hit the doorjamb,
welling into a bright purple balloon.
I realise it’s the Poetry Alarm clock
me to write another poem for the day
so far you ask, yes I’m prolific, and a liar
in so much daily pain, as outlined, one a day’s enough.
the bright eyes
back at your car
an animal stuck in time
taste of disaster
run it over.
then your guilt
you were in Australia
imagine your joy
are vermin here.
stop your Detroit Diesel
back to the flattened mess
and place in the fur bin
it home to your son
can strip the hide for pocket money.
that your wife’s fur coat
product of unerring road aim
warmth of many startled cur
to a warm cloak, roadside
the Detroit Diesels as they soldier by.
Africa - dark
need to die
once stood life.
on snake skins
tusk – rhino
for life worn
ground for sex
China holds sway.
Save the Queen.
lost souls found
home, - wed.
the shits, dang!!
don’t write ever.
I saw your eyes dip.
your eyes dip
shaded themselves from pain
your lip curl
cleaned out with a smile
your nose twitch
dimple on your chin filled,
your tummy heave
taste of food disheveling
my baby arrive
curses sweet nothings to the ear
your hips shake
rock and roll to celebrate
your legs stammer
music no longer meaning it’s tempo
your feet swell
onset of age a sure sign
your obituary at church
you next to your Mum
earth fresh to touch
a memorial of stone
and watch our family videos
the girls around and chat
name always top of the list
your cake on your birthday
candles for One
and await my time, writing poetry
in my most quiet of moments
would be proud
for the long sleep to be with you again
time draws near.
in my every moment, you are there
your smile again.
know why, but I haven’t ever written any poems about my children. It was
always a struggle bringing them up and I guess because I missed the last seven years of their lives I missed all the good
and bad that didn’t escape them.
there for both births
her with her exertions.
first was plain sailing
natural birth, at first I though “a boy”
a rebuke from the midwife
right from birth, was a dream girl
grew well, learnt well, behaved well
joy to have as a child.
of the times when my illness ruined her outlook on life. Why was I mad, I was
never like that, always a cool calm collected character,
yet sometimes my then ten year old could get under my skin. I guess she forgave
me, we talk and chat and generally love each other as adults.
out for a smoke
was still in Labour
things weren’t going well,
epidural was a sure sign.
back and was in time
Ashleigh born, blue though
medical staff in a race for life
her, breath life into her.
succeeded, but it was the start of a difficult life for all. After three months she was back in hospital, not feeding, breast
or bottle, and she wasn’t thriving. The next nine months saw her in and out of hospital with all manner of reasons. She had to have a gastric tube feeder, something we got used too, but having to take her out in public
was a problem. People cringed. They
doctors told us
would probably be dead
determined to beat
was a little fighter
only able to eat soft food
she got our love
and sadly maybe
detriment to Amy.
loves her now more than she did
made me happy,
me and Marita go,
odds on favourite Amy will look after her.
we a happy family. Generally yes, we had to go through it all and have to come out smiling.
Sure the hard times are still there for Marita (as we split when I was diagnosed Bipolar), she had to bring up the
girls herself as I struggled with my problems. Will we get back, probably not,
though one never knows.
seen my girls for three years now,
I chat with them often on the internet,
it’s not the same, I’d love to go see them now
a moment or two, to dance, to smile
alas my situation forbids me this luxury.
lucky, I have two lovely girls, both finding life as I found it, an open book and a open mind.
I hope both will find their own paths and make a mark on an otherwise loveless world.
Tomorrow I’ll sleep contented, after talking to my girls.
One Liners – an ABCDarian
The Light of Day in the Square
light dawns crimson from the east,
lovers pack a mental note
to the beach, Himatangi
ladies traipse around the Square
no noticing the Marae e Hine
seeing me rolling up my sleeping bag,
infusion of smog making transport,
over towards the sun, to toilet
by another Palmerston North night.
note not of the Beach, but food
hungry now for two days, pancakes
Mac’s on the Square, my two bobs worth,
love in the air, couples toing and froing,
early as it may be, gets the best of people,
garbage collector beats me to the trashcans.
warm rays of a climbing Sun remove my coat
year old hoody limps free, shoes scrape on,
Michael, the sociopath juggles for cigarette money,
summer Sun climbs to midday, a sweat starts
hungry, I tackle my bank account, no benefit yet,
around Subways and scoot in to fill with leftovers.
finds me back in the Marae, writing poetry,
escape those boulders, a new poem for each,
often if they’d frame each poem for each boulder.
traffic out of town, after school, kids and parents
to the beach to capture the rays and swim, balmy
Balmy Palmy, those with nouse head to the Lido.
sun starts to dip, it’s day almost done, reverence,
to my feet and supplant life curses on the ground,
day cooling means jacket back on, the hoody too.
from the Library lengthen, the Square darkens,
shuffle home leaving me to my solitude,
return with red skinned children, and sandy feet.
deepest recesses of the West, the Sun sinks
lights in the Square take effect, brighten key areas,
that turns up around the cafes, looks for scraps.
I find myself unrolling my sleeping attire,
benches in the Green Belt a usual haunt, peace
statues of reverence overlooking as sentinels.
A Touch of Love
simple really, reconcile
a light brush of the brow
torch that resounds light
diamond reflections in your eyes
French Kiss so tender
aftermath, then a hot shower,
each other in at night
a story or two on children.
over nether bits
orchestrated in patterns
feel fine to touch
top of stockings
to furl downward
feet shaped for sex
baring buoyant breasts
hand, not male
across a bare stomach
belly piercing jiggles.
A soft moan emits
sweat starting to pour
lace on the brain
the written hand.
Dad the Deadbeat.
stand by the refrigerator
the food for affect
you need to go shopping.
yard is an affray on sensitivities
12 inches high, blowing in the wind,
kids toys buried in yet to be defined work.
car sits in the carpark, overdue a wash
tyres appear flat, well flattened
dog pee marks on the wheels indicate tagging
the fact she left you for your slovenness,
to not do too much when too much is required
and chew over procrastination, my affliction.
dicey thing with death is it’s lasting
as long as someone can read your headstone
the final resting place of the deceased.
that thought, how it snuck in
I was writing about being a sloth
up proliferating death of ones’ life.
the kids out the back, pick up the toys,
the yard for the lawnmower, weed eater first,
to the nearest garage and pump the tyres up.
what used to be indoors still mollified,
her a chance to come back,
she indicates many weeks.
I soldier on, father, maintenance man,
of all trades, including Father AND Mother,
juice in the fridge needs replacing, thirst.
Part time Work
the Ides of March
dock weed grows
the feeling blue
frost in winter slips
Swallows dip and dive
for love lost in mire
of lightning, scars
resonance of thunder
drop love bombs
burns in Nuclear era
wonder about it all
treaties to improve Man
likes of North Korea shiver
men shiver amazed
stored for eternity
I’ve wondered why I exist
the pulse, still purple
life left as others do.
morning I cried
afternoon I screamed
day I sat
night I will dance
my life I will try
best I can
my children cry
they spread my ashes
that is left of me
me with pride
for the ride
was a bride
Escape from Planet X
in cyber prison for eons
on Planet X, captured
real world stuff.
latest jet cruiser’s in dock
no way off planet
into loading trolley
in a death area.
a hatch appears open
through into the cockpit
stew’s done the numbers
off into the cockpit.
blast off as smooth as silk
after five years
looks of neighbours sheltered.
and walk off, home
at Planet X, a waiting guard
drag me back to Block K
away the key, bad Father Prison.
The Grecian Tragedy
standing by the Conundrum,
philosopher, the mathematician
school girls with books in hand
right to argue sensibilities
a call to argue calculus.
reading from the Parthenon,
littered with students of Emporia,
architecture highlighted by stone
of ancient buildings tumbling
the emptiness of historical pages.
from deep with in Ancient Greece
of a deep earthquake, 6.4
return of Atlantis to the shores, Aegean,
rocks of Seruptus pervade to heaven
takes measurements to score.
and Plato leave an indelible mark
hence affected by their brains,
tales of Ulysses oft told for eons hence,
Rumbling of the Carthag warns implosion
fights with neighbours to this day relevant.
is deceit in Ankara, there is deceit in Athens
Cyprus a push me pull you, a place argued
days of peace yet to come when either cedes,
the Acropolis to the Grecian horizon
in regalia toga hold the hands of errant sons.
The Green spoon Principle
Deciduous trees pointing skyward
A passing Jet leaves a life sign.
My first love smiled endlessly.
Those mirrors that reflect nothing to scare one!
Hills in spring, green and coated in sheep blotches.
Sunday I gave up smoking, now I can’t bear myself.
The Welts a Reminder
weeds grew long at the farm Evermore
lost to passing markets, grey grass
long used to other sorts of weed.
therapy caned my frigid arse
welts a reminder death was close by
used to sitting when standing dies.
at Evermore are welts on the landscape,
paddocks an arse ready to wipe clean,
give the impression wastage rules.
daylight railcar slices through the paddocks
farm deviated from left to right, cut asunder
crops grow with renewed vigour, marijuana.
house a mansion left to waste, not elegant
paint and varnish wilting under summer sun,
wind blowing the wallpaper to the corners.
ladies stay stoned, as do the front steps
solid to shift under decay, too strong for small boys,
many days when rain drove in horizontally
day’s waste away, as do pot heads, deviants,
days a week the farm is reminded it isn’t one,
animals that used to run amok, deathly corpses.
Daring Acts 1
stand staring up at the nine foot wall,
possible hand and foot holds
thought of your loved one cooped up
mansion across the grounds from the edifice.
touch the top with panther like poise
like a leopard to the ground below
footfalls making a puff sound on the grass
roll forward and leap gazelle like to your feet.
light from the mansion emits longshadows,
life of the occupants studied in practice,
reach the three storey building and admire it,
new path to the bedroom littered with drainpipes.
lightly, you stand precariously on a sill,
your head across the bay window, peering,
your love at her vanity cleaning up from the day,
insistent tap on the glass raises her eyes.
at that moment the sill gives way, CRASH
sound resonating around the grounds, OUCH
of yourself realising the left legs bent,
from above, ‘are you alright’ answered ‘no!’
the ambulance, the police, the doctors,
the hospital, the pain killers, the food
all that secret agent shit for nothing but pain,
your girlfriend kept under lock and key.
mes amies, I salute your attendance,
we have gateau and frog legs
oil de la Llama and seven truffles,
in fright, a Frenchman in my head
strong smell of Garlic permeates my breath,
Loaf in the corner hardening.
I get up and have a drink, ice chilled as always,
cheese on the table sagging under it’s own weight,
for me, and several more for the meeces.
ties with my dream, roll over and sleep,
time ladies with black stockings, dare we go there,
snore adjusted by an alarm clock ready for service.
An afternoon Etheree
pages of spin
the doctor to the home
pay me in dollars not coin
chefs in the dough make cashews
along with the Bread they bake now.
Stick Figures on a Cottonwool Globe
a concerto in A Minor sounds fun
getting an electric guitar to repeat the feat
the Great must have been a hairy beast
fought his way into English hearts (and minds)
Indicators on cars have a use, left or right
crash for no other reason that the need to
in New Mexico stand baking under the sun
ride dust storms to move cattle hither or yon
Grasses grow in the Green Belt, wind ruffled
harvesters reap wheat crops for bread on plates
is the catcall of the victor, the key to the city
wandered far and wide to bring Rome glory
holders on the stock market shiver
Dow on a downward spiral enamours panic
hands wash the myriad of plates and utensils
fare placed in front of patrons suffice to speak
on flowing savannah, the wind blows both
direction on the whim of a cloud, a mountain
I ate seven courses in a Chinese restaurant
I fed to the cat as if it needs MSG wontons
trains roar daily outside my window, heavy
weight of forty two carriages rhyming clickety
of my married life make me strong, weak
feeling I get when I think of the way it ended.
The Queen of Rock Crowns and other stories.
stands erect, arms out thrust
pleas for a wooden cross
to a faltering crowns.
maidens catch shingle shattered
bolt of lightning radiating around
diamonds trickle to the floor.
of public gathered to encapsulate,
at the sudden crystallisation of a monarch
bow on bended knee honouring a holy woman.
in the heavens colour the realm
ransom for a lovely lady beckons
on a wizards sundial reaches high noon.
Bathed in the diamond light, a maiden flails
crowd startled close in to spy the spectacle
they cry, “witch” off with her head.
rules a kingdom fraught with magic,
disciples ride black horse in black robes,
dust of cobbled streets awash with horse dung.
Diamante they now call her, Lady of Light
a scepter and strides elegantly on by,
farmer feels her eyes on his back.
right of passage for life given her, to lead
minions now part of a miracle, sans black robes
stones glittering where her feet once stood, picked.
days have gone by, only a story remains
her many children and ancestry, thousands
all go by the name of Smith now, her legacy.