For Him - a Requiem for Miners Wives

For Him

Right before bed

she made it.

His favourite orange muffin,

moist and warm,

on the bench cooling,

ready for his morning tea tomorrow.

She did this

for him,

every night, every day,

and he never acknowledged,

just grunted a gruff “Morning”

and shucked it in his bag,

out the door and gone.

For forty years.

Then, one day, she did it;

she baked a banana one

for him

and his placid ways.

He walked out the door

as usual, gone.

She was on the stoop,

waiting,

as his hunched coalminer’s body

trudged up the path.

“Alright,” he grunted, passing without looking.

She turned, the groan and sorrow

etched on her furrowed brow.

She stood by his coffin,

his mates surrounded it,

tossed crumbs from muffins

on his casket, and she wept,

not understanding the significance.

Later, at the wake, she asked

and she cried.

For forty years,

George would take his orange muffin

to the coal face

and feed it to the canaries,

the life savers of the miners.

For forty years he never tasted one,

never knew her orange.

Worse still, never knew she had tricked him,

and she cried,

and to the end of her days,

she baked a muffin at night as usual,

took the fresh one in the morning

and spread crumbs on his grave,

so the birds could feed on his kindness still.

Two Thousand Years - an apocalyptic poem by me.

Two thousand years.



I sit upon the beach,
staring out
upon the sea,
the tears of sadness rushing in
and washing
over me,
my memories stained
from years of strain
and pouring out in tears,
what have we humans done,
I wonder,
in the last two thousand years.

Two Thousand years of fighting,
Two Thousand years of death,
Too many soulful people
who drew their final breath,
Too many loveless children,
Too many sad old folks,
Two thousand years of wasted lives,
Too many hearts that broke.

As clouds roll in
and gray my thoughts,
I think of all that sin,
that may have been
why we were taught
to think of thee within,
they try to wash away the gold,
the bright light
of the sun,
But without love,
and God above,
I am the lonely one. 

Two Thousand years of misery,
Two Thousand years of pain,
Too many innocent children
being sold down the drain,
Too many heartless tyrants,
Too many wounded prides,
Two thousand years of anguish,
Too many wounded cries.

I look out on the sea
before me,
the rising of the waves,
and try to seek a vision
of the ones that
I can save,
The clouds begin to part again,
The sun, it shines
on through,
a prod in my direction
show me what to do?

Two Thousand candles to be lit,
Two Thousand years away,
To make the smallest changes
I have to make them pay,
To seek a path of love and hope,
To reach for souls so pure,
To spread the message far and wide,
To make their lives endure.

I sit upon the beach once more,
staring out
upon the sea,
the waves of gladness rolling in
and breaking
over me,
my memories clear
I have no fear
My heart is full of cheer,
what can we humans do,
I think,
in the next two thousand years

Brecca's Odyssey - a 1000 word poem in the style of Beowulf.

In 2009 I was completing a BA in Creative Writing at Massey University in Palmerston North.  One of the subjects was Mythology and Fantasy writing. We were challenged to read Beowulf and then recreate our own Odyssey.  This is my rendition called Brecca's Odyssey and is 1031 words in my best Norse. (I think I got a B+ for it)

Brecca’s Odyssey

In the grand court, Ecghyrd held reign,

his house honoured, and secured for keep,

the King attired, from hard fought treasures,

his bidding, thanes sought,

the stories of old, on the ears of the young

castles stormed and maidens rescued,

a Son he had, Brecca the Charitable

a man ready to fight, a boy awaiting glory.

The Geatish court, attuned to hunting,

a boy sallies forth, Brecca’s foray to

Harnehyrd, the Royal Forest

where a boar roars, in rampant style,

the young hero, dirk and shield

stands his ground, the charge straight

at him, meaning harm, death

if the lad moved, the wrong way.

The boar, Trychnia, lashed with tusks,

an attempt to gore, to bleed, to win

to slay the hapless boy-man, future king

of the Geats, kinsmen, thanes, ladies

of a court cringing, the news not expected

to be a good kind, yet Brecca raises his dirk,

and as the hot beast lunges forward,

his trusty blade slices downward

and impales with venom, into a tough hide,

tough yet pliant, aged yet pliable,

he turns the blade, lunges to heart,

blood spurts, a mighty growl,

the beast slain, honour to the victor.

He enters the hall, the boar weighty

pushing down, his youthful stature,

the King, his father, raises his glass

mead maids fill again,

the Thanes and Geatlords

fill theirs to overflowing,

the Great Lords kin, fighter to be,

Brecca places his trophy on the floor

bows to his Father, unsheathes his blade,

and cuts the beasts head off,

honouring all the fighters, giving due deference

licking the blade, he instils bloodlust,

the warrior to be, anointed,

proclaimed, acclaimed, gifted

the Mighty Sword of Eochyrd.

Beowulf looked on, from behind,

too young yet to raise the Mead,

too young yet to fight for Geat,

a year or two behind Brecca,

but ready to spring into his manhood,

so he steals from the hall,

makes his way to Harnehyrd

and wrestles a wild Elk

Herckyrd, to it’s sanctioned death.

Into the Great Hall, alive with bravado

and the boasts of war thanes, legends,

those that fought the Frisians, allied the Danes,

the great headless boar, gone to the kitchens,

the blood on the floor, freshly cleansed,

only the sign of Brecca at the head of court,

the ladies teasing, the King laughing,

Beowulf places his prize on the floor,

erupting, the court goes into caterwauls,

no sword to be seen, no knife, no dirk,

just the sign a great man to be

had wrestled a great deer to death.

Far from displeased, Brecca hops to join him,

a trophy shared by two kinsmen,

the spirit of blood and bond, a license accepted,

but both men receive now full military regalia,

the chain mail vests, hard helmet,

a sword and scabbard, death and life.

There came a messenger, a man of Denmark,

a thane of some standing, to gain allegiance,

to stop the ruination of the Danes

through a difference of opinion

in the Dane Mead Hall, Cheryct

throne room of Feng, a bad king,

when in fact Amleth should be anointed Danerule.

The Lord Ecghyrd dispatched Brecca

with seventy five fighting thanes

and with the Dane messenger,

they set sail for Denmark,

horses in the hold, swords, shields

helmets and longbows with spears,

a full kit out of chain mail

and sufficient supplies

to last a long campaign.

The long boat with high prow

sailed the seas, avoiding the shallows,

skirting mortal danger, digging

nose first, into spewing sea turmoil,

the emissary repeated, trouble was afoot,

how could a boy, so young in years,

manage to negotiate, deal with

and restore the kingdom again.

Then the speaker, the one with tales,

related the story of the Great Boar,

and the boys reaction, after thoughts,

his immediacy to keep balance,

which so impressed his noble King

and the teaching started, the decorum,

the ability to be a king, to manage men,

and he was introduced

to mead, and the laughter and company of men,

and the tactical infighting erupted,

as it does when a boy becomes man,

when the boy man Beowulf, did the same

he too was gifted with statesmanship,

and both boys were sent off to Fris,

to make peace with the Frisians

and to negotiate trade.

They both did such a sterling job,

our king bestowed thanedoms for them,

boys not yet cutting their hair

with sharp blades and careful hands,

given the right of passage,

the land of princely wealth,

given freedom to serve the court

when and where, by Gods grace

they felt it important to be there.

So placated, the Dane turned

and stood facing the bow, home

across hostile seas that were growing

more in turmoil every passing minute.

It was then Brecca recognised Bruntha

the death wind of the East, and knew

things were not going to be safe,

already the sails were fluffing,

spilling poisonous air, and ripping,

the longboat became becalmed

and all men, land dwellers,

shivering in their skin boots,

the long boat commander ordered oars

and the sails furled, oars set in portholes

the longboat started to turn with Bruntha behind it

making way back towards Geat.

Brecca stood firm, measured his decisions,

he knew he needed to get to Denmark,

but the way was closed to him,

Bruntha’s bidding, huge waves

welled up and broached the oars,

water spilled over, the water drowning

innocent men, fighting men,

they passed the turning point to Geat,

lost in a haze, lost like sea whales,

what sea dragons would assail them,

as they ventured where no Geat had been.

Brecca sung a dirge, short and sweet,

Oh Bruntha, wild women of the sky

play me a tune

that I’ll not fear, send me to places

where bears roar

and whales sound they horns,

place me in the care

of long lost Dryar

the ghost wind

of Geat, the wind that jams

logs into place, ladies into bed.

The sea grew wilder, the waves killing

a crew fighting oars, fighters fighting death,

the toll rising as the waves overwhelmed

and in the breath of a spoiling Bruntha,

Brecca and his crew, became legends

in every mead hall of Geat.

Bibliography

Heaney, Seamus “Beowulf” London Published 1999