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Happy You Near

I used to think I knew enough, ‘Lastly’
had a meaning I could feel. Success :
I have to find it here myself, the kind
seen only from a distance—

how we smashed out golden from the shell,
a snake from the egg of youth, between
home and school, slipped out
of the 1st skin of childhood
to emerge fruited and full

of success, if not quite anywhere, yet
enough to go camping and recognise rule,
& not really golden either, strange
mucus and blood, the puckering shove,
and pouting, the baggage dropped to ascend.

It’s apparent to me if your old skin
stays on past the morning
of life, but how terrible, nations
and nominal selves
who cannot untether 1st being,

the unwanted weight, at a tilt,
Success is in your lack of looking back,
you character, you complete
deep working active mine of Personality:

so whether in your life you made the honours
list, detention halls, or had one
hand cranking it in cubicles
to restart a bossy heart stalled,
and all declined from lack of evidence,

the pickpocket commerce of saviours, incense,
inflatable life-insurance, whether you stepped
over all the books of all the world’s religions,
or tripped, your honour, yourself, survivor,
donor, in the back seat, or the driver,
you cannot not know of your Success.



Aeneas (sailing)

you like a fly glide

across the still lake

away from..


my shoes

on the sand, arms

flat, dead



& you

indolent, leant

on the side, so


cool, inside

on fire,


say nothing;

& I,

too dead

to part my lips,


to say

your name,



the lines the water makes

when you go.

‘What Remains Beyond Love’

“What do you know of love?” a mirror scoffed

“Look at you, old and out of touch!”

What indeed, does one know of love

when foolishly measured by so much?


 Reflective smiles give nothing away

Just those unseen heartbeats

deafening all but one’s distant lover

too far apart, for far too long


Love found riding the plains of Argentina

Blue/white dressed in the colours of her tango

Lost, captured, bound and tortured

within the folds of her velvet lasso


“Hola. Te amo, te quiero te amo!”

Haunting whispered words, a time that flew

For only a true heart found can ever say

“Hi. I love you, I want you… I love you too!”



Copyright © 2016 Rob Welsh – Pearldiver with all rights reserved.

This chink of light

This chink of Light

Ah now I ‘ll open up a smile for you
and tease your curling lips
to lift and seek a pout of peace
Infuse your minds eclipse
Since hope is hovering o’er us
at this sweet hour delight
When children seek a wondrous star
and lonely people spite
all their loss and emptiness
can find a whole that’s filled
When strangers eyes lock love between
and wish them joy tonight

If the sun had feelings…………..

You think you know it all………………..
Yet do you know if there’s ocasionally a moment
When the sun prefers decline than shine?
Like the man in the moon……
The sun, she can change her tune

Day when the seconds run so dry
and up in that sky, she taunts us
to be done for the day
and let sleep come………..
she should occasionally let such happen

Cos me, I’m waisting a portion
in hesitation
oh, I’d love to call it meditation
there’s a loosness to what i achieve
and believe all deep
yet I’m trite and write nonsense

Cos it saves me
from blotting out the sun

Life, drawn from that lady
The green and gold
She just keeps up and on
So should I

When she slips down
in marmalade hues
In her shoes
think I’d say”to hell with it!”

Siren Seas and Sand

Hearth rug holds no magic but look into the blaze and see
An island floating in the ocean ,palm trees swaying in the breeze
My hand ,trickles the sand as I tickle your imagination
In anticipation of the sea foam flickering like embers on our knees
Trade winds and the moons faze the tide
we can hide there and fly there when we please
On the island sits a mermaid with a conch shell in her hand
Sultry maiden with a fishtail mesmerising sound
So the  island dreams give savour scent of sun, summer abound
Swim toward her   don’t drown!

‘When the Matata Dams Burst’

Council’s Dam Debris





(2005 Matata Debris Flow)


How life can turn in a second split

Felled logs, giant rocks riding silted floods

of denial and acts of negligence, the sham

Quarry sluicing is not to blame, they cry

No evidence exists that there was a dam


When 3 forty year old debris dams burst

Raining down upon a tiny coastal town

What part of life does one try to save first?

For twelve years on, the pain remains raw

as a Council buries all devastation, of before


I pray the flow of tranquillity will return

Bearing no debris of contention

Nor hewn boulders of deceitfulness

To this place, of broken beauty and hearts

To this place, we know as Matata…

                                                                             *` © 2016 Pearldiver~


My youth is gone from me.


I might strike

some lucky stone (who knows),

random kicks along

the mile-long road by my

old school. I learned there

to choose to choose

over you, and you… anything but this

piss-pot of a room, uniform

desk and chair; two-hundred boys

in the same… clothes:

in two months I learn to forget,

suppress my acute



Some boys I called

friends. We’d meet before 9

on the stairwell; toss a coin,

and, heads or tails,

jumped the bus for the West End

girls of Kensington

and Notting Hill.


In Italy, me and Coronetta

were delinquenti,

and the Chiesa Cattolica

would have condemned us

for making music, fiddling

the acoustics of a vaulted ceiling:


if it were known. There were no

animate witnesses, tho’: the saints

looked on, livid like stone; said



Have I not been punished

sufficiently? I live well, I suppose:

drink wine, eat leavened bread

from the best bakeries.

But Coronetta failed

one day to hold his

heroin. That boy was 15

when I laid hands on him,

and he was full of smiles. Well,


My youth is gone from me.


from Sandy Room #2


I hear footsteps
and the blood begins
to listen,

the scrunch
of boots on sand
on concrete steps:

coarse bristles
crisp rusking
on the steps…

I swam here
two seasons before
the tremendous surge

the summer, swore
I’d wear my {~} more
than I had been, habitat

of work and that
amazing pride
a father earns

remaining while his child
yearns eras
ahead of him.

the acceleration
agents, degreasers,
a leaf blower…

the Cleaning firm
is sweeping the ground
floor sand back

to the beach.
and swiftly I incline
toward my underwear,

half a hardy, light pivot
in the hips, gesticulating
limb, a secondary

minimum influence,
like shadow
the sun-light accentuates

on this melon, geranium
this feel-capsule of platforms
spun hippity hop

sharing nearly everything
we’ve got
a winning method

to attract & keep hot
the controlled emotion
of minds secondary

not less, strangers, pent
up as the smoke is when




In a Church

In the sigh of frescoes

immortal eyes unhinge.


It’s you, me and the old

moving air that flees

in tasted gust to the walls

and keels in a pirouette.


Intervals are rent for the choir

when all dust is met with the roof

as they sing and they sing


or when the old tenor waddles in

combing the stair with a whistle

and cough – fends grub with love

that keeps the stone alive for years.


Simple – he comes.


And here, now, I sway

on wings I’m too small to know.

Unbent, in the blue-smocked violence,


I feather my hands.


Dec, 2016

‘Learning to Become a Wave’


(Tiri Tiri Matangi Island ~ My Lighthouse Home as it was)


Rounded rocks glisten with each lap, lap, lap

of small splashes learning to become waves

On the western side of my island home

great life is born to play

In a magical place that holds

the essence of many souls

Whispering to each now gone

Never forget, here you stay


At the southern end of the island

stands a lighthouse

Phallic pride has remained intact

for over one hundred and fifty years

Dressed in rough white cement

cast iron spiral steps climb steeply to the lamp

Each smoothly boasting of every sole met

every soul they’ve ever touched

Guiding a tenacious young child

crawling to the top, without fear


On the eastern side of paradise

comes Venus before the Sun

Skipping purposely across the ocean

to gradually light the shores

A departing moon concedes

and fades high above the west

Switched off, like midnight’s stars

now the lighthouse sleeps

as the dawn temptress shows

an island’s nakedness to the world


There is a special little cove

set within the northern shores

If you dig very carefully

you will find ancient fossils in the rock

Perhaps a tiny shell complete

with a snail’s million year old dreams

Laying unseen, meaning nothing to those

not blessed to learn of life this way

In nature’s classroom, on an island home

I learned to be, who I am today


Early morning sea breeze mists

cloak the stillness of my hopes

with a deep urge to search in haste

for mushrooms, freshly spawned

Always there before the sunrise

breakfast anticipation known for its taste

Across wet paddocks, no time to rest

for white gold shines, in filtered light

Buckets to fill with only the very best


Progress, change and adapt

became my family’s Darwinian call

Although evolution’s cost will always

bring degrees of sadness to all

hearts attached to one’s prior home

A city was such an alien place

with so few paddocks to explore

It seemed my rural ways would not fit

so I had to learn, a whole lot more


As opposites attract I married a city girl

who zealously clung to her city ways

far beyond a lighthouse’s sweeping light

and seabirds haunting calls at night

A pretty city face and pretty heart

with absolutely no rural island clue

Young raised in city ways had to do

Though always I clung to the hope

that one day I could share

What finding wild fruit really means

to every country kid lost within a city

where even nature struggles to cope


People are so very different

in the things they value most

Sadly where we come from

often means, we don’t always agree

On how important wild mushrooms are

when found before fully grown

Or how special every splash is

to any worn and rounded stone

or to any city child who doesn’t see

the power of nature at her best

Or to every country kid who confessed

nature makes him, happy just to be


All country kids start out

with pretty faces, pretty hearts

But many never truly understand

the city ways and its pulsing energies

So they struggle adapting to new ways

and that growing importance to be seen

as something they are not inside

irrespective of the theme

Believing that city kids like to move on

without missing, places they have been


All city kids start out

with pretty faces, pretty hearts

But many will never truly understand

or even care less, what it is to be

a child alone before the sunrise

searching for a special taste

Greeting each days dawn with

all the anticipation that it takes

To learn firsthand nature’s ways

and every subtle move she makes


In time, so many pretty faces

and pretty hearts change to ugly

When they lose self esteem

learn to bully, or learn to be mean

How I’ve always wondered, perhaps naively

Why some people feel, that angry need to be


What if all country and city kids

cared about each other, without fear

If they understood their uniqueness

and why others are different here

Would that not make them

more balanced and able to see

Why they have pretty faces, pretty hearts

and every chance, to just agree


I’ve always missed my island home

What its natural beauty meant to me

How I learned to believe in uniqueness

found isolation teaches us to be brave

And how important life truly is

to worn rounded rocks and every tiny splash

when learning to become a wave…


*~ Pearldiver ~

 Copyright © 2009 Rob Welsh – Pearldiver with all rights reserved.

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