Best Auckland Poems
If I could,
...I'd stroll with you in a lovely Autumn wood
and gather every golden leaf to save them in a book
on each one we'd write our dreams and all our special thoughts
to read throughout our lifetime of the joys that we've partook.
If I could,
...I'd climb the highest mountain I can find
and reach into the heavens, to take down every star
I'd put them in a velvet box and keep them by my side
to light your darkest midnight in your search for who you are.
If I could,
...I'd find a stream, a gentle babbling brook,
and squirrel away each precious stone, each memory we've made,
each pebble strewn across your life to keep you warm and safe,
and gentle thoughts of you and I, will make you unafraid.
If I could,
...I'd ride a wave from Auckland to Peru
and capture every pearl I can, with love I will imbrue,
I'd weave them with a thread of gold and keep them in a bag
and write upon a golden tag, "This wisdom's just for you."
If I could,
...when time draws nigh and life is near its end,
and when your final tear drop begins to fill your eye
I'll lie myself beside you and hold you in my arms,
with tender touch, my soft warm lips will kiss your tear drop dry.
and...
If I could,
...lying there with bag and box and book
hand and hand in whispered hush, I promise that I'll try
to speak of simple pleasures, and moments that we've shared
of dreams of us together as eternity goes by.
08/14/16
My father was a preacher
stood for everything good,
took my mother’s virginity
I was born to the sisterhood.
They left me on a stairway
a ghostly place to be,
down some old back alley
near to a South Auckland quay.
Found I was in the morning
by someone going to work,
he decided to keep me
this understanding old Turk.
Owner of a coffee house
down town in Branston square,
grew up I guess lucky
by someone born to care.
He gave to me his name
that stands above the door,
a photo of me in a frame
in a basket full of straw.
So here I am heavenly blessed
all down to one lucid day,
with a name ne’er to rest
Smokey Joe’s Cafe!
© Harry J Horsman 2012
I am the environmentalist in love with wine,
my shoulders carry and reside in the cutting edge side of life,
the establishment craves to be the human race
while I stroll the memories of “Sailor fields”
amongst ancient Jurassic stone.
Is this! The only way for me?
My saline tears run freely now a days,
it’s time that governs one’s sentiment,
no doubt the plague of waiting relates to this.
What! Of the future,
hey , i want to forget about futuristic wars,
may be the media are in gross error of judgment?
I’m told I’m only a little man, at last now I know why I’m the
one that society chastises every day,
Why this mortal flame in constant combat becomes
life’s tomb stone around my neck.
To feel freedom, another swig so my lacklustre eyes again become stimulated
as the view overcomes my immobility and bids farewell, to the great lady
that glides portly on the outgoing tide.
Curse this elemental wind
that curls in from the east,
“Mother” i cry
“Is this the clarity of our beginning.” the start of all this crap,
as astringent thoughts flow through my urban bucolic mind,
seeing or feeling nothing of the moment, only a repeat of the actions of many insensitive men,
those that flourish, those that sentiment cannot stain those that walk tallest amongst men;
because they were hungry for appurtenance.
I remember well , in the far off lea of my mind,
down on the farm thousands of miles away across the Pacific,
where enamel clashed against concrete
there , where foolhardy dreams were dashed,.
when the heart pursued
the warm flesh , she that gave her
reflection to the swan song
of an innocence.
Alas should one be compelled to expire
as one would, a chardonnay basking in the hot sunshine?
Should one fall foul of a politically correct society
that , outside of one’s comfort zone,
because one feels , want , in choleric veins?
Even the sullen white cross, dotted upon the highways
become burning embers, a constant reminiscence,
an emotional monument to many inhibited memories.
Yet I beg this deportment shows me a realization,
that death is imminent,
so why this perpetual waiting, this constant urge,
for this vein dependency to be infringed upon ???
© Harry J Horsman 2012
When sunset ushers a sky violet blue
At the first star’s light, my thoughts are of you.
And when I gaze into the moonlit sea;
Lights dancing on water, you are with me.
When a lovely flower bends to the breeze
I picture your face, so eager to please.
As I fly away to a distant land
You dwell in my heart; I’m at your command.
I love your deep voice and things that you say,
And ways you miss me when I am away.
I don’t want to extinguish this fire,
Though it consumes my mind with desire.
I long for the moment we’ll reunite
And I'll share your kisses throughout the night.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f4hsC0nRvZM
Song: Leaving on a Jet Plane
This poem relates to the song perfectly because I was always leaving on a jet plane
as a stewardess for 34 years. I met my husband on one of my flights in December
of 1979. We were married In December 1981 and the most difficult part of our
marriage was me being away 4 days at a time while flying down under to Sydney,
or Auckland, or 3 day trips to Japan. My thoughts were always with my husband and
children.
Built in a Belfast shipyard
for Shaw Savill ‘n Albion Line.
On her flagstaff wind ‘n lee
flew the Southern Cross ensign,
down a slipway to the sea
launched afar by Her Majesty
Behold her pale eau de nil
green ‘n painted hull of grey,
at twenty knots her rate
twenty thousand tons aweigh.
On the seas a ship of fate
the world to circumnavigate
Yon the Empire far ‘n wide
from Southampton to Trinidad.
Where from ship to shore
off I waved goodbye as a lad,
till in the distance I saw
my home to be nevermore
Smoke from her aft funnel
into a big Caribbean sky blew,
then set a course westerly
by merchant captain ‘n crew.
And to each port ‘n quay
across the ocean carried me
I remember gazing in awe
up ‘n down her length ‘n beam,
at the mighty waves below
and how sea ‘n ship did gleam.
In canal gates under tow
winding our way lazy ‘n slow
Crossing the equator I saw
Davy Jones ‘n King Neptune
rising up out of the deep
‘neath a high December moon.
Till in safe passage ‘n keep
back to the depths they leap
Out on Oceania as a boy
in the lido deck pool I did dive.
The Southern Cross ‘n me
would our long voyage arrive,
on in all her hope ‘n glory
the grand old lady of the sea
On final Far East voyage
would alas be her swan song,
beached on a tidal seaway
sold ‘n scrapped in Chittagong.
A line flagship in her day
stripped bare where she lay
Written: May 2017
It was on board this ship nearly 50 years ago that me and my family left Trinidad bound for New Zealand - I was nearly 8 years old. We arrived on Christmas Day 1968 in Wellington (pictured) and a couple days later disembarked in Auckland. Built in the same shipyard as the Titanic in 1954, the SS Southern Cross had a far more fortuitous career transporting immigrants and pleasure seekers across the British Empire until her sad and final resting place in Chittagong, Bangladesh (pictured) where she ended her 50 years of service as the Ocean Breeze in a ship-breaking graveyard in 2004. She was the first passenger liner to be launched by a reigning monarch. Not a big ship by today's standards but as a boy to me she was huge - I thought she was magnificent. Still do.
On a flight to Auckland one day
A mother over hearing her son say
Cats and Dogs can have babies
Can planes do that maybe
Ask the attendant, see what she says
So off to the attendant he asks
Is it possible that planes do this task
Did your mother tell you
To ask me if it's true
Tell her to tell and not mask
As the little boy was walking away
Following him the attendant did say
No baby planes you will find
Qantas pulls out on time
Ask mum to explain this today
.
Written about a Joke I heard ;-)
I come to this little cove often -
no work, I have time to burn.
See Asians plunder its foreshore,
I still fish - show no concern.
Red-bill seagulls fly in circles,
fight over scraps they have won.
Never giving a thought to Icarus
who flew too close to the sun.
Soon a woman wanders over
and asks me what I’ve caught.
I tell her nothing yet but “you’d
be a great catch” I thought.
I know the swallows smirk at me,
my appearance they detest.
I cast my line and ignore them
(or at least I do my best).
Things start spinning in my head
like what it’s like to drown.
Did King Neptune sit on a throne
and did he wear a crown?
I come alone to this place often
to remember and reflect.
A place of beauty and meaning,
a place where I can forget.
Written: 1992
———
Ladder Bay is a sheltered cove in
the northern beaches of Auckland
New Zealand not too far from my
home in the East Coast Bays.
I walked down the track
in the afternoon
ten years of memories
cut in too soon.
I started to sweat,
I had no room,
and overhead
a sonic boom.
It’s far too early
to ask the moon
just what the fu-ck
am I doing here.
We reminisce
a thousand times
of drinking, swimming,
blowing minds.
Meeting people,
friendships bind
sitting under
those massive pines.
Contemplating,
rehearsing lines
but can’t you see
I don’t want this?
Sure, I remember
the early days,
the barbecues,
the summer haze,
the rising tides
in mangrove bays -
constant laughter
and bloodshot gaze,
but I tell myself it
was just a phase...
and at thirty-three
I’m beyond that.
Written: 1993
———
At the end of Chatham Ave lies a public reserve
or park on the shores of the upper Waitemata
Harbour in Paremoremo, just north of Auckland
in New Zealand. A time and place of no return.
“METROPOLIS BLUES”
The elemental wind
curls in from the north east,
sublime salon creations in
disarray, in grimy profusion
inventiveness subsides.
The town clock strikes out,
within ear shot, a bench seat plays
host to a cast of thousands.
Soon! succulent rotting form to be
replaced by concrete.
“A dental job needed
for those poor little mites?”
Corrugated iron
picturesque in shades of autumn,
rattling in regimental disorder,
a haunting requisition
for regeneration.
Rogue waves spill over the
quay, reducing feathered messengers
to squatters alms.
Honking horn for the many that
miss “Cross now.” Hot profanity
escapes in sheer frustration,
diamond studded ladies,
gents in pin stripe suits
reduced to gutter sniping,
intellectual street wise gnomes
aroused by verbal definition.
Skywards, elevated glass menageries, a
product of inner city germination casts out
buoyant clouds, plays
yo-yo with minute window cleaners,
perched precarious in prefabricated
isolation.
One does get lost in
Duty Free! Polyglots
strutting between glass cabinets,
exemplification of
exaggerated personification!
No English! Here, yet many tongues
in resonant sounds, reverberating
throughout the confused clamour.
Idiot in pearly white
“BMW” Snookered
in “Victoria Street”
came in “Off the black” Seven
points away, no consolation for
the hot “Mini Cooper”
all concerned carried away
under flashing lights.
“Cardless head banger” In
aggressive mood, his
four numbered digits he
had forgot, so the machine
decided to take the lot!
Shades of the fifties roll on
by, silver wheels impeccable
against an opaque sky.
“Boom boom ‘John Lee Hooker’”
drifts into contention
a competitive participant
within the metropolis;
as aren’t we all!!
© Harry J Horsman 2012
Hiding in the trench in the French sand,
Indian Singh fights like a British soldier.
It seems it is the ending of the universe.
Dark curls of smoke rise up - cradles are
shattered, and buildings collapsed. Roar
of the war planes gobble all the shrieks
by the mothers and their mothers in a jiff.
Wounds play a sad raga on the strings in
the throats of some fallen military men.
Indian Singh seeks his sweet lady among
the golden corns in a Punjabi wheat field
during the horrible silent interval. A red
salwar kameez flutters in the day dream.
A sudden roar makes him raise his rifle.
Though he is Britain’s adopted son, he
fights for his new mother with true love.
She opens with a smile the creaking gate
to the ecstasy of reunion- soon this smile
is scattered like a phial in an explosion.
She waited for him with the same verve
for years and years in vain, until the earth
worms claimed her wrinkled body one day.
Thousands of memorial stones were erupted
here and there after the First World War, but
not a single stone remains to honor his valor.
(Winner poem on exhibition in Liverpool University, U K. It was also presented on Anzac Day at Auckland Museum,New Zealand. It also appeared in 'Selected Poems Anthology 2014 by Pendle War Poetry, U K)
(CASUALTY EXTENDED MIX)
Surrealistic walls were my
horizon
an oppressive ceiling my
opaque sky.
An angel came to comfort
me
she even affords me a candid
smile.
Within deep brown eyes
a sparkle
content my hand in her’s
to lie!
Her devotion with the
needle
took away the bloom from
my face.
Southern comfort in
“Middlemore”
The true meaning of
life’s race!
Many years I guess
I’ve wondered
if a moment like this
to transpire.
A dress rehearsal for
abolition
heavenly ticket to
hire?
My worldly domain surrounds
me
illusions of hopefully
“What is right.”
It took only an
instant
to convince me that
night!
Living is just a
predicament
in which one just plays
a role.
Yet here in
casualty
a halfway house to
console.
Ethical, malign ne’er
questioned
No! Discrimination
here.
Just an awesome labyrinth of
diffusion
within an earthly
pier!
© Harry J Horsman 1998
A True story
Middlemore Hospital South Auckland New Zealand
I walked into there off the street with an heart attack.
I was a lucky one i guess?
In a beautiful garden long, long ago
Creator God made a man
Man on his own alone was only half the plan
So Creator God made him a woman
And that is how it all began
In a garden called Eden
Way, way down in time
Creator God made a Wally
Wally on his own was only half the plan
So Creator God made him an Audrey
And that is how it all began
In a place called New Zealand
When Wally met Audrey
Creator God smiled down
For in finding Audrey, he had unearthed his treasure
What Creator God had planned for his pleasure
And when Audrey became his wife
Creator God's favour flowed in his life.
Audrey made them a happy home
Filled with blessings from Heaven's Throne
She, her husband's crown, worth far more than jewels
Wove into their Life Loom sunlight, flowers and colors
Skillfully, prudently, carefully reading the pattern
Making their home to others a lantern.
Creator God blessed this man and wife
With children and wonderful grand-children
One to play sweet music, one to act in the play
And all to share love, fun and laughter
To glory Creator God, their Master.
And to them on a warm, clear Sapphire Auckland evening
We gather together to say
We wish you now a very special Wedding Anniversary today
Looking forward to another Golden Morning
When we can wish you again,
May you have many more years together under the sun
To cherish every special moment
Since Creator God made you both one!
Out of a neon jungle the big cats prowl
the wind in the willows unrecovered,
for when the cats and wind begin to howl
I am stoned and the boys truly mothered!
So I rip in and bowl an inswinger
and rap ‘em on the pads…”howzat?” I shout,
pivoting to see a pointing finger,
but the bastard umpire says “Not Out!”.
Behold the shot, the call of “no, yes, no”…
a sledge and slog on the concrete wickets
and puffs of stupefying herb billow
the post-match bar in the oak tree pickets.
For a play and a prey the big cats reign
when the Leopards are loose in The Domain.
Written: November 1992
Pic above is of Auckland Domain.
*The Leopards are a cricket team.
*Cricket bats are made from willow trees.
*Mothered is slang for extremely drunk.
*Inswinger is a type of bowling delivery.
*If a bowler appeals to an umpire for a
dismissal and he agrees the batsman is
out he points and raises his finger.
*Sledge is a cutting insulting remark.
(6th May 2002)
Oh! Upon this day with the saddest eyes
I with regret farewell Auckland City,
To depart with the fondest of goodbyes
Of its people and sea shores pretty.
Although not a child of thy civil womb
You took in a desperate family,
My adoption the fruit of your spring bloom
In return labour given readily.
I leave within your care my youngest son
A Kiwi lad if any he’s become,
Our different accents becoming spun
Like the seed of one’s culture ne’er succumb.
So farewell Aotearoa farewell
Now is the hour a tale of you to tell.
© Harry J Horsman 2012
I know you so well now
that I can instantly
capture your moods.
Watching
as the tide ebbs -
you regretfully reveal
hidden treasures.
Children with small nets
probe into
your very soul,
and seabirds
plunder your bounties.
If I listen carefully
I can hear you cry.
Oh but the tide incoming
is a different matter.
Water gently
chuckles through
parched crevices,
small creatures return
where they belong.
Behold, seaweeds dance
in joy, and
once again
rejuvenated
you count your losses,
lick your wounds.
Written: circa 1994
———
Gull Point is in the East Coast Bays of
Auckland, New Zealand. An old haunt.