Plastic sceptre, plastic crown,
Mink coat and ermine stole;
Fox in a box,
Gold chains and clocks;
Perched high in the sky,
Above the world of love.

With slight of hand
You stole
Their tax, their pensions,
Their land.
They twitter and you Tweet.

But hear the Starlings sing,
See them flock.
Great numbers
Of tiny beating feet
And furious flapping wings.

Plastic sceptre, plastic crown
Land in the sand,
Sprawled on the ground.

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The dusky sun sets
Over a serene and silent sea.
Clouds of orange and purple
Melt with the water’s
Gentle reflections;
A blanket,
orange and purple
To cover our world
 In calm.
 
Indigo waves lap lazily
Around magenta rocks.
Rowdy gulls hush.
A strong, soothing, silence
Wraps the world.
 
Then the sun slips slowly
Into the still waters,
Taking with her
The troubles of the day.
                                                                  Sharon Heaney Stansfield

Soft, white, languid clouds floated
In a serene blue sky,
Watching the world below;
Playground of hope and promise.
Lakes of abundance,
Sparkling rivers
Of crisp, clear water;
Crystals of life.
 
Life in all forms
Finding peace and balance.
And the chosen child danced
And played;
Frolicked in this garden of plenty.
 
The Chosen Child.
He thought himself exceptional,
Entitled;
Seized what he wanted,
Refused to share.
The churlish chosen child,
Self-centred and selfish,
Smothered seagulls in oil-spills,
Strangled the sea with plastic.
 
Fracking and fighting,
He raped the land
And forced the world into retreat.
 
He gouged and goaded
The fragile world.
And the clouds watched
And the clouds gathered;
Incited to mass action.
Their churlish child
Was not in charge.
 
No longer impartial benefactor;
Angry, dark clouds massed together,
Leaving some skies empty, deserted.
Riotous storms tore down houses
And washed away fields of food;
While drought dried the dams,
Leaving only cracked mud
And scorched cities.
 
The chosen child prayed
And begged for respite;
But is his lesson learnt?
He is part of,
Not apart from,
This wonderful world.
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TEACH YOUR CHILD TO READ & LOVE READING

Her children were her all.
Their success, her only glory.
Hiding all other talents
Lest she attract unwanted attention;
Reprisal and condemnation
Would surely follow.

Wary of pushing to crack
The glass ceiling on her head,
With quiet fortitude
She bore her trials.
The Cheshire Cat smile
Of those who would exploit her,
Shining medals of the great success of Man.

And then
She found her voice!
One of her sisters cried "Look!"
And shattered the false looking glass,
Exposing the gates;
Gates whose strength was her silence,
Her isolation.

But the call resonated
And she echoed "Me too!"
Her united voice
Brought down the gates.

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CONTACT SHARON TO BUY HER POETRY BOOK

Have you seen the ribbon,
Sea Point Promenade?
Rainbow of our nation,
Lying next to the waves,
At the foot of Signal Hill.
 
Ribbon of light and colour,
Palette of people;
Beautiful;
Each individual
And their mix.
 
Have you heard the orchestra?
Treble of languages,
Crashing bass of the sea;
Symphony of diversity?
 
I have seen the boy,
Picnic blanket and family;
Gyroscope of excitement,
Whirling with delight,
Memories that grow
For tomorrow.
 
I have heard the children
Scream with glee,
Free
In the glistening excitement
Of the spray from the sea.
 
I haven’t heard dogs bark
But I’m sure I’ve seen them smile;
Tails wagging high,
Free of the leash,
They meet and greet
And celebrate
Life
On the Sea Point Promenade.

Bicycles and skateboards
Weave through
The warp and weft;
 Appliquéd with
Serene police on gentle steed
And superhero police on Segway.

And as seagulls
Sing their raspy song,
From pushchair to wheelchair
We pass along.

Diversity's fashion ramp,
Where lady and scamp,
Hijab, sari, shorts and sarong
Together flow 
By the white splashes
Of the green sea.
A rainbow.

Time stops but does not stand still
When you sit and watch the sea.
The green, watery rise
Of every wave
Draws it up,
To curl
And cascade
In her vortex;
Drawing you deep
Into her shimmering currents
Of primordial pleasure.
 
Seagulls floating up and down
On those deep swells,
Paint their echo
In your veins,
As your chest expands
With each elated breath
And joyous heartbeat;
Exulting chorus of life.
 
The wave smashing on the rock
Explodes into an elation of white
Glistening droplets of glee,
Expanding your heart,
Your mind
And time.
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I have walked your burning tar streets,
Soles hardened to leather,
Orange and gold sunset
Reflecting in my face
And my dreams.
 
I played around your streams
Avoiding the mosquitoes
And the bilharzia;
And climbed your trees
Where the boomslang hide
From the boisterous child.
 
In tall reeds,
Where cobras slid
To lay their eggs,
We entered our fantasy world
Of ghosts and fairies.
 
And I saw the worshippers
In their capes of blue
With a large white cross,
Sing and dance
Praises
To Heaven
And Ancestors
And Africa.
 
All of us swathed
In your sapphire sky.
 
That blue
We will forever seek
Wherever we may roam.
That blue
That forever says
It is only here
That is your home.
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 The fertile seeds
Lie withered and dried
On the hard, cracked ground.
Suspended life
Reflected in vacant stares,
Waiting by the slimy edge
Of the waterhole womb;
Hardly noticing
The callous wind
Leaching life’s song
From the dying corn.
 
Across the blue
Her white steeds race,
Drawing her duvet,
Soft and grey
Across the harsh sun’s face.
 
Then the explosion of life!
She skips and dances
And teases the waterhole
Back to life.
The excited dust prances,
Jumping and bouncing
To greet her.
 
 She dips her brush into the rainbow,
And with the swoosh of her hand
Paints the colour of promise
Across the land.
Now a blush of green
Where once the river did not flow
And grass struggled to grow.
 
The parched brown sand
Now a colourful band
Playing to the rhythm of her drum.
Flowers lift their face
To her embrace,
Their petals flushed and full.
 
At last the rain came!
She came and she danced
On the dying land;
She kissed and awoke
The heart of joy
And drummed the song of tomorrow.
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Twixt lemon and lime
A difference in color and taste.
To swap the lemon for the lime
Just to make your poem rhyme,
Is a pithy mistake.

This is just  a little reminder that poetry is far more than rhymes.
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