Greetings David,

I am employed by Fletchers Construction to be the Plant Coordinator at the Wellconnected Waterview Twin tunnel project underway beneath Sandringham in Auckland.
My wife is a hardworking Senior Nurse @ Ascot hospital in Greenlane.

For sanity, about six years ago, my wife and I bought a lifestyle block butting on to Egmont National Park @ 1250’ elevation. We built a beautiful alpine lodge, cut tracks down the heavily wooded escarpments, built bridges across two streams, reticulated roof water between tanks to a boulder built fishpond then to a shallow, stone rimmed lake which empties down an escarpment to the stream.
We have planted hundreds of trees and shrubs on this property, rhododendrons of beautiful form and colour, magnolias, a forest of silver birch, oaks, tulip trees and acers.
The property is a wonder of swooping hills and dips which, from it’s elevation, looks out over the grey Tasman sea toward Tasmania. Egmont looms in it’s white, pristine splendour over our left shoulder and the close, dark Puhakai range rears abruptly, spectacularly, betwixt the volcano and us.

Growth here is slow because of the climate, the 300 inches of annual rainfall, the short summers and the depleted volcanic ash soil.
I am 70 years old, my darling wife considerably younger….we both want to see our plantings grow to significance within our lifetime…
Thus my request for access to your wonderful fish fertilizer.

Respectfully
M.

Conceit in lines around her face
Which mask an underlying pain
Of envy coined in terms of rage
Behind sweet smiling lips, ordained.
Within those eyes of brittle blue
The contradictions deep portrayed
In portraiture of crowning wealth
Beneath a writhing hate, contained.

Oh how the opulence displayed
The charm dispensed, the pomp, the fuss
Apparent ‘neath the thin veneer
Sincerity’s black *****, mistrust.
Hid beneath the thin veneer
The entrails churn in anger’s spleen
And woe betide the servant found
To whisper subterfuge, unseen.

On the surface calm prevails
Appearances must be preserved
Tea and sandwiches at noon
Shall on the terrace porch be served.
Deep beneath the knives are drawn
Blood must flow before this night
She shall sever dalliances….
Non shall witness sound nor sight.


Marshalg
28 June 2014
Sandringham.

Vacillations weaving stance is perilous to all who broach
For he who says he will, and wont, betrays a trust and builds reproach;
Destroys regard and turns the thought to doubt’s restraining hesitance,
In future dealings, hence creates, suspicions pall in residence.

Wherein truth and forthright eye mark the man of rigid stance
He who will not meet your gaze is one who steps a Gypsy dance
And he who utters hollow words of promissory, turned to dust,
Is one, who one might best avoid…. and on no account at all, entrust.

For some are hard and some men soft and some have slippery palms to grip
And some, intentioned well, might fade as failed performances may slip.
But he who clasps a handshake firm and holds you with a steady eye,
To speak the truth’s resounding tones, when proven…. built on bedrock, lie.*

Marshalg
May 17 2013
Sandringham

Sudden inertia, like syrup in veins,
Slows the momentum to halt.
Beleaguered confusion breeds in the crowd
To cause a contagious revolt.
Systems of systems collapse in the void
Order in chaos descends,
Panic in vacuum like flame in the fire
As all civil behaviour ends.
Stampeding bodies in wild disarray
As collisions now ****** the floor,
Tearing, gouging and thrashing the mob,
All clawing their way for the door……..

Now there is silence to wild disarray
Chaos to shambles, now quiet,
Police and insurers surveying the ruin
Try to ascertain causes of riot.
Imponderable queries and theories put forth
Are concluded with negative frown,
Until a small boy points out with a smirk…
“Please Sir, the internet’s, ….down!”

M.
Frightening how, when the internet fails,
….utterly everything stops!
Sandringham
16 November 2014

Like signing on absynth in a fanfare of fashion
Is to take on ballast to flatter the crowd,
When the primary hallmark of singular cadence
Is to minimise ******* and shout it aloud.

Cocksure and crafty in colours of rainbow
Strutting your stuff on the red carpet’s fame,
Flicking the mane in a parody’s snigger
Is like hittin’ the town on the arm of a dame.

Walkin’ the walk in a welter of windfall
Like talkin’ the talk with the hipsters at hand
Like shootin’ the **** with a blonde on the pillow
Is like playin’ with fire when you don’t understand.

So go gather your pants and head for the hillside
Sit tight on the grass and ruminate well,
Sort out your crap in the filtering moonlight….
Try coming to terms with this day shot to hell.*

M.
Sandringham
14 June 2014

Dangled England, in
anagram, is my reason,
for this poem, of hope.

With Scots and Welsh
at either side, each one
kicking, on a rope.

With their all for one
and one for all, they
treated Paddy as Joe Soap.

But look at you now,
insidious *******,
gummed in an envelope

May, God and Queen,
let Philip drive to a
Sandringham slippery *****.

Because, no matter, what
you think, we Irish still
have the Pope.

The Monarch tells Britons
not to loose sight of the big
picture as Philip zig zags yet
again en route to Sandringham,
which, by any standard, is as
large a canvass any Briton could
ever focus on.