tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-787815131428048602024-03-05T20:49:39.622-08:00PoemsUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger38125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-36628759700942933292023-04-03T14:11:00.002-07:002023-04-03T14:11:22.246-07:00<p> <b>The Sea Of Salvation</b></p><p>In a boat on the sea of salvation,<br />a man rowed with steady dedication,<br />his oars slicing through the briny deep,<br />Guiding him onward, no time to sleep.</p><p>But suddenly, from beneath the waves,<br />Came the mighty wale of guilt, a slave<br />to the past, to the mistakes he'd made,<br />to the regrets that never fade.</p><p>The man's boat was rocked by the force<br />of the wale, felt its remorse<br />filling his heart, weighing him down,<br />threatening to make him drown.</p><p>Holding on tight to his oars,<br />summoning strength from his inner stores,<br />pushing back against the wale's hold,<br />determined to reach his goal.</p><p>And so he rowed, with all his might,<br />through the day and into the night,<br />until the wale grew faint and small,<br />and he knew he had overcome it all.</p><p>The man emerged from the sea of salvation<br />A new man, forged through dedication,<br />stronger for having faced his guilt,<br />and rowed on to his destiny, rebuilt.</p><p><span style="font-size: x-small;">Roger Smith<br />April 2023</span></p>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-67209884596322794222020-05-30T17:22:00.000-07:002020-05-30T17:22:39.520-07:00A Mojave MomentWhen the bus broke down on the way to Vegas<br />
we had a choice<br />
stay inside and cook<br />
or seek the shade<br />
on the far side of the bus and look<br />
at Joshua trees<br />
twisted in the shimmering heat<br />
<br />
Our Mojave moment<br />
blistered with dry fence posts at strange angles<br />
a listless wind vane pumping nothing<br />
for nobody and going nowhere<br />
<br />
Over the State line<br />
a blaze of neon<br />
announces the prospect<br />
of a cool beer<br />
but the only froth in sight<br />
spews from the emptying radiator<br />
<br />
Going to Vegas always was a gamble<br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihXkJ08XuSrBoYX1vOEfsZOJw_WtEuy82XHk5Mp5v71xuS_WuWSe2LkVyQpdIY7FBpSaaq06ASRwm9PjC6DtmjNaYWr0Zu1tv4OPUzZSq6U5Yr8uidXd8BjZQDcuovZp-cU7PHycjkJQ/s1600/desert.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="504" data-original-width="680" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiihXkJ08XuSrBoYX1vOEfsZOJw_WtEuy82XHk5Mp5v71xuS_WuWSe2LkVyQpdIY7FBpSaaq06ASRwm9PjC6DtmjNaYWr0Zu1tv4OPUzZSq6U5Yr8uidXd8BjZQDcuovZp-cU7PHycjkJQ/s640/desert.jpg" width="500" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Mojave Desert<br />
Art: Roger Smith</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-18474756400185401232020-04-03T17:05:00.000-07:002020-04-03T17:05:13.157-07:00COVID Capers<i>The couple doing their stretches in a garage</i><br />
<i>converted to a make-shift gym</i><br />
<i>dog walkers on a leash smile and wave</i><br />
<i>at me, or was it him?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The great silence.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Can you hear it? </i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Still</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Falling leaves cushion the tread</i><br />
<i>of the morning walk</i><br />
<i>A pile of books long stored</i><br />
<i>and seldom read</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Buckle in for the long term</i><br />
<i>the world as we knew it is no more</i><br />
<i>its nature's way of settling the score.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Roger Smith, April, 2020</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-44010780020102380052020-02-04T17:21:00.000-08:002020-02-04T17:21:01.198-08:00P.O.W.Your old cobbers<br />
used to come and visit<br />
sharing POW stories<br />
of camp radios and forced marches<br />
<br />
You left New Zealand in your prime<br />
the enthusiasm of youth<br />
and memories of bicycle trips<br />
over the Canterbury Plains.<br />
<br />
Never sharing the pain of Crete<br />
friends lost in the beat of battle<br />
captive in your memory<br />
as strong as the barbed wire that encircled you<br />
for four long years<br />
<br />
You shielded us, your children<br />
from the realities of war<br />
and the horrors that you saw<br />
<br />
My father returned a man<br />
with hearing lost from bombs on Crete<br />
clutching still a battered violin<br />
and thoughts that would not find him<br />
PEACE<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Roger Smith</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">October 2019</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-22596367685705508512019-11-27T12:55:00.002-08:002019-11-27T12:56:39.534-08:00On Falling Towards EnglandOn the day Clive James <a href="https://www.bbc.com/news/entertainment-arts-13437293" target="_blank">died</a><br />
I went outside<br />
and picked some weeds<br />
Who knew a poet could be so funny?<br />
<br />
his youthful wild life<br />
never stemmed the words<br />
that flowed with ease<br />
and a suffering family left to please<br />
<br />
Clive was a witty man<br />
where wit was a virtue beyond wealth<br />
he fell towards England<br />
yet lost the battle for his health<br />
<br />
R.I.P Clive<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip7DgGAy3_STT3aSaAcl6QEywC52hcnNOI8wM_z2ahMqh7AtE5ZkpAMOZ9_gfNHlvLVK89aA-ZlmvHxwhQ9vYPqHoBqhwJnJQ9uwaW3MlP4_QbrOwMraE0X8ONot6bUwEBmlc6EMteKiY/s1600/james.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="624" data-original-width="624" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEip7DgGAy3_STT3aSaAcl6QEywC52hcnNOI8wM_z2ahMqh7AtE5ZkpAMOZ9_gfNHlvLVK89aA-ZlmvHxwhQ9vYPqHoBqhwJnJQ9uwaW3MlP4_QbrOwMraE0X8ONot6bUwEBmlc6EMteKiY/s320/james.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-71484769523240422442018-08-12T16:28:00.000-07:002018-09-06T13:45:53.933-07:00Fishing The WaitaraYou could tell the mood of the river<br />
offally bad<br />
pungent and blood shoot red<br />
swapping yarns as we jagged with home made treble hooks<br />
<br />
The flash of an elusive kahawai evading the lure<br />
hand over hand<br />
jerking taut for the hook-up<br />
sometimes successful<br />
<br />
Not like the boys from Manukorihi Pah<br />
whose sugar bags bulged and wriggled<br />
while I, a novice<br />
vainly jiggled<br />
<br />
In the season the whitebait ran<br />
along the banks where white boards submerged<br />
revealed their illuminated bodies<br />
not enough in the can for a feed<br />
<br />
Not like the Mokau<br />
where kerosene tins of the bait<br />
captured by the shoal<br />
reward for those who chose to wait<br />
in the early grey light of a Taranaki morning<br />
<br />
It was the Waitara where a flounder<br />
captured the imagination of bigger things,<br />
a bonding place, of solace and muddy meditation<br />
<br />
Roger Smith<br />
August, 2018<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><span style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><a href="https://fineartamerica.com/featured/whitbaiters-2-roger-smith.html"><img border="0" data-original-height="716" data-original-width="718" height="397" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSB52zpTCLjyQ96lrQ7Q43wJtzF7mpn12ceB3LSklCYNPD0PH28sDIIZNrXtIlw6XXOXbCSVjQqByYGAp24F_xskK-iaHu9Ql8dRWyryId6_85UrC3d1P1IqzfGKOviyo5jxZiboYfxMw/s400/Whitbaiters+%25232.png" width="400" /></a></span></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://fineartamerica.com/featured/whitbaiters-2-roger-smith.html">Whitebaiters #1 - Artist: Roger Smith</a></td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-91991872147079010952018-03-15T14:26:00.001-07:002018-03-15T14:28:24.283-07:00A Winter Night<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDo4ISb4Yt6VQSTlxyhuJfoxg9QtvZxxPApeLjVgJ27JN3AZhkT077hhdOpzQCXOY5NIUX4FfmibgEz9u6cQNZXRq5bohUbTL0H0lB5lbJI8lO8QOlLvIarDaKGTZI653B5kS9EqkfEZY/s1600/Word+Art.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="707" data-original-width="707" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhDo4ISb4Yt6VQSTlxyhuJfoxg9QtvZxxPApeLjVgJ27JN3AZhkT077hhdOpzQCXOY5NIUX4FfmibgEz9u6cQNZXRq5bohUbTL0H0lB5lbJI8lO8QOlLvIarDaKGTZI653B5kS9EqkfEZY/s400/Word+Art.jpeg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
A piping autumn wind<br />
becomes intense<br />
as a first light snowfall<br />
dusts the gravestones<br />
quickening the night<br />
<br />
The moonlit snowman<br />
basks in the late evening glory<br />
scattered stars above<br />
under the warmth of bedclothes<br />
the tolling of a bell<br />
signals slumber<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Roger Smith<br />March 2018</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-85598927086547160032017-11-17T11:48:00.000-08:002017-11-17T12:09:04.344-08:00Sunsettonight<br />
the sunset is breathtaking<br />
sleepless all night<br />
tumbling through time<br />
the night cry of a morepork<br />
<br />
lit by a sickle moon<br />
the sunset fades<br />
hopes and wishes<br />
turning into the stars<br />
step by step<br />
the night turns long<br />
and life's dreams multiply<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisgAQ9tZL7j7VNX9PJjvmS98TjegxmMvR3XP6rfAfylKANQN4aMuUeda6V0plv_kk-wOkGtiZ8PuuxBuzJgN4Zkri6V9CLwHdAMronh9CUL7AN_Yk0e29YXSEBOq-OZc4dUPdXLQM_I0E/s1600/sunset.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="359" data-original-width="500" height="309" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisgAQ9tZL7j7VNX9PJjvmS98TjegxmMvR3XP6rfAfylKANQN4aMuUeda6V0plv_kk-wOkGtiZ8PuuxBuzJgN4Zkri6V9CLwHdAMronh9CUL7AN_Yk0e29YXSEBOq-OZc4dUPdXLQM_I0E/s640/sunset.jpg" width="540" /></a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-54731503972511353292017-06-27T11:22:00.000-07:002017-06-27T11:22:37.244-07:00ANZAC WeekendAt ANZAC weekend<br />
and a southerly blowing<br />
the last of the summer crickets sought sanctuary<br />
in the trenches by the concrete wall<br />
<br />
Children played with plastic drink bottle grenades<br />
never knowing the impact<br />
a fact lost in distant memory and shades of khaki<br />
brasso polished medals and parade ground manouvres<br />
<br />
A memory of battles never uttered by fathers<br />
returned from Crete<br />
their memories now turned to dust<br />
under a shrouded moonUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-54693097243965914642017-02-25T13:08:00.003-08:002017-02-25T13:08:45.728-08:00Shooting Stars<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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monarchs struggling in the south-wester<br />
the mating dance of the damned<br />
amongst white manuka flowers<br />
the chant of late cicadas singing<br />
these are the shooting stars of summer<br />
entering my atmosphere and burning up<br />
shortly after entry<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Roger Smith<br />2017</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-88312898109809823482016-11-23T19:32:00.000-08:002016-11-23T19:32:52.770-08:00Summer Haiku<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5f4dqcDYSTlnNqq6UxGPuTDEHEUj93HVOQvY8y6v_QHHh1jVwahFQK4f2cwQ4DLsTfzeHjRMFt-nv_yWBBhajIUtLB-4O0ROs66em0NZskmtkYN_D_m6BsmKuanXmt4TIk3CdJ40-Vvo/s1600/pablo.png" imageanchor="1"><img border="0" height="379" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5f4dqcDYSTlnNqq6UxGPuTDEHEUj93HVOQvY8y6v_QHHh1jVwahFQK4f2cwQ4DLsTfzeHjRMFt-nv_yWBBhajIUtLB-4O0ROs66em0NZskmtkYN_D_m6BsmKuanXmt4TIk3CdJ40-Vvo/s640/pablo.png" width="590" /></a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-32768388577029602412016-07-16T21:17:00.001-07:002020-02-04T17:21:31.864-08:00Jimmy ThunderWhatever happened to Jimmy Thunder<br />
who crawled back<br />
from down under<br />
a rock and a hard place<br />
well off the pace?<br />
<br />
His fastest knockout<br />
was not a cop out<br />
and his medal was made of gold<br />
all told a life<br />
that should have brought success<br />
<br />
But boxing brains don't weather pain nor loss<br />
triumph tossed into a Vegas jail cell<br />
a life of destitution and hell.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Roger Smith</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">July 2016</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">For a former NZ boxing star - <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jimmy_Thunder">Jimmy Peau</a> (a.k.a. Jimmy Thunder)</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-79996642569046008242016-07-16T21:17:00.000-07:002016-07-16T21:18:01.574-07:00Jimmy ThunderWhatever happened to Jimmy Thunder<br />
who crawled back<br />
from down under<br />
a rock and a hard place<br />
well off the pace?<br />
<br />
His fastest knockout<br />
was not a cop out<br />
and his medal was made of gold<br />
all told a life<br />
that should have brought success<br />
<br />
But boxing brains don't weather pain nor loss<br />
triumph tossed into a Vegas jail cell<br />
a life of destitution and hell.<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">Roger Smith</span><br />
<span style="font-size: x-small;">July 2016</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">For a former NZ boxing star - <a href="https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jimmy_Thunder">Jimmy Peau</a> (a.k.a. Jimmy Thunder)</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-55296688814025594262015-07-22T22:25:00.000-07:002015-07-22T22:27:04.041-07:00Dreams Of A Better Land<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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‘til the dreams of a better land<br />
where the verdant Kauaeranga rolls down<br />
a river<br />
a bed<br />
for meditation on summer tanned rocks<br />
<br />
further north<br />
northeast to Kennedy’s Bay<br />
the call of the morepork echoing through the dusk<br />
and the bush rat that woke me from my whare slumber<br />
scampering heavy across the sleeping bag<br />
in search of food<br />
<br />
carefree tramping through head high manuka<br />
past stilled mining mills and kauri dams abandoned<br />
no gold here except in friendship and laughter shared<br />
<br />
we dived for crays you and I<br />
off Coromandel’s rugged shore<br />
in a kelp forest that seemed to wave goodbye<br />
and perhaps it was<br />
<br />
still dreaming of a better landUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-76018329446318029552015-06-15T14:44:00.000-07:002015-06-15T14:55:07.671-07:00Winter Moon<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcjtQ3xs5-88mQyrHEHZ6TJvF0OsT-zC86DDRPkbKKdRanu3Fuhyphenhyphen9VIsPg9kyCoaqtTZUlCyJ9z9FT7WPy6nqMYrM9YBMVOy6bDy4KjXm6wm2YHx0ggv5j-sMd7zJ1beI7AzvkbRRDtck/s1600/wan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcjtQ3xs5-88mQyrHEHZ6TJvF0OsT-zC86DDRPkbKKdRanu3Fuhyphenhyphen9VIsPg9kyCoaqtTZUlCyJ9z9FT7WPy6nqMYrM9YBMVOy6bDy4KjXm6wm2YHx0ggv5j-sMd7zJ1beI7AzvkbRRDtck/s640/wan.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-34744102850874880602013-12-08T16:24:00.000-08:002013-12-08T16:24:07.937-08:00Koi Reflections<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU3FGbjNCv577qcFKrUfv6Kvpg0tZOnXNCwp1zekox2TFSuXPlPDGsMw7RVkYNKaPtwwBA82GNitfVFEJeLBqZssCcArny24W36_YAQu0oA-FwpaB2xwUObgSpuskNpoH7Xp9YKxTxMjU/s1600/koi.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjU3FGbjNCv577qcFKrUfv6Kvpg0tZOnXNCwp1zekox2TFSuXPlPDGsMw7RVkYNKaPtwwBA82GNitfVFEJeLBqZssCcArny24W36_YAQu0oA-FwpaB2xwUObgSpuskNpoH7Xp9YKxTxMjU/s640/koi.jpg" width="547" /></a></div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-18123684284215092942013-08-30T20:43:00.001-07:002013-08-30T20:43:54.949-07:00We KnewWe knew<br />
when the whistle blew<br />
and dungareed men<br />
from the lamb chain<br />
downed tools<br />
and rushed to the six o'oclock swill<br />
<br />
We knew<br />
the pub by the old bridge<br />
on the bench outside its sawdust floors<br />
old moko'ed women enjoying a pipe<br />
brow lined chuckles<br />
time slipping by<br />
<br />
We knew<br />
the shunting of trains<br />
puffing steam on the branch line<br />
steel carcassed with glowing coals<br />
near the blood shoot<br />
where boys fished with jags<br />
<br />
We knew<br />
when the Waitara whistle blew<br />
<div class="zemanta-pixie" style="height: 15px; margin-top: 10px;">
<a class="zemanta-pixie-a" href="http://www.zemanta.com/?px" title="Enhanced by Zemanta"><img alt="Enhanced by Zemanta" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/zemified_e.png?x-id=604ef877-fb1a-45a8-ba10-4283a98f2f0c" style="border: none; float: right;" /></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-33894193043364761082013-06-12T14:21:00.000-07:002013-06-12T14:21:06.749-07:00The Frog's Lament<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt54XM-wGWk3scZKYoSWfskWw5ou8h3imy5v2kVp4VVp8p0ueNhrifcumSC9o8Fxh83VZO_CplmCm7mHL6m8VdctCrt4RywJFvnQjTFHNJAu8pMabfVNNiC5yBigwl4yi04ju6_0yfIoU/s1600/bullfrog.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjt54XM-wGWk3scZKYoSWfskWw5ou8h3imy5v2kVp4VVp8p0ueNhrifcumSC9o8Fxh83VZO_CplmCm7mHL6m8VdctCrt4RywJFvnQjTFHNJAu8pMabfVNNiC5yBigwl4yi04ju6_0yfIoU/s1600/bullfrog.png" /></a></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<b><br />The Frog's Lament</b></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
To be a frog in Singapore</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
is not for the faint hearted</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
Hashima is our common fate</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
from oviducts soon parted</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
and once they get a taste for it</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
...well the craze has only started.</div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<i><span style="font-size: xx-small;">Roger Smith, June 2013</span></i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-66501496859887218042013-06-12T14:15:00.001-07:002013-06-12T14:15:45.236-07:00Sandflies<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYLwJQmxl7B0CtKkPQTej2edMwdotg0bQDeyDYhfO9sinPNxvDlkCDPCIZ6vG416Y0FDpNrm42YwRb7Wui5PXUHcvtxOg5W3kDRt-Zku-sVV6tQB4pj9l6FfMYJ0nwEaUVajWY7LSDN8/s1600/waitara_river_mouth_drawing.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAYLwJQmxl7B0CtKkPQTej2edMwdotg0bQDeyDYhfO9sinPNxvDlkCDPCIZ6vG416Y0FDpNrm42YwRb7Wui5PXUHcvtxOg5W3kDRt-Zku-sVV6tQB4pj9l6FfMYJ0nwEaUVajWY7LSDN8/s1600/waitara_river_mouth_drawing.png" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i><a href="http://www.zazzle.com/waitara_river_mouth_drawing_posters-228120483701694850">Waitara River Mouth Drawing</a></i><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Roger Smith, 2013</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
the sandflies on Waitara beach<br />
have grown bigger since I was a boy<br />
tip-toeing across the scorching sands<br />
<br />
carcasses of trees still litter<br />
bleached sentinels in perfect alignment<br />
at the high tide mark<br />
<br />
to the north the wave stained blocs<br />
the dragon teethed river entrance<br />
more angular than I remember<br />
<br />
rusting boilers of ships that hit the bar remain<br />
explored by eager children<br />
at low spring tides<br />
<br />
<div class="zemanta-pixie" style="height: 15px; margin-top: 10px;">
<a class="zemanta-pixie-a" href="http://www.zemanta.com/?px" title="Enhanced by Zemanta"><img alt="Enhanced by Zemanta" class="zemanta-pixie-img" src="http://img.zemanta.com/zemified_e.png?x-id=5f774460-8962-43da-8e2a-a19c5bb3158d" style="border: none; float: right;" /></a></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-67762907892137291572013-02-23T10:31:00.001-08:002013-02-23T10:32:31.934-08:00The Kerikeri RoosterThe Kerikeri rooster<br />
prematurely announced the dawn at 4am<br />
prompting foul thoughts<br />
of paltry Xmas dinnersUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-15827246311999348442012-03-14T14:16:00.002-07:002012-03-14T14:19:54.293-07:00Cicada<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYrZIQNEd8cPf9bPAmMeLhBqEGcRjpL3-8yxybwlsDVzcLYVJmgXHDYVa6mIzS_o1zoHOacsXqZTA1w-fkSgyGN9CpLXNR4t1zGaYNMY7xRr9Q5OYT2kbXJ3d5xJBXNLuoS9460vKH0i8/s1600/cicada_BW.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiYrZIQNEd8cPf9bPAmMeLhBqEGcRjpL3-8yxybwlsDVzcLYVJmgXHDYVa6mIzS_o1zoHOacsXqZTA1w-fkSgyGN9CpLXNR4t1zGaYNMY7xRr9Q5OYT2kbXJ3d5xJBXNLuoS9460vKH0i8/s1600/cicada_BW.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Cicada</i><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Roger Smith March 2012</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>Let me hear to nightjay once more<br />
its song over Queenstown<br />
above the rush of the MRT<br />
<br />
not the english chirp<br />
of a carniverous sparrow<br />
devouring the last cicada of summer<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Roger Smith. 2012</span>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-58614261268488217262012-02-04T16:27:00.000-08:002012-02-04T16:27:09.688-08:00In The Deepest Pools<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhri5umIYIsKKPvRIZHcH6GqFnd3ulmii2AcQ-TqY6q70aoVvEv0oQAFp-ig-9R6abv5lsJmLmkun4OpwcF2btVIolZWgZC6zVZCxBfrIJ9rCfzFvvY2qc21SRXRB6x7E3tV5fDEUvvfak/s1600/pools.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhri5umIYIsKKPvRIZHcH6GqFnd3ulmii2AcQ-TqY6q70aoVvEv0oQAFp-ig-9R6abv5lsJmLmkun4OpwcF2btVIolZWgZC6zVZCxBfrIJ9rCfzFvvY2qc21SRXRB6x7E3tV5fDEUvvfak/s1600/pools.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><i>Pool</i><br />
<span style="font-size: xx-small;">Roger Smith 2012</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table><br />
In the deepest pools<br />
lie the greatest reflections<br />
Koi rising towards the light<br />
a flash of gold amongst the reedsUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-67712087901978316442011-10-09T16:36:00.000-07:002011-10-09T16:37:17.918-07:00Candy FlossLike a man<br />
spinning straw into gold<br />
you stand<br />
<br />
mutlicolour sugar-sweet<br />
and a hand<br />
that stirs beneath the rim<br />
<br />
under a sapping sun<br />
umbrella overhead and<br />
excited voices<br />
next in line<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA2wkCHsUqQ9ZjgH_3UjdDva-g8cU7kF6Wn-0lwWJwl-sntE87JvtPoAUlMtrlpXQXVOhsrf_5rvUs3B7hB9G_KVsiAOdyCr_w7-FxIN1Y1kODiDssluD3I6OWXh9xNox6bFDHNsAzOJ0/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgA2wkCHsUqQ9ZjgH_3UjdDva-g8cU7kF6Wn-0lwWJwl-sntE87JvtPoAUlMtrlpXQXVOhsrf_5rvUs3B7hB9G_KVsiAOdyCr_w7-FxIN1Y1kODiDssluD3I6OWXh9xNox6bFDHNsAzOJ0/s1600/1.jpg" /></a></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-45970693869255799592011-10-07T16:12:00.000-07:002011-11-03T19:31:17.588-07:00Epiha Road<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpTivGz_V0hq16x4tm4xkGjSQNfG-_OAb8IHSC4wWn2xdBVCB9FOfCWdN_DbazgpGDrERWfIhQ_220KYyl8cy2uyD1kM48injD84iOR4M5xu5YHSUiaBJN3V40JYi_-wUb9AZ6szBHl4I/s1600/1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgpTivGz_V0hq16x4tm4xkGjSQNfG-_OAb8IHSC4wWn2xdBVCB9FOfCWdN_DbazgpGDrERWfIhQ_220KYyl8cy2uyD1kM48injD84iOR4M5xu5YHSUiaBJN3V40JYi_-wUb9AZ6szBHl4I/s1600/1.jpg" /></a></div><br />
Black mussels spitting their juice<br />
on corrugated iron<br />
over the slow fire of time<br />
<br />
Straight from the shell<br />
plump pink<br />
with tiny crabs entombed<br />
<br />
Blackberries picked on the dusty road<br />
rutted sand<br />
rocking grey of the Morris laden down<br />
<br />
Black sand of the wild beach<br />
slow cooling and a Taranaki sky<br />
bare reefs exposed to a quarter moon<br />
<br />
Black armbands now<br />
for memories of picnic bankets<br />
rusty hooks and seaweed popping<br />
slow to burn, slow to burnUnknownnoreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78781513142804860.post-2936047716986659042011-08-15T17:46:00.000-07:002011-08-15T17:46:12.925-07:00The Rag-Picker's Daughter<br />
I saw the rag-picker's daughter<br />
in a dream<br />
crossing the bridge near Mangere<br />
<br />
it seemed<br />
a graffitti gauntlet would envelop us<br />
as the train sped onwards<br />
<br />
carriages connected, shackled<br />
a steel grey moon reflecting<br />
the winter tracks ahead<br />
<br />
<br />
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com