Best Zealand Poems
I do my best to heal
Water tries to flow
Air makes effort to breeze
Earth worms its way up
Fire cracks me up
I am a mole
I dug a hole
They dug holes in me
Life flows out
Food crawls in
I crawled into one of the holes
and worked my way
down, down, down
Past the magnificent field
of blinding lava
And came back out on the other side
I asked a tree: "Where am I?".
It replied: "New Zealand"
Incarcerated
Love for humanity? truth?
Breaking the net; soon !
The story is told of a Maori King bold
Who dared cheat the Prince of Siam.
I’ll leave it to you to decide if its true.
But if you're not convinced, at least I am!
This king was annoyed so he filled his bored void
By selling the fauna of his wee land.
He soon grew in fame, none dared speak his name,
He was the richest in all of New Zealand!
But this roll could not last; the fates swooped in fast
With an invoice for arrogant King Frodo!
A prince of yon borders sailed in with his order
For a half dozen snakes and some Dodo.
“The snakes are all gone!” Frodo said with a yawn.
"And we ate the last Dodo last week!”
Thus the king blew him off with a wave and a scoff;
“Look elsewhere for that which you seek!”
But the prince had prepaid! And he screamed out in rage,
“What is that in the cage with the hasp?”
King Frodo’s eyes narrowed, “I won that from Pharaoh,
And that, that’s a two-headed asp!”
“And though its not fair, it is simply too rare,
Now be off or I’ll soon have your head!”
But the prince made this threat, “Dear King you’ll regret!”
Then he left leaving Frodo to dread . . . . . . .
At daylight’s first gleam, you could hear Frodo scream
As he raced to the harbor to spy,
And lo, by the pier was a note on a spear . . .
“Keep my gold! . . . But kiss your asp goodbye!”
For the "Asp" Contest
Sponsored by Anthony Slausen
May 7, 2018
10th Place
The dark, drenched forest
was tinkling with tuis and bellbirds,
blind to the ledger book,
the bill of lading,
the glint in the eye of the ax.
Pious settlers wired the land for religion
and switched on the lights.
The natives were dazzled,
but loved the portly man in the red suit
who gave them everything they wanted.
On the Historical Society outing,
we struggle for footholds
in whirlpools of organized ennui,
clutch at the slack rope
that cordons off irrelevant ancestries.
‘The end is not nigh,’
the Dom-Post tells its readers.
Doors are bolted against the wind,
the tick, tick of the electric fence
around eroded pastures.
First published in Southern Ocean Review
In the land of Aotearoa, where stories intertwine,
Where the waves caress the shores, and mountains proudly shine,
I raise my voice to honor those who came before,
As a descendant of Karitane, a Maori forevermore.
From the ancient mists of time, our ancestors arose,
Guided by the stars, their wisdom always shows,
In Karitane's embrace, they lived, they thrived,
And their spirits still dance, keeping our heritage alive.
In the sacred whispers of the wind, their voices softly speak,
Echoes of resilience, strength, and courage that we seek,
They stood upon these shores and signed a historic pact,
The Treaty of Waitangi, a promise never to retract.
With ink and heart, they forged a bond, a shared destiny,
Uniting cultures, weaving threads of harmony,
Their vision, though challenged, remains steadfast and true,
To preserve our Maori heritage, for me and for you.
Oh, Karitane, your beauty, your mana, I embrace,
In your rugged landscapes, I find my solace and grace,
From the rugged cliffs to the sandy beaches fair,
The spirit of my ancestors, I proudly bear.
Their names etched in history, their deeds never fade,
Through trials and triumphs, their legacy pervade,
With gratitude in my heart, I honor their sacrifice,
Their struggle, their hope, their infinite advice.
Karitane, a treasure trove of ancestral lore,
Where the past and the present merge to the core,
I stand here today, their proud descendant,
With love and respect, my heritage resplendent.
With each breath I draw, with every step I tread,,
I carry their spirit, their wisdom, as they once led,
From Karitane, I rise, embracing my soul,
A torchbearer of culture, to help make us whole.
So, let us celebrate, in song, in dance, in prayer,
The legacy of Karitane, a flame we all share,
For our ancestors who signed that fateful treaty,
We carry their torch, forever strong and mighty.
During a tour in this island nation,
a Maori guide was seeking a nomination.
Among our tour he sought out a spokesman,
to respond to the chief's words, as a small token.
"Sir, will you represent your touring tribe?"
"Yes," I responded, "for a very large bribe!"
I wanted to know what was required.
Giving a speech was nothing I desired.
"No. There's nothing to it at all.
Just go up there and stand up tall."
As we closed in on the Maori stage,
changes to instructions began to be made.
"Say some words when the chief's talk is done.
It's just a matter of having some fun."
"You must always show a serious face.
Or the chief will put you in your place."
"In your speech, you must show respect.
Or the gravest insult, the chief will suspect."
I was as nervous as one could be.
I seriously considered an option to flee.
"Don't worry too much," the Maori man said.
"I'll give you some cues to ease your dread."
The chief rambled on with his lengthy speech.
Then it was my turn, into the breach.
Nervously, I told the chief about my tribe.
"We're from a cruise ship, traveling far and wide."
I could think of nothing else, just wanted to be gone.
The guide then whispered, "Sing the chief a song."
Again, the Maori guide bent my ear,
"Have your tribe do a song near and dear."
'Take Me Out to the Ball Game' invaded my mind.
Could I get away with that this time?
I asked my tribe to all pitch in.
And we all sang loudly that sporting hymn.
Congratulations were given, a job well done.
Everyone cheered as they had much fun.
I was so glad that things worked out.
Would I do it again? Without a doubt!
"Doth if not thrill thee, Poet,
Dead and dust though thy art,
To feel how I press thy singing
Close to my heart?"
Close to my heart you came
When of you I learned of horror
How you were locked to tame
The depression trapped though error
In insane asylum
Years of electro shock treatment
Made her even more glum
Her writing helped with this ailment
Misdiagnose illness
How could those doctors make error
Despite works reflect giftedness
Janet Frame's poems "The Pocket Mirror"
Quote is from:
"The Passionate Reader To His Poet"
Written by:Richard Le Galliene
Contest: The Passionate Reader
Sponsor: Constance~My Dear Heart~
Janet Frame
A New Zealand Author
She left a foundation to help young writers..
Once upon a budding arcadian green
a last veil winter hoar melts on the bud -
Romney low country lambs fattened to wean
chew in flocks upon the ruminant cud.
In the tea trees to the whistling song thrush
I alone hear that first September dawn,
and outside beyond ryegrass, fern and rush
glisten woolly coats of sheep early shorn.
Oh to feel again its warm gentle breeze
on greensward and dryads in the gnarled trees.
But upon the altar of this season’s new day
so a spring offering is born a prey.
In stone moss stream, wild aromatic grass,
the sleeping flower does the sun invite
but an ancient blood moon shall come to pass
on the shadows of day and dark of night.
Soon the muster will shatter a false peace
in cornucopia of herd and bloom -
nigh the yard gates will fill with milky fleece
and only finest wool spin on the loom.
Oh to feel again its warm gentle breeze
on greensward and dryads in the gnarled trees.
But upon the altar of this season’s new day
so a spring offering is born a prey.
Smell the petrichor and jade scented hedge,
the lambs, the honeybees in pollen’s net -
that botany of sights and sounds and fledge
of young and new moonrise to moonset.
The morepork on night hunt moonlit prowl
casts its eye and spreads its speckled wing -
and in the mists see swamphens and waterfowl
rise again the prismatic dawn of spring.
Written: August 1989
Memories of him are still there upon Weymouth Road
his sullen white cross nailed to the old Kauri
symbolize by countless layers of uncaring street wise graffiti,
while burdensome scars revealed by heavy metal grow faint
and the old Rose i placed withered and faded
in the over grown yet still blood stained grass,
a monument still there for the few of us
those that cared those with lives full of guilt
'when you mate ran out of life number nine!'
© Harry J Horsman 2013
Aotearoa
the land of the long white cloud...
dignity in bloom.
© Harry j Horsman 2012
I'm ready if you are.
Steadily walking past wekas, canoes, sailboats, motorboats, along concrete paths, down ash-felt slopes
Across intersecting car trails
Drawn only by the beckoning beach.
Feet slipping over Northland's rough green grass
Damp, spongy, smooth grit of coarse golden sand
Surrounding bush covered hill houses
Silently call your name, drowning out the cicadas.
'Where are you? Did you come?
I'm ready if you are.’
Sinking into still water
Invited into the giant’s bathtub
Slowly sit, deep ideas, deep tides
Run rocks between my toes, sandals
Nesting dotterel, raucous red billed gulls dive bomb
Cute little scoundrel of a dog, owning the beach.
Gaze on other swimmers, friendly laughter hastens
Early morning dippers, holiday makers, with quiet chat, Slipping away, back to their working day,
Driving uphill to Russell, leaving quiet Tapeka Bay.
'Would you love it here?' Smile.'
Dumb question, who wouldn't?'
'I'm ready if you are.'
Deep soundings, cool water
Your name echoes silently from windless hills.
I grab my towel, dislodge stones from my sandals
Guide myself blindly up the streets and hill,
Steady along concrete paths, past canoes,
Pausing in the doorway to a soft bed where I find you.
Dry weeping salt from my eyes
'I'm ready if you are..'
Sleep confused, “Where did you go?''
'...to the beach'
Standing tall above your sleeping form
Hope listens, living breaths,
Hope listens, silent non response
Hope falls, body turns away
Breath, mouth, not ready to start their day.
Unspoken questions fall only
on sleeping stroke-fatigued ears.
Standing there, alive, energised,
'I'm ready if you are.'...Not!
'If you are not ready now
Where will I find you? Where will I find you later?
Will I find you later?
Arisen, alive, leaping energetic, with laughter
Smiling, saying 'Come swim with me!'
Hope turns to fantasy.
Outside along the concrete path
Wekas linger
Towels, togs swing in the bush edged clothesline
Canoes rest
Awaiting the excitement of days spent ploughing through the water.
Tears linger
Sounds of the shower
Washing the salt away.
February 2017
The USA media is going to kill us all
Giving the shooters fame
We should be more like New Zealand
“A coward walked into a grade school”.
They never had another school shooting.
We are not islands
We of the islands of N and Z placed together
There are three of us
If we were islands
We would lie in the sea
Sunbathing
Waves would lap over us
Playfully tickle our sandy shores
Crash against our rocky cliffs
Throw seaweed onto our beaches.
We would see each other
On the distant horizons on a clear day
We would never meet
Never move towards each other
Embrace
Calming each other's senses simply by being there
As islands, meeting in this way
Would be meaningless to us
Incomprehensible
We would be being what we were meant to be
Islands of rock, of land
In the sometimes sunny, sometimes stormy sea
When we, strengthened by coming together
Move apart
We are like islands linked by similar vegetation
As birds fly from one to another, over above in the sky
We send our thoughts over the Wi-Fi into the sky
Standing alone as non-islands, we are not landlocked
Carrying our bases with us, able to come and go
Distant and closer
You don't throw seaweed on my beaches
I don't float unmoving in a distant sea
We are alone generally free to move
around in our own worlds
Being who we see we can be
Being not islands
standing alone in an ocean of sea
Being free to move
To share our thoughts poetically
We are able unlike islands
To write our words
Where others may see them,
may hear them
To make public
What is only inside ourselves
Can an island do that?
May 2016
Hectors Dolphins are listed as, endangered
and a sub-species, Maui’s Dolphin are critically endangered
with only about 55 left, in New Zealand’s shallow waters
in the North Island eastern shores, is their home with borders
Hector Dolphins dorsal fin, looks like Mickey Mouse’s ear
and they are the smallest and rarest, of all marine dolphins
Their biggest threat, is being caught up in human fishing gear
and humans polluting, boat striking, developing and seabed mining
I say to the Kiwis..Do not be as fools' don't
End up labeled as carbon ' let your good
Sense's rule..If you begin going car-less.'
Your being care-less in the extreme.' That
Is not the wholesome futuristic target' its
Rather a mayhemic, dystopian theme' don't
Park, your cars; parade them rally and party
Instead..Live the dream. Or else you'll be transported as un-wanted carbon, in train carriages from your
Towns to sheds, Where red fires
will be ignited.. To be with your bodies; eventually fed.'