Marie is a prolific writer of poetry and has had numerous works published both locally in New Zealand and abroad. The three poems below are just a sample of the ‘Life Poem’ style and versatility Marie displays.

 

WHITE CROSS

Row upon row they do stand in line

White crosses on green, march through time.

But other bodies in graves unmarked

There’s a helmet on a bayonet standing stark.

 

Each of these souls their lives they gave

For freedom and a world to save

They went with hearts full of pride

And for their beliefs in a strange land, died.

 

No fife and drum to sing their song

Just a Rest In Peace for an eternity long

A loved one’s heart, it no longer beats

Yet we remember all their feats.

 

So cry no more for those who’ve gone

Let all your memories linger on

Take pride in that which they have given

God bless their souls as they rest in heaven.

 

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THE BATTLERS

As I walked through the bright painted hallways and saw the faces there,

those of every race and colour, pale faces in beds every where

Yet in all those eyes and faces, as they looked back at me,

none held the desperation, one thought,  that one would see.

 

There were colourful scarves and hats and a rounded balding head.

The only sadness seen in here, was when told a friend was dead.

These children, together laughed and played, some fought a losing battle

But even the tiniest little one smiled, and waved a yellow rattle.

 

‘The treatments worse than this stinkin’ disease,’ one whispered from his bed.

‘But I’m buggered if I’ll let it beat me- I’ll fight it my way.’ he said.

Then round the corner on a skateboard she came, wobbling but standing upright,

‘Look out, look out.’ she called to me, her dark eyes filled with delight.

 

These wards are filled with children, where bravery is the norm.

Each living within a private hell and weathering their own fickle storm.

But each of these dear childish battlers, gives hope to a tattered soul.

They don’t want tears, they want laughter, and that’s your visitor roll.

 

So come with your flowers, books and such, beating an imaginary drum,

And bring with you love and happiness, not a single face that is glum.

For if they can paint you a picture, of quiet determination,

Show in return a gift from you, a face of smiling elation.

 

---

 

THE PHOENIX OF TREES

Reaching high towards the blue

Tall straight spires of verdant hue.

Striding up, then down the side

Of any barren, dry hillside

Pines planted in lines so straight

Left to grow, left to wait.

Lower branches cut and lopped

Season by season, never to stop.

Hills once covered in green we saw

The came men, chainsaws they bore

Majestic trees crashed to the ground

Hauled away to mills, they’re bound

Raped by men to feed the mills

Once again, barren land and hills

Timber needed to build by man

House or factory, bucket or pan

Tears they fall for this raping of land

But dry your eyes for there is a plan

Men and women will  plant again

Up and down the steep terrain

And like the Phoenix, new saplings will grow

Till they stretch far, row upon row.

Straight of trunk, tall and green

Hills once more, verdant- serene.