The Sea Of Salvation

In a boat on the sea of salvation,
a man rowed with steady dedication,
his oars slicing through the briny deep,
Guiding him onward, no time to sleep.

But suddenly, from beneath the waves,
Came the mighty wale of guilt, a slave
to the past, to the mistakes he'd made,
to the regrets that never fade.

The man's boat was rocked by the force
of the wale, felt its remorse
filling his heart, weighing him down,
threatening to make him drown.

Holding on tight to his oars,
summoning strength from his inner stores,
pushing back against the wale's hold,
determined to reach his goal.

And so he rowed, with all his might,
through the day and into the night,
until the wale grew faint and small,
and he knew he had overcome it all.

The man emerged from the sea of salvation
A new man, forged through dedication,
stronger for having faced his guilt,
and rowed on to his destiny, rebuilt.

Roger Smith
April 2023

A Mojave Moment

When the bus broke down on the way to Vegas
we had a choice
stay inside and cook
or seek the shade
on the far side of the bus and look
at Joshua trees
twisted in the shimmering heat

Our Mojave moment
blistered with dry fence posts at strange angles
a listless wind vane pumping nothing
for nobody and going nowhere

Over the State line
a blaze of neon
announces the prospect
of a cool beer
but the only froth in sight
spews from the emptying radiator

Going to Vegas always was a gamble

Mojave Desert
Art: Roger Smith

COVID Capers

The couple doing their stretches in a garage
converted to a make-shift gym
dog walkers on a leash smile and wave
at me, or was it him?

The great silence.

Can you hear it? 

Still

Falling leaves cushion the tread
of the morning walk
A pile of books long stored
and seldom read

Buckle in for the long term
the world as we knew it is no more
its nature's way of settling the score.

Roger Smith, April, 2020

On Falling Towards England

On the day Clive James died
I went outside
and picked some weeds
Who knew a poet could be so funny?

his youthful wild life
never stemmed the words
that flowed with ease
and a suffering family left to please

Clive was a witty man
where wit was a virtue beyond wealth
he fell towards England
yet lost the battle for his health

R.I.P Clive

Fishing The Waitara

You could tell the mood of the river
offally bad
pungent and blood shoot red
swapping yarns as we jagged with home made treble hooks

The flash of an elusive kahawai evading the lure
hand over hand
jerking taut for the hook-up
sometimes successful

Not like the boys from Manukorihi Pah
whose sugar bags bulged and wriggled
while I, a novice
vainly jiggled

In the season the whitebait ran
along the banks where white boards submerged
revealed their illuminated bodies
not enough in the can for a feed

Not like the Mokau
where kerosene tins of the bait
captured by the shoal
reward for those who chose to wait
in the early grey light of a Taranaki morning

It was the Waitara where a  flounder
captured the imagination of bigger things,
a bonding place, of solace and muddy meditation

Roger Smith
August, 2018

Whitebaiters #1 - Artist: Roger Smith

A Winter Night

A piping autumn wind
becomes intense
as a first light snowfall
dusts the gravestones
quickening the night

The moonlit snowman
basks in the late evening glory
scattered stars above
under the warmth of bedclothes
the tolling of a bell
signals slumber

Roger Smith
March 2018

Sunset

tonight
the sunset is breathtaking
sleepless all night
tumbling through time
the night cry of a morepork

lit by a sickle moon
the sunset fades
hopes and wishes
turning into the stars
step by step
the night turns long
and life's dreams multiply

ANZAC Weekend

At ANZAC weekend
and a southerly blowing
the last of the summer crickets sought sanctuary
in the trenches by the concrete wall

Children played with plastic drink bottle grenades
never knowing the impact
a fact lost in distant memory and shades of khaki
brasso polished medals and parade ground manouvres

A memory of battles never uttered by fathers
returned from Crete
their memories now turned to dust
under a shrouded moon

Shooting Stars

monarchs struggling in the south-wester
the mating dance of the damned
amongst white manuka flowers
the chant of late cicadas singing
these are the shooting stars of summer
entering my atmosphere and burning up
shortly after entry

Roger Smith
2017

Jimmy Thunder

Whatever happened to Jimmy Thunder
who crawled back
from down under
a rock and a hard place
well off the pace?

His fastest knockout
was not a cop out
and his medal was made of gold
all told a life
that should have brought success

But boxing brains don't weather pain nor loss
triumph tossed into a Vegas jail cell
a life of destitution and hell.

Roger Smith
July 2016

For a former NZ boxing star - Jimmy Peau (a.k.a. Jimmy Thunder)

Jimmy Thunder

Whatever happened to Jimmy Thunder
who crawled back
from down under
a rock and a hard place
well off the pace?

His fastest knockout
was not a cop out
and his medal was made of gold
all told a life
that should have brought success

But boxing brains don't weather pain nor loss
triumph tossed into a Vegas jail cell
a life of destitution and hell.

Roger Smith
July 2016

For a former NZ boxing star - Jimmy Peau (a.k.a. Jimmy Thunder)

Dreams Of A Better Land

‘til the dreams of a better land
where the verdant Kauaeranga rolls down
a river
a bed
for meditation on summer tanned rocks

further north
northeast to Kennedy’s Bay
the call of the morepork echoing through the dusk
and the bush rat that woke me from my whare slumber
scampering heavy across the sleeping bag
in search of food

carefree tramping through head high manuka
past stilled mining mills and kauri dams abandoned
no gold here except in friendship and laughter shared

we dived for crays you and I
off Coromandel’s rugged shore
in a kelp forest that seemed to wave goodbye
and perhaps it was

still dreaming of a better land

Winter Moon

Koi Reflections

We Knew

We knew
when the whistle blew
and dungareed men
from the lamb chain
downed tools
and rushed to the six o'oclock swill

We knew
the pub by the old bridge
on the bench outside its sawdust floors
old moko'ed women enjoying a pipe
brow lined chuckles
time slipping by

We knew
the shunting of trains
puffing steam on the branch line
steel carcassed with glowing coals
near the blood shoot
where boys fished with jags

We knew
when the Waitara whistle blew

The Kerikeri Rooster

The Kerikeri rooster
prematurely announced the dawn at 4am
prompting foul thoughts
of paltry Xmas dinners

In The Deepest Pools

Pool
Roger Smith 2012

In the deepest pools
lie the greatest reflections
Koi rising towards the light
a flash of gold amongst the reeds

Candy Floss

Like a man
spinning straw into gold
you stand

mutlicolour  sugar-sweet
and a hand
that stirs beneath the rim

under a sapping sun
umbrella overhead and
excited voices
next in line