Monday, October 31, 2011

A New And A Better World

A new and a better world I may not live to see
But the time is not far distant when all people will live free
Of oppressive regimes and terrorism and greed and poverty
For all of those poor victims of capitalism who live in penury.

A new and better world may be a century away
And I for one will not be around for to celebrate that day
And though one hundred years may seem far off in time not a lengthy span
Only the life time after all of one long lived woman or man.

We may not be that far away in time when ageing people will recall
We never thought we'd live to see the day of a fair go for all
When people are not discriminated against due to their religion or race
And in human society for poverty and oppression there isn't any place.

A new and a far better world for me will come too late
For time is ever ticking and the reaper for me wait
But the day is not that distant when people in wars or of hunger will not die
And a fair go is something that all people will enjoy.

The Plovers In The Paddock

In the nearby paddock I hear them their distinct calls ring through the night
Perhaps a dog or cat or fox is passing and they scream at him in the moonlight
With a nest to defend they feel anxious and their eggs not well hidden away
For a hungry fox a tasty morsel as he is out hunting for prey.

The birds known as the spur winged plovers are wary through winter and spring
In the nearby paddock I hear them their call to it has an aggressive ring
For their eggs or their young they do worry and their territory they defend
And they scream loudly in the face of danger and no passer by is their friend.

When the plovers in the paddock are calling perhaps there is danger nearby
One hear them call out in the moonlight as above their borders they fly
They won't tolerate an intruder they dive bomb the dog from the sky
And they will remain ever vigilant until their young have learned how to fly.

I hear them call out in the paddock their voice one can never mistake
All through the months of winter and spring they always seem so wide awake
They protect the next generation and make sure that their genes will live on
And others will hear the spur winged plovers when to the reaper I am gone.

Winifred Letts

She saw the Spires of Oxford as she was passing by
And through the train carriage window she could see the cold grey sky
A world war was raging and a poem was in her head
And she thought of the brave young Oxford men some of them soon to be with the dead.

She wrote the Spires of Oxford passing through Oxford Town
A poem for the brave young Oxford men who dreamt of war renown
Who fought in Europe's trenches they were strangers to fear
In the treacherous gap of danger with the reaper lurking near.

Her name was Winifred Letts an Irish nurse and poet
And often at literary gatherings lines from her verses quote
But the famous Spires of Oxford not her only claim to fame
As many other memorable poems to them have got her name.

The poems of Winifred Letts I read them as a school going boy
And 'tis so true a thing of beauty is always a thing of joy
She was a gifted wordsmith with words she had a way
And the beauty in her verses I still can see today.

She saw the Spires of Oxford and she was inspired to rhyme
And she wrote about those brave young men some years short of their prime
Who left the Town of Oxford to fight in Europe far away
And some of them did not return where they died their remains lay.

I Don't Talk To Others

I don't talk to others of my boyhood experiences though sometimes in paper I do write them down
When I was a young lad of the fifties and by my old home near Millstreet Town
In mid May in green old Duhallow the hawthorns were cloaked in blooms white as snow
And in the rank grass by the hedgerows the male pheasants did cuck and crow..

I learned to respect Mother Nature and the names of some of her wild creatures I got to know
The brown trout for flies they were jumping in pools where Finnow waters flow
And skylark above the rank rushes looked like a speck in the grey sky
His pleasant song one could hear plainly though out of sight the bird did fly.

The male chaffinch sang on the alder his partner on her nest nearby
Their young would be fully fledged by mid June and well able to fly by July
What I talk about to some doesn't seem important their interests one might say elsewhere
And such people could not tell you the difference between a rabbit and a hare.

I don't talk to others of my young years my stories them would not interest
I would not bore them with the story of how the blackbirds build their nest
Or of how the sparrows under the house eaves make their nests of feathers and hay
But if all were alike life would be boring and each to their own as they say.

I don't talk to others about Nature for talk of Nature would them only bore
They don't want to hear how in early spring the swallows leave a distant shore
For to return to the place they were born in that does not interest them at all
So stories of my young years and Nature to others I do not recall.

On Hearing A Grey Shrike Thrush

It is not a very bright start to the day
But brown backed bird with breast and unders gray
Already staking out his territory
Whistles on low branch of rain soaked blackwood tree.

His voice a voice that no one should mistake
And I hear him sing each morning at daybreak
And of humankind his type of bird seem shy
And grey shrike thrushes the name they are known by.

Their cup shaped nest of bark and grass I've seen
Wedged in fork of branch midst foliage thick and green
I climbed to it saw the eggs counted three
White with spots of brown that's how they seemed to me.

They eat small vertebrates and find large insects on the trees
And they pipe pleasant and cheerful melodies
You hear him once and you'll know the bird again
The memory of the voice with you remain.

He whistles on the blackwood in the rain
And compared to some he does look rather plain
But his music to it has a pleasant ring
And with the very finest songters he can sing.

Sweet Lass Of Millstreet Town

Sweet lass of Millstreet Town
In your dress of green
With tresses of nut brown
You look a beauty queen.

With sparkling eyes of blue
And skin so soft and white
As pure and fresh as morning dew
After a summer's night.

Your fault young pretty maid
Is that you are far too shy
There's no need to feel afraid
Of people such as I.

If we happen to meet
You blush and turn your head away
It happened on the street
When I met you yesterday.

Females like you are rare
None so beautiful or shy
If others were so fair
They would hold their heads up high.

You're the darling of Millstreet
And you're loved by all the Millstreet boys
And you've got the whole world at your feet
You with the beautiful blue eyes.

And if some day you should choose husband
Hope the lucky man is me
As one could travel through Ireland
And yet not meet so fair as thee.


Through parks and rural town gardens they fly from shrub to bush to tree
And through the days of winter in small flocks them you see
Buff to grey birds with silvery eye rings and about warbler size
Familiar in the countryside the grey breasted silvereyes.

Last spring by path that leads through crown land a tiny nest I see
Cup shaped and bound with spider webs on low branch of sapling tree
It was a silvereyes nest her four bean sized eggs were blue
And she chirped in worry for her eggs as from tree to tree she flew.

Each day from Mother Nature a lesson for to learn
And as I walked off down the crown land path to her nest she did return
And I left her for to hatch to life her tiny family
But the memory of such beauty will long remain with me.

The sky is rather overcast with dark clouds through the gray
And the rain comes down in drizzles on a typical winter's day
And the temperatures have plummeted to a cool eight degrees
And the silvereyes are searching for nectar and insects on the trees.

The fruit farmer in autumn for them doesn't use words such as cute
As they damage his fruit crop when they peck holes in his fruit
When he shoots at them with his air gun to the next orchard they fly
But it's one of the laws of Nature if you don't eat you die.

In park and rural town garden these birds I often see
In small flocks in the winter they fly from bush to tree
With a ring of silver feathers around their eyes buff and grey birds of warbler size
And familiar in the countryside the grey breasted silvereyes.

He's A Regular Jekyll And Hyde

Most say that the man is god fearing and that he leads a clean and good life
But if you want to know more about him perhaps you should ask his ex wife
For her's is a different story and bad memories of him she can only recall
And who would know him better than her since she's lived with him after all.

She recalls her disastrous marriage to him it lasted just over a year
And he was one who often hit her of him she was living in fear
But when he is amongst the public a different self he does portray
And he goes to church every sunday to worship and to his god pray.

Some men can be cruel and deceitful and their true selves from others they hide
And he is that sort of a fellow a regular Jekyl and Hyde
The others have never lived with him and his ex wife the one who knows him best
And she has such bad memories of him and he is one she does detest.

The person you see not the real thing how often has that been the case
You cannot judge one by his manner or by the big smile on his face
And this bloke one glaring example some see him as a living saint
But his ex wife the one who lived with him their image of him only taint.

He is a community leader and others think highly of him
And he comes across as warm and friendly and nothing about him seems grim
But his ex wife the one who lived with him says his real self from others he hide
And that his public face is a false face he's a regular Jekyll and Hyde.

My Mother Would Not Be Proud Of Me

My mother would not be proud of me I'm not what she'd want me to be
My siblings seen as more successful my siblings who live far from me
And none of my siblings write verses and they worship a different god
And I who have often helped others is looked on as one rather odd.

My mother long with the departed she lays in the same grave as dad
She hailed from Rathmore in Sliabh Luachra and an easy life she never had,
She worked hard for to raise her nine children and a long life she was not to know
She went to the reaper in her fifties three years short of four decades ago.

My mother would not be proud of me though that fact now doesn't move me to tears
I have learned to live with failure and I am getting on in years,
I have known the good and the bad days and I've battled the ghosts of despair
And I too have learned that laughter can be a great soother for care.

My few friends they seem to get fewer though some of my old drinking mates I recall
But pub friends are only just pub friends and they are not true mates after all
With them I had little in common and their interests were different to mine
And now I don't see them that often since I've lost my taste for beer and wine.

My mother would not be proud of me though that fact doesn't cause me to lose sleep
Even though she was a good and loving mother and for her passing tears I did weep,
All of my siblings seen as more successful but good luck to them is all I can say
And it's been years since I've last seen them and from me they live far away.

Will H Ogilvie

He left his home near Kelso in Scotland in his twentieth year
And he traveled by ship to Australia in the southern hemisphere
And back in the eighteen eighties when he was in his prime
He became known throughout Australia as a gifted man of rhyme.

He worked for twelve years in Australia as a drover, horse breaker and jackeroo
And to say that he lived his verses would be obviously true
He slept out in the open and he lived rough and worked hard
And life back then not easy for a wandering bush bard.

In the outback of New South Wales and Queensland he traveled far and wide
And in his early thirties he returned home to Scotland where he lived until he died
But Will H Ogilvie did not stop writing poetry that to him came naturally
And as a rhyming wordsmith few if any good as he.

His book of verse 'Grey Horses And Fair Ladies' was his passport to fame
And all lovers of poetry would have heard of him by name
And the reams of verses written by him are still widely read today
And suppose such things of beauty will never go into decay.

His marvellous poems and ballads have witstood the test of time
And it truly can be said of him that he was a prince of rhyme
The great W H Ogilvie who in his twentieth year
Left his old home near Kelso for the southern hemisphere.

Sunday, October 30, 2011

On Hearing One Reciting Verses Of Callanan

He recited Gougane Barra and the outlaw of Lough Lene
And my thoughts went back the long gone years to my school going days again
When our teacher recited those verses to us from the pen of a Cork born bardic man
The one whose bones rest in distant Portugal Jeremiah Joseph Callanan.

The poems of J J Callanan will live forever more
And are recited far distant from green old Erin's shore
A true poet of the people though he died poor and young
And he was one of genius and his songs are still sung.

The poet and hedge school teacher his poems known far and wide
And greatness is a thing of him that can never be denied
He recited his verses in village and in town
And even in his too brief life Callanan knew renown.

He recited Gougane Barra and it took me far away
To the school house room in Millstreet happy memories with us stay
When our teacher recited the poems of Callanan 'he was showing his years in gray'
Back in the nineteen fifties and that's going back many a day.

No Welcome For Boat Refugees

To seek a better life in Australia should never be seen as a crime
But he is languishing in a detention centre like a prisoner serving out his time
Yet he doesn't have a criminal record and he is a good living man
And any fair minded person hardly would blame him for not wanting to go home to Iran.

the Australian and the Iranian governments have struck a deal it has been said
For to deport the asylum seekers those who had fled Iran in dread
Of torture because they had the courage to speak out against a government who rule by fear
Where human rights are never valued only stories of persecution one hear.

Why would they want to return to Iran where they would live in fear of their lives?
These poor souls who fled persecution in a country where oppression thrives
That they would prefer to remain incarcerated in Australian detention centres ought not be hard to understand
Since fear for their lives in the first place forced them for to flee their homeland.

He is one of those awaiting deportation and he is a very scared man
That the Australian government will make good their threat and deport him back to Iran
For a better life he came to Australia in a leaky boat across the seas
Still in a so called democratic country no welcome for boat refugees.

My First Introduction To Burns

The gifted one from Ayrshire more than a man of rhyme
His poems and odes and verses have withstood the test of time
All around this world we live in from north to southern shore
The songs of Robert Burns will be sung forever more.

The memories come to me of when I was a boy
As we sat around an Irish travellers camp fire on an evening in July
The gray haired nomadic singer 'Afton Waters' did sing
In the calm gathering twilight the minstrel's voice did ring.

I asked one of the travellers who wrote this marvellous song
And he replied those beautiful words to all of mankind now belong
From the pen of Robert Burns he was one who lived it hard
He was the pride of Scotland and his country's finest bard.

My first introduction to Burns from one of the travelling clan
A fiddler and a singer and a born to wander man
At cross roads and at horse fairs and around the countryside
The songs of the highland plough boy he broadcast far and wide.

The great and gifted bard from Ayrshire did not live to be old
And the story of his amazing rise to fame so often has been told
And the music in his verses is there for all to see
And there may have been some great bards but few as great as he.

My first introduction to Burns came close to fifty years ago
Around a travellers camp fire when I was eight or so
The sweetness in the old singers voice a memory to enjoy
When he sang 'Afton Waters' on that evening in July.

True Heroes

True heroes are not sportsmen or sportswomen though some with that would not agree
And true heroes are not wealthy power brokers with a strong sense of I, myself and me,
'No' true heroes are the under class battlers whose battle is against the odds
The poor and the forgotten fringe dwellers and the people frowned on by the gods.

True heroes not Hollywood starlets or president or king or queen
And nothing is written about them in newspaper and magazine
They are seen as the under achievers by those who have tainted the name of success
Those who believe that the influence of money is the only key to happiness.

True heroes live in the poor suburbs the working poor and those on welfare
They keep keeping on through the hard times and battle the ghosts of despair
It's so true that many must grow poorer just to create one new millionaire
And don't tell me that in war as in love that everything in life is fair.

True heroes in many ways powerless as they struggle up life's steep incline
And they don't dine in upper class restaurants and drink the most expensive wine
The odds seem heavily stacked against them yet bravely they keep keeping on
And only the truest of heroes keep hoping when all hope seems gone.

Of God's Goodness I'm Not So Sure

God is for the wealthy and famous that is of course if there's a god?
But not for the poor and the homeless and not for the hungry and down trod
Yet many so many poor people to the god of their religion pray
But their god only seems to ignore them whilst they grow poorer by the day.

The children of working class parents for god and country go to war and die
Whilst those who send them into battle the fruits of the good life enjoy
And for the brave and young fallen soldiers stirring ballads are written and sung
And they tell us that the good die noble and that only the real good die young.

And though I do fear the grim reaper the reaper I do have to admire
The reaper takes the monarch and the president, the billionaire and wealthy squire,
All people will one day be equal it's so true what the poet James Shirley said,
The billionaire may have the most expensive head stone but he can't be brought back from the dead.

Perhaps I'm a cynical ratbag and perhaps for my years I'm not wise
But I've heard enough of propaganda and our minds have been poisoned by lies
And if god exist god is not a kind one to ignore the hungry and poor
God is for those with heaps of money and of god's goodness I'm not so sure.

On Meeting Mick Kelleher

Thirty five years in Australia and living half a world away
From the north Cork Town of Millstreet and the fields of Claraghatlea
When he talks of Millstreet in Duhallow he refers to it as home
And that strange thing called nostalgia as of yet he's not outgrown.

His wife and children are Australian but he's still faithful to the green
And he still has an Irish passport though he's lived here since he was eighteen
Made a few trips back to Ireland says he'll make a few trips more
And lives and works in the 'lucky country' but he's still Irish to the core.

Greyhounds are Mick Kelleher's passion hope his dream not far away
Of seeing his dog race home the winner of the Melbourne cup one day
He and Rosemary close to glory just one short step from renown
With their great unlucky champion well performed 'Millstreet

Millstreet Town was so unlucky in the Melbourne cup he took a fall
But luck was never with their great dog Mick and Rosemary still recall
He ran against and beat the best dogs six or seven years ago
And dogs like him are hard to come by as every greyhound owner know.

Where he lives at Devon Meadows flat gray paddocks all around
From where he was raised thousands of miles north he could see the higher ground
From the house by Mary O's bog to Clara hill just a short walk
And of his boyhood days near Millstreet he is never shy to talk.

See the boy in Michael Kelleher and the boy lives in the man
Picture him in Claraghatlea north where his paths through life began
See him walking with his father through the meadow up the bog
On a cool evening in summer with their white faced mongrel dog.

Where he lives at Devon Meadows miles of paddocks flat and gray
And his dream to have a greyhound win the Melbourne cup one day
He was raised by Clara Mountain more than half of a world away
And he's still a boy from Millstreet and the fields of Claraghatlea.

Honest John Clare

In his home village the young John was seen as odd
Poor Parker's son was of a lesser god
But his fame outlived the fame of the landed gentry and squire
And all of his contemporaries in the Northampton Shire.

He worked for a local farmer as a boy by day
From the neighbours fields he kept their flock away
And other chores some hard for a young boy
And an easy childhood he did not enjoy.

He commenced writing poetry when he was quite young
And his verses were in the dialect of the local tongue
And his first book of verse brought him notice and fame
And his had become a great literary name.

But fame did not last long for honest John Clare
And worse for him his health was in need of repair
After a mental break down he was deemed to be insane
And with his wife and his children he could not remain.

He was committed to the Northampton Asylum where he lived till he died
And till the end he pined for his country side
Yet his poems written in madness considered as great
Though the recognition he deserved to him came too late.

His mental disorder confused him in life
He thought that Mary Joyce and not Patty Turner was his real wife
Still his poems on nature and love with the best can compare
But the price of fame did seem high for honest John Clare.

The story of his tragic life becoming well known
And his poems on wild life in a class of their own
And of the workings of Nature so much he did know
And his stature as a poet in time grow and grow.

He was not a stranger to heartache and tears
And he died in the Northampton Asylum where he had lived for years
But the poems of the herd boy from Helpston are still living today
And such things of great beauty in time won't decay.

Ballydaly's Gaelic Football Glory Days

I've heard that Ballydaly do not have a football team
Which puts a cloud on Tommy Tucker's dream
That they might win Duhallow for third time
And give some bard another chance to rhyme.

They won their first Duhallow title more than forty years ago
Some time back in the fifties that I know
Though of my dates I'm not too very clear
I think 'twas fifty seven was the year.

When Ballydaly had their first big win
And their footballers were celebtated men
And John Twomey wrote of Ballydaly Boys
And west of Millstreet bonfires lit the skies.

The Sullivans, the Buckleys, Jerome and Paddy Ring
Of them the famous Mushera bard did sing,
Tom Mulcahy and Tim Kiely at the back
To Cullen forwards pressure would not crack.

Jack Murphy and Con Kelleher were supreme
Their goals took fight out of the Cullen team
And Pat Joe Kelleher brought his skill to play
And Andy Lynch at midfield won the day.

Big Jerry Corkery played a true captain's part
And sturdy Mick Horgan not lacking heart
And Pat and Eddy Murphy cheered in victory
It's nice to recall such a memory.

And of them all the Mushera bard did sing
And of how Danny Regan called each player a king
Such memories I retain from years gone by
When I was young a Primary school going boy.

But for Ballydaly a near two decades wait
Before their fans again would celebrate
I think it was in nineteen seventy five
When Ballydaly once more came alive.

Some of those fellows I remember well
They scorned the word defeat and laughed at hell
The Twomey brothers Denis, Tim and Dan
Could hold their own with any man to man.

Con Connors who was a teenager then
Years later he mixed it with the best of men
I watched him play for Millstreet in the green
And for Cork in the red he too was seen.

His brother Tim his passing caused much grief
He died quite young his life was far too brief
He did not even live to see his prime
The poor lad was not granted so much time.

As his two brothers had done years before
The Ballydaly colours Ted Ring wore
And Tadgh and Denis Murphy stood the test
In the field of play they always gave their best.

The Keeffes from Knocknalummin gave their all
And the Leary brothers fought for every ball
And D Dinneen that marvellous personality
How could he ever slip the memory.

Denny John Murphy his dad from Lisnaboy
A hardy sort he gave it his best try
And Frank Hickey could run and run all day
And Kanturk's Mullane also lined out to play.

Big John Murphy may not have been in that team
But on his day the big man was supreme
And of Dave, John and Christy Tarrant opponents used to say
From toughest challenge they'd not back away.

And Dan Joe Casey to his colours true
And in his time a handy player too
And the Moynihans and the McCarthys John and Joe
Too played for Ballydaly years ago.

So many players since Con and Bill Jack's day
For Ballydaly took the field to play
John Regan, Dathai Dowling  and the Sullivans Tom and Mick
And Humphrey Reardon he was strong and quick.

And though as a weight lifter he won all of his fame
Big J.J. Fitz another I could name
And there were more far too many to recall
Who for Ballydaly played gaelic football.

And it puts a cloud on Tommy Tucker's dream
If Ballydaly do not have a football team
That they might win Duhallow for third time
And give some bard another chance to rhyme.

Con The Lake

Up in the morning long before daybreak
Life was not easy for men like 'Con the Lake'
And he drove his lorry through the long tiring day
For an owner driver there's no easy pay.

A load of cattle to the fair in Kanturk
Might well be the start for him of a hard day's work
And a few loads of gravel and a load of sand or two
To be delivered to customers before his day was through.

But September perhaps his busiest month of all
For the turf was stacked and dry in Gneeves in the Fall
And the hilly road he journeyed up and down
That leads from Gneeves bog to Millstreet Town.

One of the six Dennehy brothers that I knew of or I knew
Jer, Sonny, Jack and Christy and Bill I heard of too
From small lake on their mountain farm their sobriquet came
And their children now still carry the nick name.

Con the Lake's second son Dan is an owner driver today
Like father like son it often seems that way
He too rise early drive before daylight
And he often works long hours into the night.

The mountain field by fog covered in gray
And the birds pipe in the early dawn of day
And the ghost of Con the Lake is driving still
Up the steep road that leads to Gneeves hill.

On Dr Pell's Advice

Divorced catholics who remarry should not receive holy communion for if so they book their place in hell
According to his grace the Archbishop of Sydney the honorable Dr Pell
They can only live as brother and sister for to have sex for them a mortal sin
I don't think I could live by his rules for to temptation I would give in.

Who do his grace think he is kidding this is the twenty first century
He may scare a few silly people but of any fear of hell most are now free
The sexual desire in most people by far outweigh their fear of god
And the ideas of a very conservative clergyman to say the least seem rather odd.

He must feel that he is god's messiah though many will not heed his advice
And his scare mongering won't be heeded as the fear of god nowadays a choice
I fear my own kind far more than I fear god and I fear the man made gun and knife
And George Pell an ageing church hardliner ought to look at the real facts of life.

One seldom hear him talk of poverty of such little he ever say
And poverty the greatest killer in the world that we live in today
Not far from where he lives in Sydney there are people who don't have a home
And I feel sure that they don't be worrying about church rules decided in Rome.

The Archbishop of Sydney says divorced catholics who choose to remarry holy communion ought not to receive
By doing so they fool themselves only for god they can't hope to deceive
But if he really wants to help people then he need not walk far and he'll meet
People who are malnourished and homeless and who sleep in the laneway off of the street.

Saturday, October 29, 2011

Mossvale Park

Through fallen trees that the winds had uprooted the waters of the Tarwin flow
And through the high elms of Mossvale Park the chilly winds of winter blow
But a crimson rosella high on an old poplar is examining a cavity
She is searching for a nesting site a hole in a very old tree.

In only the third day of winter the rosellas are thinking of spring
From the high and the bare trees of Mossvale Park their beautiful bell like notes ring
The urge for to breed is upon them and by September their brood with them will fly
From tree to tree in the park by the river when the spring sun is warm in the sky.

I love that old park by the river a place that is peaceful and green
In Mossvale a gem of South Gippsland Mother Nature will always be queen
Between Mirboo North and Leongatha a place that is not that well known
Yet it has it's natural beauty and it has a charm of it's own.

The day it is not cool or warm perhaps around 14 degrees
And at Mossvale Park in South Gippsland the wind it is soughing in the trees
But a crimson rosella is searching for a suitable cavity
A hole in a tree where she can lay her eggs in and hatch to life her family.


Brown Nugget chase roos in Baxters land but the roos from her bounce right away
As kangaroos can go so quickly few dogs with them could hope to stay
For the first one hundred metres she seem to gain on them but then she starts lagging behind
In full flight a kangaroo 'twould seem can travel as fast as the wind.

Nugget a kelpie bitch belonging to Les and Heather Tobias loves to come out walking with me
I often takes her to Baxters land along the path that leads down to the sea
The kangaroos out before twilight bounce through the high scrub up the rise
And Nugget give them chase but in vain which comes to me as no surprise.

A dog is the best friend one can have and Nugget with joy barks at me
When I come to take her out walking I'm one she is happy to see
A short drive in the car down to Baxters and if she sees a dog on the way
She barks loudly through the back seat window 'this is my car' perhaps she say.

Young Nugget is a female kelpie and she is fast approaching her prime
And to chase roos through the scrub at Baxters is her way of having a good time,
She always seems happy to greet me she barks and bounces around like a ball
A dog's love is always unconditional they are our best friends after all.

One Day I'll Return To Boolara

The narrow road through the high country it twists up and down all of the way
To the quiet old town of Boolara I've not been there for many a day
But of the place I have good memories and fresh with me they will remain
Until I return to Boolara and drive down the high road again.

Boolara in the Strezlecki Ranges it has a quiet charm of it's own
Though it's not in the map of the world for commerce one might say not known,
A place that is free of pollution the air there is healthy and clean
I've been to some beautiful places though doubtful if better I've seen

Than Boolara in the Gippsland high country a place that has inspired poets to song
A sleepy old town in the valley to Mother Nature herself it belong
A place where one could live and feel happy away from the traffic and noise
Surrounded by high lush green paddocks under unpolluted skies.

One day I will drive up through Mirboo and travel the narrow road down
And stop for awhile in Boolara that beautiful old country town
And walk through the park in the sun shine where butcherbird on a gum sing
And Nature's flowers bloom in their clusters on a warm day in the spring.

I May As Well Have Been A Fly On The Wall

It is a confession though it may seem a tale
At a lesbian party I was the lone male
The hosts an ageing lesbian couple they invited me
To drop in on saturday evening for sandwiches and tea.

I may as well have been a fly on the wall
For scarce little notice taken of me at all
Of any inhibitions these women seemed free
They hugged and they kissed quite revealing to see.

I felt out of place it was not my sort of scene
Though in stranger places I must say I've been
One might say I was out of my comfort zone
The only male there I was feeling alone.

With lesbians I don't have any issues and to each their own
As prejudices with the years I have outgrown
But at an all female party would you not agree
That most males would feel like a fish out of sea.

The sandwiches left a sweet taste in the mouth
Buttered wholemeal bread with tomato and trout
And of any inhibition the women were free
They kissed and they cuddled there in front of me.

Do They Have A Life Of Their Own

The glamorous movie star is basking in her fame
The idiots out there keep on chanting her name
They've made a legend out of one once unknown
Yet one wonders do they have a life of their own?

Photos of and stories about her in every magazine
This legendary star of the big silver screen
She is just twenty five and a known billionaire,
The distribution of wealth it has never been fair.

At her adoring fans she waves from her chauffeur driven car
Those who helped for to make her a big movie star
A wave and a big smile for them is all that she can spare
But none of her wealth with them she'll ever share.

Made by the top designers the gowns that she wear
And perfect looking her shoulder length blond hair
And on her clothes she spends thousands of dollars every day
In just a few years she has come a long way.

In the world of entertainment a legendary name
And she is enjoying all of the trappings of fame
And those who have helped to make her wealthy and known
Do not seem to have any life of their own.

There's A Mystery About It

There's a mystery about it that I for one don't understand
For I feel very much a stranger in this amazing southern land
Little about this vast country that I do profess to know
Or of the history of the first Australians from thousands of decades ago.

When Cook and his sailors arrived from England in the seventeen eighties in time that seems like only yesterday
To berth they did not ask the Aboriginal Elders permission they did things in their own way
Now the white Australian Government jail the poor boat refugees
The dispossessed and the maltreated from war torn lands beyond the seas.

Some Indigenous people still in Australia though in their own land a minority
Still they are the true Australians with a long and proud history
Yet not any Australian Aboriginal Prime Minister or State Premier of any Australian State
Though they come from the first Australians and their history surely is great.

This the great land of the Dreamtime of wombat, possum, emu and roo
Of the lyrebird and lorikeet, kookaburra, magpie and cockatoo
And though in this land I'll always be a migrant in this land I wish for to stay
Far from the fields and the hills I once knew more than half of a world away.

Out there in the wide brown outback by the rank scrub hidden away
The bones of the first Australians in unmarked graves forever lay
Compared to them who truly loved this country and her Nature did understand
I will always be a stranger in this amazing southern land.

The Truth Can Be Hurtful

You won't hear many white Australians speak
Of what happened in places like Mowla Bluff and Myall Creek
When Aboriginal people by whites to death were shot
Any crimes against humanity ought not to be forgot.

That such things never happened many wish to believe
But by thinking this way themselves they only deceive
For without any doubt these atrocities took place
And though the truth may seem bitter the truth we must face.

The convicts brought out by the British were treated so bad
And the stories about them were tragic and sad
But of crimes against Aboriginal people so few wish to hear
And the truth can be hurtful so the truth we do fear.

They were the first people of the great southern land
And the workings of Nature they did understand
But by the northern invaders they were dispossessed
And they were mistreated and downtrodden and oppressed.

The present Prime Minister of Australia by white Aussies empowered
The fellow referred to as wee Johnny Howard
To the descendants of Australia's first people sorry refuse to say
The old wounds of the past are still left to fester today.

Of what happened in places such as Mowla Bluff and Myall Creek so few wish to recall
As most people prefer to talk of a 'fair go for all'
But in human society for a fair go for all there was never a place
As we are judged by our wealth and religion and race.

Memories Of Rotorua

On a beech tree in the Parkland pink breasted chaffinch chirps and sings
Far away in Rotorua City of the thermal springs
From the boiling lake the gray steam rising and mud pools bubbling night and day.
Memories of Nature's wonders until death with me will stay.

Rotorua the thermal city lives on in my memory
And it's a town I will remember as long as there is life in me
Where the thermal springs are bubbling the smell of sulphur in the air
It must be a healthy place to live in and I am one who could live there.

Far away in green New Zealand there's a famous thermal town
For it's bubbling springs and mud pools Rotorua has earned world renown
Night and day the springs are boiling from the bubbles the steam rise
The great powers of Mother Nature never ceases to surprise.

Rotorua in the North Island is the most amazing place
With the mysteries of Nature humans there come face to face
Though the secrets and the great powers of nature we cannot hope to comprehend
Mother Nature who will live forever she is surely without end.

In the park the chaffinch singing near where the springs bubble and boil
In Rotorua in the North Island not been there now for some while
But the memories are still with me and till death with me will remain
Of the town in green New Zealand that I may never see again.

My Critic

Old Eddy said if there's a hereafter then you are for hell
As there's no place in god's kingdom for those who pen doggerel
You are below average and your slipshod rhymes bad
And for people like you mate I feel a bit sad.

You only write doggerel you'll never be a poet
And people like you mate not worthy of note
I do like good poetry though good poets are few
And many write doggerel far better than you.

On war, religion and politics and war refugees
Old Eddy and I we have different ideas
He seems rather fond of Howard and Bush and Blair
And so little in common we do seem to share.

He believes all of the propaganda that he hear
And old Eddy is some one who is driven by fear
He says all boat refugees should be directed elsewhere
They are not our problem and for them why should we care?

Our views very different and on few things we agree
And when he says I pen doggerel his words do hurt me
And the truth can be hurtful as I know too well
But he's not been the first to tell me I only pen doggerel.

Old Eddy says I only write doggerel
And I am one bound for the poetasters hell
I do like good poetry and good poets are rare
Still of my shortcomings I am all too aware.

Old Eddy my critic is much older than I
And one well might say we don't see eye to eye
But that he lacks in knowledge is no great surprise
As some men grow older but they do not grow wise.

In That Country Far Away

In the damp and rushy old fields the shy cock pheasants crow
And brown trout for flies are jumping in pools where the Finnow flow
And the hawthorns look resplendent in their white blooms of the May
And spring has brought her beauty to my homeland far away.

Above the old brown bogland a small speck in the sky
The skylark he is carolling as up and up he fly
And upward he keep singing till from view he disappear
One cannot see the songster but his song one still can hear.

The bug known as nostalgia now doesn't reduce me to tears
For I have not seen Erin's shore for more than sixteen years
Perhaps I'd be a stranger now in the old town by the hill
But life there goes on without me and flowers bloom by the rill.

Perhaps I'd feel like a stranger now in Millstreet Town today
For I have grown much older and the years have left me gray
And the mentors of my boyhood years for others have made way
In the cemetery by Cashman's Hill their bones forever lay.

The past is gone forever but the memories still remain
And the old fields by the river in my dreams I walk again
And the finches and the thrushes are whistling on the trees
And the warmth of the May time is in the freshening breeze.

In the damp and rushy old fields in the starlit night sky
The male snipe with his wings and tail make strange sounds as he fly
And the meadows and the hedgerows scent of the blooms of May
In the places of my boyhood in that country far away.

Friday, October 28, 2011


The freshness of the coastal breeze blowing up from the sea
Where the wattlebird sing on a flowering banksia tree
And in the warmth of the sun in the quiet of mid day
To these old green hills peace has come for to stay.

In Kilcunda on a hill overlooking the sea
The water calm and deep blue as far as one can see
The Indigenous Bunurong tribe hunted and fished here many centuries ago
And of the workings of Nature so much they did know.

A new race of people and the black tribes have gone
But their spirits in Kilcunda will always live on
And the cliffs above the sea have not changed much in time
In this place of beauty that inspire poets to rhyme.

A woman I know has this dream and that is she say
For to buy a nice home in Kilcunda one day
With Shelly beach from her door just a five minutes walk away
A beautiful place to grow old in and gray.

On this sunny saturday afternoon In May in the fall
Above the high cliffs the Pacific gulls call
And the sea down below looks so calm deep and blue
And I feel entranced by the beautiful view.

On The Powerlines On The Roadside

Just a week from the start of the winter and more than three months from the spring
Yet on the powerlines on the roadside I hear a male goldfinch sing
In the last days of the autumn on this sunny morning in May
His kin birds now sing in woods and on hedgerows in the northlands far away.

His song could not be mistaken I heard it when I was a boy
Far away in a green wood land when dawn was brightening the sky
Male goldfinch whistled his finest in the green wood by the lea
He was defending his borders and proclaiming his territory.

The sight of the beautiful bird on the powerlines took me to another land
You who have never been migrants perhaps could not understand
How the distinct song of a goldfinch could cause nostalgia to wake
Just a brief yearning for what was a yearning now without ache.

Our past we cannot recover as our past forever is gone
But the fond memories of what was in our hearts still living on
The small song bird on the powerlines in his song carried me back
To that old town by the river and to the old mountain track.

I was one raised close to Nature Mother Nature the Goddess in green
Wood pigeons cooing in the mornings in the leafy groves of Dereen,
Skylark flew up from the rushes carolling as he did fly
Upwards and upwards ascending till he became a small speck in the sky.

Goldfinches sang on the hedgerows and chaffinch's song I knew well
All of the birds by my old home just by their songs I could tell,
Robin and song thrush and blackbird in the woods heralded the spring
They are the children of Nature and Nature's a beautiful thing.

On the powerlines on the roadside I know to whom that voice belong
In the sun shine of the late Fall goldfinch is in the mood for song,
Nostalgia in me is stirring and I hear the rippling rill
Flowing along towards the river down the high field by the hill.

Jim From Greece

Jim from Greece is a clever fellow though he doesn't have a literary degree
He has learned from life and living few if any smart as he
He doesn't believe all he reads in the newspapers in the media propaganda rife
The book he has learned from is more truthful since he has learned from the book of life.

Jim from Greece is a fine dancer with the best he can hold the floor
On friday evening at the Greek club he dances for three hours or more
Familiar tunes from his home country take him to his village by the sea
Of that thing known as nostalgia Jim from Greece is not yet free.

Jim from Greece doesn't follow leaders he's very much his own man
He says to divide and conquer is a political plan
It was hatched by politicians to instil in the masses fear
From the mouths of politicians believe only half you hear.

Jim from Greece is in his fifties though in his dark hair little gray
One can't say about that fellow that he has known a better day
He is full of the joys of living many years left in him yet
And the knowledge of experience he's not likely to forget.

Jim from Greece I don't meet often though I've learned a lot from him
It's not a wasted conversation a half an hour talking to Jim
He's not one who believes in bureaucracy and he is a socialist true and true
And he doesn't say that politicians are of the enlightened few.

Thomas Hood

So many literary critics or alias would be poets
Try to stuff their beliefs down the readers throats
And tell us who is average and who is very good
And amongst the minor writers they've placed Thomas Hood.

Is it because Thomas Hood wrote mostly for the poor
Or that he was never financially secure
Or that he did not laud sir and lord and king?
Mostly for the battlers the poet choose to sing.

The poets of the battlers seem to live it hard
To get at the under class discredit their bard
Thomas Hood the great poet by critics dragged down
To write for the working poor his barrier to renown.

As a poet and humorist Hood was versatile
He was not all sorrow he too made people smile
One who lived his verses the battlers lot he knew
And to the higher principles till death he was true.

One of those great wordsmiths who died in his prime
Thomas Hood from London had the gift of rhyme
Yet the literary critics him did under rate
Those who separate the average from the good and great.

When one looks back on literary history it comes as no surprise
To learn that the poets who wrote for the under class seldom won a literary prize
Poets who write of those in poverty never stand to gain
They are seen as minor and minor will remain.

So many literary critics or so called would be poets
Try to stuff their beliefs down the readers throats
And they who decide the average and the very good
Amongst the minor writers have placed Thomas Hood.

Edward Thomas

He left England in his mid thirties to fight somebody's else's war
And he died on a battle field from his homeland afar
And what can be said of Edward Thomas that has not been said before?
He was a decent human being and his poems will live forever more.

His verses are full of beauty he was not an angry man
Yet he died in his thirty seventh year and brief was his life span
Far from his beloved England the man of letters fell
If there's a heaven he is there though he died in earthly hell.

A less painful death he did deserve and a better life he might have had,
He left his young wife a widow and his children without their dad
With other idealistic young men he fought side by side
For what to them was a just cause they fought their war and died.

It was the war to end all wars or so it had been said
But many young people are still dying in wars we still read of the war dead
All wars are waged by ageing men to be fought by the young
And many like Edward Thomas have died their best songs still unsung.

For him it was a one way trip to Europe in a boat
And in Arras he fought and died the gentle English poet
And in his excellent poems and prose his name lives on today
The one who died for his beliefs in such a noble way.

Ann M

She says life in the outback it would not suit me
As I never could live far away from the sea
I never could live in a quiet Inland town
Surrounded by paddocks rough looking and brown.

I do love the coast lands that's what Ann M say
And she walks on the beach for an hour every day
The sound of the waves and the clean coastal air
And the feel of the sea breeze blowing through her brown hair.

Ann M says I could live in another country
But I could not live far away from the sea
The beach is only a ten minutes walk from my door
And at night I can hear the tide as it rushes up the shore.

A woman in her mid forties though her age hard to tell
For she looks much younger she is ageing well
She doesn't smoke or drink not even one small glass of wine
And life by the ocean seems to suit her fine.

She has traveled through the outback by train and by car
But from the sea shore she could never live far
And in Kilcunda she lives and in Kilcunda she'll stay
And by the salt water she'll grow old and gray.

The Billionaire's Daughter

The billionaire's daughter she looks rather plain
But that she is not short of suitors is not hard to explain
For many young males hearts do not rule their head
And money speaks every language as it has been said.

She is now in her prime she has turned twenty eight
And she is one who won't go short of a date
And for her birthday her dad brought her a huge property
With a six bedroom house overlooking the sea.

The billionaire's daughter the easy life know
And her father's vast fortune with each passing day grow
It's been said with a ten dollar bill he lights up his cigar
And his daughter she drives the most expensive car.

The billionaire's daughter sleeps in every day
She doesn't have to work as most have to for pay
An hour's work in her life she has not had to do
She is one of the lucky the very rare few.

The billionaire's daughter the good life enjoy
Whilst so many must struggle just for to get by
And though she may look quite plain she is always well dressed
And she owns a few race horses as an interest.

She doesn't have the looks for to catch a man's eye
But then is there one thing that money cannot buy
And for lack of male attention she need not complain
And that she has many suitors not hard to explain.

You The Reaper Won't Ignore

Just like the flowers that bloom in spring and summer and die when the chill winds of autumn blow
We bloom awhile not that unlike the flowers do and to the reaper we too doomed to go
No matter how much power at your disposal the heart in you won't beat forever more
The gold you have won't keep you with the living and you won't be one the reaper will ignore.

To the monarchs of their country loyalty and respect their many subjects pay
But on how long they live the very privileged class like everyone else doesn't have a say
They may live to be very old for one hundred years or even more
But their days numbered like all of our days and the reaper them will not ignore.

You well may be an elite athlete of world wide renown
And bands played and bonfires blazed and banners waved for you in your home town
When you raced to Olympic gold to the most deafening roar
Enjoy your glory and your fame for you too the reaper won't ignore.

The human span is not that long the child into an adult quickly grow
And as we age time takes it's toll and we walk stiff and slow
And the longest human life not long few live beyond four score
And the wealthy and influential just like the poor the reaper will not ignore.

Visions Of Home

The sad music that is playing
Puts my lonely heart to straying
Far across the deep blue sea
Some faint voice is calling me.

It's the voice of my homeland
Reaching, reaching out it's hand
Calling me to come back home
To where I once was better known.

Tonight my lonely mind is filled
With visions of my home land hills
Of it's valleys fair and still,
Of it's rippling streams and rills.

Visions of a mother's face
Giving me a last embrace
Running down her cheeks like rain
Were little sorrowed tears of pain.

Oh but how was I to know
That day when I left to go
As she stood there by the door
That I would not see her face no more.

In a cemetery she lay
Many, many miles away
The only memory of her that remain
Is a grave stone that wear her name.

Wanderlust caused me to stray
From my homeland far away
From the hills about my home
Far across the sea to roam.

All this liquor in my belly
Makes my poor head feel like jelly
Wish that juke box would stop playing
And my mind it would stop straying.

Better leave this cursed bar
I have drunk too much by far
Better go back to my room
And overcome this awful gloom.

It's The Conquerors Who Write The History

As they chased the wild bison on horse back they whooped and cheered loud
And they were great hunters so noble and proud
But now on the prairies the bison are rare
And the people who hunted them no longer there.

Of the great northern land the first people till the invaders came
And their tragic dispossession is a thing of great shame
Conquered and put into reservations for to grow old and die
The rights of Indigenous people to them did not apply.

It's the conquerors who write history as we have been told
And men they have murdered for land and for gold
But what matters most when history we trace
That a country's first people must take pride of place.

You great country singers with your golden guitars,
You politicians and tycoons and billionaire movie stars
There once was a people far greater than you
And to Mother Nature they were far more true.

And the workings of Nature they did understand
And they were the people who cared for the land
And they were displaced and oppressed and down trod
By those who believed in a different god.

They once were great warriors, wise, noble and proud
And they gave us chief Seattle and wise Chief White Cloud
And their profound words of wisdom still living today
And such things of great beauty will never decay.

The truth may seem bitter but the truth we must face
That a country's first people should take pride of place
And around the world Indigenous people are not treated well
Though they have such marvellous stories to tell.

The conquerors write the history as conquerors do
But to the true history they never are true
And the conquered the history never will write
And we are conditioned to believe that might is always right.

The changes keep happening and nothing seem to last
And the great herds of bison a thing of the past
And those who once hunted them were locked away
And in reservations were forced for to stay.

Out on the lone prairie their ghosts still reside
At midnight the hunters their spotted horses ride
As they chase the wild bison across the great plain
The past in the moonlight comes to life again.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

A Walk In Nature

A walk in Nature never boring in nature great beauty to see
The wild birds are chirping and singing on fence wire and bush and on tree
Away from the street and the traffic from human made pollution and noise
Above the gray scrub by the river the skylark he sings as he flies.

The poets have been inspired by Nature and of her great beauty they sing
The swallows return to their homeplace when they sense the coming of spring
And the artists they paint Nature's beauty the woodlands in their autumn brown
And one can see the beauty of Nature even in the park of your town.

My stay on this Planet a brief stay but Mother Nature will live on
And the birds will be heard in the woodlands when I am forgotten and gone
Our lives they are not that important for our lives they are numbered in hours
But Mother Nature is forever and she outlives her beautiful flowers.

A walk in Nature never boring though she hides her secrets from me
Her birds always chirping and singing on hedge and on bush and on tree
My stay on this Planet a brief stay our average span ten years with three score
But Mother Nature is not for the reaper and she will live forever more.

Unrequited Love

She is one of the women who have fallen for James
And for to describe him she uses exalted names
Like Greek God, Apollo and georgeous looking man
But James seems oblivious to the worship of Ann.

James on her show no interest his thoughts are elsewhere
But life as we know it is not always fair
The love in her heart for him cause her to fret
But everything in life we want we can't get.

Just thinking of him she spends hours and hours
Yet everything we want it cannot be ours
And unrequited love it can never come true
For love can't be love if it's not felt by two.

Unrequited love it can last a life time
The poets and song writers by it inspired to rhyme
And yearning for what we can't have is a waste of time it's been said
But then suppose that's what happens when the heart rules the head.

He looks like a Greek God to her friends she does say
And she has fallen for James in a very big way
But she's not on his list others he prefer
And his mind is elsewhere his thoughts not on her.

Suppose Some Have To Lose

In maths or in science he doesn't have his degree
And he has not spent much time in university
But they loves their P.M. he says what they wish to hear
And he know who they love and he know who they fear.

The government he leads are doing quite okay
And his true blue backers with him sure to stay
The opposition parties in the polls not doing well
Their policies to the voters they cannot sell.

By opposing land rights for Aboriginals and jailing refugees
His loyal right wing voters he doesn't fail to please
By serving the well off in power he'll remain
The poor and the downtrod they lose out again.

The poor he doesn't serve though I can recall
On last election night he said he'd work for one and all
But in the joy of his victory he got carried away
And of course he did not mean what he did say.

Suppose some have to lose just for others to gain
And 'twould seem his high office he is bound to retain
And his conservative voters will toast him in his victory
But there's one he won't have to thank and that is me.

No Two Are The Same

He is a good christian who believes in prayer
But my god is in nature and little in common we share
And his political beliefs are quite different to mine
So he'll never be my mate and that suits me fine.

He is devoted to his family and wife
And he too embraces some of the good things in life
And he is as good if not better than I
And why we do see things differently I do wonder why?

My ways and my values he does not understand
And we are as different as gravel and sand
I am a fringe dweller and he is certainly not
Since his church and community to him mean a lot.

On different things we have different ideas
And we are as different as chalk is from cheese
I am not patriotic and Mother Nature's my god
And to one such as he that must seem very odd.

He honour his country's leaders and war soldiers and those who died brave
And on the flag pole in his front garden his country's flag
On blustery days when the freshening winds blow
You hear the cloth flap as it toss to and fro.

My ideas are different and I find peace and ease
Walking the path by the lake in the sun and the breeze
And a song bird is piping and I drink in the sound
Where nature's beauty is everywhere around.

My apathy towards patriotism, politics and religion I scarce can disguise
And though many may see me as not well informed and unwise
I'm not one who try to rid others of sin
And converts to my beliefs never did try to win.

I feel out on a limb and my friends are so few
But my goddess is Mother Nature and to her I am true
And with his family in church on sunday to his god he pray
We do seem so different in every way.

Whenever we do meet we both say hello
But friendship between us it never can grow
He is a nice man and I know him by name
But we are so different no two are the same.

Drifter's Lament

Walking down a country road
On the way to god knows where
My mind takes a heavy load
Of worry and care.

How come I am built this way
What causes me to roam?
Through towns and villages I stray
Five hundred miles from home.

Rich folk pass me in big cars
They smile as if to say
The tramp looks tired and the next town far
Some twenty kilometres away.

Tonight whilst these folk drink in heated bars
Then surely I will be
Somewhere out under the stars
Sleeping by a tree.

But I shall go on drifting
Until the day I die
And I shall watch the sun at dawn rise
And the moon shine in the sky.

Far Far Away In Australia

Far far away in Australia
The home of the wild kangaroo
I live away from my homeland
But Ireland I still think of you.

Mangan the poet of your people
He once called you Dark Rosaleen
And people who visit you Ireland
Say you look lovely and green.

When the snow melts on the mountain
And April is fading to May
Ireland your wild birds are singing
In your green woods all the day.

Ireland your sons and your daughters
Are scattered all over the earth
But you were the land of their childhood
And you were the land of their birth.

Ireland the land of Fionnuala
And of the great Fionn MacCumhaill
Men have stolen some of your beauty
For men in their ways can be cruel.

To have you as my mother country
I feel one of the chosen few
And though I live far from your borders
Ireland I still think of you.

One day I hope to return
To walk on your green fields by the hill
In spring when the wild birds are singing
And flowers are blooming by the rill.

Far far away in Australia
The home of the wombat and the roo
Far from your bogs and your meadows
But Ireland I still think of you.

John Keegan Casey

For one to love one's country ought not to be a sin
Yet he was one who suffered at the hands of brutal men
From beatings by his jailers at Mountjoy prison it has been said he died
And the great poet of the Fenians was mourned far and wide.

He never harmed anyone yet he was locked away
And for the penning of his rebel songs a huge price he had to pay
His song 'The rising of the moon' became Ireland's battle cry
A song that has lived for one hundred and forty years and perhaps will never die.

The Westmeath man John Keegan Casey a major Leinster poet
Unlike some other Fenians was not banished to Tasmania on board a convict boat
With his pen he might cause trouble in the southern country
So to lock him up in Mountjoy jail seemed a better idea.

He died in his twenty fourth year when he was in his prime
And Ireland lost a noble son a gifted man of rhyme
But The rising of the moon, Maire my girl and Donal Kenny to his greatness testify
And the beauty he created was not destined for to die.

In Thomas Davis newspaper The Nation John Keegan Casey made his name
And his immortal poems and ballads catapulted him to fame
And though to speak out against oppression should never be seen as a crime
He was born in the wrong land and he lived at the wrong time

He went to the reaper early and the life he knew was hard
But he will always be remembered as a famous Fenian bard
And though as a result of inhuman treatment he died at twenty four
The beauty he created will live on forever more.

If I Should Die Tomorrow

If I should die tomorrow some who know me might say
He was not a bad sort of a bloke though many better have passed away
Into the unknown hereafter since none have returned to tell
Us of another world of a heaven or a hell.

If I should die tomorrow on me do not waste a tear
For I will be past all feelings and your sobs I will not hear
But get on with the game of living for life it must go on
And there is always one to take the place of the one who has gone.

If I should die tomorrow just leave me rest in peace
For from the cares and trials of life I will have found release
Don't praise or criticize me just leave me have my rest
To have my peace forever is my only request.

If I should die tomorrow some who know me might recall
He was one who did believe in a fair go for all
And a few worthy causes he was known to embrace
But he is gone forever and there's one to take his place.

Padraig O Keeffe

Padraig O Keeffe the fiddler of Sliabh Luachra born in Castleisland his mum came from Kiskeam
One of the great traditional musicians of rural Ireland his name in Ireland's music hall of fame
He was one who inspired other musicians Sliabh Luachra's finest some venture to say
But in forty years the changes have been happening a different place the place he loved today.

In the forty years since he went to the reaper old Sliabh Luachra great change has undergone
The great musicians and poets gone forever although their cultural legacies are living on
People like Padraig made Sliabh Luachra famous as a fiddle player few with him to compare
There's never been a shortage of musicians but great musicians like great poets are rare.

Padraig O Keeffe was well loved in Sliabh Luachra an ageing legend when I was a boy
He was one who made many people happy through his music he spread the gift of joy
His fiddle it forever may be silent but the fiddler's music is with us today
And other fiddlers play tunes he made famous what greater respect to him could they pay.

Padraig O Keeffe the fiddler of Sliabh Luachra in death his legend only seem to grow
Across the bracken hills and lonely valleys his music comes to me from long ago
He left behind his legacy of beauty and the better things in life he did embrace
And he became known far beyond the Cork and Kerry border thousands of miles distant from his home place.

Beauty Goes With Her

Her eyes like her skin shade a nuggety brown
And she's not a local this not her home town
And her hair straight and dark as the wing of a crow
And beauty goes with her where ever she go.

Her homeland in distance may seem far away
But she does not pine for the streets of Bombay
The masses of people, the smoke and the noise
And there's far less pollution in southern skies.

Her beautiful accent in my memory stay
I feel I could listen to her speak all day
So down to earth and charming and without any guile
And her snow white teeth gleam as she flashes her great smile.

I hope in our town that she will spend her life
For one lucky local she'd make a great wife
The same boring faces and accents I see and I hear
And they do need an influx of foreign blood here.

An exotic dusky beauty with shoulder length dark hair
To our town she is like a breath of fresh air,
A loss to Bombay to our town a huge gain
And I hope in our midst she'll see fit to remain.

Wednesday, October 26, 2011

So Many

Many of those with power do not use their power wisely they will abuse their privilege in some way
And in the history books are many tyrants and many tyrants still exist today
And the history of war always written by the winners that's how it is and it will always be
And many in their old age live in comfort despite their awful crimes against humanity.

One person's villian is another's hero I first learned that as a primary school going boy
And those who declare war only know comfort whilst young people for them fight and even die,
Any country or it's leader not worth dying for with a bullet in your heart or in your head
I'd rather die of old age and be forgotten since words of praise cannot be heard by the dead.

The media tycoons make fortunes from war stories and celebrate the glorious victory hour
But for that victory many had to suffer and die that's what happens when people abuse their power
From wars and past mistakes we have not learned and still the numbers of the war dead grow
In centuries from now there may still be wars and historians will recall battles long ago.

So many who have power known to abuse it suppose we are only human after all
Those who start conflicts and leave others to die for them are those that the historians recall
And so many have died for god and country they did not live on for to grow old and gray
The dead do not hear those who sing their praises for all is dark and silent where they lay.

She Will Be Home For Christmas

She will be home in Glasgow in Scotland far away
For the carving of the turkey with her family on Christmas day
When the Parklands in her hometown with frost are hoary gray
Nostalgia and wanderlust not that far apart they say.

She will be home for Christmas far north of Castlemaine
And the old Town in Victoria she may not be seeing again
In Glasgow in December there isn't much sun shine
But for her homeland far north of here the young dark haired beauty pine.

Five or six months have passed in time since she hit the wandering track
It was wanderlust that lured her south and nostalgia will lure her back
To her Celtic northern homeland when the cold winter winds blow
And jack frost is on the window pane and the hill wears a white hat of snow.

With that absence makes the heart grow fonder she surely would agree
And she will be home for Christmas with her kin and family
And on New Year's night in Glasgow Town she will dance and drink red wine
And sing the Robert Burns song 'For The Sake Of Auld Lang Syne'.

Oh Sing Us Of Central Victoria

Oh sing us of central Victoria of places like Daylesford, Maryborough and Castlemaine
To that flat and open brown country that welcomes every drop of rain
Where gold miners flocked to in their thousands a century and a half ago
And where some even amassed great fortunes in the goldfields of old Bendigo.

Oh sing us of Central Victoria the brown lands I fancy I see
Far Inland and away from suburbia some say it is god's own country
Where Indigenous black tribes once hunted in an ancient land as old as time
The ballad singers sing about it and the bards by it inspired to rhyme.

Oh sing us of central Victoria of Maldon and Hepburn Springs
Where in the cool months of the winter the dark bird the currawong sings,
The young man lives and works in the city but he often visualize
The beautiful song of the magpie away from the traffic and noise.

Oh sing us of central Victoria if you feel like singing a song
Of those ancient brown lands of Victoria the god of the black tribes belong
Away from polluted suburbia where welcome swallow chirp and fly
And butcherbird's clear pleasant fluting echo to the still morning sky.

She Married Him For His Money

She married him for his money though he was older and gray
And for six years of marriage to her a half a million to her he had to pay
I never felt any love or passion for him to her friends she often say
And he was quite useless as a lover and quite boring anyway.

She married him for his money only though on their wedding day
At the altar she pledged to honour him and love him and with him stay
And he who loved her truly believed all that she said
But suppose that's what happens when the heart rules the head.

She married him for his money and for herself did financially well
And after six years of boredom she told him go to hell
And now she's with a young bloke with shoulder length blond hair
And one she loves far better though he's not a millionaire.

She married him for his money and then from him did part
And left him half a million poorer and with love ache in his heart
He was a boring old fart of him she only said
But then suppose that's what happens when the heart rules the head.

Jude Jordan

As a ward of the State of Victoria no respect to her was shown
And the story of her tragic life is becoming well known
Violated by her so called mentors even before she was a teen
Some who profess to be men of god are morally unclean.

In the life story of Jude Jordan there is sorrow and heart break
And three months short off of her sixtieth birthday her own
life she did take
Her innocence was stolen from her in such a brutal way
But for those who do such awful things their price is huge to pay.

One might say of Jude Jordan that she did not have a fair go
A childhood of physical and sexual abuse she only was to know
The sapling damaged by the wind grows into a stunted tree
And of her traumas of her past poor Jude was never free.

A happy and carefree childhood she was not to enjoy
And she could not lead a normal life though quite hard she did try
And people like her do not have happy memories to recall
And there was never such a thing as a fair go for all.

The circumstances of one's birth their future can decide
And any chance of life's success to young Jude was denied
Her past she could not put behind her though hard enough she tried
And the uphill climb for her too tough she fell by the wayside.

Her so called mentors preyed on her they were callous and cold
And the life story of Jude Jordan is one that should be told
If there is a life hereafter she is in a better place
Whilst all of those who had violated her are forever in disgrace.

Robert Buchanan

He will always be remembered when great writers we recall
For a legendary figure was the poet from Caverwall
One of the finest writers of literature's golden time
He was a man of passion with sweet music in his rhyme.

The fans of Robert Buchanan respect to his memory pay
His truth to some seemed bitter but in his words he had his say
And his poems were of the luckless those who lived rough and hard
And he too was one who suffered and he too by life was scarred.

He died in his sixth decade a century ago
But for his life's endeavours he did not have much to show
The money he had made out of writing with him did not remain
Whilst lesser writers than he enjoyed financial gain.

The poet long dead and buried but his works will never die
And the poems of Robert Buchanan I read them as a boy
And that was many years ago far north and far away
And the boy of the nineteen fifties has known a better day.

When those who love to talk of literature the great poets do recall
One name sure to get a mention is the poet from Caverwall
He wrote of the hard luck cases and the battlers and the downtrod
And the people who felt helpless and forsaken by their god.

Birds Of A Feather

John Howard the Prime Minister of Australia popular with conservative Australians and George W Bush the President of the U S A
Invited him and his wife Janette to join him and his wife Barbara for a night and a day
With them in their Texas ranch such a compliment to them to pay
Still birds of a feather flock together wise people have been known to say.

It has been said that the Bushes and the Howards enjoyed a Texan barbecue
And the meat they ate was Texan steer and not Aussie kangaroo
And their drinks the most expensive drinks for which they did not pay
The bill of course sent to the taxpayers of the U S of  A

Doubtless they did discuss Iraq and their great victory there
But of the deaths and sufferings and destruction they would not feel aware
And that Saddam and his sons escaped with the loot seemed much to their regret
But they assured each other that we will get them yet.

The Texan and his little Aussie mate in common most things share
Two conservative so called good christians their type were never rare
They only serve the well to do the financially secure
And they could not even try for to understand what it feels like to be poor.

John and Janette will long recall their brief and happy stay
With the First Lady and the President of the U S of A
And on their way back home they paid a call on Tony and Cheri Blair
In the so called victory in Iraq another major player.

Birds of a feather flock together and together will fly
And to the leaders of the so called coalition of the willing those words surely apply
And the praises nowadays often sung of those who gave so many liberty
Though many in Afgahanistan and Iraq will tell you differently.


Her father Dutch, her mother English and her given name is Greek
But you recognize her accent the moment that she speak
And though her family tree grows elsewhere far from the southern sea
Fair Attica's an Aussie as Aussie as can be.

Where the music floats into the night across the Melbourne skies
On friday evening at Bridie O Reilly's with her mates she socialize
Till the small hours of saturday they laugh their cares away
After the stress of the working week there must be time for play.

She has a big soul Attica and her heart's in the right place
And she's a multicultural Aussie all cultures she embrace
For peace and love and harmony she surely makes a case
And she's a credit to her family and a credit to her race.

She has been through depression when her moods were sad and black
But she overcame her melancholia and she came bouncing back
There was a time when Attica would not go out on the town
But there is such truth in the words can't keep a good one down.

Blond haired and in her early thirties she would help you if she could
And in the woman Attica there is so much warmth and good
So likeable and down to earth her heart's in the right place
And she's a credit to her family and a credit to her race.

In The Local Football Oval

In the floodlight lit football oval each weeknight after tea
I hear the young men shouting as they train diligently
As their coach puts them through their training drills their exuberance I hear
They sprint about in the chill night air in the coldest time of year.

Some of the young players under twenty they have their dreams of fame
That they yet may become famous in Australia's only indigenous game
To play in an Australian Football League Grand final would be a dream come true
A dream that's dreamt by many and realized by only a few.

In the well lit football oval they kick ball and sprint around
And in their endeavour to become match fit they cover miles of ground
And they perform push ups and pull ups and natural muscle in this way they gain
For one canot expect sporting success if for success you do not train.

In the local football oval where dreams are born and die
The shoutings of the young men echoes to the starry sky
In the chill evening air of late autumn you hear them cheer and shout
As they race through the oval and chase the ball about.

I hear them every evening from six thirty till after eight
In the local football oval five hundred metres from my front gate
The town's young budding football stars not quite yet in their prime
And they dream of sporting greatness that will withstand the test of time.


Mohammed who is in his early fifties next february he will be fifty four
Has just returned from his country of origin but he vows he won't be going back there never more
He says that Afghanistan now more dangerous to live in than it has been at any other time
The country it is ruled by callous war lords and sinister bandits men who live by crime.

He says the so called President of Afghanistan Hamid Kazi in reality only the Mayor of Kabul
His foreign body guards are ever on the alert for to protect his life one must say their hands full,
Kabul and Kandahar are shanty towns from bombings and wars did not bring peace to Afghanistan
And the country now is even more dangerous to live in than when it was ruled by the Taliban.

Mohammed's wife Belinda is an Aussie and their only offspring John is twenty three
They live off of the Esplanade in St Kilda a five to six minutes walk from the sea
He says Australia now my favourite country Afghanistan far too dangerous for me
From war my homeland never will recover it used to be a beautiful country.

Mohammed will never again go back to Afghanistan and he doesn't pine for his homeland far away
He knows he's better off here in Victoria and in St Kilda he'll grow old and gray
He recently visited his siblings who live in Kabul but he did not enjoy his holiday
It is a dangerous land he says to live in where people die by violence every day.

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

If You Can

If you can say you've never harmed anybody and to help others you've gone out of your way
Then you can hold your head high when you walk out and of you unkind things others ought not say
Since you're not one who do not deserve criticism any criticism of you seems unjustified
The shadow of doubt can never be cast on you if you don't have any secrets for to hide.

If you can say that all people are equal and you are not one who discriminate
And to people who have different backgrounds to you you never ever differentiate
Then you are one of those rare and worthy people who do believe in a fair go for all
And others will say you're a broad minded person and in you there is nothing mean or small.

If you can speak out for the poor and downtrodden, the homeless person and the refugee
And never condemn those who are less fortunate who struggle on despite their poverty
And support the under dogs and the so called losers those who live in the wrong side of the town
When others speak of you they always mention how they've never heard you put another down.

If you don't look up to the rich and famous and don't look on them as special as far too many do
And the homeless pauper is not less a person than the monarch or the president is to you,
Then other people ought not to criticize you and of you some will have good things to say
Like you are such a good and worthy person and by good example you always lead the way.

I Am Going Home To Sherbrooke (For Vin)

I am going home to Sherbrooke though the miles be long
To the hills of yellow robin and pied currawong,
I can see the narrow roadway as you travel down
From Gembrook to Cockatoo via Emerald and on to Belgrave Town.

Where the mountain ash are waving in the morning breeze
And the kookaburras laughing on the blackwood trees
In old Sherbrooke east of Melbourne many miles away
The wooded hills to me are calling I will go home one day.

Not unlike the sound that whip make when cracked against a wall
In the steep and wooded gullies the shy whip bird call
And on the damp days of winter long before the spring
On his mound in the forest clearing lyrebird display and sing.

And though I live far north of Sherbrooke where I first saw light of day
I still can hear the black and the white cockies calling many miles away
And I hear the squeaky door voice of the gang gang cockatoo
And I say to myself often Sherbrooke I still love you.

I can hear the magpie singing as dawn lights up the sky
And the butchebird is piping in the wood nearby
And the grey shrike thrush is whistling distinct by his song
I am going home to Sherbrooke to where I belong.

Where when darkness cloaks the forest the shy boobook call
And the little ring tail possum from her leafy nest crawl
And where the crimson mountain lories chirp on bush and tree
I am going home to Sherbrooke the hills are calling me.

Who Says Independents Don't Count

It once was the great Snowy river but for so called progress there's a price to pay
And farmers for crop irrigation have siphoned most of it's waters away
The river is down to a trickle just twenty five per cent of it's flow
And the old timers of the high country say they've never seen it so low.

But Craig Ingram an Independent politician his crusade for the Snowy did mount
And with Labor he traded his vote for water 'who says Independents don't count?'
A cutback in water wasteage and irrigation and the farmers with less water must do
And it's been said that a thirty per cent increase in flow in the Snowy if not in a year within two.

The voters of rural east Gippsland their confidence in Craig did show
And it's thanks to him amongst others that an increase in the volume of water will grow
In the river that inspired many stories that down through the high country flow
And the Snowy will flow on forever though it never has been as low.

It Seems Like Only Yesterday

The years go by too quickly and old age comes too soon
For it seems like only yesterday when I heard the angelus bell at noon
Ring in the church at Millstreet and on a storm free day
It's peals heard in the quiet fields up to a mile away.

It seems like only yesterday when I was a young boy
When first I saw the skylark a small speck in the sky
And singing ever singing as upwards he did fly
Such memories last a life time and such memories never die.

Above the slopes of Clara hill more than half a world away
All through the spring and summer his descendants sing today
The same song as the skylark that I heard sing years ago
And life goes on as usual where het and bracken grow.

The whip crack call of the whipbird a bird of mankind shy
And the kookaburra's laughter ring in the wood nearby
And the crimson rosellas chirping as they fly from tree to tree
I know them by their voices now familiar birds to me.

It seems like only yesterday when I heard the robin sing
On cypress tree by my old home in april in the spring
And dunnock in the hedgerow chirped in the wind and rain
And of my boyhood close to Nature the memories with me remain.

The Bloke A Few Doors Down

The bloke a few doors down he seems so serious
If he did smile perhaps his face might crack
I've waved to him a couple of times in passing
But he ignored me he did not wave back.

The bloke a few doors down by sight just know me
And he is one I can't profess to know
Perhaps I have harmed him in a past lifetime
A century or even two ago.

Perhaps his subconscious to him keeps saying
Ignore that fellow he once did you harm
The neighbourhood would be better without him
And for your mates save all your warmth and charm.

The bloke a few doors down to me a stranger
I do not greet him now and say hello,
I greeted him a few times I remember
But to me he seemed cold as cold as snow.

The bloke a few doors down he is my neighbour
But sad to think that he does not feel that way
Perhaps in some past lifetime I have wronged him
In another body in a distant day.


She lives in Inverloch by the ocean she loves the salt sea air
And this her favourite place of all her travels brought her there
She's been all around Australia and Queensland her home State
But where ever she has lived the sea shore just a short walk from her gate.

A bungalow by the ocean on a quarter acre block
And when people ask Melinda why she choose Inverloch?
She says on my first visit here I felt so much at home
And the locals they accepted me as they would one of their own

And she add to feel you are seen as a member of your community
Is a boost to one's self esteem or so 'twould seem to me
And I've made good friends in Inverloch and here I wish to stay
So far south of sunny Queensland and my home town of Mackay.

A woman in her early sixties her brown hair flecked with gray
She walks on the beach at Inverloch with her dog every day
Her travels brought her to the place she has been known to say
And she's found happiness at last so far south of Mackay.

Richard Kentwell

In his forties with long greying and wavy hair
And gaudy looking are the clothes he wear
And so likeable and unburdened by care
And to Wonthaggi a breath of fresh air.

With mature ladies a drama group he run
Their tuesday evenings of clean cultural fun
Janice, Julie and Carolyn of his group know three
Inspiring women so 'twould seem to me.

A family man and only last sunday
With his partner Helen and their children cricket he did play
In park at Inverloch beside the sea
He gives so much of himself to life and family.

The Richard Kentwells of this world too rare
His gifts and talents with others he share
So much at ease in female company
I could do well with his humility.

He's not your average bloke you well might say
A quiet achiever in his own quiet way
So friendly and down to earth and nice to meet
And one like him doesn't live on every street

Serena Is On The Gold Coast

Serena is on the Gold Coast so I heard her aunt Janice say
Working for an employment agency and doing quite okay
And laughing at the weekend for she takes home a good pay
Since she left old Mt Evelyn she has gone a long way.

On her travels and adventures in the big and scenic land
She has worked in many places and she has tried her hand
At fruit picking and waitressing as she moved from town to town
There is truth in the old saying 'hard to keep a good one down'.

As a barmaid and a telemarketer and as a hotel manageress
And on her travels around Queensland she's often changed her address
She has traveled in the brown land where the grass is seldom green
And one day she can tell her grand kids of the wonders she has seen.

Since she parted from Derrick in New Zealand close to a decade must have gone by
She was then in her mid twenties how those years just seem to fly
She's been in love but never married and she has known love's parting pain
But she's never been a quitter and she'll fall in love again.

She's a character Serena and I readily can recall
Her for her marvellous gift of laughter it is the greatest gift of all
And at her aunt Anthea's house on Christmas Day I know she'll laugh her share
If the witty Peter Barling only happen to be there.

For she laughs a lot with Peter he's a very humorous bloke
And you won't find better than him when it comes to tell a joke
And life would be quite boring without a laugh or two
And that it is the greatest gift of all so happens to be true.

Serena is in Burleigh Heads so I heard Janice say
Working for an employment agency and doing quite okay
Enjoying the sun shine and the sea and the cool breeze from the bay
And laughing at the weekend when she takes home her good pay.

On Hearing A Magpie Singing Before Dawn

On the gum tree on the road side his voice is a give away
The white backed magpie is fluting just before dawning of day
Proudly proclaiming his borders and warning his kin bird stay clear
He is protecting his family and he is the boss around here.

Wide awake an early riser early to bed and to rise
Before the sun the light giver brighten up the mornong skies
Australia's best known feathered songster he sing as soon as he wake
In the darkness of the morning his voice you cannot mistake.

Like the kookaburra, butcherbird and the lyrebird and currawong
He's a fair dinkum Australian and to this southern land belong
He is every bit as Aussie as the wombat or the roo
As the possum or koala or the sulphur crested cockatoo.

On the gum tree on the roadside in the latter days of spring
In the darkness of the morning I can hear the magpie sing
And though the summer days are nearing as the spring comes to an end
Magpie still feels territorial and he has borders to defend.

Patrick Next Door

The wind blow up through Watt Street on the eve of Christmas
And red haired Patrick next door knocked on our door to say
A merry Christmas to you and here's a small gift from Fleur and I
And perched upon his shoulder was Zed their little boy.

And Patrick he felt merry he's one who loves a beer
And he'll be celebrating the Christmas and the New Year
And on Christmas Day with all his mates by the smoky barbecue
He'll enjoy his food and drink his grog from ten till after two.

He may not be free of vices and he may like his grog
But he doesn't beat his family and he doesn't kick his dog
He's likeable and generous and in him nothing small
And many of those who seem rough around the edges are not that way at all.

Of Irish and German extraction O Halloran is his second name
But he has never been to the distant lands from where his ancestors came
He is just a regular Aussie who likes a drink with his mates
And with them talk of Cricket and Aussie Rules football greats.

A windy Christmas eve in Wonthaggi and Patrick with Zed his little boy
Came to us with a present and to wish us Christmas joy
Full of the Christmas spirit he had a few drinks in
And to feel merry on Christmas eve has never been a sin.