In her love songs the light of feelings shine
And to her credit not one slip shod line
And she could have lived on matured like good wine
But Sara chose to die at forty nine.
In all her verse the human feelings there
And with the best poets of her time she could compare
She wrote of love, of sadness and of joy
The poet is dead but her songs will never die.
I've read her book and then put it away
And opened it to read another day
And i'll re-read the songs another time
Of Sara Teasdale favourite poet of mine.
Since day she died near seventy years have gone
But still the verses of the poet live on
She left her songs for others to enjoy
And the poet lives on her and her songs will never die.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
I Still Recall A Memory
I still recall a memory from my childhood
Long years ago and many miles away
The robin on the flowering hawthron singing
And the high fields wore their wildflowers of the May.
A black faced horned ewe had given birth to twins that morning
One weakly lamb on ground beside her lay
And the other suckled happily tail a waggling
In the bright sunshine of the early day.
From wood of Claramore a gray crow flew out
In darkened face and feathers black and gray
'One of the birds detested by the mountain sheep men'
The only good one a dead one they say.
Beside the weakly lamb the crow alighted
And started pecking at the new born's eyes
I ran to shoo off the vicious assailant
And to aid the helpless 'pain in his bleating cries'.
Out of his left side eye the lamb was bleeding
But his mother came and licked the blood away
From a fate far worse than death perhaps I'd saved him
And at least his first would not be his last day.
And I was ten years old as I remember
And that was more than forty years ago
That I saved a lamb in a field by Clara mountain
From a painful lingering death of a gray crow.
Long years ago and many miles away
The robin on the flowering hawthron singing
And the high fields wore their wildflowers of the May.
A black faced horned ewe had given birth to twins that morning
One weakly lamb on ground beside her lay
And the other suckled happily tail a waggling
In the bright sunshine of the early day.
From wood of Claramore a gray crow flew out
In darkened face and feathers black and gray
'One of the birds detested by the mountain sheep men'
The only good one a dead one they say.
Beside the weakly lamb the crow alighted
And started pecking at the new born's eyes
I ran to shoo off the vicious assailant
And to aid the helpless 'pain in his bleating cries'.
Out of his left side eye the lamb was bleeding
But his mother came and licked the blood away
From a fate far worse than death perhaps I'd saved him
And at least his first would not be his last day.
And I was ten years old as I remember
And that was more than forty years ago
That I saved a lamb in a field by Clara mountain
From a painful lingering death of a gray crow.
Aaron
Young Aaron is a bright and budding poet
And for the future he is one to note
And all of his class mates say his poems are good
And are well written and easily understood.
But Aaron's teacher sees it differently
Perhaps the man is touched by jealousy
His advice to Aaron give verse writing away
And more attention to your studies pay.
In class the teacher found him with a poem
And little mercy to the boy was shown
From Aaron's hand he snatched away the page
And he chewed and ate the poet's work in his rage.
And the other pupils much to their surprise
At what was happening there before their eyes
Watched on in silence as their teacher ate
A poem written by their poetic class mate.
But Aaron seemed to take it in his stride
And his poetic ambitions had not been destroyed
As his cruel teacher had set out to do
The poet to his poetic cause still true.
There is a lesson here for one and all
The most educated of people in some ways can be small
Like Aaron's teacher who has a Uni degree
And yet would you find a more tactless man than he?.
And for the future he is one to note
And all of his class mates say his poems are good
And are well written and easily understood.
But Aaron's teacher sees it differently
Perhaps the man is touched by jealousy
His advice to Aaron give verse writing away
And more attention to your studies pay.
In class the teacher found him with a poem
And little mercy to the boy was shown
From Aaron's hand he snatched away the page
And he chewed and ate the poet's work in his rage.
And the other pupils much to their surprise
At what was happening there before their eyes
Watched on in silence as their teacher ate
A poem written by their poetic class mate.
But Aaron seemed to take it in his stride
And his poetic ambitions had not been destroyed
As his cruel teacher had set out to do
The poet to his poetic cause still true.
There is a lesson here for one and all
The most educated of people in some ways can be small
Like Aaron's teacher who has a Uni degree
And yet would you find a more tactless man than he?.
There Must Be More To Us
Of life after death the mystery has grown
And there must be more to us than flesh and bone
For the human remains the funeral bell may toll
But life goes on as usual for the soul.
I was born into christianity
But religion as such is not for me
Heaven and hell has a simplistic ring
And to such beliefs I have refused to cling.
I used to believe when I was a boy
Of this land called Paradise beyond the sky
The souls of the good went to where angels dwell
And those who died in sin condemned to hell.
The priests they preached of the evils of sin
But they never told us of the god within
Their god lived remote from mankind I recall
But they never told us god lives in us all.
They only told us that their god was right
And that they and they alone had seen the light
And that to the one true diety they belong
And that all of those with different points of view were wrong.
Of life after death the mystery remain
For the dead have never come to life again
And when the funeral bell the ringer toll
I'd like to believe it's not for the soul.
And there must be more to us than flesh and bone
For the human remains the funeral bell may toll
But life goes on as usual for the soul.
I was born into christianity
But religion as such is not for me
Heaven and hell has a simplistic ring
And to such beliefs I have refused to cling.
I used to believe when I was a boy
Of this land called Paradise beyond the sky
The souls of the good went to where angels dwell
And those who died in sin condemned to hell.
The priests they preached of the evils of sin
But they never told us of the god within
Their god lived remote from mankind I recall
But they never told us god lives in us all.
They only told us that their god was right
And that they and they alone had seen the light
And that to the one true diety they belong
And that all of those with different points of view were wrong.
Of life after death the mystery remain
For the dead have never come to life again
And when the funeral bell the ringer toll
I'd like to believe it's not for the soul.
Old Jedder
It surely is a dog's life after all
Old Jedder after years of chasing ball
Her arthritic hips damaged beyond repair
And her balance going the price of wear and tear.
Like her mother 'Miss' old Jedder much the same
Old Miss the heeler to the end was game
Her balance gone her arthritic hips did sway
But with stick and ball to the end she did play.
A black and white border collie and blue heeler cross
Jedder fetch the stick back to you that you toss
Then she wag her tail and bark as if to say
'Please throw that stick again and make my day'.
Old Jedder does not like the dog next door
They have come to grips three times or maybe four
But before damage done the man next door stepped in
And neither dog as such could claim a win.
With human kind old Jedder lives in harmony
It's with neighbour dogs she mostly disagree
She barks around the fence that rings her territory
As if to say this space belongs to me.
Old Jedder she has slowed down to a crawl
But she will rise again after a fall
Her balance going from years of chasing ball
'It surely is a dog's life after all'.
Old Jedder after years of chasing ball
Her arthritic hips damaged beyond repair
And her balance going the price of wear and tear.
Like her mother 'Miss' old Jedder much the same
Old Miss the heeler to the end was game
Her balance gone her arthritic hips did sway
But with stick and ball to the end she did play.
A black and white border collie and blue heeler cross
Jedder fetch the stick back to you that you toss
Then she wag her tail and bark as if to say
'Please throw that stick again and make my day'.
Old Jedder does not like the dog next door
They have come to grips three times or maybe four
But before damage done the man next door stepped in
And neither dog as such could claim a win.
With human kind old Jedder lives in harmony
It's with neighbour dogs she mostly disagree
She barks around the fence that rings her territory
As if to say this space belongs to me.
Old Jedder she has slowed down to a crawl
But she will rise again after a fall
Her balance going from years of chasing ball
'It surely is a dog's life after all'.
Nick Rackard
Nick Rackard was a very famous hurler as famed as Mick Mackey or Christy Ring
And when I was young he used to play for Wexford and great excitement to the game did bring
His seven goals and seven points against Antrim in an All Ireland semi final in championship hurling still a record score
And hardly ever likely to be beaten and probably will stand forever more.
His brothers Billy and Bobby too were famous hurlers and back in the fifties when Wexford were great
The Rackards then were household names in hurling and with the best in Ireland they did rate
Billy and Bobby were stalwart defenders but Nicky the one that the crowds flocked to see
He was the best full forward of his era and in hurling created his own history.
Nick Rackard in his prime a hurling hero broad shouldered, athletic and tall and lean
And Ireland's top full forward in the fifties and one of the finest hurlers ever seen
To Wexford hurling he made all the difference and with him playing they never were outclassed
He scored the goals the goals that really mattered and his scoring feats have never been surpassed.
The old bloke in the pub talked of Nick Rackard and hurling facts and history he know
He was there the day that Rackard shattered Antrim and that was almost fifty years ago
He said it was his greatest sporting memory and the mental pictures fresh with him today
Of the great hurler at his very greatest though that was long ago and far away.
Nick Rackard was a legendary hurler and one of the very finest in his time
And few full backs could have hoped to match it with him when he was at his best and in his prime
And the old bloke in the pub he still remembered the day the great man set his record score
A hurling record that has not been broken and a record that could last forever more.
And when I was young he used to play for Wexford and great excitement to the game did bring
His seven goals and seven points against Antrim in an All Ireland semi final in championship hurling still a record score
And hardly ever likely to be beaten and probably will stand forever more.
His brothers Billy and Bobby too were famous hurlers and back in the fifties when Wexford were great
The Rackards then were household names in hurling and with the best in Ireland they did rate
Billy and Bobby were stalwart defenders but Nicky the one that the crowds flocked to see
He was the best full forward of his era and in hurling created his own history.
Nick Rackard in his prime a hurling hero broad shouldered, athletic and tall and lean
And Ireland's top full forward in the fifties and one of the finest hurlers ever seen
To Wexford hurling he made all the difference and with him playing they never were outclassed
He scored the goals the goals that really mattered and his scoring feats have never been surpassed.
The old bloke in the pub talked of Nick Rackard and hurling facts and history he know
He was there the day that Rackard shattered Antrim and that was almost fifty years ago
He said it was his greatest sporting memory and the mental pictures fresh with him today
Of the great hurler at his very greatest though that was long ago and far away.
Nick Rackard was a legendary hurler and one of the very finest in his time
And few full backs could have hoped to match it with him when he was at his best and in his prime
And the old bloke in the pub he still remembered the day the great man set his record score
A hurling record that has not been broken and a record that could last forever more.
He Deserved To Be Treated Better
I suppose for our acts of self abuse in some ways we must pay
I picked up a bloke who was hitching a lift at 10-30 a.m. today
As he hobbled out of Wonthaggi minus his shirt and shoes
He said he had lost them somehow on his night out on the booze.
For one scarcely in his twenties he looked a sorry sight
He told me in the police cell he had spent most of the night
And without shoes and a shirt to wear at nine they set him free
Some of these so called guardians of the law lack in their humanity.
He desreved to be treated better for he did not seem a crim
Just a wayward young person and there's many more like him
And I bet if those who released him without shirt and shoes have children of their own
They would not feel good about it if such disrespect to them was shown.
On his way back home to Seaford one I'd never seen or known
And I dropped him off at Tooradin which was nearer to his home
For his night out in Wonthaggi in hardship he did pay
And as we shook hands in parting he wished me a 'good day'.
I picked up a bloke who was hitching a lift at 10-30 a.m. today
As he hobbled out of Wonthaggi minus his shirt and shoes
He said he had lost them somehow on his night out on the booze.
For one scarcely in his twenties he looked a sorry sight
He told me in the police cell he had spent most of the night
And without shoes and a shirt to wear at nine they set him free
Some of these so called guardians of the law lack in their humanity.
He desreved to be treated better for he did not seem a crim
Just a wayward young person and there's many more like him
And I bet if those who released him without shirt and shoes have children of their own
They would not feel good about it if such disrespect to them was shown.
On his way back home to Seaford one I'd never seen or known
And I dropped him off at Tooradin which was nearer to his home
For his night out in Wonthaggi in hardship he did pay
And as we shook hands in parting he wished me a 'good day'.
Nowadays He Would Be Outlawed
In Melbourne streets named in his honour but do Melburnians know
What Cromwell did to the poor of Ireland more than three centuries ago?
Nowadays he would be outlawed for his crimes against humanity
But then it's true that the conquerors always write history.
He evicted poor tenant farmers and burnt their houses down
And burnt to ashes their churches in his crusade for the crown
And in the depths of Winter with food and shelter to them denied
By bare hedgerows on the roadsides people in their thousands died.
Cromwells's period in Ireland is a period of shame
And you won't find any streets there in honour of his name
His name there is still hated for the cruelty he did show
To the poor and un-protected more than three centuries ago.
In Ireland he's remembered for his crimes against humanity
But in many Melbourne suburbs a Cromwell street you'll see
And every time I pass by a street that honours Cromwell's name
I recall one who is still loathed for his crimes and acts of shame.
What Cromwell did to the poor of Ireland more than three centuries ago?
Nowadays he would be outlawed for his crimes against humanity
But then it's true that the conquerors always write history.
He evicted poor tenant farmers and burnt their houses down
And burnt to ashes their churches in his crusade for the crown
And in the depths of Winter with food and shelter to them denied
By bare hedgerows on the roadsides people in their thousands died.
Cromwells's period in Ireland is a period of shame
And you won't find any streets there in honour of his name
His name there is still hated for the cruelty he did show
To the poor and un-protected more than three centuries ago.
In Ireland he's remembered for his crimes against humanity
But in many Melbourne suburbs a Cromwell street you'll see
And every time I pass by a street that honours Cromwell's name
I recall one who is still loathed for his crimes and acts of shame.
The Tall Poppies
Though I try my best in doggerel to drag tall poppies down
In my penning of slipshod verses I will never know renown
And the Murdochs and the Packers still at top of social tree
They have made it big in business without any help from me.
In a World where some have too much there is so much poverty
And the one with hungry belly won't live on water and tea
If I were wealthy I would help them but such words not hard to say
When I am one of the many who can't see beyond today.
The tall poppies keep on growing and their success they enjoy
And their offsprings will take over when of old age they will die
And the hungry do not last long on a tea and water diet
Since the day that they were born life has been an uphill fight.
In a World where some have too much there is so much poverty
And the Murdochs and the Packers still at top of social tree
But too many far too many have to live from hand to mouth
And you won't see happy faces when poverty is about.
In my penning of slipshod verses I will never know renown
And the Murdochs and the Packers still at top of social tree
They have made it big in business without any help from me.
In a World where some have too much there is so much poverty
And the one with hungry belly won't live on water and tea
If I were wealthy I would help them but such words not hard to say
When I am one of the many who can't see beyond today.
The tall poppies keep on growing and their success they enjoy
And their offsprings will take over when of old age they will die
And the hungry do not last long on a tea and water diet
Since the day that they were born life has been an uphill fight.
In a World where some have too much there is so much poverty
And the Murdochs and the Packers still at top of social tree
But too many far too many have to live from hand to mouth
And you won't see happy faces when poverty is about.
Willie Remembers
Miles from the city the noise and the smoke
Where the wind soughs and wails in the she oak
And where the creek from the mountain every night and day
Down towards the ocean it babbles on it's way.
Where in the mornings small flocks of Weerloos
Otherwise known as yellow tailed black cockatoos
With their strong beaks shred the hard cones on the monterey
pine
For the small dark seeds on which they love to dine.
In changeable weather in Summer and Fall
The loud peals of thunder Willie still recall
And as lightening streaked through the gray rainy sky
The rufous whistler sang in the woodlet nearby.
Willie remembers his country boyhood
Late in the evening in the quiet wood
Boobook owl called on the moonlit gum trees
His younger days for him hold good memories.
Willie remembers when he was a boy
His father told him when the swallows flew high
That of sunny weather we would have a spell
Creatures of Nature have secrets to tell.
The ex country fellow still fancy he see
Tree creeper climb up the trunk of a tree
All day he climbs trees upwards from the ground
And his instincts tell him where insects can be found.
Of the creek from the highlands that babbles downhill
He retains the finest of mental pictures still
And Willie remembers where he lived as a boy
One hundred miles from here as the crow would fly.
Where the wind soughs and wails in the she oak
And where the creek from the mountain every night and day
Down towards the ocean it babbles on it's way.
Where in the mornings small flocks of Weerloos
Otherwise known as yellow tailed black cockatoos
With their strong beaks shred the hard cones on the monterey
pine
For the small dark seeds on which they love to dine.
In changeable weather in Summer and Fall
The loud peals of thunder Willie still recall
And as lightening streaked through the gray rainy sky
The rufous whistler sang in the woodlet nearby.
Willie remembers his country boyhood
Late in the evening in the quiet wood
Boobook owl called on the moonlit gum trees
His younger days for him hold good memories.
Willie remembers when he was a boy
His father told him when the swallows flew high
That of sunny weather we would have a spell
Creatures of Nature have secrets to tell.
The ex country fellow still fancy he see
Tree creeper climb up the trunk of a tree
All day he climbs trees upwards from the ground
And his instincts tell him where insects can be found.
Of the creek from the highlands that babbles downhill
He retains the finest of mental pictures still
And Willie remembers where he lived as a boy
One hundred miles from here as the crow would fly.
A Song Of Sliabh Luachra
The home of Irish culture an old man once told me
How Eoghain Ruaidh O Suilleabhain died at Knocknagree
He was a major gaelic poet the literary critics say
And the legend of the great Eoghain Ruaidh is living still today
And years later on Ned Buckley stood on the hill of fame
And beyond the boundaries of his home his was a revered name
The great bards of the mountains the gaelic bards of Shrone
So many literary geniuses from land of het and stone.
The Dinneens of east Kerry their fame known far and wide
They too were of Sliabh Luachra that famous country side
The home of gaelic culture renowned for literary men
Sliabh Luachra was made famous by her 'soldiers of the pen'.
The traditional musicians of Sliabh Luachra with the best could compare
And it's been said their equals could only be found in Clare
The great 'Denis the Weaver' is still a house hold name
And in his years in America he spread Sliabh Luachra's fame.
Johnny Leary and Hanna Cronin their names will never die
To so many all down the years these two have brought such joy
The musicians and the singers, the writers and the poet
All helped to make Sliabh Luachra a cultural place of note.
From Knocknagree to Barraduff back to the hills of Shrone
The home of song and music in many places known
The fiddler's fiddle silent now and the bard forever gone
But Sliabh Luachra has her memories and the memories linger on.
How Eoghain Ruaidh O Suilleabhain died at Knocknagree
He was a major gaelic poet the literary critics say
And the legend of the great Eoghain Ruaidh is living still today
And years later on Ned Buckley stood on the hill of fame
And beyond the boundaries of his home his was a revered name
The great bards of the mountains the gaelic bards of Shrone
So many literary geniuses from land of het and stone.
The Dinneens of east Kerry their fame known far and wide
They too were of Sliabh Luachra that famous country side
The home of gaelic culture renowned for literary men
Sliabh Luachra was made famous by her 'soldiers of the pen'.
The traditional musicians of Sliabh Luachra with the best could compare
And it's been said their equals could only be found in Clare
The great 'Denis the Weaver' is still a house hold name
And in his years in America he spread Sliabh Luachra's fame.
Johnny Leary and Hanna Cronin their names will never die
To so many all down the years these two have brought such joy
The musicians and the singers, the writers and the poet
All helped to make Sliabh Luachra a cultural place of note.
From Knocknagree to Barraduff back to the hills of Shrone
The home of song and music in many places known
The fiddler's fiddle silent now and the bard forever gone
But Sliabh Luachra has her memories and the memories linger on.
Raymond
Down at his local Raymond makes a whole lot of noise
His loud voice heard above the din 'boys always will be boys'
He and his mates meet every evening for an hour's drinking or two
And their subjects seldom vary as pub talk seldom do.
Politics, football, their children, girlfriends and their wives
And work and workplace matters seem important in their lives
And Raymond of his ten year old Ed has his old usual brag
That he will play for Collingwood whilst he will wave the flag.
His big dream is to watch his boy in the Grand Final play
And that he be the best on ground on football's biggest day
His only dream for his son is that he be good at football
But that he grow to be a decent human being to him doesn't seem to matter much at all.
After 5 P.M. the local can be quite a noisy place
And in that pub Raymond's who lives nearby is a familiar face
It is not the place to go to if you're needing a quiet beer
As the booming voice of Raymond above the din you hear.
In his local pub Raymond one might say is well known
And he is quite gregarious and never on his own
He boasts that his son Eddy for Collingwood will play
His dreams are only small dreams or so 'twould seem that way.
His loud voice heard above the din 'boys always will be boys'
He and his mates meet every evening for an hour's drinking or two
And their subjects seldom vary as pub talk seldom do.
Politics, football, their children, girlfriends and their wives
And work and workplace matters seem important in their lives
And Raymond of his ten year old Ed has his old usual brag
That he will play for Collingwood whilst he will wave the flag.
His big dream is to watch his boy in the Grand Final play
And that he be the best on ground on football's biggest day
His only dream for his son is that he be good at football
But that he grow to be a decent human being to him doesn't seem to matter much at all.
After 5 P.M. the local can be quite a noisy place
And in that pub Raymond's who lives nearby is a familiar face
It is not the place to go to if you're needing a quiet beer
As the booming voice of Raymond above the din you hear.
In his local pub Raymond one might say is well known
And he is quite gregarious and never on his own
He boasts that his son Eddy for Collingwood will play
His dreams are only small dreams or so 'twould seem that way.
Who Spoke
Who spoke about a Paradise on Earth
Some say it's somewhere out on the south seas
But paradise must be distant from here
For I can smell pollution in the breeze.
Who spoke that the meek shall inherit the Earth
How stupid do they make us out to be?
The one who quote those words may well not know
How it feels like to live in poverty.
Who ever spoke of a fair go for all
Is one who has been talking through his hat
The rich get richer whilst the poor get poor
There has to be a mouse to feed the cat.
Who spoke that in God's eyes we all are equal
That God for every mortal human care
But when the poor are left to die of hunger
One has to ask is this God really fair?.
Who spoke about the war that would end all wars?
In retrospect a silly thing to say
When man from past mistakes don't seem to learn
And people still die in conflicts every day.
Who spoke about the places hell and heaven?
And the afterlife of happiness and woe
Such religious teachings do not have much substance
Of life after death would anybody know?.
Who spoke of Eden on this Planet Earth
When near Tahiti in the southern seas
The French at Murutoa test their bombs
And I can smell pollution in the breeze?.
Some say it's somewhere out on the south seas
But paradise must be distant from here
For I can smell pollution in the breeze.
Who spoke that the meek shall inherit the Earth
How stupid do they make us out to be?
The one who quote those words may well not know
How it feels like to live in poverty.
Who ever spoke of a fair go for all
Is one who has been talking through his hat
The rich get richer whilst the poor get poor
There has to be a mouse to feed the cat.
Who spoke that in God's eyes we all are equal
That God for every mortal human care
But when the poor are left to die of hunger
One has to ask is this God really fair?.
Who spoke about the war that would end all wars?
In retrospect a silly thing to say
When man from past mistakes don't seem to learn
And people still die in conflicts every day.
Who spoke about the places hell and heaven?
And the afterlife of happiness and woe
Such religious teachings do not have much substance
Of life after death would anybody know?.
Who spoke of Eden on this Planet Earth
When near Tahiti in the southern seas
The French at Murutoa test their bombs
And I can smell pollution in the breeze?.
Selby's Woodland Creek
Through undergrowth where tree fern grow
Through Selby wood the brown creek flow
From wooded heights it journey down
To flatter parts near Belgrave Town.
The mountain ash on the steep height
From Selby creek block out sunlight
And by mountain ash and mountain gray
The small creek downhill winds it's way.
By woodland creek on blackwood tree
The crimson rosella family
Pipe softly in the freshening breeze
I love their pleasant melodies.
The grey shrike thrush with flute like song
In Selby wood sing all day long
Down to the creek to bathe and drink he fly
And then back up to branch to preen and dry.
From upper Selby and on down
To flatter parts near Belgrave town
And by mountain ash and mountain gray
The woodland creek it winds it's way.
Through Selby wood the brown creek flow
From wooded heights it journey down
To flatter parts near Belgrave Town.
The mountain ash on the steep height
From Selby creek block out sunlight
And by mountain ash and mountain gray
The small creek downhill winds it's way.
By woodland creek on blackwood tree
The crimson rosella family
Pipe softly in the freshening breeze
I love their pleasant melodies.
The grey shrike thrush with flute like song
In Selby wood sing all day long
Down to the creek to bathe and drink he fly
And then back up to branch to preen and dry.
From upper Selby and on down
To flatter parts near Belgrave town
And by mountain ash and mountain gray
The woodland creek it winds it's way.
Anne From Mallow
She lives in Richmond by the river the Yarra deep and brown
A woman in her eighties she hailed from Mallow Town
Through Mallow Town in County Cork Blackwater river flow
By house she left for London more than sixty years ago.
She asked me did I have a beer to toast Australia Day
It only comes but once a year enjoy it whilst you may
I seldom think of Mallow now it seems so far away
And Australia now is home to me so Anne McKenna say.
She left that Town in county Cork when she was just eighteen
And she has travelled far since then and many Lands she's seen
She worked in London during World War 2 those were tough years she said
But through the dark days glimmered hope for better days ahead.
She last was back in Mallow Town in nineteen eighty three
And she can only recall now the changes that she see
The few remaining that she knew were showing their years in gray
The passing years bring with them change it's always been that way.
Where cyclists ride the Yarra track and others walk and jog
You'll see her in the morning with her pomeranian dog
A woman in her eighties with silver through the brown
A long, long way from Ireland County Cork and Mallow Town.
A woman in her eighties she hailed from Mallow Town
Through Mallow Town in County Cork Blackwater river flow
By house she left for London more than sixty years ago.
She asked me did I have a beer to toast Australia Day
It only comes but once a year enjoy it whilst you may
I seldom think of Mallow now it seems so far away
And Australia now is home to me so Anne McKenna say.
She left that Town in county Cork when she was just eighteen
And she has travelled far since then and many Lands she's seen
She worked in London during World War 2 those were tough years she said
But through the dark days glimmered hope for better days ahead.
She last was back in Mallow Town in nineteen eighty three
And she can only recall now the changes that she see
The few remaining that she knew were showing their years in gray
The passing years bring with them change it's always been that way.
Where cyclists ride the Yarra track and others walk and jog
You'll see her in the morning with her pomeranian dog
A woman in her eighties with silver through the brown
A long, long way from Ireland County Cork and Mallow Town.
Thursday, April 28, 2011
The Bored Princess
The princess felt bored in her castle fed up with her too easy life
Her father the king had plans for her that she would become a royal wife
And keep pure royal blood in the family for to sow the best of royal seed
Were she for to fall for a commoner 'twould give rise to a mongrel breed.
With her binoculars from her high balcony northwards at least half a mile
She spied a young man with jackhammer in the sunshine sweat at his toil
Dark haired, broad shouldered and well muscled a handsome young man in his prime
The type of man she could make love to in the right place and at the right time.
A handsome and a hard working fellow he looked not more than twenty two
With such a man she could be happy and to such a man she could be true
And though he is a hard working fellow unused to a life of conceit
To her he will remain a stranger for he is one she'll never meet.
She's bored with the high brow society the dukes and the princes she know
The pomp and the trappings of royalty where life is all glitter and show
And her father he wil have his wishes for a prince or a king she will wed
And the man who works with the jackhammer will never lay with her in bed.
The beautiful princess on her balcony with binoculars takes in the view
And she spies a handsome young man with jackhammer he looks not more than twenty two
Now here is a man who looks different, hard working, well muscled and lean
But she's a daughter of the monarch and for a king she will be queen.
Her father the king had plans for her that she would become a royal wife
And keep pure royal blood in the family for to sow the best of royal seed
Were she for to fall for a commoner 'twould give rise to a mongrel breed.
With her binoculars from her high balcony northwards at least half a mile
She spied a young man with jackhammer in the sunshine sweat at his toil
Dark haired, broad shouldered and well muscled a handsome young man in his prime
The type of man she could make love to in the right place and at the right time.
A handsome and a hard working fellow he looked not more than twenty two
With such a man she could be happy and to such a man she could be true
And though he is a hard working fellow unused to a life of conceit
To her he will remain a stranger for he is one she'll never meet.
She's bored with the high brow society the dukes and the princes she know
The pomp and the trappings of royalty where life is all glitter and show
And her father he wil have his wishes for a prince or a king she will wed
And the man who works with the jackhammer will never lay with her in bed.
The beautiful princess on her balcony with binoculars takes in the view
And she spies a handsome young man with jackhammer he looks not more than twenty two
Now here is a man who looks different, hard working, well muscled and lean
But she's a daughter of the monarch and for a king she will be queen.
Damn All You
When you talk of the recession you don't find it hard to lie
Damn all you Politicians, Bureaucrats and Bankers for the good lives you enjoy
Bank interest keep on rising and the cost of living high
And why the working classes hate you why you wonder why?.
Damn all you politicians you don't deserve respect
The people who give you the power you never do protect
From the bureaucrats and bankers who grow wealthier by the day
For their lavish lifestyles and parties it's the working class who pay.
Damn all you greedy bankers for want of a better name
That you've made so many bankrupt doesn't cause you any shame
As long as you can make your millions that's all you seem to care
And so many must grow poorer just to make one millionaire.
Damn all you bureaucrats and government officials you must think people are fools
You make life hard for so many with your red tape and your rules
You command the highest salaries and you are of the privileged few
And the World would be a better place without the likes of you.
Damn all you Politicians, Bankers and Bureaucrats all you think of is your gain
You don't have to worry about your future and you do not feel the strain
Of working hard to make ends meet just to live from day to day
You have never had it better and everything is going your way.
Damn all you Politicians, Bureaucrats and Bankers for the good lives you enjoy
Bank interest keep on rising and the cost of living high
And why the working classes hate you why you wonder why?.
Damn all you politicians you don't deserve respect
The people who give you the power you never do protect
From the bureaucrats and bankers who grow wealthier by the day
For their lavish lifestyles and parties it's the working class who pay.
Damn all you greedy bankers for want of a better name
That you've made so many bankrupt doesn't cause you any shame
As long as you can make your millions that's all you seem to care
And so many must grow poorer just to make one millionaire.
Damn all you bureaucrats and government officials you must think people are fools
You make life hard for so many with your red tape and your rules
You command the highest salaries and you are of the privileged few
And the World would be a better place without the likes of you.
Damn all you Politicians, Bankers and Bureaucrats all you think of is your gain
You don't have to worry about your future and you do not feel the strain
Of working hard to make ends meet just to live from day to day
You have never had it better and everything is going your way.
Anzac Day
Patriotic men and women from sixty down to sixteen
Rode proudly on their horses in the famed Anzac green
Followed by the women of the red cross in their renowned white and red
On this day every April they honour the war dead.
Up to the war memorial where a large crowd stand around
And at the front of the congregation old 'Diggers' to be found
Old veterans of World War 2 they show their years in gray
Their war medals pinned to their lapels their bravery on display.
A lone bugler played the last post to honour the war dead
And an old man who was standing near I saw him bow his head
And tears were trickling down his face his thoughts were far away
Some noble men who were his friends in foreign country lay.
We are gathered here this morning the ageing speaker said
To commemorate true heroes our great and brave war dead
They made the ultimate sacrifice and at a young age they did die
And we have them in part to thank for the freedom we enjoy.
For our soldiers who died in foreign wars for their souls let us pray
It's only to remember them that we have Anzac Day
Their bones may lay in foreign fields but in history they survive
And the spirit of the Anzac is still very much alive.
He thanked the old war veterans who marched in the parade
How can we thank you enough for the sacrifice you've made
You risked your lives in cause of peace 'we salute you today'
You noble men who won the war in Country far away.
He thanked the red cross women the finest in the Land
And the bugler who played 'the last post' and the six piece marching band
And the horse riders dressed as Anzacs in the famed faded green
And he asked the band to finish up by playing 'God Save The Queen'.
And the band played 'God Save The Queen' but not 'Advance Australia Fair'
And I who doesn't believe in war could only feel aware
That in Britain they don't play the Australian Anthem when they honour their war dead
Was it for Britain or Australia that young Aussie blood was shed?.
The horse riders dressed as Anzacs in the famed faded green
And the bugler played the last post and the band played 'God Save The Queen'.
And a war veteran spoke of Aussie war dead their bones in Europe lay
At least they are remembered still on every Anzac Day.
Rode proudly on their horses in the famed Anzac green
Followed by the women of the red cross in their renowned white and red
On this day every April they honour the war dead.
Up to the war memorial where a large crowd stand around
And at the front of the congregation old 'Diggers' to be found
Old veterans of World War 2 they show their years in gray
Their war medals pinned to their lapels their bravery on display.
A lone bugler played the last post to honour the war dead
And an old man who was standing near I saw him bow his head
And tears were trickling down his face his thoughts were far away
Some noble men who were his friends in foreign country lay.
We are gathered here this morning the ageing speaker said
To commemorate true heroes our great and brave war dead
They made the ultimate sacrifice and at a young age they did die
And we have them in part to thank for the freedom we enjoy.
For our soldiers who died in foreign wars for their souls let us pray
It's only to remember them that we have Anzac Day
Their bones may lay in foreign fields but in history they survive
And the spirit of the Anzac is still very much alive.
He thanked the old war veterans who marched in the parade
How can we thank you enough for the sacrifice you've made
You risked your lives in cause of peace 'we salute you today'
You noble men who won the war in Country far away.
He thanked the red cross women the finest in the Land
And the bugler who played 'the last post' and the six piece marching band
And the horse riders dressed as Anzacs in the famed faded green
And he asked the band to finish up by playing 'God Save The Queen'.
And the band played 'God Save The Queen' but not 'Advance Australia Fair'
And I who doesn't believe in war could only feel aware
That in Britain they don't play the Australian Anthem when they honour their war dead
Was it for Britain or Australia that young Aussie blood was shed?.
The horse riders dressed as Anzacs in the famed faded green
And the bugler played the last post and the band played 'God Save The Queen'.
And a war veteran spoke of Aussie war dead their bones in Europe lay
At least they are remembered still on every Anzac Day.
In Ballarat Where History Doesn't Fade
In Ballarat where history doesn't fade
They still honour the Eureka Stockade,
The miners who fought some of them even died
For their rights to them that for years they had been denied
The Town of Ballarat known far and wide
And the people there in their history take pride
Their ancestors fought against their oppressors laws
And even took up arms for their worthy cause.
The name of Peter Lalor they revere
He led the miners fight and conquered fear
But for his fame a huge price he did pay
He lost an arm on that historic day.
The miners were defeated in the bloody fight
They succumbed to the Government forces greater might
But they won their rights for which they went to war
And the story of their bravery travelled far.
In Ballarat where history was made
They still revere the men of the stockade
Who fought against the forces of the Crown
Long years ago in their historic Town.
They still honour the Eureka Stockade,
The miners who fought some of them even died
For their rights to them that for years they had been denied
The Town of Ballarat known far and wide
And the people there in their history take pride
Their ancestors fought against their oppressors laws
And even took up arms for their worthy cause.
The name of Peter Lalor they revere
He led the miners fight and conquered fear
But for his fame a huge price he did pay
He lost an arm on that historic day.
The miners were defeated in the bloody fight
They succumbed to the Government forces greater might
But they won their rights for which they went to war
And the story of their bravery travelled far.
In Ballarat where history was made
They still revere the men of the stockade
Who fought against the forces of the Crown
Long years ago in their historic Town.
There Isn't Any Doggerel There
There isn't any doggerel there this morning
The inspiration well in me is dry
I hear the sound of footsteps on the sidewalk
And silver gulls along the foreshore cry.
And on the silky oaks house sparrows chirping
For house sparrows don't have a song to sing
And magpie lark the black and white bird whistling
His pee wee notes have a familiar ring.
And through it all the noise of passing traffic
And gas and smog pollute suburban skies
And humankind I feel is the big loser
Where voice of Nature compete with man created noise.
Of any inspiration I feel empty
I feel burnt out from scribbling doggerel
The poets are gone to join the poets of heaven
And I am bound for the poetasters hell.
On silky oak the plain house sparrows chirping
And magpie lark is whistling pee wee
And man created noise compete with Nature
And silver gulls are calling by the sea.
The inspiration well in me is dry
I hear the sound of footsteps on the sidewalk
And silver gulls along the foreshore cry.
And on the silky oaks house sparrows chirping
For house sparrows don't have a song to sing
And magpie lark the black and white bird whistling
His pee wee notes have a familiar ring.
And through it all the noise of passing traffic
And gas and smog pollute suburban skies
And humankind I feel is the big loser
Where voice of Nature compete with man created noise.
Of any inspiration I feel empty
I feel burnt out from scribbling doggerel
The poets are gone to join the poets of heaven
And I am bound for the poetasters hell.
On silky oak the plain house sparrows chirping
And magpie lark is whistling pee wee
And man created noise compete with Nature
And silver gulls are calling by the sea.
July In Sherbrooke
The wattle trees a blaze of yellow flowers
But it has rained all morning till mid day
The Sherbrooke woods are shrouded in gray fog
And Spring seem far so very far away.
The magpie pipe on windblown blackwood tree
And rain clouds gather in the wintery sky
But grass is growing and Winter weather mild
And blue wren sing on fifth day of July.
The currawongs have piped since dawn of day
They sing the same notes over and again
In winter they come down from higher hills
And 'currawong' before and during rain.
The black faced cuckoo shrike live miles away
Her wings have taken her to warmer clime
But she'll be back in not too distant day
To raise her brood in Sherbrooke in Springtime.
It's rained all morning and the sun doesn't shine
And wattles are in bloom and magpie sing
And Sherbrooke woods are shrouded in gray fog
And near sixty days till the first breath of Spring.
But it has rained all morning till mid day
The Sherbrooke woods are shrouded in gray fog
And Spring seem far so very far away.
The magpie pipe on windblown blackwood tree
And rain clouds gather in the wintery sky
But grass is growing and Winter weather mild
And blue wren sing on fifth day of July.
The currawongs have piped since dawn of day
They sing the same notes over and again
In winter they come down from higher hills
And 'currawong' before and during rain.
The black faced cuckoo shrike live miles away
Her wings have taken her to warmer clime
But she'll be back in not too distant day
To raise her brood in Sherbrooke in Springtime.
It's rained all morning and the sun doesn't shine
And wattles are in bloom and magpie sing
And Sherbrooke woods are shrouded in gray fog
And near sixty days till the first breath of Spring.
The Skylark Sing Above The Mountain
The skylark sing above the mountain brow
And robin piping on the leafy bough
And lush green meads scent of the blooms of May
And it's Spring in a green Land far away.
I feel homesick at this time every year
I close my eyes the dunnock's voice I hear
In leafy grove the chaffinch chirp and sing
It would be nice to be home for the Spring.
It would be nice to go back home right now
When there is so much beauty to be seen
The birds are singing, wildflowers everywhere
And woods and valleys wear their richest green.
The currawongs are down from higher hills
I hear them calling on the tall gum trees
And morning air has breath of Winter chill
Whilst it's Spring in Ireland far beyond the seas.
If I had enough money I would go back home
If only for a month or even two
Enjoy the Spring, enjoy the peace and quiet
And do the things that I most like to do.
The skylark sing above the mountain brow
And robin piping on the leafy bough
And lush green meads scent of the blooms of May
And it's Spring in a green Land far away.
And robin piping on the leafy bough
And lush green meads scent of the blooms of May
And it's Spring in a green Land far away.
I feel homesick at this time every year
I close my eyes the dunnock's voice I hear
In leafy grove the chaffinch chirp and sing
It would be nice to be home for the Spring.
It would be nice to go back home right now
When there is so much beauty to be seen
The birds are singing, wildflowers everywhere
And woods and valleys wear their richest green.
The currawongs are down from higher hills
I hear them calling on the tall gum trees
And morning air has breath of Winter chill
Whilst it's Spring in Ireland far beyond the seas.
If I had enough money I would go back home
If only for a month or even two
Enjoy the Spring, enjoy the peace and quiet
And do the things that I most like to do.
The skylark sing above the mountain brow
And robin piping on the leafy bough
And lush green meads scent of the blooms of May
And it's Spring in a green Land far away.
On Reading Poems Of Goldsmith
The poet Oliver Goldsmith lives in his verse today
And his 'Deserted Village' refuse to decay
And despite times passage the great beauty still shines
Through many of the great poet's marvellous rhymes.
Well written poetry never out of date
And to 'Goldsmith's Village' I too can relate
For I too cling to childhood and the past
Though clouds o'er memory now seem overcast.
And still the fading memories with me stay
Though Millstreet of my past seems far away
The elders of my youth with me remain
And mental pictures of them I retain.
They were my mentors in my childhood years
And each sad passing woke the sleeping tears
But I see them still as when I was a boy
And I'll remember them until I die.
And I still see the fields of Millstreet in my dreams
And I hear the dippers piping in the streams
And from Claramore I see the little rill
By briery hedgerow splashing down the hill.
I climb the high ground up through Pomeroy's field
Up to the hill where grass to bracken yield
The lark is piping in the morning sky
And Blackbird singing in the wood nearby.
In Spring nostalgia comes to visit me
And Clara's bracken face again I see
Old Clara hill as ever looking down
On fields and groves that border Millstreet Town.
And though I love this Land it has been good to me
A migrant here is all I'll ever be
And the years have left me looking old and gray
And I'd be a stranger now in Claraghatlea.
The years bring change and memories only last
And like Goldsmith who felt homesick for the past
The memories of what was with me remain
And my old friends come to visit me again.
And his 'Deserted Village' refuse to decay
And despite times passage the great beauty still shines
Through many of the great poet's marvellous rhymes.
Well written poetry never out of date
And to 'Goldsmith's Village' I too can relate
For I too cling to childhood and the past
Though clouds o'er memory now seem overcast.
And still the fading memories with me stay
Though Millstreet of my past seems far away
The elders of my youth with me remain
And mental pictures of them I retain.
They were my mentors in my childhood years
And each sad passing woke the sleeping tears
But I see them still as when I was a boy
And I'll remember them until I die.
And I still see the fields of Millstreet in my dreams
And I hear the dippers piping in the streams
And from Claramore I see the little rill
By briery hedgerow splashing down the hill.
I climb the high ground up through Pomeroy's field
Up to the hill where grass to bracken yield
The lark is piping in the morning sky
And Blackbird singing in the wood nearby.
In Spring nostalgia comes to visit me
And Clara's bracken face again I see
Old Clara hill as ever looking down
On fields and groves that border Millstreet Town.
And though I love this Land it has been good to me
A migrant here is all I'll ever be
And the years have left me looking old and gray
And I'd be a stranger now in Claraghatlea.
The years bring change and memories only last
And like Goldsmith who felt homesick for the past
The memories of what was with me remain
And my old friends come to visit me again.
A Relative Thing
The man just past his fifty feels he's old
I'm getting on in years you hear him say
Whilst the fellow old enough to be his dad
Acts like one who is still in his prime day.
The older bloke says I still feel quite young
You ask him what age he is and he won't tell you
He only says I'm close to forty can't you tell
But on his last birthday he was seventy two.
The younger man an older man at heart
And the grim reaper can't be too far away
And the older fellow feels he is still young
Though he is older with a lot more gray.
It has been said that age is a relative thing
The younger man already feeling old
But the older man to 'father time' won't bow
You are as old as you feel we are told.
The younger man already feels he's old
And as an old man at heart he will die
But the older fellow he still feels quite young
And despite his years he still remains a boy.
I'm getting on in years you hear him say
Whilst the fellow old enough to be his dad
Acts like one who is still in his prime day.
The older bloke says I still feel quite young
You ask him what age he is and he won't tell you
He only says I'm close to forty can't you tell
But on his last birthday he was seventy two.
The younger man an older man at heart
And the grim reaper can't be too far away
And the older fellow feels he is still young
Though he is older with a lot more gray.
It has been said that age is a relative thing
The younger man already feeling old
But the older man to 'father time' won't bow
You are as old as you feel we are told.
The younger man already feels he's old
And as an old man at heart he will die
But the older fellow he still feels quite young
And despite his years he still remains a boy.
The Wombat
The wombat leaves his home in ground at evening in the gloaming
And through the glen the wooded glen in search of sweet grass go roaming
And across the glen the silent glen the veil of darkness creeping
And silence reign under night's cloak and all day creatures sleeping.
He climb the glen to pasture field where grass grow young and sweeter
And wombat has keen appetite and wombat is big eater
And only sound in darkened land the sound of bullock grunting
And barking fox down in the glen out for the evening hunting.
He do not fear bullock or fox these creatures will not harm him
But voice of man and bark of dog are sounds that do alarm him
And they are wombat's enemies just these two and none other
Beware of man and man's cruel dog a lesson from his mother.
A badger sized beast with dark gray hair and skin as tough as leather
The wombat leaves his home at dusk 'no matter what the weather'
He leaves his burrow in the glen when shades of night are falling
To wander in a darkened land where hungry fox is calling.
And through the glen the wooded glen in search of sweet grass go roaming
And across the glen the silent glen the veil of darkness creeping
And silence reign under night's cloak and all day creatures sleeping.
He climb the glen to pasture field where grass grow young and sweeter
And wombat has keen appetite and wombat is big eater
And only sound in darkened land the sound of bullock grunting
And barking fox down in the glen out for the evening hunting.
He do not fear bullock or fox these creatures will not harm him
But voice of man and bark of dog are sounds that do alarm him
And they are wombat's enemies just these two and none other
Beware of man and man's cruel dog a lesson from his mother.
A badger sized beast with dark gray hair and skin as tough as leather
The wombat leaves his home at dusk 'no matter what the weather'
He leaves his burrow in the glen when shades of night are falling
To wander in a darkened land where hungry fox is calling.
Tuesday, April 26, 2011
How Come
How come we hear so much about male heroes
And men feature mostly in brave deeds we recall
One would believe that there were never heroines
And that women not important after all?.
But through the ages many noble females
From Joan of Arc to Florence Nightingale
And Gladys Aylward the English missionary in China
Succeeded where the bravest men might fail.
How come we hear about the heroic soldier
His glory lives on with us through the years
But never any word of his brave mother
Who once changed his diaper and wiped away his tears?.
We hear about the great and sporting hero
For sports can often be a macho thing
The player who kicks the goal that wins the final
To the overjoyed club fans is their king.
But it's so much harder to become a heroine
And a woman must strive harder for acclaim
For centuries women looked on as inferior
And for them it's still a steeper climb to fame.
How come it always is the sporting hero
Or the soldier who shows courage under fire?
But give me a noble and a gutsy woman
And I will say here is one I admire.
And men feature mostly in brave deeds we recall
One would believe that there were never heroines
And that women not important after all?.
But through the ages many noble females
From Joan of Arc to Florence Nightingale
And Gladys Aylward the English missionary in China
Succeeded where the bravest men might fail.
How come we hear about the heroic soldier
His glory lives on with us through the years
But never any word of his brave mother
Who once changed his diaper and wiped away his tears?.
We hear about the great and sporting hero
For sports can often be a macho thing
The player who kicks the goal that wins the final
To the overjoyed club fans is their king.
But it's so much harder to become a heroine
And a woman must strive harder for acclaim
For centuries women looked on as inferior
And for them it's still a steeper climb to fame.
How come it always is the sporting hero
Or the soldier who shows courage under fire?
But give me a noble and a gutsy woman
And I will say here is one I admire.
Every Human Life Is Priceless
Every human life is priceless so said Edgar Allan Poe
The great poet from the U.S.A. a few centuries ago
But since he lived on this Planet so many have died in wars or met with foul play
Perhaps even as many as have died in the natural way.
Every human life is priceless that's how it ought to be
But so many dying of hunger and living in poverty
And so many suffering for their beliefs and their rights to them denied
And by oppressive Governments their hopes and dreams destroyed.
Every human life is priceless though not all see it that way
So many human predators on the defenceless prey
The Amin's and Hussein's and the Milosevic's are no longer rare
And murder is on the increase and some bad people every where.
Every human life is priceless that's what a great poet once said
One who still lives on in literature though he's been long with the dead
But sad to say there's still too many who look on human life as cheap
Even as of little value as a donkey's or a sheep.
The great poet from the U.S.A. a few centuries ago
But since he lived on this Planet so many have died in wars or met with foul play
Perhaps even as many as have died in the natural way.
Every human life is priceless that's how it ought to be
But so many dying of hunger and living in poverty
And so many suffering for their beliefs and their rights to them denied
And by oppressive Governments their hopes and dreams destroyed.
Every human life is priceless though not all see it that way
So many human predators on the defenceless prey
The Amin's and Hussein's and the Milosevic's are no longer rare
And murder is on the increase and some bad people every where.
Every human life is priceless that's what a great poet once said
One who still lives on in literature though he's been long with the dead
But sad to say there's still too many who look on human life as cheap
Even as of little value as a donkey's or a sheep.
Anu's Breasts
Legend has it that the Goddess Anu's breasts became the 'Paps of Shrone'
And that through the centuries to peaks they've grown
Till they stood proudly on the higher ground
And grew to be the tallest peaks around.
Through timeless ages they've stood side by side
And smaller peaks behind them seem to hide
And in Winter in their hats of white to gray
The windswept fields around them they survey.
I recall once when I was a young boy
I thought those mountains touched the very sky
An old man spoke to me and pointed west
Those peaks in Shrone are Goddess Anu's breasts.
He said call it myth or legend or call it what you may
But I once heard my old grandfather say
That near Rathmore the Goddess Anu lie
Her huge breasts pointing upwards towards the sky.
The old man's bones long withered to decay
And I grow old and show my years in gray
But Anu's breasts encased in het and stone
Still overlook the windswept fields of Shrone.
And that through the centuries to peaks they've grown
Till they stood proudly on the higher ground
And grew to be the tallest peaks around.
Through timeless ages they've stood side by side
And smaller peaks behind them seem to hide
And in Winter in their hats of white to gray
The windswept fields around them they survey.
I recall once when I was a young boy
I thought those mountains touched the very sky
An old man spoke to me and pointed west
Those peaks in Shrone are Goddess Anu's breasts.
He said call it myth or legend or call it what you may
But I once heard my old grandfather say
That near Rathmore the Goddess Anu lie
Her huge breasts pointing upwards towards the sky.
The old man's bones long withered to decay
And I grow old and show my years in gray
But Anu's breasts encased in het and stone
Still overlook the windswept fields of Shrone.
Grainne Mhaol
The Pirate Queen of Clare Island in history lives today
She sailed the wild Atlantic waves or so the legend say
She engaged large commercial boats and relieved them of their gold
And the amazing story of Grainne Mhaol a story often told.
Born in the year fifteen hundred and thirty almost five centuries ago
Around the bold and beautiful Grace O Malley a legend it did grow
She ruled the seas for decades a sea faring outlaw
And even the most hardened of sea going men of her were in awe.
A woman of the high seas and one who had a high I.Q.
She could speak Gaelic, Latin and English to mention just a few
Of the languages she was fluent in Grace O Malley in her time
Was one who was celebrated in music, song and rhyme.
The first known woman pirate and none so brave as she
She struck a blow for woman kind at a time in history
When men were ruling the roost and women were kept down
The Goddess of Clare Island she sailed into renown.
Grainne Mhaol and Grace O Malley were one and of the same
And she lives on in history as an immortal name
She engaged large commercial boats and relieved them of their gold
And of her great adventures great stories have been told.
She sailed the wild Atlantic waves or so the legend say
She engaged large commercial boats and relieved them of their gold
And the amazing story of Grainne Mhaol a story often told.
Born in the year fifteen hundred and thirty almost five centuries ago
Around the bold and beautiful Grace O Malley a legend it did grow
She ruled the seas for decades a sea faring outlaw
And even the most hardened of sea going men of her were in awe.
A woman of the high seas and one who had a high I.Q.
She could speak Gaelic, Latin and English to mention just a few
Of the languages she was fluent in Grace O Malley in her time
Was one who was celebrated in music, song and rhyme.
The first known woman pirate and none so brave as she
She struck a blow for woman kind at a time in history
When men were ruling the roost and women were kept down
The Goddess of Clare Island she sailed into renown.
Grainne Mhaol and Grace O Malley were one and of the same
And she lives on in history as an immortal name
She engaged large commercial boats and relieved them of their gold
And of her great adventures great stories have been told.
John Still Thinks Of Australia
From the field at the back of their house John and Eileen can see
The mighty Blackwater river flow slowly towards the sea
Along the Cork-Waterford border through places flat and green
Yet John still thinks of Australia and things there he's done and seen.
He thinks of the Snowy Mountains where he worked in his prime
When he was in his twenties and that's going back in time
But the Victorian-New South Wales border more than half a World away
From the flat lands near Youghal where he resides today.
He worked in Sydney and in Melbourne for Grollos in Collins street
In the height of the Summer jack hammering in the heat
Still he enjoyed the hard work and the take home pay was good
And he is one who never pined for the Land of his boyhood.
Saturday night at the Normandy hotel where he and Eileen often took the floor
And they shared a table with their friends for three hours or even four
The Irish pubs in Queens Parade full of music, dance and song
And three or four hours spent there did not at all seem long
Nineteen years in Australia that seems a lengthy span
Since he left Gortavehy in seventy three as a fit and a young man
And he loved it in Australia and the Aussie way of life
And there he found love and his soul mate in Eileen his Irish wife.
He lives in his old homeland amongst the finest scenery
Near Youghal where the Blackwater slowly edges towards the sea
Still he recalls quite often the happy days that he
Spent in the Southern Country of the gum and wattle tree.
The mighty Blackwater river flow slowly towards the sea
Along the Cork-Waterford border through places flat and green
Yet John still thinks of Australia and things there he's done and seen.
He thinks of the Snowy Mountains where he worked in his prime
When he was in his twenties and that's going back in time
But the Victorian-New South Wales border more than half a World away
From the flat lands near Youghal where he resides today.
He worked in Sydney and in Melbourne for Grollos in Collins street
In the height of the Summer jack hammering in the heat
Still he enjoyed the hard work and the take home pay was good
And he is one who never pined for the Land of his boyhood.
Saturday night at the Normandy hotel where he and Eileen often took the floor
And they shared a table with their friends for three hours or even four
The Irish pubs in Queens Parade full of music, dance and song
And three or four hours spent there did not at all seem long
Nineteen years in Australia that seems a lengthy span
Since he left Gortavehy in seventy three as a fit and a young man
And he loved it in Australia and the Aussie way of life
And there he found love and his soul mate in Eileen his Irish wife.
He lives in his old homeland amongst the finest scenery
Near Youghal where the Blackwater slowly edges towards the sea
Still he recalls quite often the happy days that he
Spent in the Southern Country of the gum and wattle tree.
Sam Langford
Sam Langford never was a World Champion though he was the greatest ever boxer some still say
The World Champions of his era would not fight him as they feared the price would be too big to pay
That the mighty Sam would take from them their title and he was one who was best to avoid
For he had beaten all of the rated fighters and many reputations had destroyed.
An Afro Canadian born at Weymouth Falls in Nova Scotia and he was one brought up in the hard way
And at twelve years of age he left home and crossed the border for to make a new life in the U.S.A.
At sixteen he took up professional boxing in the hard game of fighting for his pay
And the colored man who struggled for recognition has become the boxing Hall of Famer of today.
Jack Johnson before he became World Champion beat Langford in a fiercely contested bout
But he never again would face the 'Boston Terror' for in his mind there was the lingering doubt
That he would not defeat Sam in a rematch and with his World Title belt at stake
To take on such a dangerous opponent for even him too big a risk to take.
Sam Langford lost his sight due to a boxing injury and in his old age he knew poverty
Yet this man who never became World Champion was one of the best in boxing history
Avoided by the World Champions in the three heavier weight divisions and few could match it with him in his prime
And his name lives on with the legendary fighters who fought for their pay in boxing's glorious time.
The World Champions of his era would not fight him as they feared the price would be too big to pay
That the mighty Sam would take from them their title and he was one who was best to avoid
For he had beaten all of the rated fighters and many reputations had destroyed.
An Afro Canadian born at Weymouth Falls in Nova Scotia and he was one brought up in the hard way
And at twelve years of age he left home and crossed the border for to make a new life in the U.S.A.
At sixteen he took up professional boxing in the hard game of fighting for his pay
And the colored man who struggled for recognition has become the boxing Hall of Famer of today.
Jack Johnson before he became World Champion beat Langford in a fiercely contested bout
But he never again would face the 'Boston Terror' for in his mind there was the lingering doubt
That he would not defeat Sam in a rematch and with his World Title belt at stake
To take on such a dangerous opponent for even him too big a risk to take.
Sam Langford lost his sight due to a boxing injury and in his old age he knew poverty
Yet this man who never became World Champion was one of the best in boxing history
Avoided by the World Champions in the three heavier weight divisions and few could match it with him in his prime
And his name lives on with the legendary fighters who fought for their pay in boxing's glorious time.
An Egalatarian Society
I am aware that they are well intentioned
All those who speak of an egalatarian society
And I can only commend them for hoping
For something that is just not meant to be.
For egalitarianism in this modern World
As in the past don't have a part to play
For money which decide our social status
Is seen as more important every day.
I too hope for an egalatarian society
But in the future I can only see
The gap between the rich and poor increasing
And a huge growth in inequality.
If I seem negative you must forgive me
I only look at the reality
And I realize that realism often can
Be misconstrued as a form of negativity.
With those who hope for an egalatarin society
I must say that I thoroughly agree
But I feel saddened by my own conviction
That in my life time such I'll never see.
All those who speak of an egalatarian society
And I can only commend them for hoping
For something that is just not meant to be.
For egalitarianism in this modern World
As in the past don't have a part to play
For money which decide our social status
Is seen as more important every day.
I too hope for an egalatarian society
But in the future I can only see
The gap between the rich and poor increasing
And a huge growth in inequality.
If I seem negative you must forgive me
I only look at the reality
And I realize that realism often can
Be misconstrued as a form of negativity.
With those who hope for an egalatarin society
I must say that I thoroughly agree
But I feel saddened by my own conviction
That in my life time such I'll never see.
Stoneyford Victoria
They should have called this place the land of stone
As stones seem to grow up from the very ground
And a blade of grass growing here might feel alone
And nought but stones for miles and miles around.
And houses here that's hard to understand
As a living from this ground no man can take
Suppose bread winners who live here work in Colac or Camperdown
And either way a long journey to make.
Even the road side fences made of stone
And no hedgerows and hardly any tree
And with scarce no grass to feed a goat or sheep
And nought but stones far as the eye can see.
They should have named this land 'the land of stone'
But then it's name of 'Stoneyford' will do
A bleak and an unsheltered countryside
And stoniest land that I've ever passed through.
As stones seem to grow up from the very ground
And a blade of grass growing here might feel alone
And nought but stones for miles and miles around.
And houses here that's hard to understand
As a living from this ground no man can take
Suppose bread winners who live here work in Colac or Camperdown
And either way a long journey to make.
Even the road side fences made of stone
And no hedgerows and hardly any tree
And with scarce no grass to feed a goat or sheep
And nought but stones far as the eye can see.
They should have named this land 'the land of stone'
But then it's name of 'Stoneyford' will do
A bleak and an unsheltered countryside
And stoniest land that I've ever passed through.
Mistletoe Birds
They feed on ripened fruits of mistletoe
And spread the parasite where'er they go
Their droppings on the branches germinate
And mistletoe in this way they create.
An enemy of gum trees some might say
But Nature never fails to have it's way
By spreading mistletoe to life they give
The trees must suffer for the birds to live.
Fruit eating small birds males with red on breast
With spiders webs they bind their tiny nest
And in the Spring or early Summer lay
Three to four eggs of lightish pale to gray.
Nomadic birds their journeys take them far
And where mistletoe fruit is ripe they always are
And an enemy of gum trees some might say
But Nature never fails to have it's way.
And spread the parasite where'er they go
Their droppings on the branches germinate
And mistletoe in this way they create.
An enemy of gum trees some might say
But Nature never fails to have it's way
By spreading mistletoe to life they give
The trees must suffer for the birds to live.
Fruit eating small birds males with red on breast
With spiders webs they bind their tiny nest
And in the Spring or early Summer lay
Three to four eggs of lightish pale to gray.
Nomadic birds their journeys take them far
And where mistletoe fruit is ripe they always are
And an enemy of gum trees some might say
But Nature never fails to have it's way.
Grey Thrush's Final Song
The grey shrike thrush has sung his final song
He lay on forest floor neath fallen leaves
And Mother Nature who gives life and then take
For her dead children never seems to grieve.
I heard him sing all through the balmy spring
And in the Summer at the dawn of day
But he will never see another Spring
And under Winter leaves the shrike thrush lay.
In Spring when sun will shine on woodland trees
His sons and daughters will sing all the day
And never even remember their dad
Who under leaves will have gone to decay.
In early Summer young birds take to wing
And from branch to branch through leafy wood they fly
But hands of time keep turning all the while
And like dead thrush they soon will age and die.
He lay on forest floor neath fallen leaves
And Mother Nature who gives life and then take
For her dead children never seems to grieve.
I heard him sing all through the balmy spring
And in the Summer at the dawn of day
But he will never see another Spring
And under Winter leaves the shrike thrush lay.
In Spring when sun will shine on woodland trees
His sons and daughters will sing all the day
And never even remember their dad
Who under leaves will have gone to decay.
In early Summer young birds take to wing
And from branch to branch through leafy wood they fly
But hands of time keep turning all the while
And like dead thrush they soon will age and die.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
The Burnt Out Wood
The blackened gums stand silent in the late evening chill
And blackened desolation all along the blackened hill
No signs of life around here and no birds here to sing
And smell of ash and burn out in wood near Hepburn Springs.
How many feathered minstrels have fled this wood distressed
And left behind their nestlings to burn in their nest
And how many little creatures have roasted in the flame?
In act of human treachery and man must take the blame.
A senseless pyromaniac put torch to Hepburn Wood
To satisfy his cravings his actions were not good
Thousands of beautiful gum trees left blackened and destroyed
And thousands of nest bound creatures in killer flames have died.
Time will bring regeneration and birds will come to sing
And build their nests and raise their young in wood near Hepburn Springs
But there will be fewer birds and animals which really seems a shame
Due to act of human treachery and man must take the blame
And blackened desolation all along the blackened hill
No signs of life around here and no birds here to sing
And smell of ash and burn out in wood near Hepburn Springs.
How many feathered minstrels have fled this wood distressed
And left behind their nestlings to burn in their nest
And how many little creatures have roasted in the flame?
In act of human treachery and man must take the blame.
A senseless pyromaniac put torch to Hepburn Wood
To satisfy his cravings his actions were not good
Thousands of beautiful gum trees left blackened and destroyed
And thousands of nest bound creatures in killer flames have died.
Time will bring regeneration and birds will come to sing
And build their nests and raise their young in wood near Hepburn Springs
But there will be fewer birds and animals which really seems a shame
Due to act of human treachery and man must take the blame
The Dingo
The dingo don't have many friends and farmer for him gunning
But dingo is a clever dog and he live by his cunning
The farmer on look out for him an eye out for him keeping
But dingo come and steal the lamb at night when farmer's sleeping.
The dingo was the black man's friend and black man once his master
Till white man came and stole the land for dingo a disaster
And white man he's learned to mistrust since white hunter shot his mother
And trapped and beat his dad to death and snared and killed his brother.
For cunning and elusiveness the red fox he can rival
And like the fox he too has learnt the lesson of survival
And if he kills a lamb or calf he must eat to stay living
Though farmer he doesn't understand and he feels unforgiving.
But dingo is a clever dog and he live by his cunning
The farmer on look out for him an eye out for him keeping
But dingo come and steal the lamb at night when farmer's sleeping.
The dingo was the black man's friend and black man once his master
Till white man came and stole the land for dingo a disaster
And white man he's learned to mistrust since white hunter shot his mother
And trapped and beat his dad to death and snared and killed his brother.
For cunning and elusiveness the red fox he can rival
And like the fox he too has learnt the lesson of survival
And if he kills a lamb or calf he must eat to stay living
Though farmer he doesn't understand and he feels unforgiving.
Forgotten People
In council flats live the forgotten people
At the slum end the poorer side of town
They live on welfare like their dads before them
And from where they live a long hike to renown.
They always wear their football scarves and beanies
And take them with them everywhere they go
They worship their football teams and football heroes
The only sort of culture that they know.
Their addresses they find not to their advantage
For employees employers look elsewhere
They tend to think that those living in the slum parts
Unfit for work and softened from welfare.
With the council flats the cops are well acquainted
They know it as a breeding ground for crime
There are not many there without crime record
Who have not been in jail and served out time.
Those born there are born to disadvantage
The expectations of them is to fail
How can you expect to end up a winner
If all your role models have been to jail?.
How can you expect to soar like an eagle
If you don't have the powerful wings to fly
If you don't have role models to inspire you
To have success in life you may not try?.
The politicians only call to see them
To beg them for their votes on voting day
But when they are elected to high office
From council flats they tend to keep away.
By circumstance of birth forgotten people
Condemned to life of crime and poverty
Still they are less impure in ways than many
Who have climbed to highest branch of success tree.
At the slum end the poorer side of town
They live on welfare like their dads before them
And from where they live a long hike to renown.
They always wear their football scarves and beanies
And take them with them everywhere they go
They worship their football teams and football heroes
The only sort of culture that they know.
Their addresses they find not to their advantage
For employees employers look elsewhere
They tend to think that those living in the slum parts
Unfit for work and softened from welfare.
With the council flats the cops are well acquainted
They know it as a breeding ground for crime
There are not many there without crime record
Who have not been in jail and served out time.
Those born there are born to disadvantage
The expectations of them is to fail
How can you expect to end up a winner
If all your role models have been to jail?.
How can you expect to soar like an eagle
If you don't have the powerful wings to fly
If you don't have role models to inspire you
To have success in life you may not try?.
The politicians only call to see them
To beg them for their votes on voting day
But when they are elected to high office
From council flats they tend to keep away.
By circumstance of birth forgotten people
Condemned to life of crime and poverty
Still they are less impure in ways than many
Who have climbed to highest branch of success tree.
William Allingham
In Laurence Bloomfield In Ireland lives the genius of the poet
About the hardships and the evictions he wrote
That took place in the Ireland of his time
When to be poor was punishable crime.
He lived when famine ravaged his homeland
You know of history you might understand
Why Ireland once was land of death and tears
The sufferings of the poor in famine years.
His poem on the fairies is a gem of joy
I learned it by heart as a school going boy
In all his verse the human feelings there
The laughter, joy, the sorrow and despair.
A bard the critics tend to under rate
But William Allingham a poetic great
More than a century dead but his verses still survive
And that part of him still very much alive.
And since he left poems to be remembered by
The bard lives on and his fame will never die
And the Erne through Ballyshannon flows along
And the bard still living in his gift of song.
About the hardships and the evictions he wrote
That took place in the Ireland of his time
When to be poor was punishable crime.
He lived when famine ravaged his homeland
You know of history you might understand
Why Ireland once was land of death and tears
The sufferings of the poor in famine years.
His poem on the fairies is a gem of joy
I learned it by heart as a school going boy
In all his verse the human feelings there
The laughter, joy, the sorrow and despair.
A bard the critics tend to under rate
But William Allingham a poetic great
More than a century dead but his verses still survive
And that part of him still very much alive.
And since he left poems to be remembered by
The bard lives on and his fame will never die
And the Erne through Ballyshannon flows along
And the bard still living in his gift of song.
Young Looking Pru
She worries about the look of her backside
The size of it a small dent to her pride
But her backside doesn't look that big at all
Compared to others it seems only small.
Cosmetics keep the ageing signs at bay
And with light brown dye she hide her natural gray
And her face lift from her face took years away
And she feels determined that young looking she will stay.
When ego inflater ask what age are you?
You look so young not more than twenty two
'Oh' thank you sir how kind of you to say
You are the fourth who have said how young I look today.
She hides her years in vanity old Pru
There is not much that money cannot do
What plastic surgeon hide the naked eyes can't see
But on last October she was sixty three.
Some women in old age look dignified
The gray and wrinkles age bring they don't hide
Whilst some large sums of money even pay
To hide from eyes their wrinkles and their gray.
And such a woman is young looking Pru
The ego inflater tell her she looks twenty two
But on last October she was sixty three
And what plastic surgeons hide the eyes can't see.
The size of it a small dent to her pride
But her backside doesn't look that big at all
Compared to others it seems only small.
Cosmetics keep the ageing signs at bay
And with light brown dye she hide her natural gray
And her face lift from her face took years away
And she feels determined that young looking she will stay.
When ego inflater ask what age are you?
You look so young not more than twenty two
'Oh' thank you sir how kind of you to say
You are the fourth who have said how young I look today.
She hides her years in vanity old Pru
There is not much that money cannot do
What plastic surgeon hide the naked eyes can't see
But on last October she was sixty three.
Some women in old age look dignified
The gray and wrinkles age bring they don't hide
Whilst some large sums of money even pay
To hide from eyes their wrinkles and their gray.
And such a woman is young looking Pru
The ego inflater tell her she looks twenty two
But on last October she was sixty three
And what plastic surgeons hide the eyes can't see.
The Shadow Chaser
He commit for treatment people with manic depression and schizophrenia
Medical terms used by psychiatrists for those they consider mad
People who at times feel happy for no reason
And at other times seem sour withdrawn and sad
But the psychiatrist himself ought to be committed
If you can go by what some people say
If rumors are true the man has lost his senses
And for his own good should be locked away.
He's been seen in the parkland chasing shadows
Strange for a man of fifty bald and gray
For chasing shadows don't seem normal for an adult
It is a game only young children play.
There is no harm in one who chases shadows
He's one you need not have to fear or dread
But for an adult it seems strange behaviour
And in some way he seems not right in the head.
He is an expert on mental behaviour
And many think him clever wise and sane
But if some people say they see him chasing shadows
Then doubts about his sanity remain.
And if this be so the doctor like his patients
For his own safety should be locked away
But more than often there is little truth in rumor
And what's been said might only be hearsay.
Medical terms used by psychiatrists for those they consider mad
People who at times feel happy for no reason
And at other times seem sour withdrawn and sad
But the psychiatrist himself ought to be committed
If you can go by what some people say
If rumors are true the man has lost his senses
And for his own good should be locked away.
He's been seen in the parkland chasing shadows
Strange for a man of fifty bald and gray
For chasing shadows don't seem normal for an adult
It is a game only young children play.
There is no harm in one who chases shadows
He's one you need not have to fear or dread
But for an adult it seems strange behaviour
And in some way he seems not right in the head.
He is an expert on mental behaviour
And many think him clever wise and sane
But if some people say they see him chasing shadows
Then doubts about his sanity remain.
And if this be so the doctor like his patients
For his own safety should be locked away
But more than often there is little truth in rumor
And what's been said might only be hearsay.
The Hunks Of Broadbeach Town
Wearing shorts and sleeveless singlets their arms and legs bronzed brown
You see them with their ladies the hunks of Broadbeach Town
With massive gleaming biceps their muscles bulging out
Enamoured by their bodies you see them strut about.
When they look in their mirrors their egos self inflates
But to build such mass of muscles must take more than lifting weights
You don't get such big muscles no matter how you strain
They must be taking steroids how else can one explain?.
You see them with their women along the Broadbeach strand
Or Pacific Fair or The Oasis out walking hand in hand
Maybe you think I'm jealous perhaps that may be so
I'm fat and bald and older and muscles I can't show.
If I were young with huge muscles I might feel vain as they
I might wear shorts and singlets my physique on display
I'd stroll hand in hand through Broadbeach with young beauty of nineteen
And I'd think myself the finest the finest ever seen.
In shorts and sleeveless singlets their arms and legs bronzed brown
You see them with their ladies the hunks of Broadbeach Town
With massive gleaming biceps their muscles bulging out
Enamoured by their bodies you see them strut about.
You see them with their ladies the hunks of Broadbeach Town
With massive gleaming biceps their muscles bulging out
Enamoured by their bodies you see them strut about.
When they look in their mirrors their egos self inflates
But to build such mass of muscles must take more than lifting weights
You don't get such big muscles no matter how you strain
They must be taking steroids how else can one explain?.
You see them with their women along the Broadbeach strand
Or Pacific Fair or The Oasis out walking hand in hand
Maybe you think I'm jealous perhaps that may be so
I'm fat and bald and older and muscles I can't show.
If I were young with huge muscles I might feel vain as they
I might wear shorts and singlets my physique on display
I'd stroll hand in hand through Broadbeach with young beauty of nineteen
And I'd think myself the finest the finest ever seen.
In shorts and sleeveless singlets their arms and legs bronzed brown
You see them with their ladies the hunks of Broadbeach Town
With massive gleaming biceps their muscles bulging out
Enamoured by their bodies you see them strut about.
The Sensitive One
You feel that the whole World is against you and kind things of you others do not say
But you are one who has not harmed anybody and to help some
you have gone out of your way
You've overheard two so called friends talking about you and
they seemed very critical of you
Don't worry their opinions do not matter for they belong to the judgemental few.
Your problem is that you are far too sensitive and in choosing your friends you don't seem so wise
Your so called mates were not your mates in the first place in a World of men boys always will be boys
Like you these fellows now are in their twenties but unlike you still at the primary school stage
Some people don't grow up as they grow older you well might say they never come of age.
The sensitive like you hurt far too easily and their feelings not that hard to hurt at all
Leave what your so called mates said about you to experience
In the big picture their type always seem small
But the sensitive like you will always have the problem of fragile feelings that hurt far too easily
Do not expect too much of other people is the only advice you will get from me.
In choosing your mates you haven't chosen wisely and in your
hurted feelings now the price you pay
But I hope you learn from your error in judgement for your mates were never your mates anyway
Some people grow older but they don't grow up they remain at
the primary school going stage
And even if they live on to be eighty they never ever seem to come of age.
But you are one who has not harmed anybody and to help some
you have gone out of your way
You've overheard two so called friends talking about you and
they seemed very critical of you
Don't worry their opinions do not matter for they belong to the judgemental few.
Your problem is that you are far too sensitive and in choosing your friends you don't seem so wise
Your so called mates were not your mates in the first place in a World of men boys always will be boys
Like you these fellows now are in their twenties but unlike you still at the primary school stage
Some people don't grow up as they grow older you well might say they never come of age.
The sensitive like you hurt far too easily and their feelings not that hard to hurt at all
Leave what your so called mates said about you to experience
In the big picture their type always seem small
But the sensitive like you will always have the problem of fragile feelings that hurt far too easily
Do not expect too much of other people is the only advice you will get from me.
In choosing your mates you haven't chosen wisely and in your
hurted feelings now the price you pay
But I hope you learn from your error in judgement for your mates were never your mates anyway
Some people grow older but they don't grow up they remain at
the primary school going stage
And even if they live on to be eighty they never ever seem to come of age.
Olinda East Of Melbourne
The mountain ash trees at Olinda stand on the higher ground
And in their part of the World the tallest trees around
And in the sunlit gardens the rhododendrons are in bloom
Amongst the pleasing aroma of Nature's own perfume.
In Olinda east of Melbourne the World is quiet and green
And for scenic beauty it can compare with the finest I have seen
The poets have written about it and on art gallery wall
I've seen great paintings of Olinda by great painters I recall.
At Olinda east of Melbourne the greeness stay all year
And the birds are always singing there and even on the wet days of the year
On the higher branches of the windblown gums you hear them all day long
Big dark birds familiar to the treed hills the great pied currawong.
The highest part of Sherbrooke I've heard some people say
Is Olinda east of Melbourne where the greeness all year stay
And though suburbia is a short drive no more than 15 k's away
Where the world is quiet and greener the birds sing all the day.
And in their part of the World the tallest trees around
And in the sunlit gardens the rhododendrons are in bloom
Amongst the pleasing aroma of Nature's own perfume.
In Olinda east of Melbourne the World is quiet and green
And for scenic beauty it can compare with the finest I have seen
The poets have written about it and on art gallery wall
I've seen great paintings of Olinda by great painters I recall.
At Olinda east of Melbourne the greeness stay all year
And the birds are always singing there and even on the wet days of the year
On the higher branches of the windblown gums you hear them all day long
Big dark birds familiar to the treed hills the great pied currawong.
The highest part of Sherbrooke I've heard some people say
Is Olinda east of Melbourne where the greeness all year stay
And though suburbia is a short drive no more than 15 k's away
Where the world is quiet and greener the birds sing all the day.
The Waterhen's Wild Cry
To think that the past is forever past a bigger fool am I
For it's followed me across the world the waterhen's wild cry
The memories still fresh with me remain of when I was a boy
The shrill call of the water bird rang in the pond nearby
Her four chicks swam in the brackish pond, red faced and dark and small
And from a clump of water reeds the anxious mum did call
She called on them to join her and her they did obey
And quiet and safe from watcher's eyes they hid themselves away.
In a clear sky the sun shone bright it was a pleasant day
And finches sung and hawthorns wore her blossoms of the May
And the waterhen called to her young to warn of danger near
A lesson in survival in the things they ought to fear.
The past forever is the past at least so some believe
But if you feel that way then you like I your own self you deceive
It's followed me across the World the waterhen's wild cry
And it's been more than fifty years since I was a schoolboy.
For it's followed me across the world the waterhen's wild cry
The memories still fresh with me remain of when I was a boy
The shrill call of the water bird rang in the pond nearby
Her four chicks swam in the brackish pond, red faced and dark and small
And from a clump of water reeds the anxious mum did call
She called on them to join her and her they did obey
And quiet and safe from watcher's eyes they hid themselves away.
In a clear sky the sun shone bright it was a pleasant day
And finches sung and hawthorns wore her blossoms of the May
And the waterhen called to her young to warn of danger near
A lesson in survival in the things they ought to fear.
The past forever is the past at least so some believe
But if you feel that way then you like I your own self you deceive
It's followed me across the World the waterhen's wild cry
And it's been more than fifty years since I was a schoolboy.
Friday, April 22, 2011
I'd Love To Be A Wealthy Sugar Daddy
I'd love to be a wealthy 'sugar daddy'
With a beautiful young girl friend of twenty two to twenty nine
And though she may have been deflowered before I'd met her
I would not worry that would suit me fine.
The young chaps of me would feel very jealous
They'd point and stare and to each other say
That old bloke has a young and pretty woman
And he is decades beyond his prime day.
The wealthy blokes get the finest of young women
'Not much of course that money cannot buy'
In a few years from now she will be very wealthy
There can't be much time left in the old guy.
The bloke is old enough to be our grand dad
Yet his woman as young and far prettier than ours
Us young working class types are left with the passed overs
The wealthy old blokes have taken all the flowers.
I'd love to be a wealthy 'sugar daddy'
And with a pretty young one in her prime
I'd leave the young blokes feeling green with envy
And show them money wins out every time.
With a beautiful young girl friend of twenty two to twenty nine
And though she may have been deflowered before I'd met her
I would not worry that would suit me fine.
The young chaps of me would feel very jealous
They'd point and stare and to each other say
That old bloke has a young and pretty woman
And he is decades beyond his prime day.
The wealthy blokes get the finest of young women
'Not much of course that money cannot buy'
In a few years from now she will be very wealthy
There can't be much time left in the old guy.
The bloke is old enough to be our grand dad
Yet his woman as young and far prettier than ours
Us young working class types are left with the passed overs
The wealthy old blokes have taken all the flowers.
I'd love to be a wealthy 'sugar daddy'
And with a pretty young one in her prime
I'd leave the young blokes feeling green with envy
And show them money wins out every time.
Don't Talk To Me
Don't talk to me of your life's uphill battle
For life's struggles I ought to know about
'Twas want and need that forced me from the north lands
And I'm no better off here in the south.
Don't talk to me of your sad lack of money
Since all I can offer you is sympathy
But remember there are many millions like you
Who live quite close to or in poverty.
Don't talk to me about your hard luck stories
Since I know that life has been so hard on you
But having said that you ought to remember
That others have their hard luck stories too.
Don't talk to me of your low social status
Of how the well to do on you because of your address look down
Remember you are not the only person
Who has been born on the wrong side of the town.
Don't talk to me about your sad existence
I can't help you though you seem poorer than I
And remember there are millions worse off than you
And by life they too have been hard done by.
For life's struggles I ought to know about
'Twas want and need that forced me from the north lands
And I'm no better off here in the south.
Don't talk to me of your sad lack of money
Since all I can offer you is sympathy
But remember there are many millions like you
Who live quite close to or in poverty.
Don't talk to me about your hard luck stories
Since I know that life has been so hard on you
But having said that you ought to remember
That others have their hard luck stories too.
Don't talk to me of your low social status
Of how the well to do on you because of your address look down
Remember you are not the only person
Who has been born on the wrong side of the town.
Don't talk to me about your sad existence
I can't help you though you seem poorer than I
And remember there are millions worse off than you
And by life they too have been hard done by.
The Murmuring Cails
O'er the Cails river the leafless trees wave
As the winds of December violently rave
But the unperturbed water still singing it's song
Like a wandering minstrel keeps moving along.
November has gone and the fishes have spawned
And the great feast of Christmas it all but has dawned
The sweet flowers of Nature have perished and gone
And on this day the golden sun never once shone.
But whether the weather be gloomy or fair
The Cails go on murmuring as if not to care
On through the fields of Shannaknuck and Liscreagh
And through the rushy lands of Claraghatlea.
How lovely to stand in the season of Spring
At Annagloor bridge listening to the birds sing
And watch the dappled trout jumping for fly
As the dusky Cails water pass tranquilly by.
It is often I stood by lone Kippagh Lake
Where the Cails murmuring waters from slumber awake
And followed it's course like a man in a dream
Through Ballydaly peaceful and green.
It is pleasant to stand when the Summer sun glow
At the Lyre where the Cails into the finnow Flow
The good fortune to behold such a scene is a treat
Where those beautiful rivers of freedom do meet.
As the winds of December violently rave
But the unperturbed water still singing it's song
Like a wandering minstrel keeps moving along.
November has gone and the fishes have spawned
And the great feast of Christmas it all but has dawned
The sweet flowers of Nature have perished and gone
And on this day the golden sun never once shone.
But whether the weather be gloomy or fair
The Cails go on murmuring as if not to care
On through the fields of Shannaknuck and Liscreagh
And through the rushy lands of Claraghatlea.
How lovely to stand in the season of Spring
At Annagloor bridge listening to the birds sing
And watch the dappled trout jumping for fly
As the dusky Cails water pass tranquilly by.
It is often I stood by lone Kippagh Lake
Where the Cails murmuring waters from slumber awake
And followed it's course like a man in a dream
Through Ballydaly peaceful and green.
It is pleasant to stand when the Summer sun glow
At the Lyre where the Cails into the finnow Flow
The good fortune to behold such a scene is a treat
Where those beautiful rivers of freedom do meet.
I'd Love To See The Gorse In Bloom
I'd love to see the gorse in bloom again
And in the morning hear the chaffinch sing
And hear the curlew piping in the bog
As carolling skylark towards the cloud world wing.
I'd love to see the bluebell flowers in bloom
On grassy verges of the stone bohreen
And hear again the little dipper sing
On rock midst rapid of the mountain stream.
I'd love to see the old home town again
Where years ago mine was a well known face
My next door neighbour I don't even know
I feel a stranger in a foreign place.
I sit here alone talking to myself
Watching the raindrops running down the pane
The Winter winds are soughing in the gums
And the currawongs are calling in the rain.
I long for days that never can return
The clock ticks on how quick the years go by
Why must I keep on living in the past
When the man can never grow back to a boy?.
A migrant half of a World away from home
And a stranger in this land I'll always be
But I know if I went back home right now
I'd feel a stranger in my own country.
I'd love to see the gorse in bloom again
And hear the redbreast pipe on hawthorn tree
But I'm a migrant in a foreign land
Andf a stranger in my homeland now I'd be.
And in the morning hear the chaffinch sing
And hear the curlew piping in the bog
As carolling skylark towards the cloud world wing.
I'd love to see the bluebell flowers in bloom
On grassy verges of the stone bohreen
And hear again the little dipper sing
On rock midst rapid of the mountain stream.
I'd love to see the old home town again
Where years ago mine was a well known face
My next door neighbour I don't even know
I feel a stranger in a foreign place.
I sit here alone talking to myself
Watching the raindrops running down the pane
The Winter winds are soughing in the gums
And the currawongs are calling in the rain.
I long for days that never can return
The clock ticks on how quick the years go by
Why must I keep on living in the past
When the man can never grow back to a boy?.
A migrant half of a World away from home
And a stranger in this land I'll always be
But I know if I went back home right now
I'd feel a stranger in my own country.
I'd love to see the gorse in bloom again
And hear the redbreast pipe on hawthorn tree
But I'm a migrant in a foreign land
Andf a stranger in my homeland now I'd be.
He Told Me Jesus Loves You
He wished me a happy new year and to me reached his hand
And you might say that we 'shook on it' yet I could not understand
When he told me Jesus loves you 'methought' how would he know
The thoughts of one who lived on this Earth two thousand years ago
If as he says Jesus loves me his feelings he don't show
My credit card is overdrawn and my debts to the bank grow
And if Jesus really loves me he would not see me poor
He would not leave me cash strapped and financially insecure
At Southbank after midnight the fireworks lit the sky
And thousands were looking skywards and whooping loud with joy
And balloons were bursting and sparklers sparkling and neon lights did shine
And on the stage Vanetta Fields was singing 'Auld Lang Syne'.
And a bloke in his twenties wished me a happy new year
But when he said that Jesus loves you I did not pretend to hear
For how could he or anyone ever profess to know
The thoughts of one who lived on Earth two thousand years ago?.
And you might say that we 'shook on it' yet I could not understand
When he told me Jesus loves you 'methought' how would he know
The thoughts of one who lived on this Earth two thousand years ago
If as he says Jesus loves me his feelings he don't show
My credit card is overdrawn and my debts to the bank grow
And if Jesus really loves me he would not see me poor
He would not leave me cash strapped and financially insecure
At Southbank after midnight the fireworks lit the sky
And thousands were looking skywards and whooping loud with joy
And balloons were bursting and sparklers sparkling and neon lights did shine
And on the stage Vanetta Fields was singing 'Auld Lang Syne'.
And a bloke in his twenties wished me a happy new year
But when he said that Jesus loves you I did not pretend to hear
For how could he or anyone ever profess to know
The thoughts of one who lived on Earth two thousand years ago?.
On Talking To An Old Italian Man
So many years since nineteen thirty three
When I came here from northern Italy
The language of Australia I could not speak
And many people thought I was a Greek.
I dug trenches with strong work hardened men
And I was only barely nineteen then
A migrant half a World away from home
The loneliness of the exile I have known.
At twenty years I met my wife to be
A dark haired rose of northern Italy
Marie was seven months older than me
When we settled down to start a family.
The happiest years of life that I did know
She bore me children Paul and Julio
Two healthy children and a loving wife
What more could any one man ask of life?.
I worked as contract drainer 'by the yard'
The money quite good though the work was hard
A young migrant in a great and new Country
I made good use of opportunity.
Though that was years and years and years ago
On looking back those years did quickly flow
My shoulders drooped, my legs grown weak and slow
And look at me now my hair as white as snow.
The loneliest I have been for years and years
Marie is dead 'his eyes filled up with tears'
She was good wife and she meant so much to me
'I pitied him that son of Italy'.
I pitied him for his great sense of loss
In his twilight years his was a heavy cross
An old man he must face the end alone
Without the greatest friend he'd ever known.
When I came here from northern Italy
The language of Australia I could not speak
And many people thought I was a Greek.
I dug trenches with strong work hardened men
And I was only barely nineteen then
A migrant half a World away from home
The loneliness of the exile I have known.
At twenty years I met my wife to be
A dark haired rose of northern Italy
Marie was seven months older than me
When we settled down to start a family.
The happiest years of life that I did know
She bore me children Paul and Julio
Two healthy children and a loving wife
What more could any one man ask of life?.
I worked as contract drainer 'by the yard'
The money quite good though the work was hard
A young migrant in a great and new Country
I made good use of opportunity.
Though that was years and years and years ago
On looking back those years did quickly flow
My shoulders drooped, my legs grown weak and slow
And look at me now my hair as white as snow.
The loneliest I have been for years and years
Marie is dead 'his eyes filled up with tears'
She was good wife and she meant so much to me
'I pitied him that son of Italy'.
I pitied him for his great sense of loss
In his twilight years his was a heavy cross
An old man he must face the end alone
Without the greatest friend he'd ever known.
On Seeing A Flock Of Starlings
A flock of starlings in the evening sky
It takes me back in time to days gone by
To distant land my homeland miles away
The starlings a familiar sight each day.
They searched for insects in gardens, lawns and leas
And perched on fences, electricity lines and trees
And as they flew from tree to fence post and to gate
Scraps of songs of others they would imitate.
It's been said that they compete for nest sites with native birds
And some ornithologists for them use coarser words
But in their coming to Australia they had no say
As 'twas Europeans first brought them when they came to stay
A huge flock of starlings a familiar sight
As they flew towards roosting place to spend their night
And I marvelled at the swiftness of their flight
As they hurried homeward in the fading light.
A flock of starlings in the evening sky
It takes me back in time to days gone by
To distant land my homeland miles away
The starlings a familiar sight each day.
It takes me back in time to days gone by
To distant land my homeland miles away
The starlings a familiar sight each day.
They searched for insects in gardens, lawns and leas
And perched on fences, electricity lines and trees
And as they flew from tree to fence post and to gate
Scraps of songs of others they would imitate.
It's been said that they compete for nest sites with native birds
And some ornithologists for them use coarser words
But in their coming to Australia they had no say
As 'twas Europeans first brought them when they came to stay
A huge flock of starlings a familiar sight
As they flew towards roosting place to spend their night
And I marvelled at the swiftness of their flight
As they hurried homeward in the fading light.
A flock of starlings in the evening sky
It takes me back in time to days gone by
To distant land my homeland miles away
The starlings a familiar sight each day.
To Love, To Honour And Obey
To love, to honour and obey
Her three vows on her wedding day
She loved and honoured for awhile
But she never once did obey.
Her husband quite a pleasant man
With him she always had her way
And he adhered to his marriage vows
To love, to honour and obey.
He quickly aged before his time
And poor health gave way to decay
And he died at forty nine years old
And a cheap headstone tell where he lay.
And she made sure she held her looks
And with tints and dyes she hid her gray
And she paid huge sum for new face lift
And she looked like one in her prime day.
In time she met with younger man
And though with him she did not have her way
They married and she kept her vows
To love, to honour and obey.
To love, to honour and obey
Her three vows on her wedding day
She loved and honoured for awhile
But she never once did obey.
Her three vows on her wedding day
She loved and honoured for awhile
But she never once did obey.
Her husband quite a pleasant man
With him she always had her way
And he adhered to his marriage vows
To love, to honour and obey.
He quickly aged before his time
And poor health gave way to decay
And he died at forty nine years old
And a cheap headstone tell where he lay.
And she made sure she held her looks
And with tints and dyes she hid her gray
And she paid huge sum for new face lift
And she looked like one in her prime day.
In time she met with younger man
And though with him she did not have her way
They married and she kept her vows
To love, to honour and obey.
To love, to honour and obey
Her three vows on her wedding day
She loved and honoured for awhile
But she never once did obey.
The Corncrake Heard No More
My memory take me back long years to when I was young boy
To evenings in mid Summer in June and in July
The corncrake called in darkened mead the same notes o'er and o'er
But now in part of Ireland where I lived the corncrake heard no more.
In most of their old breeding grounds the corncrakes now don't breed
The earlier cutting of the grass stripped cover they did need
The silage harvester took it's toll their nests and eggs destroyed
And in green meadow near my home the voice of corncrake died
The corncrake's voice no longer heard in meads of Duhallow
And I've not heard their familiar calls for thirty years or so
The earlier cutting of the grass left the birds with nowhere
to hide
And the corncrakes have disappeared from my native countryside.
On Summer evenings long ago some hours after nightfall
In darkened meadows near my home the corncrakes did call
But the migrant rail no longer heard lost to posterity
And that voice I loved when I was young now just a memory.
To evenings in mid Summer in June and in July
The corncrake called in darkened mead the same notes o'er and o'er
But now in part of Ireland where I lived the corncrake heard no more.
In most of their old breeding grounds the corncrakes now don't breed
The earlier cutting of the grass stripped cover they did need
The silage harvester took it's toll their nests and eggs destroyed
And in green meadow near my home the voice of corncrake died
The corncrake's voice no longer heard in meads of Duhallow
And I've not heard their familiar calls for thirty years or so
The earlier cutting of the grass left the birds with nowhere
to hide
And the corncrakes have disappeared from my native countryside.
On Summer evenings long ago some hours after nightfall
In darkened meadows near my home the corncrakes did call
But the migrant rail no longer heard lost to posterity
And that voice I loved when I was young now just a memory.
The Wandering Albatross
The wandering albatross fly far away
From island where he first saw light of day
More than two thousand miles closer to three
He follow ships across the southern sea.
From schooldays I remember Coleridge's Rime
Those verses which have stood the test of time
His 'Ancient Mariner' burdened with the cross
For killing of the noble albatross.
The bird with over three metre wing span
Follow the trawlers of the sea going man
Above the boats all day and night he fly
Born on the shore but out at sea he die.
He'll return to his island by the sea
To mate with wife and bring forth family
And then fly off to wander far away
From island where he first saw light of day.
Were I an albatross I too would fly
Above the sea going ships in southern sky
And across the southern oceans I would roam
Two thousand miles closer to three from home.
From island where he first saw light of day
More than two thousand miles closer to three
He follow ships across the southern sea.
From schooldays I remember Coleridge's Rime
Those verses which have stood the test of time
His 'Ancient Mariner' burdened with the cross
For killing of the noble albatross.
The bird with over three metre wing span
Follow the trawlers of the sea going man
Above the boats all day and night he fly
Born on the shore but out at sea he die.
He'll return to his island by the sea
To mate with wife and bring forth family
And then fly off to wander far away
From island where he first saw light of day.
Were I an albatross I too would fly
Above the sea going ships in southern sky
And across the southern oceans I would roam
Two thousand miles closer to three from home.
George Crabbe
He wrote about the England of the times
'The Borough and the Village and Peter Grimes'
And he wrote about the hardships the outcasts did endure
George Crabbe the poet of the English poor.
He lived when Robert Burns rose to fame
And Oliver Goldsmith became a household name
When Gray and Wordsworth their great verses wrote
The poor were championed by George Crabbe the poet.
Had he not written for the poor down trodden race
His verse might be placed in a higher place
He might have written of dashing knight and king
But of the poor alone he chose to sing.
Some say the poems of Crabbe were born of tears
And his verses are not for the wealthier's ears
And though the wealthy of the poor don't wish to hear
The poet Crabbe to his feelings was sincere.
He lived when the great poets were in their prime
And to write for England's poor his only crime
And George Crabbe long dead but we still have his rhyme
And still his verses stand the test of time.
'The Borough and the Village and Peter Grimes'
And he wrote about the hardships the outcasts did endure
George Crabbe the poet of the English poor.
He lived when Robert Burns rose to fame
And Oliver Goldsmith became a household name
When Gray and Wordsworth their great verses wrote
The poor were championed by George Crabbe the poet.
Had he not written for the poor down trodden race
His verse might be placed in a higher place
He might have written of dashing knight and king
But of the poor alone he chose to sing.
Some say the poems of Crabbe were born of tears
And his verses are not for the wealthier's ears
And though the wealthy of the poor don't wish to hear
The poet Crabbe to his feelings was sincere.
He lived when the great poets were in their prime
And to write for England's poor his only crime
And George Crabbe long dead but we still have his rhyme
And still his verses stand the test of time.
In The Village of Rathmore
She had loved him and she still do and love's ache hurt to the core
But he left her and forgot her in the village of Rathmore
Promised her he'd be back to her he'd return by the May
But she never more did see him and where he live now who can say.
She has lost some of her beauty through her brown locks strands of gray
Youth bring a fresh flush of beauty that passing time will take away
She's known love and disappointment for the future what's in store
For a spinster in her mid life in the village of Rathmore?.
He went off one bleak December many, many years ago
When the hill of Caherbarnagh wore his Christmas hat of snow
Like the migrant bird of Winter he landed on another shore
And left young woman to fret for him in the Village of Rathmore.
Time has eased the ache that love brought but the memory remain
Of the man she loved who left her could she ever love again?
There's a saying that still rings truly 'once bitten and twice shy'
If by love you have been hurted is love worth another try?.
She was loveliest in the Village when she was in her prime day
And she had loved and she had trusted and for both such high
price to pay
He went off one bleak December and landed on another shore
And left young woman to fret for him in the Village of Rathmore.
But he left her and forgot her in the village of Rathmore
Promised her he'd be back to her he'd return by the May
But she never more did see him and where he live now who can say.
She has lost some of her beauty through her brown locks strands of gray
Youth bring a fresh flush of beauty that passing time will take away
She's known love and disappointment for the future what's in store
For a spinster in her mid life in the village of Rathmore?.
He went off one bleak December many, many years ago
When the hill of Caherbarnagh wore his Christmas hat of snow
Like the migrant bird of Winter he landed on another shore
And left young woman to fret for him in the Village of Rathmore.
Time has eased the ache that love brought but the memory remain
Of the man she loved who left her could she ever love again?
There's a saying that still rings truly 'once bitten and twice shy'
If by love you have been hurted is love worth another try?.
She was loveliest in the Village when she was in her prime day
And she had loved and she had trusted and for both such high
price to pay
He went off one bleak December and landed on another shore
And left young woman to fret for him in the Village of Rathmore.
Sally Trench
She led a convoy of trucks through war torn Bosnia
With food for the children in refugee camps there
On dangerous roads that were criss crossed with land mines
The Sally Trench's of this World are rare.
She could have stayed in comfort home in England
And the plight of Bosnia's children chosen to ignore
But she thought 'no' I'll help the starving children
And in history her name will live forever more.
Even the most negative person could not help but say 'well done'
For here is one so easy to admire
Just goes to show what a brave woman can accomplish
And her story is a story to inspire.
She could have stayed at home the same as I did
And hear the news from Bosnia far away
And say seems a pity that I cannot help them
But actions than words far greater any day.
She could have opted for the easy option
And utter worthless words of sympathy
But she went there and helped the innocent sufferers
The victims of man's inhumanity.
Her's is the story of a gutsy woman
Brave Sally Trench is one that I revere
She led her noble truck drivers through Bosnia
And she was fearless in the gap of fear.
With food for the children in refugee camps there
On dangerous roads that were criss crossed with land mines
The Sally Trench's of this World are rare.
She could have stayed in comfort home in England
And the plight of Bosnia's children chosen to ignore
But she thought 'no' I'll help the starving children
And in history her name will live forever more.
Even the most negative person could not help but say 'well done'
For here is one so easy to admire
Just goes to show what a brave woman can accomplish
And her story is a story to inspire.
She could have stayed at home the same as I did
And hear the news from Bosnia far away
And say seems a pity that I cannot help them
But actions than words far greater any day.
She could have opted for the easy option
And utter worthless words of sympathy
But she went there and helped the innocent sufferers
The victims of man's inhumanity.
Her's is the story of a gutsy woman
Brave Sally Trench is one that I revere
She led her noble truck drivers through Bosnia
And she was fearless in the gap of fear.
No Use
No use in ruing all of your golden lost chances
Or for the opportunities you failed to take
For every winner there must be a loser
And reputations often are at stake.
No use in saying 'I could be well to do now'
If I had taken every chance that came my way
But your future is the only thing that matter
Since you cannot change what happened yesterday.
No use in seeking comfort in self pity
And having the look of sadness on your face
Few wish to know you if you feel unhappy
If the 'poor me' mentality you embrace.
You wonder why your friends don't wish to know you
Though it is not of you they wish to know
But the sad and hard luck stories that you tell them
Who wants to hear of your litany of woe?.
No use in telling others your sad stories
For to them yourself you never will endear
They have enough of problems in their own lives
And of your hard luck they don't wish to hear.
Or for the opportunities you failed to take
For every winner there must be a loser
And reputations often are at stake.
No use in saying 'I could be well to do now'
If I had taken every chance that came my way
But your future is the only thing that matter
Since you cannot change what happened yesterday.
No use in seeking comfort in self pity
And having the look of sadness on your face
Few wish to know you if you feel unhappy
If the 'poor me' mentality you embrace.
You wonder why your friends don't wish to know you
Though it is not of you they wish to know
But the sad and hard luck stories that you tell them
Who wants to hear of your litany of woe?.
No use in telling others your sad stories
For to them yourself you never will endear
They have enough of problems in their own lives
And of your hard luck they don't wish to hear.
Somewhere
Somewhere in the morning gray
In the woodlands far away
Songbirds pipe their melodies
On the green and leafy trees.
Somewhere there's a mountain rill
Rippling down a grassy hill
Near where snowdrops bloom as white as snow
And where the shy cock pheasant crow.
Somewhere with the joys of Spring
Small brown skylark takes to wing
And carolling upwards as he fly
Towards the gray clouds of the sky.
Somewhere chaffinch on her nest
With her eggs warm beneath her breast
Listens to her mate's aggressive song
Around his borders all day long.
Somewhere in a river near the bank
Where the water reeds grow rank
Moorhen utters her shrill cry
To warn her young of enemy nearby.
Somewhere in a remote glen
On the grass outside their den
Red cub foxes roll and play
In the twilight of the day.
Somewhere in the morning gray
North of here and miles away
Shy birds build their nests and sing
In the green woods of the Spring.
In the woodlands far away
Songbirds pipe their melodies
On the green and leafy trees.
Somewhere there's a mountain rill
Rippling down a grassy hill
Near where snowdrops bloom as white as snow
And where the shy cock pheasant crow.
Somewhere with the joys of Spring
Small brown skylark takes to wing
And carolling upwards as he fly
Towards the gray clouds of the sky.
Somewhere chaffinch on her nest
With her eggs warm beneath her breast
Listens to her mate's aggressive song
Around his borders all day long.
Somewhere in a river near the bank
Where the water reeds grow rank
Moorhen utters her shrill cry
To warn her young of enemy nearby.
Somewhere in a remote glen
On the grass outside their den
Red cub foxes roll and play
In the twilight of the day.
Somewhere in the morning gray
North of here and miles away
Shy birds build their nests and sing
In the green woods of the Spring.
Don't Worry Mate
For weeks on end now you've been in despair
You are stone broke and feel that life's unfair
Refused for small loan from your so called friend Ted,
Don't worry mate there's better days ahead.
Your erstwhile friends don't call you on the phone
And you feel sad and very much alone
The faithless rats your sinking ship have fled
But don't worry mate there's better days ahead.
Your boss refused you a small rise in pay
And nothing now seems to be going your way
And of disappointments you've had more than your share
But things will get better if you hang in there.
You feel things for you could not be much worse
And that someone on you must have put a curse
But on you soon dame fortune she may smile
And the hard lessons you have learned may seem worth while.
You've ben struggling hard just for to make ends meet
But don't cave in for that would mean defeat
And just remember what the old bloke said
'Don't worry mate there's better days ahead'.
You are stone broke and feel that life's unfair
Refused for small loan from your so called friend Ted,
Don't worry mate there's better days ahead.
Your erstwhile friends don't call you on the phone
And you feel sad and very much alone
The faithless rats your sinking ship have fled
But don't worry mate there's better days ahead.
Your boss refused you a small rise in pay
And nothing now seems to be going your way
And of disappointments you've had more than your share
But things will get better if you hang in there.
You feel things for you could not be much worse
And that someone on you must have put a curse
But on you soon dame fortune she may smile
And the hard lessons you have learned may seem worth while.
You've ben struggling hard just for to make ends meet
But don't cave in for that would mean defeat
And just remember what the old bloke said
'Don't worry mate there's better days ahead'.
The Life Of Charlie
'The life of Riley' a saying from long ago
It means the good life he or she only know
To Prince Charles of Britain those words must apply
Born as a prince and as a king he'll die.
'The life of Charlie' for one with everything
For the man who one day will be Britain's King
When his mum the Queen decides she will step down
Her eldest son the one who wears the crown.
The British Royalists to their monarchs bow
And in India they have their sacred cow
And each one need someone or something to admire
But is Charlie Windsor a man to inspire?.
'The life of Charlie' the man has it made
And by his subjects he is grossly overpaid
And in newspapers his photo far too often seen
The will be King whose mother is the Queen.
Will Charles and his Camilla one day wed?
Too much of that been written and been said
For in a world of so much poverty
He's a symbol of inequality.
It means the good life he or she only know
To Prince Charles of Britain those words must apply
Born as a prince and as a king he'll die.
'The life of Charlie' for one with everything
For the man who one day will be Britain's King
When his mum the Queen decides she will step down
Her eldest son the one who wears the crown.
The British Royalists to their monarchs bow
And in India they have their sacred cow
And each one need someone or something to admire
But is Charlie Windsor a man to inspire?.
'The life of Charlie' the man has it made
And by his subjects he is grossly overpaid
And in newspapers his photo far too often seen
The will be King whose mother is the Queen.
Will Charles and his Camilla one day wed?
Too much of that been written and been said
For in a world of so much poverty
He's a symbol of inequality.
A Holy War
I've always thought that the word holy involved prayer
But the Muslims of Ambon in Indonesia say they ought declare
A holy war on all Christians living there
And religious tolerance seems strained beyond repair.
But a holy war there is no such a thing
For death and sufferings war can only bring
And even war that's fought in Allah's name
Cannot be seen as a lesser act of shame.
The words holy and war are different as chalk and cheese
As different as the birds are to the bees
They are not compatible in any way
Forgive them if they know not what they say.
Don't ask me who is wrong or who is right
The Muslims or the Christians in this fight
But since they cannot seem to live in harmony
They are as bad as each other it would seem to me.
One must go back to the Crusades and that's back far
When men for God declared a holy war
When religious fervour gave rise to inhumanity
Yet mankind has not learned from history.
That men go to war over boundaries and land
Is something that I try to understand
But a holy war there is no such a thing
As death and sufferings war can only bring.
But the Muslims of Ambon in Indonesia say they ought declare
A holy war on all Christians living there
And religious tolerance seems strained beyond repair.
But a holy war there is no such a thing
For death and sufferings war can only bring
And even war that's fought in Allah's name
Cannot be seen as a lesser act of shame.
The words holy and war are different as chalk and cheese
As different as the birds are to the bees
They are not compatible in any way
Forgive them if they know not what they say.
Don't ask me who is wrong or who is right
The Muslims or the Christians in this fight
But since they cannot seem to live in harmony
They are as bad as each other it would seem to me.
One must go back to the Crusades and that's back far
When men for God declared a holy war
When religious fervour gave rise to inhumanity
Yet mankind has not learned from history.
That men go to war over boundaries and land
Is something that I try to understand
But a holy war there is no such a thing
As death and sufferings war can only bring.
I See Them Every Morning
I see them every morning in the early morning sky
And they pierce the silence of the dawn with grating harsh like cries
The sulphur crested cockatoos towards feeding paddocks fly
What's grating to the human ear is beauty to the eye.
A beautiful white cockatoo with palish yellow crest
And in Spring and early Summer in hole in tree they nest
Two white oval shaped eggs are laid and on rare ocasions three
And the average life span for these birds a half a century.
On roosting trees in fading light they make a lot of noise
And they jostle for good feeding perch as the moon begin to rise
They squabble for good sleeping spot on high branch of gum tree
But most times they tend to agree and live in harmony.
These noisy big white cockatoos in large flocks congregate
And I see them every morning and in the evening late
And though they don't have pleasant song to sing it is breath taking sight
To watch them fly towards feeding grounds in the early morning light.
And they pierce the silence of the dawn with grating harsh like cries
The sulphur crested cockatoos towards feeding paddocks fly
What's grating to the human ear is beauty to the eye.
A beautiful white cockatoo with palish yellow crest
And in Spring and early Summer in hole in tree they nest
Two white oval shaped eggs are laid and on rare ocasions three
And the average life span for these birds a half a century.
On roosting trees in fading light they make a lot of noise
And they jostle for good feeding perch as the moon begin to rise
They squabble for good sleeping spot on high branch of gum tree
But most times they tend to agree and live in harmony.
These noisy big white cockatoos in large flocks congregate
And I see them every morning and in the evening late
And though they don't have pleasant song to sing it is breath taking sight
To watch them fly towards feeding grounds in the early morning light.
Dick Spence
Dick Spence is an old fellow from New Zealand
He lives in Dalyston with his daughter and son in law
And his pride and joy his wee grand daughter Jackie
Now learning to talk to scribble and to draw.
He's sixty eight but than that he looks younger
And he always looks well dressed and neat and clean
And though he is one who has to live with asthma
For man his age he looks quite fit and lean.
His mum and dad migrated to New Zealand
From England more than half a World away
And though no longer in the World of the living
He still talks of them with reverence today.
He says his mum and dad were special people
And from them he learned the lessons of right from wrong
And they always led the way by good example
And his bond to them had always been so strong.
Dick Spence has lived for most of his life in New Zealand
In the South Island many miles away
But now he's happy and content in Dalyston
And 'twould seem he's in Australia for to stay.
He lives in Dalyston with his daughter and son in law
And his pride and joy his wee grand daughter Jackie
Now learning to talk to scribble and to draw.
He's sixty eight but than that he looks younger
And he always looks well dressed and neat and clean
And though he is one who has to live with asthma
For man his age he looks quite fit and lean.
His mum and dad migrated to New Zealand
From England more than half a World away
And though no longer in the World of the living
He still talks of them with reverence today.
He says his mum and dad were special people
And from them he learned the lessons of right from wrong
And they always led the way by good example
And his bond to them had always been so strong.
Dick Spence has lived for most of his life in New Zealand
In the South Island many miles away
But now he's happy and content in Dalyston
And 'twould seem he's in Australia for to stay.
To Doris
She said I come from a land flanked by the warmer seas
A flat brown land that stretch for miles with hardly any trees
In my dreams I see the big game parks and the open plains I see
'Oh' Africa my Africa I hear you calling me.
I hear the male lion cough and roar and the wild hyena scream
And the natives dance before my eyes so real to me they seem
I hear them singing in the night and their drumming I too hear
And Africa close to my heart though miles away from here.
Doris accent is a give away as accents often are
You'd know that to get to this great Land that she's had to travel far
Her lovely South African accent one never should mistake
The migrant may live far from home but ties that bind are hard to break.
A farmer's daughter from South Africa her life story ought be told
A woman close to ninety years though she doesn't look that old
A teenager in the thirties the hard life she has been through
Her only brother a prisoner of war in Europe in world war two.
Her ill mother convinced her son had died lost the will to live on
And he returned home to the tragic news that his mum was dead and gone
There's sorrow blood and tears in war and tragedy as well
And for mums with sons on battlefields life must be living hell.
She raised five sons in South Africa and one died at twenty five
Brain damaged by measles as a child she helped him to survive
And Doris with great sadness says that her son's life was far too brief
There's ups and downs in life she says and there's happiness and grief.
With her son and daughter in law she lives east of Melbourne now by road off 'One Tree Hill'
A woman from a far Country and suppose she always will
Feel homesick for her home Country, I love Australia she say
But my homeland is South Africa the brown Land far away.
A flat brown land that stretch for miles with hardly any trees
In my dreams I see the big game parks and the open plains I see
'Oh' Africa my Africa I hear you calling me.
I hear the male lion cough and roar and the wild hyena scream
And the natives dance before my eyes so real to me they seem
I hear them singing in the night and their drumming I too hear
And Africa close to my heart though miles away from here.
Doris accent is a give away as accents often are
You'd know that to get to this great Land that she's had to travel far
Her lovely South African accent one never should mistake
The migrant may live far from home but ties that bind are hard to break.
A farmer's daughter from South Africa her life story ought be told
A woman close to ninety years though she doesn't look that old
A teenager in the thirties the hard life she has been through
Her only brother a prisoner of war in Europe in world war two.
Her ill mother convinced her son had died lost the will to live on
And he returned home to the tragic news that his mum was dead and gone
There's sorrow blood and tears in war and tragedy as well
And for mums with sons on battlefields life must be living hell.
She raised five sons in South Africa and one died at twenty five
Brain damaged by measles as a child she helped him to survive
And Doris with great sadness says that her son's life was far too brief
There's ups and downs in life she says and there's happiness and grief.
With her son and daughter in law she lives east of Melbourne now by road off 'One Tree Hill'
A woman from a far Country and suppose she always will
Feel homesick for her home Country, I love Australia she say
But my homeland is South Africa the brown Land far away.
It Was Padraig Cronin Told Me
It was Padraig Cronin told me how the ghosts of Ireland died
When the Irish freedom fighters only had one place to hide
And that was in the graveyards in the tombs they hid away
And their fear of ghosts then vanished that's what Padraig used to say.
I was just a little boy then and much too young to understand
How the Black and Tans those bad men chased the ghosts out of Ireland
And I thought Padraig was only joking when he said the Black and Tan
Rid the fear of ghosts and spirits from the freedom fighting man.
But now I know how right he was their superstitions fed their fear
And when the British ravaged Ireland their phobias did disappear
They found safety in the graveyards and the British never knew
Where those who offered most resistance for safe hiding place went to.
All the ghosts who lived in Ireland are forever dead and gone
'Twas the black and tans who killed them though some ghost stories still live on
When I was a little fellow on a bright and breezy day
It was Padraig Cronin told me as he built a rick of hay.
When the Irish freedom fighters only had one place to hide
And that was in the graveyards in the tombs they hid away
And their fear of ghosts then vanished that's what Padraig used to say.
I was just a little boy then and much too young to understand
How the Black and Tans those bad men chased the ghosts out of Ireland
And I thought Padraig was only joking when he said the Black and Tan
Rid the fear of ghosts and spirits from the freedom fighting man.
But now I know how right he was their superstitions fed their fear
And when the British ravaged Ireland their phobias did disappear
They found safety in the graveyards and the British never knew
Where those who offered most resistance for safe hiding place went to.
All the ghosts who lived in Ireland are forever dead and gone
'Twas the black and tans who killed them though some ghost stories still live on
When I was a little fellow on a bright and breezy day
It was Padraig Cronin told me as he built a rick of hay.
By The Cover You Can't Judge The Book
It has been said by those who profess to know
That our body language our personality show
That a truthful person will look you in the face
Which seems a 'load of bull' in any case.
And that every liar eye contact will avoid
As if the soul has secrets for to hide
But if by the cover you can't judge the book
Then how can you judge people by how they look.
It's been said that conceit in one you can see
By their body language perhaps this well might be
But many of the people who seemed to me conceited were not that way at all
And thought has often proved me wrong I now recall.
A few people that I had grown to trust
Proved sly and two faced much to my disgust
And one of them even stole from my purse
And though proven guilty me he did not reimburse.
Psychologists even have been known to disagree
Whether on body language one can read personality
And if by the cover you can't judge the book
How can you judge people by how they look.
That our body language our personality show
That a truthful person will look you in the face
Which seems a 'load of bull' in any case.
And that every liar eye contact will avoid
As if the soul has secrets for to hide
But if by the cover you can't judge the book
Then how can you judge people by how they look.
It's been said that conceit in one you can see
By their body language perhaps this well might be
But many of the people who seemed to me conceited were not that way at all
And thought has often proved me wrong I now recall.
A few people that I had grown to trust
Proved sly and two faced much to my disgust
And one of them even stole from my purse
And though proven guilty me he did not reimburse.
Psychologists even have been known to disagree
Whether on body language one can read personality
And if by the cover you can't judge the book
How can you judge people by how they look.
She Went For Old Willie Instead
You might say she's not unattractive well educated and well read
And she is in her early twenties and her best days in life are ahead
She could have had a man of her own age as two fancy her Johnny and Fred
But she refused both their advances and she went for old Willie instead.
On his last birthday Willie was fifty twenty eight years older than she
And her friends they ask her quite frankly whatever in him do you see?
For gray haired Willie is five times a grand dad and his eldest son is thirty three
But she says I find young men boring and Willie much better for me.
Blond Jenny was raised by her mother and she has never known her dad
And she has found in older Willie something she craved but never had
She has found herself a father figure and filled the great gap in her life
And in her womb carries his baby and soon she is to be his wife.
Well educated young and good looking but she's with a silvery haired man
One three decades older than she is in human years a lengthy span
She could have been with one of her own age but she rejected Johnny and Fred
She had yearned for the love of a father and she went for old Willie instead.
And she is in her early twenties and her best days in life are ahead
She could have had a man of her own age as two fancy her Johnny and Fred
But she refused both their advances and she went for old Willie instead.
On his last birthday Willie was fifty twenty eight years older than she
And her friends they ask her quite frankly whatever in him do you see?
For gray haired Willie is five times a grand dad and his eldest son is thirty three
But she says I find young men boring and Willie much better for me.
Blond Jenny was raised by her mother and she has never known her dad
And she has found in older Willie something she craved but never had
She has found herself a father figure and filled the great gap in her life
And in her womb carries his baby and soon she is to be his wife.
Well educated young and good looking but she's with a silvery haired man
One three decades older than she is in human years a lengthy span
She could have been with one of her own age but she rejected Johnny and Fred
She had yearned for the love of a father and she went for old Willie instead.
On Hearing A Boobook Owl
I can hear the boobook calling in those woods not far away
He is calling in the gum wood bird that hide from lamp of day
Mopoke mopoke re-echo in the silence of the night
And the boobook is a calling when the woods are dark and quiet.
Mopoke mopoke re-echo and the wood mouse cringe in fear
For he know his life's in danger when the boobook's voice he hear
And he take the safety measure and he quickly go to ground
For the safest place his burrow when the boobook is around.
Mopoke mopoke re-echo and the tiny silver eye
Awaken from her slumber and to safer place she fly
And the silver eye remember and she know too well she know
That the boobook is a killer 'tis her mother told her so.
Mopoke mopoke re-echo and the yellow robin wake
And she fly off from her roosting perch for her own safety sake
And her instincts tell the robin for to find a safer tree
And she know that boobook show no mercy for small song bird such as she.
Mopoke mopoke re-echo in the silence of the night
And the boobook owl is calling and the woods are dark and quiet
And the wood mouse and the robin and the tiny silver eye
Go in search of safer shelter when they hear the boobook's cry.
He is calling in the gum wood bird that hide from lamp of day
Mopoke mopoke re-echo in the silence of the night
And the boobook is a calling when the woods are dark and quiet.
Mopoke mopoke re-echo and the wood mouse cringe in fear
For he know his life's in danger when the boobook's voice he hear
And he take the safety measure and he quickly go to ground
For the safest place his burrow when the boobook is around.
Mopoke mopoke re-echo and the tiny silver eye
Awaken from her slumber and to safer place she fly
And the silver eye remember and she know too well she know
That the boobook is a killer 'tis her mother told her so.
Mopoke mopoke re-echo and the yellow robin wake
And she fly off from her roosting perch for her own safety sake
And her instincts tell the robin for to find a safer tree
And she know that boobook show no mercy for small song bird such as she.
Mopoke mopoke re-echo in the silence of the night
And the boobook owl is calling and the woods are dark and quiet
And the wood mouse and the robin and the tiny silver eye
Go in search of safer shelter when they hear the boobook's cry.
Joy and Sorrow
One can hear the voice of sorrow sobbing, sobbing endlessly
Yet it hides in dark recesses sorrow you can never see
It's a black and brooding creature with a voice that aches of pain
And all of those who have met with it hope not to meet with it again.
Joy is always bright and breezy joy has got a laughing face
And where ever joy is present you will find a happy place
Joy is loved by everybody the scars of grief it can repair
It is such a happy creature joy is welcome everywhere.
There is not one who likes sorrow you will not hear some one say
I've met with sorrow this morning and meeting it has made my day
At the mention of the name of sorrow people pretend not to hear
But joy always bright and happy greets you with a lusty cheer.
Sorrow it is dark and tearful and it hides in a dark and lonely place
But joy is always bright and cheerful and it greets you with a laughing face
And everybody hates old sorrow as it always gives rise to woe
But joy the happiest of the happy the one all people wish to know.
Yet it hides in dark recesses sorrow you can never see
It's a black and brooding creature with a voice that aches of pain
And all of those who have met with it hope not to meet with it again.
Joy is always bright and breezy joy has got a laughing face
And where ever joy is present you will find a happy place
Joy is loved by everybody the scars of grief it can repair
It is such a happy creature joy is welcome everywhere.
There is not one who likes sorrow you will not hear some one say
I've met with sorrow this morning and meeting it has made my day
At the mention of the name of sorrow people pretend not to hear
But joy always bright and happy greets you with a lusty cheer.
Sorrow it is dark and tearful and it hides in a dark and lonely place
But joy is always bright and cheerful and it greets you with a laughing face
And everybody hates old sorrow as it always gives rise to woe
But joy the happiest of the happy the one all people wish to know.
On Reading Poems Of W.W.Gibson
If I could write verse half as good as Gibson did then I would be referred to as a poet
For at many poetry gatherings and readings from his poems a verse or two is often quote
Amongst the Georgian poets of Great Britain he still is rated as one of the best
His poems of genius works of inspiration born of his sympathy for the oppressed.
A friend of Rupert Brooke's and a war soldier and as a poet not many great as he
The poet from Hexham a down to earth fellow and for the poor in his poems you see empathy
He died in sixty two when I was a teenager at the ripe old age of eighty four
The poet may be gone to the grim reaper but in his poems he'll live forever more.
I love the poems of Wilfred Wilson Gibson you see in them originality
And you see in them the hallmark of the genius the majic of the poet in his poetry
'Flannan's isle' and 'The Hare' works of great beauty and I've read and re-read 'The Dancing Seal'
The poet in his poems will live forever and his marvellous verses border the surreal.
One of the great poets of the Georgian era his poems live on in literary history
You read the poems of the great poet from Hexham and they will live on in your memory
And through his poems the poet will live forever for as long as poetry lives his name won't die
And in his poems the hallmark of the genius and he left them for others to enjoy.
For at many poetry gatherings and readings from his poems a verse or two is often quote
Amongst the Georgian poets of Great Britain he still is rated as one of the best
His poems of genius works of inspiration born of his sympathy for the oppressed.
A friend of Rupert Brooke's and a war soldier and as a poet not many great as he
The poet from Hexham a down to earth fellow and for the poor in his poems you see empathy
He died in sixty two when I was a teenager at the ripe old age of eighty four
The poet may be gone to the grim reaper but in his poems he'll live forever more.
I love the poems of Wilfred Wilson Gibson you see in them originality
And you see in them the hallmark of the genius the majic of the poet in his poetry
'Flannan's isle' and 'The Hare' works of great beauty and I've read and re-read 'The Dancing Seal'
The poet in his poems will live forever and his marvellous verses border the surreal.
One of the great poets of the Georgian era his poems live on in literary history
You read the poems of the great poet from Hexham and they will live on in your memory
And through his poems the poet will live forever for as long as poetry lives his name won't die
And in his poems the hallmark of the genius and he left them for others to enjoy.
On Premier Bracks
He's no better or worse than Jeffrey Kennett
Except of course he has a bit more guile
And to Labor he wooed the Victorian voters
Perhaps his secret it is in his smile.
Steve Bracks the Labor Party Leader and Premier of Victoria
Has yet to help Victoria's many poor
And just like Jeff his haughty predecessor
The wealthy with him don't feel insecure.
The only difference between Bracks and Kennett
Is that Kennett to his colours was more true
The Liberals never represent the battlers
They only care about the well to do.
Premier Bracks the leader of Victoria's so called Labor Party
A Labor Party in name little more
The rich grow richer and the poor keep getting poorer
And the cost of living seem to soar and soar.
What Australia needs is a proper Labor Party
A party in it's roots that can take pride
A party that will represent the battlers
The lower paid workers and the unemployed.
But what Australia has is three conservative parties
Which gives some voters not much of a choice
Like the Liberals and Nationals, Labor now is right wing
Labor principles for power that is their price.
Steve Bracks the Labor Premier of Victoria
In the public opinion polls he's riding high
But he and his Government of not much help to the battlers
As per usual they must struggle to get by.
Except of course he has a bit more guile
And to Labor he wooed the Victorian voters
Perhaps his secret it is in his smile.
Steve Bracks the Labor Party Leader and Premier of Victoria
Has yet to help Victoria's many poor
And just like Jeff his haughty predecessor
The wealthy with him don't feel insecure.
The only difference between Bracks and Kennett
Is that Kennett to his colours was more true
The Liberals never represent the battlers
They only care about the well to do.
Premier Bracks the leader of Victoria's so called Labor Party
A Labor Party in name little more
The rich grow richer and the poor keep getting poorer
And the cost of living seem to soar and soar.
What Australia needs is a proper Labor Party
A party in it's roots that can take pride
A party that will represent the battlers
The lower paid workers and the unemployed.
But what Australia has is three conservative parties
Which gives some voters not much of a choice
Like the Liberals and Nationals, Labor now is right wing
Labor principles for power that is their price.
Steve Bracks the Labor Premier of Victoria
In the public opinion polls he's riding high
But he and his Government of not much help to the battlers
As per usual they must struggle to get by.
Miss Revair The Bellydancer
Miss Revair the bellydancer for perfection she still strive
Some say fifty six on her next birthday whilst others mention fifty five
And others say she is much younger forty two or forty three
But that she is a classy dancer on that every one agree.
Miss Revair is quite a lady free of any sort of guile
She always looks young and happy and she charms you with her smile
She doesn't use tints dyes or colours those who know her better say
And yet through her curly locks of light brown you will not see any gray.
Her potrait painted by famed artists and poets have honoured her in rhyme
And people say with some amazement she can't be beyond her prime
In her soft skin there's no wrinkles and she is one you won't upstage
And she looks as young and more attractive than many even half her age.
Miss Revair the bellydancer every time she takes the floor
People stare in sheer amazement and at the end a loud encore
Some say she is in her fifties whilst many tend to disagree
And others claim she's in her early forties, forty two or forty three.
Some say fifty six on her next birthday whilst others mention fifty five
And others say she is much younger forty two or forty three
But that she is a classy dancer on that every one agree.
Miss Revair is quite a lady free of any sort of guile
She always looks young and happy and she charms you with her smile
She doesn't use tints dyes or colours those who know her better say
And yet through her curly locks of light brown you will not see any gray.
Her potrait painted by famed artists and poets have honoured her in rhyme
And people say with some amazement she can't be beyond her prime
In her soft skin there's no wrinkles and she is one you won't upstage
And she looks as young and more attractive than many even half her age.
Miss Revair the bellydancer every time she takes the floor
People stare in sheer amazement and at the end a loud encore
Some say she is in her fifties whilst many tend to disagree
And others claim she's in her early forties, forty two or forty three.
We Only Read About The Wealthy Few
We read of Michael Jordan who has millions,
Of the British royals Camilla, Charles and Di
And of Michael Jackson and his many scandals
But still another child of hunger die.
We read of Fergie who has squandered millions
And of Kerry Packer on a gambling spree
And of Hugh Grant and the beautiful Liz Hurley
But do we want to read of poverty?.
We read about Madonna and her baby
And Courtney Love and her new great career
But in a war torn land ravaged by hunger
A mother weeps 'her sobs we do not hear'.
We read of Bill Clinton and Boris Yeltzin
And of the travels of his holiness the Pope
But the young mother found drowned in the Yarra
We dismiss her as one who couldn't cope.
We read of Hollywood the rich and famous
The sporting greats and wealthy billionaire
But we don't read about the struggling mother
Who has to raise her children on welfare.
We read about the trials of O.J.Simpson
Some say he's guilty others say he's not
But we don't read of the victims of the war lord
They are not important they must be forgot.
We do not read about the poor and hungry
The suffering and the hardships they've been through
Their stories are not worthy of our interest
We only read about the wealthy few.
Of the British royals Camilla, Charles and Di
And of Michael Jackson and his many scandals
But still another child of hunger die.
We read of Fergie who has squandered millions
And of Kerry Packer on a gambling spree
And of Hugh Grant and the beautiful Liz Hurley
But do we want to read of poverty?.
We read about Madonna and her baby
And Courtney Love and her new great career
But in a war torn land ravaged by hunger
A mother weeps 'her sobs we do not hear'.
We read of Bill Clinton and Boris Yeltzin
And of the travels of his holiness the Pope
But the young mother found drowned in the Yarra
We dismiss her as one who couldn't cope.
We read of Hollywood the rich and famous
The sporting greats and wealthy billionaire
But we don't read about the struggling mother
Who has to raise her children on welfare.
We read about the trials of O.J.Simpson
Some say he's guilty others say he's not
But we don't read of the victims of the war lord
They are not important they must be forgot.
We do not read about the poor and hungry
The suffering and the hardships they've been through
Their stories are not worthy of our interest
We only read about the wealthy few.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
On Seeing A Willy Wagtail's Nest
The day was warm and scarce a puff of breeze
And as I walked by a strand of sapling trees
A little cup shaped nest wedged in fork caught my eye
And a willy wagtail around me did fly.
No more than a metre above the ground
And the bird annoyed that her nest I had found
Chirped and flew above my head in a threat display
As she tried to hurry me upon my way.
From where I stood her eggs not hard to see
Palish with light brown spots I counted three
In a tiny nest formed with painstaking care
Of lichen, spiders webs and strands of hair.
One doesn't see such things of beauty every day
Close to the road and not hidden away
And one might have thought she'd have found a safer place
For to insure the survival of her race?.
As I walked on she returned to her nest
For to warm her eggs to life beneath her breast
And shrike thrush's song it cheered me on my way
On a warm though not so breezy Summer's day.
And as I walked by a strand of sapling trees
A little cup shaped nest wedged in fork caught my eye
And a willy wagtail around me did fly.
No more than a metre above the ground
And the bird annoyed that her nest I had found
Chirped and flew above my head in a threat display
As she tried to hurry me upon my way.
From where I stood her eggs not hard to see
Palish with light brown spots I counted three
In a tiny nest formed with painstaking care
Of lichen, spiders webs and strands of hair.
One doesn't see such things of beauty every day
Close to the road and not hidden away
And one might have thought she'd have found a safer place
For to insure the survival of her race?.
As I walked on she returned to her nest
For to warm her eggs to life beneath her breast
And shrike thrush's song it cheered me on my way
On a warm though not so breezy Summer's day.
The Wake Of 'Jack Will Bill'
It's been more than fifty years as I remember
And many Autumn leaves gone with the flooded rill
Since I first saw the face of a dead person
The silent remains of old 'Jack Will Bill'.
I recall that evening I walked through the fields of Lisnaboy upper
With my aunty Mary and my uncle Dan
To Jack Will Bill's son's farmhouse where the wake was
For to pay our last respects to the old man.
His friends and neighbours around his corpse assembled
All sad faced they gazed on the face of death
In Lisnaboy he farmed his fields and raised his children
And in Lisnaboy he drew his final breath.
Eyes closed in death he lay upon his death bed
A ghostly figure he looked pale and gray
His hands joined on his chest as if in prayer
And all signs of life from him had gone away.
Between his stiff bent fingers was a black rosary bead
And of all of life's cares and sufferings he was free
And between the spells of silence in the wake room
They said a decade of the rosary.
Dressed for his coffin in a dark brown habit
By Cullen church his final resting place
We sat around the waking room in silence
Gazing on his pale and lifeless wrinkled face.
A tearful old lady wearing a black shawl
Whispered to another 'he now is with the angels up above'
He was a saint a fly he would not harm
And his soul was full of kindness, warmth and love.
As we walked home through the moonlit fields in the early morning
The freshening winds blew with a rainy chill
And my aunty said 'the countless stars were shining'
For to light the way to God for Jack Will Bill.
And many Autumn leaves gone with the flooded rill
Since I first saw the face of a dead person
The silent remains of old 'Jack Will Bill'.
I recall that evening I walked through the fields of Lisnaboy upper
With my aunty Mary and my uncle Dan
To Jack Will Bill's son's farmhouse where the wake was
For to pay our last respects to the old man.
His friends and neighbours around his corpse assembled
All sad faced they gazed on the face of death
In Lisnaboy he farmed his fields and raised his children
And in Lisnaboy he drew his final breath.
Eyes closed in death he lay upon his death bed
A ghostly figure he looked pale and gray
His hands joined on his chest as if in prayer
And all signs of life from him had gone away.
Between his stiff bent fingers was a black rosary bead
And of all of life's cares and sufferings he was free
And between the spells of silence in the wake room
They said a decade of the rosary.
Dressed for his coffin in a dark brown habit
By Cullen church his final resting place
We sat around the waking room in silence
Gazing on his pale and lifeless wrinkled face.
A tearful old lady wearing a black shawl
Whispered to another 'he now is with the angels up above'
He was a saint a fly he would not harm
And his soul was full of kindness, warmth and love.
As we walked home through the moonlit fields in the early morning
The freshening winds blew with a rainy chill
And my aunty said 'the countless stars were shining'
For to light the way to God for Jack Will Bill.
A Showery October Afternoon
It is a showery afternoon water drips from the trees
But it's not cold a mild Spring day perhaps twenty degrees
In late October in the hills you do get days like these
When morning sun give way to showers though cool enough the breeze.
The black faced cuckoo shrike is back from places far away
A bird you never can mistake in cloak of silver gray
And in the wood the high pitched voice of the gray currawong
These birds you come to recognize by their distinctive song.
On the high gum tree in their nest young magpies chirp and call
And October in the Dandenongs the loveliest month of all
The high paddocks of Belgrave South are looking lush and green
And Mother Nature beautiful as lovely as I've seen.
The migratory welcome swallows back in the hills again
They fly low o'er the paddocks the flies are low in rain
My favourite season of the year has always been the Spring
In storm and rain and sunshine the wild birds chirp and sing
This morning pretty butterflies flitted around the flowers
But the afternoon turned cloudy and sun gave way to showers
In October in the Dandenongs you do get days like these
A day of showers and sun shine water dripping off the trees.
But it's not cold a mild Spring day perhaps twenty degrees
In late October in the hills you do get days like these
When morning sun give way to showers though cool enough the breeze.
The black faced cuckoo shrike is back from places far away
A bird you never can mistake in cloak of silver gray
And in the wood the high pitched voice of the gray currawong
These birds you come to recognize by their distinctive song.
On the high gum tree in their nest young magpies chirp and call
And October in the Dandenongs the loveliest month of all
The high paddocks of Belgrave South are looking lush and green
And Mother Nature beautiful as lovely as I've seen.
The migratory welcome swallows back in the hills again
They fly low o'er the paddocks the flies are low in rain
My favourite season of the year has always been the Spring
In storm and rain and sunshine the wild birds chirp and sing
This morning pretty butterflies flitted around the flowers
But the afternoon turned cloudy and sun gave way to showers
In October in the Dandenongs you do get days like these
A day of showers and sun shine water dripping off the trees.
Alone With Nature
September just a few miles out of Belgrave
And the gray shrike thrush pipes on a blackwood tree
I climb the high paddock that skirts the woodland
Alone with Nature my old dog and me.
I feel a deep love for this grand old country
From the high ground such splendid scenery
A pleasant day with sporadic spells of sunshine
The better things in life are always free.
The rufous whistler whistling in the woodland
Pipe much the same notes over and again
Long after he has finished with his singing
His music in my memory will remain.
On quarter acre affected by dieback
On faded trees the green bellbirds I hear
Their bell like notes can never be mistaken
And they sing all day and twelve months of the year.
I love these times alone with Mother Nature
In quiet place away from noisy street
And I love the high paddock just out of Belgrave
By the woodland where peace and beauty meet.
All alone with Mother Nature and my old dog
From the high ground such splendid scenery
On a day in Spring and all the birds are singing
And the better things in life are always free.
And the gray shrike thrush pipes on a blackwood tree
I climb the high paddock that skirts the woodland
Alone with Nature my old dog and me.
I feel a deep love for this grand old country
From the high ground such splendid scenery
A pleasant day with sporadic spells of sunshine
The better things in life are always free.
The rufous whistler whistling in the woodland
Pipe much the same notes over and again
Long after he has finished with his singing
His music in my memory will remain.
On quarter acre affected by dieback
On faded trees the green bellbirds I hear
Their bell like notes can never be mistaken
And they sing all day and twelve months of the year.
I love these times alone with Mother Nature
In quiet place away from noisy street
And I love the high paddock just out of Belgrave
By the woodland where peace and beauty meet.
All alone with Mother Nature and my old dog
From the high ground such splendid scenery
On a day in Spring and all the birds are singing
And the better things in life are always free.
Darren
There is this little boy his name is Darren
And he has this dream that one day he will play
Top class cricket in the colours of Australia
In test matches in Countries far away.
He dreams he'll be as famous as Don Bradman
And his portrait hang in cricket hall of fame
And that with his bat he'll top all previous records
And cricket people will revere his name.
He will be nine years old on his next birthday
And to his mum young Darren often say
You will feel proud of me when I'm an adult
For I will be a famous man one day.
But Darren will never play cricket for Australia
As circumstance has already seen to that
The doctors say he won't walk from his wheel chair
Still in his dreams he swings a cricket bat.
The young fellow next door his name is Darren
He sits on wheel chair by the garden gate
He says I will be famous as Don Bradman
And for Australia be a cricket great.
And he has this dream that one day he will play
Top class cricket in the colours of Australia
In test matches in Countries far away.
He dreams he'll be as famous as Don Bradman
And his portrait hang in cricket hall of fame
And that with his bat he'll top all previous records
And cricket people will revere his name.
He will be nine years old on his next birthday
And to his mum young Darren often say
You will feel proud of me when I'm an adult
For I will be a famous man one day.
But Darren will never play cricket for Australia
As circumstance has already seen to that
The doctors say he won't walk from his wheel chair
Still in his dreams he swings a cricket bat.
The young fellow next door his name is Darren
He sits on wheel chair by the garden gate
He says I will be famous as Don Bradman
And for Australia be a cricket great.
A Memory Of St Davids
In St Davids in Wales I picked potatoes in my early twenties
And though that was more than thirty years ago
On looking back in time it doesn't seem that long
The months and years did not drag on that slow.
The picking season lasted three to four weeks
And in the farmer's galvanized pickers shed we stayed
The work was hard you well might say back breaking
And by the bag the farmer always paid.
In St Davids by the sea the nights are chilly
The weather there is never warm in May
And though I had but one blanket for cover
I did sleep sound tired from the tiring day.
There's easier ways by far of making money
And potato picking only for the young and strong
And the rewards of our labour went too quickly
A few nights drinking it did not last long.
I won't be hurrying back to old St Davids
For till the day I die I will recall
A sign that read 'Potato pickers here not welcome'
On notice board nailed to the restaurant wall.
The ignorance of class discrimination
All 'Tatie Hokers' were inferior they implied
I never darkened the door of that restaurant
For I too have my sense of worth and pride.
But I met some nice people in St Davids
Can't knock a whole Village for the snobbish few
They showed a genuine warmth towards Tatie Hokers
And our mutual admiration for them grew.
It's been a while since I was in St Davids
And from where I now live it seems far away
I picked potatoes there when in my early twenties
And by the bag the farmer used to pay.
And though that was more than thirty years ago
On looking back in time it doesn't seem that long
The months and years did not drag on that slow.
The picking season lasted three to four weeks
And in the farmer's galvanized pickers shed we stayed
The work was hard you well might say back breaking
And by the bag the farmer always paid.
In St Davids by the sea the nights are chilly
The weather there is never warm in May
And though I had but one blanket for cover
I did sleep sound tired from the tiring day.
There's easier ways by far of making money
And potato picking only for the young and strong
And the rewards of our labour went too quickly
A few nights drinking it did not last long.
I won't be hurrying back to old St Davids
For till the day I die I will recall
A sign that read 'Potato pickers here not welcome'
On notice board nailed to the restaurant wall.
The ignorance of class discrimination
All 'Tatie Hokers' were inferior they implied
I never darkened the door of that restaurant
For I too have my sense of worth and pride.
But I met some nice people in St Davids
Can't knock a whole Village for the snobbish few
They showed a genuine warmth towards Tatie Hokers
And our mutual admiration for them grew.
It's been a while since I was in St Davids
And from where I now live it seems far away
I picked potatoes there when in my early twenties
And by the bag the farmer used to pay.
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