The Forgotten boat

She had her day, the old boat.

Laying on her side, far away from sea and tide,

Grass grew between her planks, no one thought

to give her thanks,

For all the work she had done, going out in rain and sun.

Her anchor in the earth held fast, strong winds

came through.

Tore off her mast, up the rusty anchor chain,

The ivy grew to hide her pain. Wild flowers bloomed,

In sun dried ground.

She was first sold for just twelve pound.

Those were the days when painted bright green.

The best fishing boat, that

ever was seen.

Her mast, tall, stained dark, with white sails,

she’d run with the wind. Outrun humpback whales,

dolphins would

play At her bow and her stern.

The skipper was proud Of the money he earned

He would stand, legs braced against the wind.

Hands held fast to the wheel, lest she spin.

Then homeward he’d turn, full of good cheer,

In front of his hearth, down a whiskey

or beer.

The old boat remembered, but knew she was done,

All she could do was now rot in the sun.

I looked at her, I felt her

pain.

If I had the money, she’d sail once again.

But I am not able to work such a deed,

For the skipper is gone now the last of

his breed.

Mandurah

MANDURAH DOLPHINS

I see no ship, nor billowed sail.

No dancing dolphin or humpback whale.

I see instead a cloudless sky.

White horsed foam. Waves riding high.

In silhouette, Kwinana stands.

Outlined dark, against the sand.

Mans gift to man. I breathe a sigh.

And watch the stinking steam rise high.

I must not stand and muse so long.

Must not judge, at others wrong.

Instead I turn to the shining sea.

Natures gift to man and me.

In the distance where sea meets sky.

Dolphins, dancing, arching high.

They only see the good in man.

Bring their love, to our harsh land

Show us the richness of their home.

Show us we are not alone.

Yes, I shall stand and watch them play.

Glad to spend my time this way.

Mandurah now my home at last.

Where I can forget the past.

Watch the dolphins as they play.

At the end of one hot day.

Written by Katie North 1998©

Unknown writer

Slow me down, Lord. Ease the pounding of my heart

by the quieting of my mind. Steady my hurried pace

with the vision of the eternal reach of time. Give me

amidst the confusion of my day the calmness of the

everlasting hills. Teach me the art of taking minute

vacations - of slowing down to look at a flower, to

chat with a friend, to pet a dog, to read a few lines

from a good book. Slow me down, Lord, and inspire

me to send my roots deep into the soul of life's enduring values."

Prayer unknown writer

United we stand

She took in the washing, she took in the sewing.

she scrubbed other's door steps,

just to keep her self going.

For her husband and son, on the picket line stood.

Not that she thought it would do any good.

The government swore, it ranted, it raved.

The owner's, they thought of the money they saved.

"Put up the wages," the miner's all cried.

"Even the poor man must stand with his pride."

Their hearts were as black as the coal they once hewed.

Their anger spilled over, their poor wives all knew,

That money once earned, would not come again.

The men would stand out in the wind and the rain.

The men in the north, joined the men from the south.

All over the land was heard a great shout.

"Better conditions, more money we need.

God damn the gentry, their wealth and their greed."

Our children are crying, the hunger, it's pain.

The wealthy make sport, out hunting for game.

Down through the village, the city and town,

plans were afoot how to bring poor folk down.

"If we all stand together, let them see we are strong,

Surely the bosses will know they are wrong.

We will fight for our rights, our families, our homes.

Not one of our workers will feel he's alone.

They marched down to London, their hearts full of hope.

Not knowing that horses would stamp their lives out.

They died as they lived, their eyes full of pain.

They died for their unions, it's creed and it's aims.

We must not forget them, though we live far away.

Keep fighting the bosses, to get better pay.

We must not forget what they gave to the world.

The unions, it's creed and the right to be heard.©

Written about the 1919 strikes and the beginning of the Unions

Ancestor's

Their portraits line the corridors.

Of stately, British homes.

In the peaceful graveyards.

Lay their long forgotten bones.

We never heard their laughter.

Nor saw their tear stained face.

The now, lie all forgotten

In that far away, cold place.

The blood that long ago dried up.

Still flows throughout our veins.

Our children, playing in the yard.

Still play the same old games.

On it goes, around it goes.

Like a never ending stream.

Fathers, Mother, Uncles, Aunts.

Into their land of dreams.

We search for long, forgotten, loved ones.

Through the dusty shelves of time.

We imagine they are with us.

As deaths hill we start to climb.

Then we will be as they are.

A picture on a wall.

Will someone try to find us?

If they hear our voices call.

We are the essence of their beings.

Deep within us beats the memory of their lives.

Their hearts blood and their loving live forever.

Shining from within a new born babies eyes.

Written by Katie North, 1997©

Osborne house East Cowes Isle of Wight

Memories

I’ll walk no more, on golden shore.
Where once my dog’s ran free.
Nor sit on sand, so warm to hand,
Beneath Pohutakawa tree.
For now I am in England,
Where the Bellbird never sings.
But the Barn owl, like the Morpork,
The call of night he brings.

Poppies glow in golden fields,
Like dancing, crimson flames.
Down the English country roads.
Through the winding , cool green lanes,
Majestic trees, aged, old and gnarled,
Reach up into polluted sky.

Yet all this splendor and sad poignancy,
Will not replace my yen to see.
The long white clouds.
The clear blue sea.
Of my New Zealand home.©

Aborigine Requiem

He walks across the dry hot land.

Boomerang held in his black, wrinkled hand.

His head is bare to the scorching sun.

He’d be glad when the heat of the day was done.

He had trekked this path, for many a year.

Sometimes he shed a silent tear.

He never had like to kill the Roo.

It was something he knew, he had to do.

Was there a place for him to lie down?

Far away from the white mans town.

Where he could gaze up, into clear blue skies

Wait for his aged body to die.

He longed for the days when he could roam,

Over all of this land, that he called home.

And call of the Dingo, high in the hills.

As they waited for, him to make a kill.

He laughed to himself, as he scratched his head.

“That’s where I’ll make my final bed”.

He made for the hills, where the Dingo’s played.

He reached a cool spot at the end of the day.

He tucked the Boomerang under his head.

As he lay down on his Spinafex bed.

His fingers clutched at the hot red sand.

“This is my home. This is my land”.

In the distance a didgeridoo sang.

He looked up at the starlit sky.

Love filled his dark brown eye's.

He howls with the Dingo’s on hot summer nights.

Runs with the Roo in the cool morning light.

His voice can be heard, if you stay very still.

“This is my land” he shouts from his hill.