Thursday, June 30, 2011

Jud Sheehan

Jud Sheehan used to play for Slanan Rovers
But he died before his prime as a young man
Today he would be only in his fifties
Of life years he deserved a longer span.

He was a good and a likeable young fellow
And around Cloghoula his praises were sung
His tragic end rocked Millstreet and Duhallow
Perhaps it's true only the good die young.

Jud Sheehan was a victim of a car crash
When he was fast approaching his prime day
The cruel grim reaper came for him so early
'Tis sad to think he died in such a way.

I still have mental pictures of that fellow
In Shaughnessy's field I see him kick the ball
And I see him in the Slanan Rovers colours
Such moments I feel happy to recall.

Jud Sheehan was a person I remember
As nice as one could ever wish to meet
He was a credit to his place Cloghoula
And likewise to the Parish of Millstreet.

When Tanyard Heather Won The Laurels

When Tanyard heather won the Laurels to a huge ovation from the crowd
His owner Pat Cashman from Millstreet had reason to feel proud
When the son of Clonbanin Chariot raced into canine history
And equalled the Cork track record in a marvellous victory.

He left traps like a rocket and was first at every bend
But the brindled Duhallow flying machine was not the bookies friend
For he started as the favourite and the punters got it right
And for his many connections 'twas a memorable night

In the story of Tanyard Heather there is material for a song
Bred by the Clonbanin breeder the likeable Con Long
In mating his brood bitch Clonbanin Chariot to the speedy Oregon Prince
He bred for dogs with early speed which made a lot of sense.

Heather was the small pup of his litter or so the story go
But size doesn't guarantee success as greyhound people know
The dog who leads to the first bend and sets the early pace
Is the hardest dog of all to beat in a middle distance race.

The small pup of the litter doesn't always remain the runt
And Heather at the first bend was always lengths in front
He finished third in the Derby final 'luck to him was unkind'
He missed his break but still took the lead and was beaten from behind.

In the mid sixties when Heather won the Laurels the school going boys back then
Might now be young grand fathers and ageing balding men
For time goes by so quickly those three decades seemed to fly
And the balding man with silver hair was then a teenage boy.

When Tanyard Heather won the Laurels the punters they did cheer
But the bookies were not smiling his victory cost them dear
And Pat Cashman felt so happy he laughed loud in delight
In one of his finest moments if not his greatest night.

The Secret Power In Music

The familiar tunes the band was playing took her far so far away
To that village in Slovenia and her happy childhood day
These were tunes she heard her father on his old accordion play
Around the fire on winter evenings such good memories tend to stay.

She was back home in Slovenia in the wood beside the hill
She could hear the robin singing, she could hear the rippling rill
Spring had come to her green valley skylark towards the clouds did fly
Once more she can hear him singing in the sunny morning sky.

I could see a brown haired girl long before years brought first gray
Back there in her own green valley fragrant with the flowers of May
Flushed with joy that early youth bring seven to eight years before
The urge caused by lust for wander brought her to another shore.

The band play music of Slovenia and the dancers waltz around the floor
Many perhaps in their sixties they re-live their youth once more
Saturday they danced all evening till sunday morning after three
Old tunes that once were familiar rekindle the flame of memory.

Next to me sat aged woman five decades beyond her prime
She was singing with the music clapping hands and keeping time
Suddenly her years had vanished she was young and far away
Sitting by the open fireplace listening to her father play.

There's a secret power in music it can be a source of joy
And music too can bring sad memories something sad from years gone by
And the music of Slovenia mix in well with a few beers
And the happy ex Slovenians were back in the happy years.

That Wood Belong To Me

They cut away the woodlet that wood belong to me
They cut away the wattles cut down my old gum tree
Evicted all the wild birds my magpie took to wing
And in wood by someone else's house my magpie now will sing.

My butcherbird is homeless he now must find new home
For many years the wood was his and there happiness he'd known
By man he was evicted his home he had to flee
And now he must live elsewhere fight for new territory.

Where are my ring tail possums? their trees have been cut down
Man took from them their happiness to build a bigger town
The few who escaped injury and left the wood alive
Must now stake out new territories in order to survive.

I thought that wood belong to me and to the birds of song
But other men thought differrently and they have done me wrong
They cut down the gums and wattles and they then bulldozed the ground
And my wood is gone forever and I hear no birds around.

Where is my yellow robin, shrike thrush and currawong?
To me they were familiar I knew them by their song
The trees were taken from them those trees to them belong
And they left the place forever when the saw men came along.

I used to wake each morning to song bird melodies
But whilst in school the saw men came and cut down all my trees
My wild friends were evicted they seek new territory
And I feel disappointed that wood belong to me.

An Agitator

The old bloke said your rhymes are bad you are a second rater
And you don't like a certain class you play the agitator
And you'll be bound for satan's hell when the grim reaper take you
As heaven's not for one like you since god he will forsake you.

One would have thought he would be more kind with years most people mellow
But I did not argue with the man the cranky aged fellow
He was entitled to his views when he said my rhymes were rotten
That I would not live on in print and I'd quickly be forgotten.

An agitator is a bloke who likes to stir up trouble
He likes to drag tall poppies down and reduce them to rubble
And though I hope I'm not that way if some of my rhymes seem bitter
It's just that I don't like the social elite they rile me with their glitter.

The old bloke said your rhymes are bad you are an agitator
And though I did take some offence at being called a second rater
I did not argue with the man for than me he was far older
And he was right in pointing out that I've a 'chip on my shoulder'.

Zoo Lion

The speedy zebra fears the killer bite
And quickly race off in African night
And warns all others with her whinnying cry
'The word is out it's run flat out or die'.

The frightened wildebeest race off in fear
He hear the zebra know danger is near
The very thought all through him send a chill
The lion is out and hunting for the kill.

But male zoo lion you instil no such fear
As you were born in this wired run here
The animals nearby not scared of you
You cannot reach them in a wired in zoo.

They do not even tremble when you roar
They raise their heads and listen little more
And show no desire to bolt and run away
And they do not fear you as a beast of prey.

Your wild kin chase and kill the wildebeest
Whilst on a hunk of man killed beef you feast
And the only life you've ever known is this
But what you never knew you never miss.

the zebra here doesn't fear the killer bite
And when the zoo lion roars they don't feel fright
And unlike their wild cousins thousands of miles away
They do not fear the lion as beast of prey.

When Pat's Newdown Won The Cup

When Pat's Newdown won the North Cork Cup in Millstreet
They toasted him that night in Knocknagree
The champion coursing greyhound from Duhallow
Had won perhaps his greatest victory.

Owned by Dan Halloran and trained by his son the black dog
Won his final course with a few lengths to spare
The son of Newdown Heather bred for coursing
Showed great speed to be first to turn the hare.

Running in the nomination of Con Duggan
A greyhound owner since he was a boy
It was a famous victory for Duhallow
A moment for to savour and enjoy.

When Pat's Newdown won the North Cork Cup in Millstreet
On looking back the years they seemed to fly
A cold wind was blowing down from Clara Mountain
And rain clouds were gathering in the evening sky.

I still have mental pictures of Pat's Newdown
And he racing up the Millstreet Town park hill
And the Hallorans cheering their great dog to victory
Those memorable moments remain with me still.

When Pat's Newdown won the North Cork Cup at Millstreet
The wind blew chill 'twas cold enough to snow
And the coursing fans in the Town-park were cheering
On that january evening many years ago.

Turlough Carolan

He was blind and illiterate that much of him we know
And still his music is with us from centuries ago
He had creative genius and his genius still shine through
A rare gem Turlough Carolan one of the chosen few.

The harper of the county Meath in music live today
His music known around the world in countries far away
And Carolan's concerto still very much alive
The only test of genius is when their work survive.

The only test of genius is when their work live on
For centuries and centuries when they are dead and gone
And Carolan has passed that test a name to celebrate
His music live three hundred years the genius of the great.

A son of peasant parents and destined to be poor
And though addicted to alcohol his genius remained pure
I like that saying it says it all 'can't keep a good man down'
And the name of Turlough Carolan was destined for renown.

I just switched on the radio to hear the D.J. say
This is a tune from Ireland from Ireland far away
Carolan's farewell to music, oh let the music play
The music of the harper the harper lives today.

George Soros

To worthy causes he's given two billion
Which surely makes George Soros a true great
He's helped the drug addicts the poor and homeless
And to the underclass he's a true mate.

George Soros proves that not all billionaires are selfish
And only share their gains amongst their own
For his empathy with the poor and his acts of kindness
Around the World he's become well known.

If every wealthy person were as generous as George Soros
'To live in' this World would be a better place
You wouldn't have the city slums and ghettos
And people would not be disadvantaged by their race.

George Soros is one who leads by example
He's one who has done so much for the poor
And it's not his fault that poverty is rampant
For social ills he's tried to find a cure.

George Soros he has helped the poor and needy
And people like him nowadays far too rare
To worthy causes he's given two billion
And he's the most generous billionaire.

The Spirit Of Frank Berry

His bones may rest in England thousands of miles away
But the spirit of Frank Berry remains with us today
He passed on in December when England's fields were gray
And the many he befriended of him had good to say.

He found comfort in alcohol perhaps his great downfall
But the goodness in Frank Berry one readily can recall
He spent his money freely he was a generous bloke
And if he could he would help you though he himself was often broke.

Ask Yvonne about Frank Berry for Yvonne knew him well
She will tell you of his struggles of how he put himself through hell
And of a spiritual person, she is one of many who
To the memory of Frank Berry will remain a life time true.

In the man named Francis Berry there was so much to admire
And he will always be remembered in the Yarra Ranges Shire
And in the pub at Upper Gully where his was a well known face
His spirit is still living in the confines of the place.

He died in bleak december when the frost bound fields were gray
And though his bones may rest in England thousands of miles away
The many he befriended of him had good to say
And the spirit of Frank Berry remains with us today.

My Fight For Irish Freedom

'My fight for Irish freedom' the autobiography of Dan Breen
But perhaps he should have called his book 'When young blood stained the green'
For human blood for freedom too huge a price to pay
And liberty or freedom define it anyway.

The freedom of expression whatever that might be
To speak our minds on certain things we are not truly free
Look at poor Salman Rushdie his book you may have read
For his Satanic Verses some people want him dead.

From the point I am about to make you may think I tend to stray
And what has Rushdie got to do with Irish freedom you might say
But for freedom of expression there has been a World-wide fight
And yet fear is a deterrent to a basic human right.

The fight for Irish freedom whatever that might mean
For there is more to freedom than the 'wearing of the green'
In Ireland like all Nations there is inequality
Of prejudice and class distinction the World is yet not free.

The ill fated Easter Rising in Dublin of the year nineteen sixteen
And my fight for Irish freedom the story of Dan Breen
Are living on in history yet do we understand
That there is more to freedom than owning a piece of land.

Tuesday, June 28, 2011

Nancy Blake

In the Red Door Cafe every evening around four
She sits at table by the window for a half an hour or more
And with her cappucino she eats a slice of cake
The gray haired octogenarian endearing Nancy Blake.

You need not be a genius to tell that she came from far away
For that accent she brought with her remains with her today
She arrived by ship in 1948 on the fourteenth day of May
And I love this southern country Nancy from Swansea say.

Her son his daughter and her children live on the Sunshine Coast
And she do not see them often once every two years at most
She says they keep in contact once a forthnight by phone
And that she never feels lonely though she lives all alone.

She says I never did return to Wales not even for a holiday
And who would know me in Swansea now for I am old and gray
And though I'll spend my last days in Victoria by the Pacific sea
A migrant in this southern land is all I'll ever be.

Whenever I meet her in the cafe she greets me with a smile
Saying sit here at my table and we'll talk for awhile
We came from neighbouring Countries not all that far apart
And my grandmother was Irish she was so kind of heart.

At the Red Door Cafe every evening around four
She sits at table by the window for half an hour or more
And with her cappucino she eats a slice of cake
The gray haired octogenarian endearing Nancy Blake.


In her young years she was a swimmer and she had this wonderful dream
That she would compete for Australia as part of the Olympic team
And though she made the national finals and there she swam her greatest race
She could not compete for her Country as she was beaten out of a place.

Nicole wasn't too disappointed I tried my best she now recall
To be the fourth best in your country did not seem so bad after all
Not every one can be a winner and a few swam faster than I,
I finished half of a body length behind the winner but at least I gave it my best try.

She's forty though she looks a bit younger and her only offspring Jill has just turned nineteen
And she works as a solicitor's secretary and work gives to her self esteem
Her five years of marriage a disaster her ex husband now with his fourth wife
She's now happy to live as a divorcee without any man in her life.

Her ex husband had been cheating on her he was having his 'bit on the side'
And she felt a devalued woman and that wasn't good for her pride
She felt glad when he finally left her only disrespect to her he had shown
For awhile for him she harboured resentment though now that sort of stuff she's outgrown.

Nicole in her teens was a swimmer and against the best she did compete
And she once reached the National finals and out of a place was just beat
Last february she turned forty and life's ups and downs she has seen
And now she is single and carefree and as happy as she's ever been.

Some People Are Just Ignorant

Some people are just ignorant their souls bereft of light
On others they cast aspersions and see it as their right
On nationality and color to draw the racial line
Like this person not one of us and this one suits us fine.

By racist politicians and biased journalists these people are led
And amongst like minded people their phobias they spread
And they vote for the hard hearted those who best serve their cause
Those who cause hardship to many by implementing partial laws.

Some people are just ignorant and to them ignorance is bliss
What we do unto others we do unto ourselves that point they seem to miss
And many who are racist even have the cheek to say
That they are quite fair minded and believe in fair play.

Some people are just ignorant and difference they fear
Your culture is different to ours we do not want you here
And four decades back when I was young it seems sad to recall
That we were nearer in those days to a 'fair go for all'.

George From Bordertown

He talks about his youth in south Australia
Raised on a farm south east of Bordertown
The happiest years of his life he remember
Were spent out on the paddocks gray to brown.

Helping his dad the sheep farmer with fence mending
The summer months were long and warm and dry
Old George he may be showing his years in greyness
But at heart he is still a country boy.

He went to see the World beyond the farm
For on the farm he had no wish to stay
Australia is a land of open spaces
And for years he had dreamt of places far away.

And he left home when he was a teenager
Just eighteen years and yet to reach his prime
In retrospect he says how quick those years flew
There is no holding back the hands of time.

He moved to Adelaide to the big City
A strange new world for a fresh faced country boy
And for awhile he felt like a fish out of water
For he was green to city life and shy.

He worked near Adelaide but he failed to settle
As the suburban lifestyle he did not enjoy
And from there he moved to the north of Perth in Western Australia
To the vast outback lands of the big sky.

For forty years he worked as a sheep shearer
And of alcohol he has drank more than enough
Gray haired and looking wrinkled from the hard life
You well might say old George has lived it rough.

He worked in shearing sheds around Australia
In Queensland, Central Australia and the West
In South Australia, New South Wales and in Victoria
George in his day held his own with the best.

I last met him in the Young and Jackson pub in Melbourne
In a half an hour he said I'm out of here
I'm on the eight o clock train to Wodonga
I just have the time to drink another beer.

Old George from Bordertown in South Australia
Will keep on wandering till the day he die
He never seem to care for city living
And in his heart he's still a country boy.

Mickey Looney

When Mickey Looney left his home near Millstreet
And went to live in New York far away
There was not much work then around Duhallow
And things were better in the U S A

'Twas hoped that he would return in a few years
For to live in Claraghatlea and settle down
But Mickey met his wife and raised his children
Far from the green fields west of Millstreet Town.

He was well liked by every one who knew him
For Mickey really was a nice young man
It must be forty years since he left Millstreet
And on looking back that seems a lengthy span.

Suppose his thoughts still go back to his boyhood
The happy years he spent on his homeground
In Claraghatlea and in the Town of Millstreet
Where he was known for many miles around.

He returned to Millstreet whilst his mum was still living
But that was only for a holiday
He did not wish to stay on in Duhallow
When things were better in the U S A

He left Millstreet the wanderlust was in him
And he returned only to leave again
And like many more he earns his living elsewhere
But Millstreet's loss is surely New York's gain.

Phil Ruddock Says

Phil Ruddock says that not all refugees are homeless he's going by what his advisers to him say
How can they expect to stay here in my Country if they've thrown all of their  i d away
We feed and clothe them and keep them in enclosures yet they complain that we give them a raw deal
These ungrateful people make me feel so angry and can anyone blame me for the way I feel?

Phil Ruddock says that he's such a generous fellow that he's one who has done so much for the poor
And he secretly feels that he's Australia's greatest Minister for immigration and of his place in history he feels sure
He says that all boat people are queue jumpers we'll make life hard on every boat refugee
It's not my fault if they are poor and Stateless and from oppressive governments they flee.

Phil Ruddock says he'll send a strong message to the people smugglers the boat people can go to live elsewhere
And the government stand seems favourable to the voters and that the government retain power is all that we care
In the public opinion polls we had been doing poorly but the 'Tampa Affair' for us has changed all that
In politics a week can seem a long time and we have our opposition on the mat.

Phil Ruddock is an overpaid public servant and he would not know what hardship is all about
He's only known a privileged existence and he's never had to live from hand to mouth
He belongs to a so called Liberal Party who do not espouse Liberality
To people who are poor, displaced and Stateless they do not offer any sympathy.

My Best Friend John And I 'For Eoin Murphy'

We grew up together my best friend John and I
His dad brought him to be raised by my mum his sister as a young boy
Before he sailed forth for the U.S.A.
Beyond the sea and many miles away.

I never called him uncle I recall
As he seemed more like a brother to us all
He was my friend for over seventy years
And the good memories outlive the parting tears.

At our school lunch break we oft raced up the hill
To touch the sails upon the old windmill
And back down again just as the school bell rung
Those were the happy days when we were young.

Of all the friends I knew my dearest friend of all
He stood by me in the church at Montreal
At my first marriage 'she died tragically'
And through these times my friend John stood by me.

I was there the day he changed his course in life
On the day he took Mary for his wife
And I was there to whisper him a last goodbye
My true and dear friend since I was a boy.

His hands were cold we'd never meet again
As I whispered goodbye in the New York rain
And though there is heartache in those last goodbyes
It's still not very hard to visualize.

And John and I again race up the hill
To touch the sails upon the old windmill
The wind blowing in our faces ruffled our hair
Such happy times together we did share.

We affirmed our religious vows in what we then believed
Our first communion and confirmation together we received
Went to college and lived in the U.S.A.
From Skerries almost half a World away.

A cherished member of our family
My uncle John lives in my memory
Though I never called him uncle I recall
He seemed more like a brother to us all.

A Song Of Life

The tiny seed placed in the ground in fifty years or so
Will rise above all others and to a giant tree grow
And the seeds she sheds in autumn germinate on the ground
And her children are the saplings that grow nearby around.

Down through the years the Nature poets the songs of life have sung
And the bird to keep her genes alive has hatched to life her young
And the hands of time keep turning and the people come and go
And the more we seem to learn from life the less of life we know we know.

The blackbird sings his song of life all through the weeks of spring
In his acre on bush and tree you hear him pipe and sing
It might be wrong just to presume he sings a song of joy
When more than likely it's his warning to the male blackbirds nearby.

All things that breathe on Planet Earth have a song of life to sing
From the great whales of the oceans to the skylark on the wing
And all animals and birds and bees in song communicate
And humans sing when they are sad and when they celebrate.

Venus Bay

Not much commerce in Venus Bay the Village by the sea
But a good place for the working man and his wife and family
To spend their Christmas holidays and take in the ocean breeze
And laze away the afternoons in the shadow of the trees.

The road from Inverloch via Tarwin Lower that leads to Venus
You might say is uneven and narrow all the way
And many people see it as off of the beaten track
Though many who paid a visit there have been known to come back.

I too have been to Venus Bay the beach there even quiet
And the few shops there for business closed long before the fall of night
An ideal place for the suburban family for a week or longer stay
For to fish or swim or lay on the beach in the sun shine of day.

A place of peace and beauty and off of the beaten track
And I'm one of those people who has been to and gone back
To that place of little commerce good for the quiet holiday
In south Gippsland by the ocean beautiful old Venus Bay.

For Late June Remarkable Weather

The golfers on the greens are putting in their short sleeved shirts in the sun
And by the mirthful ring of their laughter it would seem they are having fun
On a beautiful morning in winter seems more like a day in the spring
And on trees bordering the golf course the white backed magpies carol and sing.

The morning is so bright and sunny and warm for the time of year
For late june remarkable weather you'd swear that september were here
The stillness one almost could touch it and only the slightest hint of breeze
And the temperatures one might say perfect a high close to eighteen degrees.

The black duck in the pond are swimming I hear the soft quacks of the drake
He flies to the bank and flaps his wings and the water off of his body shake
'Twould seem he is telling me something and I fancy I can
hear him say
Quite soon again I'll be a father and it is such a beautiful day.

Who would think we were near mid winter such mornings like this are quite rare
A chance for to walk amongst nature and breathe in the pure morning air
Memories like these make life worth living and our mood often matches the day
When the weather is cold, wet and windy the clouds of our heart can be gray.

The white backed magpies flute in the sunshine their nesting time not far away
And the tall trees they cast their long shadows across the greens and the fairway
The rays of the sun seem so warm and hardly a cloud in the sky
It seems more like a day in september than on the eve of the first of july.

Monday, June 27, 2011

We Need More Love

We need more love and understanding and love of our god within
Than love of this invisible god who stirs the wrath in men
So much suspicion and mistrust and so much hatred has grown
Between people over this god we have never met or known.

Why because of god people feel such hatred that leads to disharmony
Is something that to understand seems far too big for me
Perhaps their gods if they exist are looking on in shame
At their so called devotees who wage war in their name.

By trying to destroy Mother Earth our own selves we destroy
And when men who wage war for god drop their bombs of poison
from the sky
They give rise to widespread suffering and famine and disease
And death through radiation is blowing in the breeze.

Man's inhumanity to man one might say World-wide
And far too many beautiful Countries by bombs have been destroyed
And wars and rumours of more wars give rise to more unease
And millions of once happy people have become refugees.

That men wage war in the name of god seems puzzling to me
But more love and understanding would lead to harmony
And I can only live in hope that I will live to see
A World that's free of war and suffering and man's inhumanity.

Sugar Ray

He was born Walker Smith Jr in Detroit in the U S A
In the year of nineteen twenty the man who became Sugar Ray
The world's greatest ever pound for pound boxer many boxing purists say
Quite a legend in his lifetime and a legend still today.

In two hundred and two fights only nineteen losses he was a hard man to beat
Sugar Ray Robinson the big hitter like a gazelle on his feet
The middleweight champion of the World when I was a Primary school going boy
More than forty years ago now how the years just seemed to fly

Sugar Ray Robinson in his prime years proved himself in every test
And his bouts with Jake La Motta are still rated amongst the best
By the old time boxing scribes and purists when the great bouts they recall
Their fights were as good as any and many claim the best of all.

In the glory days of boxing the man Sugar reigned supreme
And many still claim him to to be the greatest boxer they had ever seen
With speed and skill and a knockout punch his like never seen before
And in the annals of professional boxing his name will live for forever more.

In my primary school days in the late fifties more than forty years ago
I used to tune in to the big fights on the old pye radio
And I recall great fights and fighters but still the hero of my boyhood day
Was the marvellous Detroit boxer the one known as Sugar Ray.

The War children

They were the children of the now forgotten and like you and I they had their dreams of fame
But in unmarked graves their bones forever resting and does anyone remember them by name?
And does anybody even think about them and in thinking of them kind things of them say
Like they were nice kids and they loved life and were happy and in the ghetto park they used to play?.

Though they were the children of poor parents unlike us children don't complain about their lot
But were they the offsprings of the rich and famous we would hear about them they would not be forgot
A stray bomb drifted down across their suburb they were the victims of cruel circumstance
And the sound of their laughter died in the ghetto parkland one well might say they did not have a chance.

How come in wars the innocents must suffer when for major conflicts children not to blame
The war children to the reaper went early due to mistake which still seems act of shame
How come the stray bomb fell on the poor suburb and how come it did not fall and wreak havoc elsewhere?
Don't say that's life when life doesn't have to be this way and for the disadvantaged life is never fair?.

They were the innocent victims of the warlords and in unkept and unmarked graves they lay
And they had their dreams like you and I and others and does anyone remember them today?
A stray bomb from the sky dropped on their suburb and many human lives were lost when their homes were destroyed
And in the ghetto parkland where they oft played the laughter of the ghetto children died.


One could buy a house for twenty thousand or with a mortgage five thousand down
In Peterborough in South Australia a quiet old country Town
Near to the Flinders ranges in a country wide and brown
As a former place of steam trains it's one claim to renown.

A two hour drive from Adelaide 'twould be nice to live there
Away from smoky factories and smog polluted air
Eight months of warm weather the winters cool and dry
If you are one who like the quiet life the life there you'd enjoy.

In Peterborough in South Australia in the heart of grain country
Life goes on at an easy pace as easy as can be
The galahs in small flocks calling as they fly from tree to tree
In this small town in the outback miles inland from the sea.

Met an old couple from Adelaide a long time man and wife
Who had come to live in Peterborough for the easier style of life
Walking in the town park in early morning in the pleasant summer breeze
Where the wattlebirds are calling on the gum and wattle trees.

They told me they were glad they came to live in Peterborough amongst the unpolluted air
They will spend their twilight years there they could not now live elsewhere
In this old town in South Australia they will live until the day
Till the reaper he will claim them in Peterborough they will stay.

We May Have Great Plans For The Future

We may have great plans for the future but the future seems so far away
And we only can live in the present tomorrow is another day
The future's not ours to look into I once heard a wise woman say
And the sooner the rose comes into bloom the sooner 'twill fade to decay.

You will not find one who doesn't have dreams but dreams of course seldom come true
Still dreams to us all are important we all need a dream to pursue
We all need our dreams to inspire us and those who do not have a dream
Have lost their sense of life direction like a leaf in a rapid flowing stream.

When one hopes for a better tomorrow those sentiments apply to us all
And though the future we cannot look into the past we can readily recall
Of life there is truth in the saying that we must take the good days with the bad
The bright moments of joy and laughter and the dark moments when we feel sad.

We may have great plans for the future for a better tomorrow maybe
But what the future might hold for us is something that we cannot see
We keep on in hope of the good times and we all need our dreams to pursue
And if for me good things don't happen then good things might happen for you.

I Love The Word Hope

I love the word hope 'tis a great word it keeps reminding you when you are down
That in many ways you are lucky you are not the worst off in the town
Compared to some you are quite lucky and though you may not be one of the privileged few
There's hope and comfort in the thought that many are worse off than you.

I love the word hope it seems positive to hope for the good days ahead
For life for you is scarce worth living if the hope in your heart it is dead
To hope for a better tomorrow is the thing that keeps us keeping on
For you do not have much to live for if hope out of your life is gone.

I love the word hope it's uplifting for those who are feeling quite low
For as they say hope springs eternal and out of hope success can grow
And one can only see a dark future for one who is struggling to cope
If that person has lost the great gift the gift that we all know as hope.

I love the word hope it's a great gift those who have it in them have fight
They keep on going through the dark tunnel till finally they reach the light
And when you retain hope through your hard days you are telling the World I'm alive
For without it life on you much harder and you find it so hard to survive.

The Hills Beyond Rathmore

The map of Ireland hanging on back of her kitchen door
And she still pines for Ireland and the hills beyond Rathmore
She left Sliabh Luachra ten years back for the adventurous life
And now she feels trapped by her roles of migrant mum and wife.

Her husband is Australian and their son will soon be nine
And on this the eve of new year's day to the strains of auld lang syne
Nostalgia will re-visit her for such she has not outgrown
And again she will see her parents house by the snow capped Paps of Shrone.

Some people leave their native land and leave their past behind
And in the land they settle in find happiness of mind
Whilst others leave and don't return but nostalgia with them stay
And old tune or familiar song bring back the far away.

The hills beyond Rathmore she said that would make a nice song
My home is in this southern land though here I don't belong
And though Sliabh Luachra by east Kerry hills I often think of you
I feel bound by love and duty and to them I must be true.

At midnight to the 'Auld Lang Syne' the tears crept down her face
And her thoughts went to the by gone years and to a distant place
Still with her son and husband she danced around the floor
A long way from Sliabh Luachra and the hills beyond Rathmore.

Sorry Such An Easy Word To Say

It has been said that the Earth the meek will inherit but on the news I heard again today
That more women and children in Palestine were slaughtered of so called smart bombs they got in the way
A wanted terrorist the target too a victim well done but sorry too the Prime Minister said as with words he did play
But his sorry won't bring back the blameless innocents and sorry such an easy word to say.

One can't say one evil less than another and human life is taken far too cheap
Women and children not safe in their houses the killer bombs fall on them as they sleep
The war for god and land is ever raging and always it's the innocents who die
And terror on the streets and in the laneways and terror droning in the darkened sky.

We hear about this so called war on terror but war too is terror and it causes widespread dread
And those who order bombings for whatever reason must take the blame for the civilian dead
The mother weeps at the grave of her children and sorry to her is of little use
To say they were not our intended victims is not what one would call a good excuse.

The war for god and land is ever raging and still the numbers of the war dead grow
And mistrust leads to hatred and atrocities and happiness some people never know
And why so many innocents must suffer is way beyond me for to understand
For the innocents should never be the victims they should not have to die for god and land.


Manuel lives near Tecoma Manuel footloose and free
So many miles from his homeland by the Mediterranean sea
But around the hills of Sherbrooke he doesn't seem out of place
And in Kallista and in Belgrave his is a familiar face.

Manuel he lives long distance from his homeland in Spain
But he thinks that he will go back, back to his roots again
Still he likes the Sherbrooke mountains and he walks for miles around
From Belgrave up to Olinda and through Grant's Picnic ground.

Manuel is a clever fellow and he can speak fluently
In Spanish, German, English and in tongue of Italy
He is highly educated and it would seem to me
That perhaps he's been to Uni and has a language degree.

Manuel is a well known fellow in the mountain countryside
From Upwey up to Emerald he is known both far and wide
Only last week saw him walking towards Tecoma in the rain
Must be cold in Sherbrooke mountains for a man from sunny Spain.

The Pride Of Kilinadrish

The memory of her beauty remains undimmed by time
The pride of Kilinadrish I knew her in her prime
At local coursing meetings her's a familiar face
And often at the Cork track to watch her greyhounds race.

The pride of Kilinadrish had blond to light brown hair
And she looked very beautiful than her none quite so fair
A greyhound loving person and greyhounds were her life
I wonder did she marry and become lucky man's wife?

The hands of time keep turning but the memories with me stay
And the Beautiful Anne Murphy where might she be today?
Is she still in Kilinadrish For I fancy I can see
Her walking greyhounds on the Coachford road that winds along by the Lee.

Of the Pride of Kilinadrish the good memories remain
Did she hold some of her beauty, did her good looks she retain?
For time doesn't wait for anyone it brings wrinkles and gray
And the petals scattered on the ground of rose that bloomed in May.

The Pride of Kilinadrish her praises I have sung
And in my memory she doesn't age she's still beautiful and young
I see her at the Cork track excitement in her face
As her greyhound races to the line to win the feature race.

Sunday, June 26, 2011

The Cat Still Wander Free

The councillors of the Shire of Sherbrooke of late passed a decree
That in the hours of darkness no cat should wander free
That all cats be kept behind closed door during the hours of dark
And not be left to roam and prowl though woodland and through park.

Domestic cats a threat to nocturnal creatures the Shire legislators say
But cat a bigger threat to wildlife during the hours of day
In daylight hours domestic cat always prowling around
And stalking unsuspecting bird who search for food on ground

Before tackling a brush tail Possum a cat would think twice
He'd end up bruised and battered and that too much a price
He'd rather kill blackbird or robin or defenceless native mouse
Or little wren in garden beside his neighbour's house.

The councillors of Sherbrooke have got the wrong idea
As cat do most damage by day or so 'twould seem to me
So between the hours of dawn and dark the cat still wander free
To stalk lyrebird who scrape on ground beside the forest tree.


She lay on her verandah deck chair in the shade on sunny day
And variegated pittosporum hedge help to keep prying eyes away
And along by bottom of her garden the trains run up and down
And she is known as Daisy the hermit of the town.

She goes out shopping on tuesdays provisions for to buy
And to those who greet her she doesn't smile or even murmur hi
She doesn't have friends or she's never had those who know of her say
She likes her own company best she's always been that way.

Her mother died when she was young when she was just eleven
Three decades back in early june in nineteen sixty seven
Her father raised her on his own he passed on last september
He was a kind and loving man with sadness she remember.

Those who went with her to Primary school and since school going days have known her
Say she never played with other girls she always was a loner
She sat at back of classroom they nicknamed her 'Shy Daisy'
But she was the cleverest in her class and her brain was never lazy.

A spinster in her forties she now lives on a pension
She cherishes her privacy and feels shy of attention
And along by bottom of her garden the trains run up and down
And she is known as Daisy the hermit of the town.

Ned Buckley

An old song from Sliabh Luachra comes to my memory
From the pen of Ned Buckley the last bard of Knocknagree
I hear the dunnock piping on high bush in hedgerow
And o'er the lush green meadows swallows fly to and fro.

In the poems of Ned Buckley the shy cock pheasant crow
And the song of the corncrake comes from the long ago
And across the fields and valleys the grass growing breezes blow
And the dipper he is singing where the stream rapids flow.

In the poems of Ned Buckley links to the past survive
And in his songs and verses the bard is still alive
He belong to an era Sliabh Luachra's golden time
And in his beloved Village the last great man of rhyme.

In the annals of Sliabh Luachra you will find Ned Buckley's name
And his verses are still living his was not a fleeting fame
And his poems are still recited far from his own countryside
And from the Cork and Kerry border his fame spread far and wide.

In the verses of Ned Buckley flowers and roses are in bloom
And his sunlit fields and meadows scent of Nature's sweet perfume
And the linnet he is singing on the flowering hawthorn tree
And the redpoll and the chaffinch pipe in woods of Knocknagree.

What Care I

What care I if I'm buried or cremated
For it won't matter to me when I'm dead
If there's a plaque erected to my memory
Or if good or bad things about me are said.

I'd like to live to be a very old bloke
Happy and healthy till my final day
And enjoy the twilight years of my existence
And feel young at heart though I look old and gray.

What care I when I'm dead if I'm remembered
If in years from now others recall my name
I want the recognition whilst I'm living
The dead don't ever benefit from fame.

Don't talk to me of dying for I love living
And of death and sorrow I have heard enough
On the paths of life I want to keep on walking
Though the paths of life can be hilly and rough.

And what care I if I'm buried or cremated
Or a plaque erected in my memory
For when I have died to me it will not matter
If others do or don't remember me.

Fred The Poor Mouth

Fred is a man always looking for pity and he's one who seems to thrive on sympathy
And he suffers much in his imagination and his most often used words are 'poor me'
And many strangers for him have felt sorry but of his circumstances they were not aware
They did not know that Fred is very wealthy that in fact he's a multi millionaire.

If you did not know Fred you well might wonder how does the man support his kids and wife
And you well might say that the fellow warrants pity and I do not envy him his lot in life
For Fred never mentions that he's a company director and that he lives in the most exclusive part of town
And those who know him call him 'Fred The Poor Mouth' the wealthy man who tells others he is down.

The wealthy man who pretends he's a battler he has been talking the poor mouth for years
And you'd swear by him that he is short of money that he can't even afford a few beers
The pin striped suit on him doesn't seem convincing and you feel convinced he's wearing op shop clothes
Poor wealthy Fred doesn't feel he's very wealthy and he's poor in many ways I do suppose.

Like poor mouth Fred I'm sure you will find many who feel that by life they are hard done by
They like to have you believe they are battlers and the fact that they are wealthy they deny
They feel that life has treated them unfairly and their money they cannot seem to enjoy
And I'm sure you'll see the moral in this story that happiness money can never buy.

Four Schoolboys And A Dog On Clara Mountain

The countryside around wore summer colours
The haycocks in mown meadows standing white
And the pasture fields surrounded by green hedgerows
Resplendent in the afternoon sunlight.

Four School going boys climbed the slopes of Clara Mountain
Donal Hickey, Jerry and John Mahony and I
And Donal had his terrier 'Bonzo' with him
On that sunday long ago in mid july.

Four Primary Schoolgoing boys on Clara Mountain
The countryside was beautiful to view
We picked and eat the whortleberries from the heather
The whortleberries small and ripe and blue.

The whortleberries ripe fruits of the heather
In july when ripe so beautiful to eat
You find them on the Cork and Kerry mountains
Towards east Kerry from Macroom and Millstreet.

Old Bonzo trailed a fox up through the bracken
The ageing dog had known a better day
He puffed uphill the fox had long since bolted
Perhaps by then a half a mile away.

Twenty minutes later Bonzo came back exhausted
He panted heavy he was out of puff
He lay by his master Donal on the bracken
And stretched himself as if to say enough.

That day we climbed to wooden cross on top of Clara
That overlooked the streets of Millstreet Town
The uphill crawl on energy demanding
Though it was quite an easy journey down.

Our shirt sleeves soiled from the juices of whortleberries
Of Nature's fruits that day we'd ate our fill
And that night I climbed into my bed exhausted
From day of climbing on the bracken hill.

Jerry Mahony and Donal Hickey still in Millstreet
And John Mahony lives in England I've been told
And the boys back then long years beyond their prime day
And by the younger generation seen as old.

And poor old Bonzo he died on the roadway
I heard he was run over by a car
And I am living far away from Millstreet
From the fields by Clara Mountain I live far.

Four Schoolboys and a dog on Clara Mountain
And the singing lark towards heaven's gate did fly
And the ripened whortleberries tasted juicy
On that sunday long ago in mid july.

The countrysiode around in summer colours
And the haycocks in mown meadows standing white
And the pasture fields surrounded by green hedgerows
Resplendent in the afternoon sunlight.

Jack's Near Death Experience

He vomited as he struggled for breath
And it dawned on him that he was near to death
And he did see the most amazing sight
A golden gate lit by a golden light.

And as to the golden gateway he drew near
All of a sudden it did disappear
The moment had passed and 'twas not his turn to die
And Jack realized more of life he'd enjoy.

I told to another what Jack had told to me
One who could only believe on what he himself did see
And the only thing to me he had to say
Is stories like this I hear them every day.

But I know Jack as one who would not lie
Or make up stories he's not that sort of a guy
And deception he would not even contemplate
He did see that golden light and a golden gate.

He felt so ill his heart was beating fast
And his end seemed near he thought he would not last
And in his sight the golden gate was near
Though within seconds it did disappear.


To avoid meeting people he goes out of his way
And he has a social phobia those who know better say
And he's never been a member of any sort of club
And he always drinks on his own when he is at the pub.

But those acquainted with him say Fred is a good bloke
And he's not short in humor he does laugh at a joke
And though he's not a group type of person and real friends he's never had
He is a man of honour and in him nothing bad.

Those who have known him since his school days says he hasn't changed at all
He did not pal around with other boys and with them play football
And in his teen years as he is today he was a loner boy
He never had a girl friend and he always seemed so shy.

A batchelor in his late thirties his brown hair flecked with gray
He's never known a woman's love and single he will stay
His bashfulness prevents him from seeking a female mate
He cannot bring himself to asking one out on a date.

He does seem a nice person articulate and well read
And you won't meet anybody who will speak ill of Fred
But to avoid any sort of socializing he goes out of his way
And he has a 'social phobia' those who know better say.

Old Sadie At The Corner

Old Sadie at the corner feels bitterness towards men
She has been through four marriages her last husband was Ben
Her first husband was Andy followed by Jim and Joe
And she has not had an affair since Ben left years ago.

She never more will marry she says enough no more
I would not try for a fifth time I've had enough in four
To each of them she bore children she raised six kids in all
But of the men in her life few good memories to recall.

She says they all abused her but those who know her better say
That Sadie's not an angel and no small part she did play
In the break up of her marriages all of her ex husbands would agree
That Sadie is not the victim she makes herself out to be.

She never more will marry she was four times a wife
And now she feels contented for to lead a single life
And old Sadie she is destined to end her days on her own
For not even one man shows interest in her if the truth be known.

Killer's Son

I am sick and tired of others treating me as I were dirt
Far too oft I've been insulted and my feelings badly hurt
Those who know me look down on me I'm jailbird's son is that a crime
Is it my fault Dad's a jailbird in a jailhouse serving time.

I watched as my violent father took my screaming mother's life
Watched him stab her in the kitchen with a pointy carving knife
Watched him stab her in the kitchen on the kitchen floor she died
With the blood flowing like a river from a wound in her heart side.

She nagged him as we eat super he had taken too much drink
He lost control of his temper did not even stop to think
I was frightened could not help her I a seven year old boy
Watched as my father stabbed my mother watched the one who bore me die.

I ran from that house of murder uttered forth a help me cry
Two policemen came up to me two policemen passing by
I told these men what had happened told them about the foul play
They put handcuffs on my father and took the murderer away.

He was tried in court by jury and condemned to jail for life
He was jailed for life for murder for the murder of his wife
I was took in by aunt Bessy raised with Bessy's family
Aunty Bess was a good woman Aunty Bess was good to me.

She was gentle and kindhearted Bess played a true mother's part
Aunty Bess was special woman she had goodness in her heart
Raised me as I were her own child gave me all the love she had
How can I ever repay her Bess the sister of my dad?

How I loathed going to school then how I hated going to school
Hated all the other school boys to me they were cruel so cruel
They teased me and called me nicknames because of what my dad had done
Taunted me and called me killer I was nicknamed 'killer's son'.

I would leave that school each evening so dejected and alone
I would leave that school I hated and run all the way back home
I would run home every evening I would run back home in tears
With the Nickname of the killer's son still resounding in my ears.

Thirteen years have passed since those days yet things have not changed much for me
I'm still treated as an outcast an outcast of society
Those who know me just ignore me look on me as tainted breed
Shun me as if I were poison as I were a poison weed.

I am sick and tired of others treating me as I were scum
Giving me the silent treatment treating me like I were dumb
For the sins of Jailbird father social rejection I pay
I am still the son of killer and killer nickname with me stay.

I must leave this town my hometown some day soon I'll board a train
Travel to a distant city change my first and second name
Travel to a distant city pull my roots and re-plant them down
Far from the degrading people living in this country town.

Saturday, June 25, 2011

The Farewell Barby

You feel so happy when you meet an old friend
You clasp their hand and hug them in your joy
But I have felt such sadness in each parting
It pains me so to have to say goodbye.

It was to be our final get together
And the snags were sizzling on the barbecue
And the sun shone warm though thunder showers were forecast
And I could have done with a beer or two.

The farwell barby and Dean had a toothache
He sat and watched on whilst the others eat
I pity him and all the others like him
Who suffer from the pangs of aching feet.

Colin, Morris, Rob and their mate his name now slip me
All decent men their like are good to know
And Peter brash and arrogant young Peter
Stopped by to eat a snag and say hello.

Darren,Chris and Brett were pondering on their future
Where to next and where do we go from here?
Through 96 it was an uphill battle
But things may become better in new year.

And Warren sat there quiet as he is always
Perhaps he is too quiet for his own good
He doesn't seem to have mates like some others
Though I feel that he is misunderstood.

But Helen is the one I'll best remember
The tears from flowing she struggled to repel
So sensitive and full of warmth and feeling
She hugged us all a last and fond farewell.

The handshakes and the final farewell wishes
May you be happy in the days ahead
And then we went our separate ways forever
When all the words of parting had been said.

You feel so happy when you meet an old friend
You clasp their hand or hug them in your joy
But I have felt such sadness in each parting
It pains me so to have to say goodbye.

Mick Cooley

Mick Cooley was a wise and clever fellow
He never put another person down
He was a son of Jim Cooley the blacksmith
Who had a blacksmith forge in Millstreet Town.

Mick Cooley had two brothers Den and Jacky
They lived their lives in close proximity
Familiar faces in and around Millstreet
They were a very close knit family.

They lived their lives in Millstreet Town the Cooley brothers
And Mick owned a public house on the Main Street
I still recall a quiet and gentle fellow
As nice a man as you might wish to meet.

I don't know where the nickname 'Cooley' came from
Though I know it belong to a famous clan
He seldom was referred to by his real name
Few ever called him Michael Sullivan.

The old faces of old Millstreet and Duhallow
In memory live beyond the graves of death
And Mick Cooley with the warm and cheerful greeting
Is someone that I never could forget.

Mick Cooley he is gone to the Grim Reaper
But in memory he lives on in Millstreet town
He was a quiet and unassuming Fellow
And he never put another person down.

What We Do Unto Others

It's so true what we do unto others unto our own selves we do
For if you cause others to suffer then bad things will happen to you
But if you treat others fairly and respect and kindness to them show
Then for that you will be rewarded and good luck and happiness you'll know.

What goes around always comes around and for our crimes we pay
That's how it is and that's how it will be for it has always been that way
And if you do bad things unto others and man's law can't bring you to book
Then karma for you will be waiting and you'll have your turn of bad luck.

We ought to learn from the lives of evil People so few of them of old age die
And if due to you others know hardship the good life don't expect to enjoy
For the law of karma is a fair law much fairer than the law of man
A law that has been around forever with man's evolution it began.

What we do unto others we do unto our own selves that's how it is and it will be
And if I cause others to suffer then suffering too will come to me
And if not to me in a direct way then to one of my own family
For karma the one fair and true law for dealing with man's inhumanity.

The Pacific Black Backed Gulls

They feed along the sea shore every day
And often venture further out the bay
And roost on rocks by the Pacific sea
Where they feel safe from any enemy.

The juvenile birds all over brownish gray
Unlike the adult birds in their array
And adults white unders and head and feathers black
On tail and wings and shoulders and on back.

On Gippsland beaches birds I oft times see
The black backed gulls of seagull family
Though compared to smaller silver gulls their numbers few
The black backed gulls seem on the increase too.

When human venture near away they fly
These black backed gulls of human kind still shy
They feed along the sea shore all the day
And oft times venture further out the bay.

Don't Believe Them When They Tell You

Don't believe them when they tell you it's a small World after all
For Planet Earth's a vast World and in any way not small
And though you meet some people who look you in the eye
And tell you they've been in every Country you still wonder if they lie?

In the wild and harsh Antacrtic where few explorers only go
It's a vast and empty Continent covered in ice and snow
Where the temperatures in winter over sixty five below
The coldest part of Planet Earth where only lichen grow.

Where the largest of the Penguins the Emperors in the winter
of the year
Under a flap of skin above their feet incubate one egg in weather most severe
In the seasons coldest and darkest days they huddle for body heat
And for weeks on end they have to live without a bite to eat.

The coldest part of Planet Earth where only the hardiest thrive
And where people without resources could not hope to survive
Even Scott and Amundsen great explorers on their day
That they'd seen all of Antarctica would hardly dare to say.

I doubt that anybody not even in their life time span
Could visit all of the towns in Asia from Russia to Pakistan
And see all of Australasia and the Americas and Africa and Europe north to south
On such stories of adventure I always have a doubt.

It may be just a saying it's a small World after all
But believe me it's a vast World and about it nothing small
And though I've done a bit of travelling and in a few lands I have been
It's a vast World that we live in and little of it I have seen.

The Lesson From The Horse Race

There's no such thing as gallant loser and there's no glory in defeat
And coming first is all that matter and victory is always sweet
For the winning horse and jockey there's a mighty hip hooray
And the jockey he is smiling victory has made his day.

The stable lad leads in his winner he has never known such joy
And the owner pats his race horse as if to say well done me boy
And there's applause for the winning trainer from the large onlooking crowd
And the horse is centre of attention and those who backed him clapping loud.

Near by stands the beaten favourite held there by his stable lad
And with no trace of the horse's owner and the trainer looking sad
In a thrilling photo finish beaten into second place
But he get little recognition for running such a splendid race.

Human life is like the horse race at winning post you've got to lead
Losers are quickly forgotten and to be loved you must succeed
You must strive hard for your glory and if you fail in your vital test
You too will be quick forgotten as winners are remembered best

And there's a lesson from the horse race and it read plain for all to see
If you live for admiration go for outright victory
And you will be the main attraction and all the applause will be for you
And like the poor defeated race horse there will be none for number two.

That Man With Dancing Feet

I remember him that man with dancing feet
He was the finest dancer in Millstreet
At seventy he still seemed in his prime
And he could dance all night till closing time.

In the Bush Bar Con and Kitty ruled the floor
Along with Cassidy and his wife from Rathmore
They showed the younger dancers how 'twas done
And at jigs and reels they were second to none.

Some who did not know him thought him to be shy
But I knew Con D since I was young boy
And he always seemed to see the brighter side
And life for him was there to be enjoyed.

He lived in Coolikerane all of his life
And from Kiskeam twelve miles north he brought his wife
And the great wide World he had no wish to see
I've always envied People such as he.

He was always known by the nickname of Con D
Perhaps to distinguish him from his cousin Connie C
And if you asked for Con O Connor some might say
Who is this man O Connor anyway?

I remember him that man with dancing feet
He was the finest dancer in Millstreet
At seventy he still seemed in his prime
And he could dance all night till closing time.

A Wet Day On The Gold Coast

For the Gold Coast the weather is unspring like
It has been raining for most of the day
Still lorikeets chirp on the bottlebrushes
Of Mermaid Waters overcast and gray.

Some people rave about the Gold Coat weather
You'd swear by them they never saw the rain
But all day yesterday 'twas cool and showery
And this afternoon 'tis cool and wet again.

But though the rain falls heavy on the Gold Coast
There are no floods and birds sing on bush and tree
And the sandy soil drinks every single raindrop
And surface water you will seldom see.

The beach at Surfers Paradise is empty
Sun lovers never swim on days like this
And 'sugar daddy' in a Broadbeach cafe
Has tea and fruit cake with his sexy miss.

It's not a day for swim wear and bikinis
Or mini skirts a foot above the knee
The hotels and the restaurants and cafes
Of the Gold Coast do well on days like these.

The rain is falling heavy on the Gold Coast
But birds are singing on the flowering trees
And though the sun shone brightly in the morning
A high today of twenty one degrees.

Late October In Ireland

The leaves from the trees are beginning to fall
And the caterpillar seeks a crack in the wall
The month of October is slipping away
And Winter comes closer with each passing day.

The garden flowers have disappeared from the lawn
And the salmon are moving up river to spawn
And the days getting shorter and the nights growing long
And the thrushes and finches no longer in song.

The rain fall in drizzle from sky gloomy gray
And cattle in wet pasture are bellowing for hay
And farmer depressed for the winter he fear
And fodder quite scarce due to very wet year.

Hedgerows lose their colour as winds strip them bare
And winter approaching 'the signs everywhere'
And grass growth almost ended and grass not so green
And wildflowers disappearing and few to be seen.

The wind blowing colder and the river in flood
And the water bank high flow the colour of mud
Late October in Ireland and winter so near
And song birds grown silent and weather severe.

Billy Braggart

He talks about his days of wine and roses
When he was the man young women wished to know
And of the many women he made love to
When he was twenty two decades ago.

Big Billy he was forty on his birthday
I'm still a handsome looking chap he say
But he is vain and he fights natural ageing
By dyeing his hair brown and covering his gray.

Big Billy says he still can charm the ladies
But that from love and passion he's having a brief rest
He wears a short sleeved shirt with an unbuttoned collar
To show off his muscles and his hairy chest.

He suffers from a hugely inflated ego
And he thinks there is none so handsome as he
And that he's admired by all the younger females
His imagination on him has run free.

Those who know him only call him 'Billy Braggart'
They say his physique has gone to his head
That since his wife left him ten years back and took their daughter
He hasn't had another in his bed.

He likes to brag to all who care to listen
About all the beauties he has made love to
And in every town there's one like Billy Braggart
Ugly, broad shouldered and six foot one or two.

Friday, June 24, 2011

A Confession

It must have been the effects of the beer
For he told me something I ought not to hear
Something that few men wish to brag about
But he was drunk and he let it slip out.

That he often thumped his ex wife around
And he often even kicked her on the ground
With him she must have had a rotten life
And not surprising she is his ex wife.

You'd swear that butter would not melt in his mouth
As he does not seem in any way uncouth
And he is one with a Uni degree
Yet there's more to People than the eye can see.

I am not one to act on his defence
But he also told me something that made sense
That he often watched his mum beat by his dad
A better role model he might have had.

I haven't spoken to him since that night
But now I see him as a lesser light
Since he confessed that his ex wife he abused
And at what he said I did not feel amused.

In science and physics he has his degree
Still he is not what I made him out to be
The worst judge of other people must be me
And I hope it is the last of him I see.

The Jack I Remember

Like his brothers Jer and Peter he never had a wife
And if he still lives he has known a long life
He worked for the Singletons Jerry and Bill
Jack Murphy from Inchaleigh by Clara Hill.

A pipe smoking fellow quite spoken and shy
He was past his prime when I was a young boy
He told me he never spent much time in school
But the Jack I remember was nobody's fool.

The Jack I remember had hair silver gray
A sturdy built fellow and strong in his day
And he was as gentle as you'd wish to meet
And one of the wisest I knew in Millstreet.

Though he was past his prime when I was a young boy
He is one I'll remember till the day I die
And I wonder is he still in the land of the living today?
I hope so I hope so is all I can say.

Andy The Reluctant Hero

It's been seventy years if not more since Andy was school going boy
Since he played hide and seek with his mates in the old park of Fitzroy
But the years have flown so quickly his once brown hair silvery gray
And on looking back his young years seem like only yesterday.

In his prime he saw much bloodshed and the hard life he's been through
In the front line and the trenches years ago in World War 2
One of only few survivors of his gallant infantry
And decorated for his bravery there was none so brave as he.

If you ask him of the war years from such questions he might shy
He might say don't talk of those days seen too many comrades die
Those memories for him too painful he spent years trying to forget
Those brave mates who died beside him in the trenches cold and wet.

His brave comrades did not come home they were buried where they fell
And on Anzac day he doesn't go marching or go to the R S L
And the medals for bravery that he received he gave to his grandson
And he won't want to talk to you of battles fought and won.

A reluctant hero from the trenches of Europe far away
And if you ask Andy of the war perhaps he well might say
That was so many years ago and he wants to forget
The bloodshed and the suffering and the awful stench of death.

Give Port Arthur Back It's Beauty

Much about him has been written of his life and acts of shame
And for all the worst of reasons his has become a World known name
He shot to death thirty five people maimed and injured many more
And in half an hour of brutal hatred he left grief and pain and gore.

Long before Martin Bryant was heard of Port Arthur had the dubious renown
Of where the British kept their convicts those who sinned against the Crown
Those who stole to feed their children to Van Diemen's land were sent
In the dungeons of Port Arthur their prime years of life were spent.

There the Irish freedom fighters for their beloved homeland pined
Half a World away from Ireland in Port Arthur jail confined
Their crime was to love their Country and they were punished for their crime
Never more to see their homeland prisoners in a foreign clime.

In the World's first concentration camp Port Arthur People suffered pined and died
They were treated as inferior and their human rights to them denied
And in Port Arthur in Tasmania down south by the Tasman sea
Martin Bryant one April sunday went on his mad shooting spree.

Some say Martin Bryant is evil and others say he must be mad
But what he did was worse than evil he did something worse than bad
In Port Arthur in Tasmania he gave vent to his rage and hate
But those he murdered can't be brought back and they deserved a better fate.

There are good People in Tasmania good as you'll meet anywhere
And there's no evil in Port Arthur though evil things have happened there
There the English kept their prisoners from their homelands far away
And the old jail of Port Arthur is their monument today.

On a sunday in April 1996 young Martin Bryant drove into Port Arthur Town
Went into Broad Arrow Cafe gunned the dining tourists down
Why do such unworthy People live in human history?
When he's not worthy of a mention wipe him from the memory.

And burn the old jail of Port Arthur only ghosts of sorrow there
Why make history out of suffering human anguish and despair?
And give Port Arthur back it's beauty it deserves a better fame
Than memories of a callous killer and cruel acts of English shame.

We Can't Always Have What We Want

In thinking about her you waste precious hours
And you won't win her over by giving her flowers
Or whispering sweet nothings like sweetheart or honey
She'll never be your's for you don't have enough money.

Though she told you that you're not her type you keep on persisting
And your best efforts to woo her she keep on resisting
She chooses to ignore you her eyes are on Harry
And he has heaps of money and him she would marry.

But young Harry he only has eyes for another
And the woman he wants happens to be her mother
But her mother wants George and George he wants Jenny
But Jenny feels strongly attracted to Lenny.

The woman you want has her eyes on one who wants her mother
And since she doesn't need you why not try for another?
Some times you feel pain when by the love bug you've been bitten
But of her you still dream and by her you've been smitten.

Fair Lisa next door to you feels quite attracted
But to her love signals you have not reacted
And despite the efforts to woo her that you have invested
The one that you want in you is not interested.

We can't always have what we want that goes without saying
And for love's disappointments in heartache we keep paying
He could have the one next door but he loves another
And the one he wants she wants one who wants her mother.

To A Buttercup

You came up through the earth so deep and dark
To listen to the sweet song of the lark
And like the lark's song buttercup you bring
The beauty we have grown to love in Spring.

You seem so glad to show your yellow face
In such a lonely and deserted place
The splendid beauty of your presence grace
The bank by where the free flowing streamlet race.

In the cool breeze of Spring you nod and sway
And with your kin flowers seem to dance and play
And at the Spring sun smile as if to say
We may as well be happy whilst we stay.

The lark which sings that sweet song it must die
And buttercup so too must you and I
But new born buttercups will come each Spring
And listen to another skylark sing.

McKelvey's Daughters

I do know Bill McKelvey he drinks in the Bayswater
An Irishman and a good man and he's got lovely daughters
He came to Melbourne years ago from Ireland and Tir Conaill
Land of the eagle of the north the great Red Hugh O Donnell.

His daughters Margaret and Carmel are charming girls and pretty
Bet you'd not find two nicer girls in all of Melbourne City
I've met them in the Normandy where Irish hearts grow merry
And old time Irish songs are sung old as the hills of Kerry.

Though born and bred in Melbourne Town they do have Irish faces
And through their young Australian hearts the blood of Ireland races
With ginger hair and cheerful ways they show their Irish breeding
One good drop of Tir Conaill blood is worth one ton of feeding.

I've been to London and New York and to the back of yonder
But never met such friendly girls in all my days of wander
They win you with their cheerful ways it must be their upbringing
Those joybells in their carefree hearts forever keep on ringing.

I've known some nice girls I must say though I've not known that many
But nicer than McKelvey girls I never have met any
They've got a simple charisma that grows from self contentment
And in their young hearts there's no room for sadness or resentment

I do know Bill McKelvey and there's nobody better
And he's worked hard for what he's got and he's the real go getter
He's lived in Melbourne for many years and drinks in the Bayswater
And he feels proud and rightly so of his delightful daughters.

To Gabrielle 'For John'

I kissed her goodbye in Ballarat and I boarded on the train
And she tapped the glass and waved at me through carriage window pane
'Saying' see you in Melbourne in two weeks time but how was I to know
That we were never more to meet no never ever no.

Five days went by and I phoned her flat her flat in Adelaide
And no reply 'methought' in Ballarat she's been delayed
And then I phoned her aunt who had bad news and through sobs of anguished pain
'She said' dear Gabrielle has gone to god we'd never meet again.

I know she's in a better land a land where angels dwell
But I do miss her miss her so my darling Gabrielle
I loved her more than words could tell and her love for me was true
And a dearer or more precious friend than her I never knew.

I do not seek any sympathy for anguish I've been through
But I miss my love with raven hair and laughing eyes of blue
And every time I think of her it aches me to the core
To know we're never more to meet no never ever more.

Cruel fate has taken her from me my hopes and dreams destroyed
And I feel lonely and alone a part of me has died
But I must get on with my life the World won't wait for me
And all too late to moan about what has or what might be.

Song For A Fringe Dweller

There's never much in his account in bank safe flexi teller
But that's the way it has to be if you are a fringe dweller
And those who like to 'Pigeon hole' have yet to classify him
Not middle class or poor or rich of status they deny him.

He never was much use at sports or sought out sporting glory
Or been devout religious sort or read a bible story
With no desire to steal or beg and far too proud to borrow
He only live from day to day and don't think beyond tomorrow.

What is a fringe dweller you ask? to someone he's a brother
And he live on fringe of human flock like lamb without a mother
And those who like to pigeon hole of status will deny him
As he doesn't have a social rank for them to classify him.

He's not an artist or a poet that sort of life demanding
Athough they too know respect amongst their peers and have high social standing
And for any cause of any sort he's never been a fighter
And he sees himself as a fringe dweller and a simple doggerel writer.

Home In May

Now the nesting birds are singing in the green woods far away
And above the bracken mountain skylark piping all the day
And the jackdaws are stick gathering in their cloaks of black and gray
And the hawthorns are resplendent in their white blossoms of the May.

Dark faced lambs they romp and frolic in the high field by the hill
And Nature's wild flowers are blooming by the moss fringed mountain rill
And the cattle in lush pasture sit and chew their cud at ease
And the late Spring days are pleasant around the twenty degrees.

It is May now in his Homeland the lushest and greenest month of Spring
And on high branch of silver birch tree the territorial robin sing
His mate on her moss formed nest is sitting in a lower bush nearby
His job to warn off intruders and around his borders fly.

It is May now in his homeland the greenest month of all of the year
And the swallows fly o'er meadows thousands of miles north of here
And though for years he has lived elsewhere and nostalgia he's outgrown
At this time of year the migrant remembers the woods and the fields of home.

Moorhen with her dark chicks swimming in the calm pool of the stream
And the chaffinch always singing when of home the migrant dream
And the curlew's notes re-echo in the moorland far away
And the home fields at their loveliest in their wildflowers of the May.

Thursday, June 23, 2011

Fred Hollows

Fred Hollows was a good and caring person and the world needs more of his kind
He helped many poor who had cataracts without him they would have gone blind
The true worth of any great person not fully realized till they have gone
Still in the Fred Hollows foundation the work of the great man lives on.

There ought to be more people like him such good causes he did embrace
He did not judge people by their colour or classify them by their race
He made life much better for many and to philanthrophy he was true
And for humanitarian causes he did as much as he could do.

Fred Hollows a man in a billion and his type of person so rare
He could have had millions in money but his gifts with the poor he did share
One of the last of the miracle workers to so many sight he restored
Without him they would live in darkness since surgery they could not afford.

Fred Hollows will always be remembered as the man who to many brought light
To poor people afflicted by cataract he restored the great gift of sight
His work lives on in his foundation and his legacy will remain
He worked on behalf of poor people and his likes we may not see again.

Sarah Magee

She had two loves one her husband who died quite tragically
And the other man her greatest love whom she no longer see
And now she lives with her pet dog in her house close to the sea
And life goes on as usual for brave Sarah Magee.

Many time a grandmother though her children don't live near
And the twilight years and getting old are things she does not fear
And for woman of three score and ten she has a youngish face
And little gray in her dark hair she's one who age with grace.

I like talking to Sarah for she has a humorous side
And she's loved and respected and she's known far and wide
She loves to go out dancing and waltz her cares away
She may be getting on in years but young at heart she stay.

She's had a hard life Sarah and in her story some tears
But she doesn't sit at home all night and mourn for her lost years
She merely gets on with living and in her nothing sad
And I have often heard her say that her worst days not all bad.

She's one who stands up for herself and not one to yield ground
And when she has something harsh to say she doesn't pussy foot around
And towards those who've wronged her in some way her feelings can be cold
But if Sarah likes you she's your friend and she has a 'heart of gold'.

Such an interesting human being of her one could not tire
And her humor is infectious she's a woman I admire
She does not dwell on her hard days and of sadness she is free
And I feel privileged for to know one like Sarah Magee.

My First Lessons In Nature

My first lessons in Nature were learnt by my old home
In the woods and fields near where I lived I loved them as my own
The blackbird whistled in the gloam as shades of night did fall
And robin carolled on the hedge by the old garden wall.

The woods and fields by my old home I visit them again
Where in april the birds formed their nests in sunshine and in rain
And the swallows they were home again from places far away
And to old shed rafter to form their nest they carried bits of clay.

By late May the dunnock's year's first brood from bush to hedgerow fly
And their dad in his territory to sing is never shy
And their mum sits on her mossy nest in shady nook nearby
Her four blue eggs beneath her breast she keeps them warm and dry.

And though I've learnt my first lessons from Nature some fifty years ago
Of the secret ways of natural things I still have much to learn and know
The wild duck's green eggs well concealed in rushes by the stream
Of nature's countless secrets so much to learn 'twould seem.

The vixen with her keen sense of scent sense danger near around
She utters forth a low growl her playful cubs bolt to ground
Teaching them the lessons of survival and making them aware
That man and his dog their enemies and of them to beware.

The bullfinch with the rose pink breast singing on the sunlit tree
He's not the finest songster but few look beautiful as he
He eats the blossoms on fruit trees with his plainer looking wife
But he is faithful to her and he mates with her for life.

In the fields and groves by my old home some fifty years ago
The goldfinch and the chaffinch and the greenfinch I got to know
Like many wildborn creatures quite secretive and shy
But by their looks and songs quite different and quite easy to identify.

In the brown bog by dark water pools I often searched around
For the elusive curlew's nest though her nest I never found
But an old man walking through the bog on his way into town
Said he found her nest with four pear shaped eggs of olive green blotched brown.

The owls venture out after dark and hunt whilst others sleep
And in the gloam the rats and mice out of their dark holes creep
And I learnt something of domestic beasts cat, dog, horse, cow and sheep
But Nature for the most part her secrets from us keep.

Yes Nature doesn't yield too many secrets at least that's how 'twould seem
The dipper builds her nest of moss in hole in bank of stream
Cloaked by the moss and lichens and near impossible to see
Beside the babbling waters she raise her family.

The tiny brown wren with the big bird song never ceases to surpise
She raises a large family for one of her minute size
And the sparrow often under eaves she weaves her nest of hay
And you hear her nestlings cheeping in April and in May.

My first lessons in nature oh I remember still
The skylark on spring evening above the bracken hill
I listened to him carolling a small speck in the sky
A moment to remember and a memory to enjoy.

One of my first lessons in Nature I still recall today
I heard a wise old lady the years had made her gray
Tell of how the badgers lined their sett with dried grass at nightfall
The knowledge learnt from elders years later we recall.

She told of how the magpie builds her nest high on a mature tree
Of sticks and clay and fortressed with thorns to deter the enemy
And she lines her home with dried grass and six or seven greenish eggs she lay
And her young are self sufficent by mid to latter May.

My first lessons from Nature were learnt by my old home
The creatures of the fields and woods I loved them as my own
And still I learn from nature though some birds you know them by their song
And that bubbling voice coming from gum tree wood to grey butcherbird belong.

Where I Came From And Here

Where I came from accomplishment means power of money
Unless of course you've known sporting success
And things are much the same here in Australia
If you are poor others you won't impress.

And though I've climbed to the cross at the top of Clara
High above the fields and woods of Claramore
That never would be seen as an achievement
As many others have done that before.

For recognition I then turned to writing
Only to find my verses wouldn't sell
I must have been a bad boy in my past life
For to be condemned to writing doggerel.

I left Ireland because my life had been going nowhere
In search of better fortune and renown
And I'm even more anonymous in this Southern Country
Than I have ever been in Millstreet Town.

I know that many see me as a failure
As I've always lived quite close to poverty
Though I won't be losing any sleep to worrying
Of what other people think and say of me.

The Cromwells and the Hitlers are remembered
Though countless people by them speared and shot
It's sad to think that they live on in history
When all their innocent victims are forgot.

And their victims all good and decent people
And to be different was their only crime
The evil doers though looked on with disfavour
Still spoken of despite the passing time.

I once walked through a valley full of roses
And I heard the dipper sing in a clear flowing stream
But sad to say I felt so disappointed
To wake and find it only was a dream.

Perhaps my dream was of a better world
The far off hills green from a distance seen
But when you reach that hill you find out different
And after all it is not quite so green.

Where I came from and here is not so different
And societies everywhere are much the same
The millionaire always seen as successful
As wealth and power go hand in hand with fame.

I Only Love The Quiet And Lonely Places

No I don't sing the anthem of Cork City
The green green banks of my own lovely Lee
I'd much prefer to sing of distant mountains
Or places like the woods of Reanaree

Where the red squirrel nibbles on her spruce cone
On higher spreading branch of tall spruce tree
And wood pigeon is cooing in the morning
The wild and lonely places are for me.

No I don't sing of Melbourne and it's buildings
The City by the Yarra deep and brown
I'd much prefer to sing of woods of Sherbrooke
And quiet and remote places out of town.

Where mountain ash the giant of the woodland
His higher branches seem to touch the sky
Stand silent on a windless day in Autumn
The memory of such beauty never die.

The wild loud laughter of the kookaburras
And the white cockies squawk but never sing
And all day long the grey shrike thrush is fluting
And butcherbird's notes have a bubbling ring.

No I don't like to sing about the cities
Suppose in many ways I'm not so poor
I only love the quiet and lonely places
With Mother Nature I feel more secure.

Wonthaggi In Victoria

An old Town in Victoria with a colonial soul
Wonthaggi in South Gippsland where men once mined for coal
Where miners once took on the Government in their fight for a better wage
In historical Wonthaggi the Union came of age.

Wonthaggi in Victoria it has a glorious past
But back in the late sixties the changes happened fast
And Wonthaggi was the poorer when the coalmine closed down
Though life went on as usual in the old coastal Town.

The long dead miner's widow her hair is silver gray
She came from northern Italy in Europe far away
She says me come to this country in nineteen thirty nine
And me husband was an Aussie and he worked in the mine.

She raised her five children in the forties and the fifties and in hindsight she recall
That the old days though quite hard days were her happiest days of all
And though some of her children and grandchildren in Wonthaggi live today
The old days were the best days for the one from far away.

To Wonthaggi in Gippsland the seasons come and go
And the young boy with the football dreams of fame he yet might know
When he plays in the grand final where he plays his finest game
And in Aussie Rules forever his a legendary name.

Since the mine closed in the late sixties the changes have been happening fast
In Wonthaggi which still has strong links to it's colonial past
And the last of the old miners who came south from far away
Are now getting old and weary and have known a better day.

When I Was A Young Fellow

When I was a young fellow and I lived near Millstreet Town
I often heard the little wren in his cloak of darkish brown
In April in the hedgerows he carolled loud and long
And for such a tiny fellow he had a big bird song.

When I was a young fellow a little country boy
I believed this place called heaven was somewhere in the sky
And now that I know different in sadness I recall
That our years of childhhod innocence are our best years after all.

When I was a young fellow a five or six year old
I believed that at the rainbow's end there was a pot of gold
And forty nine years later it saddens me to know
That it was just a fantasy a tale from long ago.

When I was a young fellow when the winter winds did blow
I could tell where the fox had traveled by his paw marks in the snow
To me it was a miracle and sad am I to realize
That the world seems very different in an older person's eyes.

When I was a young fellow Oh I remember well
That I believed in heaven and I believed in hell
But now that I am older and I see things differently
I realize that for my loss of innocence the big loser is me.

Oh I Must Go Home Again

Oh I must go home again while the fields are richest green
And the trout for fly are leaping from the dark pools of the stream
And the linnet's singing gaily midst the shrouded cypress screen
That stands beside the cottage of my true love Kathleen.

Oh I must go home again while the fields are full of flowers
And hear once more the cuckoo predicting summer hours
While the vixen she is hunting for her young cubs in the den
And the matronly ewe is bleating to her frolicsome lambkin.

Oh I must go home again for 'tis there I do belong
While the thrushes and the blackbirds and the robins are in song
While the swallows are returning to swoop and sail and soar
O'er the fields and vales and moorlands where they flew last year before.

Oh I must go home again for I'm lonely night and day
And I'm thinking of my homeland and my friends so far away
I came to this great city to add riches to my name
But the one thing I'm regretting now is that I ever came.

Oh I must go home again 'tis there I long to be
For I know my brown eyed Kathleen is still waiting there for me
In my dreams I run my fingers through her sheeny raven hair
One could search the whole world over and not find one half so fair.

Oh I must go home again while the grass growing breezes blow
While the lark is singing sweetly and the wild cock pheasant crow
For I'm lonely in this city and my mind can know no ease
When it's spring time in my homeland and the leaves bud on the trees.

Jake La Motta

He fought greats like Fritzie Zivic, Marcel Cerdan and Sugar
A legend then and a legend still today
And few could hope to match it with him in his prime
And he remains unbowed by father time.

Jake La Motta's is a legendary name
And he is in the boxing hall of fame
In his prime years he seldom knew defeat
And he never was an easy man to beat.

The Bronx Bull the nickname he is known by
A brave ex ring warrior and men like him don't easily die
As well as in the fight game from life big hits he's had to take
And few if any tougher than old Jake.

He's eighty one years young and still going strong
And to the true ring legends he belong
In his prime years a real hard nut to crack
And one well might say he's been to hell and back.

Robert Di Nero starred in a film on his life
And he presently is with his seventh wife
And the grim reaper is obliged to wait
For Jake La Motta the old boxing great.