Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Sport Just A Diversion

The anthem of Australian Rules Football the song known as 'We'll Be There'
And Aussie Rules fans who do not know this song by heart to say the least quite rare
On Saturday after the game at the M C G in groups as they walk along the street
A song sung by the winning fans since victory is sweet.

They sing 'We were there when the boys became the men' their religion is football
And they tell all of those who wish to hear 'the greatest game of all'
But sport is just a diversion from the big problems out there
In the world where the haves make more and the have nots live in despair

Of ever getting anywhere in life they live in poverty
They live their dreams through the success of celebrities that they see on t v
And sport is a diversion for them from the reality
Of ever knowing success themselves suppose what is to be will be.

Sport just a diversion from reality for the have nots to enjoy
Poor teenagers dream of sporting fame a dream for most that die
Before they reach their forties when they come to realize
That life is very different when seen through ageing eyes.

Fair Dues To Willy Chaplin

Fair dues to Willy Chaplin he treats all people fair
He accepts verse from everybody and people like him rare
The Webmaster of The Web Poetry Corner on his site he takes pride
He and his dear one Gipsy are known both far and wide.

Where anyone may post his or her poetry the Webmaster's catch cry
Their crack at fame and glory nobody he deny
Of the Internet Webmasters to many he is king
Fair dues to Willy Chaplin his praises we should sing.

Fair dues to Willy Chaplin we honour him in rhyme
One of the best at what he does he has proved that time after time
You send him in your verses to you he won't say no
Fair dues to Dreamagic's Webmaster respect to all he show.

Some Webmasters are precious but Willy not that way
He treats others with respect and respect to him we'll pay
If you are a budding poet trying to build for yourself a name
Send your poems to Willy Chaplin he will give you your crack at fame.

Fair dues to Willy Chaplin since credit he is overdue
Of the Internet Webmasters one of the people who
Gives a fair go to everyone and when his name we recall
We celebrate one who stands for a fair go for all.

To Glorify War Heroes

Though talk of war and death and such I do not wish to hear
To glorify war heroes we have the balladeer
The old men displaying their medals march on war memorial day
Though they look tired and weary now and they are old and gray.

They weep for comrades who died young in battles far away
Young men who were buried in mass graves their bones far from home lay
'Tis said they died in freedom's cause though many with that do not agree
Since any lessons have not been learned from man's war history.

Each time I listen to the news the headlines mostly bad
A suicide bombing in Palestine a car bombing in Baghdad
More atrocities with a direct link to terrorism to many it would seem
But to those who give their own lives to kill the fulfilment of a heroic dream.

Of suffering and deaths linked to war so much has been written and said
And wives and mothers in the World today still mourn their war dead
And still the soldiers come back home to a victory parade
For people who shoot at other people too much respect is paid.

The Man From Saltbush Country

He is from Saltpan Country where only Saltbush grow
North of Tailem Bend in South Australia where the Murray waters flow
As it nears the great Pacific it deepens and moves slow
Through brown lands where the Black Tribes lived and fished and hunted a few centuries ago.

The man from Saltbush Country is showing his years in gray
And it can be said about him he has known a better day
For years he has lived in the Suburbs and in the Suburbs he will stay
And the mighty Murray river from where he lives far away.

He feels happy in the Suburbs and in the Suburbs he will die
Far away from Saltbush Country where the songlark sing and fly
Far away from South Australia east of Melbourne he reside
He will never more return to the bare lands flat and wide.

Where the brown waters of the Murray flow on eternally
Towards the vast Pacific ocean to it's final destiny
Where the Saltpans they grow bigger with the passing of each day
Like huge rings through the bare country in faded white to gray.

'Tis a harsh land and a barren land where only Saltbush thrive
And there only the hardiest of creatures can manage to survive
And in the Suburbs east of Melbourne he is happy for to stay
From the barren Saltbush Country even as the crow fly far away.

House Sparrows

House Sparrows originally are from Africa despite what some think or say
And they were brought to Australia from England far away
Under eaves or on shed rafters or a small tree they make their untidy nest of hay
And they line it with small feathers and there their tiny spotted eggs they lay.

In the suburban gardens you hear them chirp all day
And though seen as pests by some people the house sparrows here to stay
Though in Western Australia 'tis said they are shot on sight
For to manipulate and control Nature we humans think we have the right.

I love them for their cheekiness of human kind they are not shy
Around the human dwellings from bush to tree they fly
And always you hear them chirping they chirp the whole day long
And though classified as songbirds they are bereft of song.

These small brown African weavers are famous world wide
And that they are great survivors of them cannot be denied
By humans introduced around the World and of their ways we know
And the sparrows there before me to everywhere I go.

On Brunswick Street

In the twilight of the evening on busy Brunswick Street
An ageing Turkish woman with a mister me did greet
Where abouts is Fitzroy Street? I pointed her the way
The rain came down in drizzle in the fading lamp of day.

She wore a dark blue Muslim scarf and she had a lovely smile
One perhaps in her sixties and she seemed free of guile
She asked what land are you from are you Scottish maybe
Or more than likely Irish or so 'twould seem to me?

I said I am from Ireland she said you see I'm right
Our countries more than eight decades back on different sides did fight
In the bloodbath at Gallipoli my grand-father he died there
And now I'm in my early sixties with greyness in my hair.

More than forty years in Australia though some of her accent she did retain
And until the reaper claims her that with her will remain
She smiled at me and thanked me and she walked off in the rain
And I owe her for these verses though we may not meet again.

Our countrymen once fought each other on a distant foreign shore
In the early nineteen hundreds eight decades back and more
She asked me where is Fitzroy Street and I pointed her the way
And your so called enemy of one time can be your friend today.

It Will Not Matter To Me

It will not matter to me when I've lived my last day
If I am burned to ashes or under black earth lay
Or if I'm not remembered and my praises are unsung
The old they die of old age and the good they say die young.

Though from my boyhood mountain I've travelled south and far
I've never been a soldier and risked my life in war
Some are admired as heroes and to leadership empowered
But then one person's role model is another person's coward.

Of any great adventures in my life I do not have to tell
The poets famed for their poetry and I pen doggerel
I felled pine trees by Mushera mountain when the hills wore hats of snow
And in Wales I picked potatoes more than thirty years ago.

At the foot of Clara mountain more than half a world away
The robin pipes his finest in the high woodland in May
The memories of the migrant go to a distant Spring
And though the past is gone forever to it we seem to cling.

I love you Mother Nature you are the only god I know
Yet I like many others respect to you don't show
I too once cut your trees down and left your hillside bare
And damage done to you by some left for others to repair.

It will not matter to me on the day I breathe my last
I will be gone forever and what is past is past
And it will not matter if I'm buried or to ashes me they burn
I came from Mother Nature and to her I will return.

What Am I Supposed To Do

What am I supposed to do
Weep and grieve and pine for you?
If you no longer want me that's okay
With me you don't have to stay.

To you what am I supposed to say
When you threaten me in this way?
I will not fight him for to keep you
You decide between us two.

By saying happiness with him you'll find
'Twould seem that you've made up your mind
Him you can have since him you choose
For one to win one has to lose.

For you I won't shed many tears
Or at the pub weep in my beers
With the mates I'll talk football
Life must go on after all.

One day you may become his wife
And I wish you all of the best in life
Of late apart we've seemed to grow
A happier life with him you'll know.

I will not sit at home all night
Weeping by the fire grate's flickering light
Thinking of a love I knew
One to me no longer true.

What am I supposed to do
Weep in bed all night for you?
No as per usual I'll sleep sound
One love lost by one by another found.

Others I Cannot Blame

For my lack of happiness others I cannot blame
For happiness and sense of self perhaps are of the same
'Tis easy to blame others if things for us not going right
And to the little window that leads to the soul not hard to block out light.

The man he feels unhappy and for that he blames his wife
He says she dominates him and gives him the hardest life
But is there any written law that with her he must stay?
This talk of till death do us part only religious hearsay.

I cannot put the blame on others if I lack in happiness
Because of me and me alone my life is in a mess
'Twould seem impossible at the same time for to smile and to feel sad
Compared to the millions of the less fortunate than I am my life doesn't seem too bad.

We ought not to put the blame on others for the way that we feel
Though our problems when compared to others to us are very real
And though words are easily spoken the true facts we do deny
When for our unhappiness we put the blame on others to ourselves we only lie.

Sing Us Songs Of Refugees

She said to the ballad singer sing us songs of refugees
Tell us of those poor sad people from lands beyond the seas
Who have fled wars and famines for a better life elsewhere
Yet our governments won't help them doesn't life seem so unfair.

Our government supported those who invaded their countries yet them we now disown
We have helped to bomb and ruin their cities and scant respect for them we've shown
Lock them in detention centres tell them you are not wanted here
And we helped to make them Stateless and we only gave them fear.

For their own future and the future of their family we tell them you've jumped the queue
We do not want you in our country there's no welcome here for you
Go back to where you've come from since here you cannot stay
We have too many of our own poor those who do not work for pay.

Sing us songs of refugees sir for the Stateless and downtrod
For the homeless and forgotten and those of the lesser god
You have sung of love and heroes to your pleasant melodies
So for your last few numbers mister sing us songs of refugees.

Monday, January 30, 2012

Do Not Tell Him Of Your Sorrows

Do not tell him of your sorrows of sorrows he has known enough
He was brought up the hard way and he has known it tough
A child of drug addicted parents and a street kid at thirteen
He spend time in reform school and tough times he has seen.

Yet despite all he has been through he has turned out okay
And with a wife and two young children to keep he works hard for his pay
Many in his position they went the other way
And ended up on the social scrap heap and are in jail today.

Do not tell him of your troubles of them he may not wish to hear
He has had his own heap of troubles yet he doesn't weep in his beer
He has put his past behind him he's a better man than you
He never whines about his hard days people like him are so few.

If you tell him of your sorrows from him you won't get sympathy
For he was homeless at thirteen he has known extreme poverty
He has slept in disused factories searched rubbish bins for scraps to eat
And in life he has come a long way from the lane off of no hope street.

When last I saw young Jo Jo

The last time I saw young Jo Jo the wind tossed her long brown hair
On a bright and breezy morning when Spring was in the air
As she passed me by on the footpath she smiled and said hello
Her eyes were as brown as ripe chestnuts and her teeth as white as snow.

When last I saw lovely Jo Jo about a year ago
She wore blue jeans and a red cardigan as nice as one could wish to know
And sad for all who knew her that she won't be seen again
But the memory of her beauty with us will long remain.

When last I saw young Jo Jo she had just turned nineteen
A happy and a charming girl her likes not often seen
She smiled and said good morning to me as she went on her merry way
The blackbird on the wattle sang and it was a lovely day.

When last I saw young Jo Jo she smiled and said to me
'Tis such a lovely morning birds sing on bush and tree
But that must have been a year ago and sad am I to say
That Jo Jo is no longer with us with the town's dead she now lay.

An Unlikely Hero

In the big fire at Mancini's their house and it's contents were destroyed
And the story of their bad luck it has travelled far and wide
But the story it would have been worse if human lives were lost
Though the financial damage to the family it comes at a great cost.

Clothes left to dry by an electric heater was how the fire began
And as from her burning premises Mrs Mancini ran
She shouted my baby is in there and young Bill who lives nearby
Rushed into the smoke filled bedroom to where he heard the baby cry.

He snatched the baby from her cot and with her rushed outside
And handed her to her weeping mother who in tears was overjoyed
And though the hero an unlikely one he surely saved the day
And about him Mr and Mrs Mancini only have good things to say.

Billy in his early twenties on himself he makes life hard
From his local pub for fighting for six months he has been barred
But the villian has become a hero since he risked his life to save
The life of a six months baby girl when most needed he was brave.

The one seen as a villian an unlikely hero of today
And where the faint hearted dare not venture great courage he did display
Last week he was seen as a rowdy people on him now heap praise
And the story of his bravery those who know him do amaze.

You Love, I Love

You love the wide brown country the flatlands sparse in trees
Where when the moon is rising in the freshening evening breeze
You hear the dingoes barking out hunting for the night
They chase the mob of kangaroos for miles in the moonlight.

I love the coastal country the paddocks by the sea
The cackling of the wattlebirds on the coastal banksia tree
With the rumbling of the ocean splashing on rocks on the shore
Nature's voice it is immortal it will live forever more.

You love the wide brown country that's where you long to be
Far inland from the ocean in your dreams you can see
The brown songlark above the paddock and he sings as he soar
In the old brown land Northwest of here two hundred miles or more.

I love the coastal country the healthy and fresh sea air
Where the river meets the ocean but your love is elsewhere
And as they say each to their own and with that most would agree
And you love the wide brown country and the coastal lands for me.

Youth And Age

Your prime years fast approaching the good days gone for me
For I am nearly sixty and you are twenty three
Old men have had their innings it is of youth we sing
And the red rose on the rose bush enjoys only one Spring.

Some say with age comes wisdom though for such that I cannot show
As I'm not any wiser than I was decades ago
And no fool like an old fool others are known to say
It does not mean you are wise because your hair is gray.

You are a well known footballer the word has got around
And once again on last Saturday you were the best on ground
You inspired your club to victory with another great display
And your goal after the siren it won your team the day.

When I was your age back in the late sixties with no great fondness I recall
I was not much of an athlete and useless at football
Though I had my sporting heroes and of sporting glory I did dream
But dreams and reality are far apart at least that's how 'twould seem.

Old David who drinks in the local pub often talks of his glory years
His tongue always seems to loosen after drinking a few beers
As an 800 metre runner in his early twenties he was the one to beat
Till a knee injury put an end to the career of a promising athlete.

Youth and age though often mentioned in the same breath in reality far apart
The ageing bloke is feeling weary and he has a weakened heart
Whilst of the one in his early twenties the word has got around
That he is a fine footballer and often the best on ground.

Old Hills Around Archies Creek

Old hills around Archies Creek you once had many trees
Before Cook and his sailors sailed down the southern seas
And placed the flag of England on this far southern shore
And something of great beauty to be changed forever more.

This Shire now known as South West Gippsland to the first Australians belong
A tribe of Aboriginal people known as the Bunurong
The first pioneering people came and cut the tall gums down
And left the hills bare those old green hills that in Summer now look brown.

The original owners of this land of it took such good care
They would feel disappointed now to see those hills so bare
But the changes keep on happening and nothing stays the same
And for environmental vandalism humans always are to blame.

The old hills around Archies Creek are looking very bare
And where trees once were in abundance they now are rather rare
Where the black tribes up to two hundred years ago had their corroborees and song
The people of the Dreamtime known as the Bunurong.

Deirdre's Site

As I browsed on the internet I came upon Deirdre's site
Her picture tells more of her than any words that one could write
For she surely looked beautiful so innocent and young
And tears have been shed for her and her praises have been sung.

With brown to blond hair and a beautiful smile she had a lovely face
And I do feel for her family for none to take her place
And the mirror to her innocence her big bright eyes of blue
We can feel sorrow in our hearts for one we never knew.

And in that site of Deirdre's I sense a mother's tears
The sorrow that she carries will be with her for years
The cross she has been granted is such a heavy cross
And mere words a small consolation to her in her tragic loss.

The loss of her child for the mother must have been so hard to bear
And the sad memories will linger though the scars of grief will take time to repair
Life it can be so cruel it has always been that way
And in our destiny it would seem we do not have a say.

Goodbye to you young Deirdre you will ever remain young
Tears of grief have been shed for you and your praises have been sung
Your beautiful image on the internet I always will recall
And words cannot do you justice though your photo says it all.

Another Olympic Games For The Wealthy Only

Another Olympic games for the wealthy only doesn't life seem so unfair
In the Athens Olympic Stadium there won't be many there
Who live on a low income or struggle to get by on welfare
And who should win the medals why should I even care?

In life only the so called losers are those that interest me
The people who to circumstance must live in poverty
They won't be at the Olympics for to cheer their heroes on
Or to sigh in disappointment with hopes of a medal gone.

The Olympics ought to be re-named as the Games of Nationalistic Pride
And Athens 04 the destination of millionaires world wide
Waving their National flags and banners their patriotism on display
And that money speaks all languages is very relevant to today.

Another Olympic games for the wealthy only in a world of so much poverty
Just a vulgar show of wealth and nationalistic pride at the opening and closing ceremony
And the have nots must feel content for to watch it on the t v
And which Nation's athletes are the most successful such things won't be worrying me.

In Flights Of Nostalgic Fancy

In flights of nostalgic fancy I see them every day
Those old hills of my younger years far north and far away
Overlooking the green countryside to memory I recall
Too high and rough for men to plough them they haven't changed at all.

Above the morning fog that shrouds them the lark carols as he fly
In his song a wild beauty 'tis a natural thing of joy
And the horned mountain sheep I hear them bleating where some might die they survive
They are bred for the high and rough places where in Spring and Summer months they thrive.

In that far northern country the Summer is in her prime
By those mountains of my childhood that inspired the bards to rhyme
You take the man from the mountain but the mountain in him stay
And the migrant from distant mountains is still a mountain man today.

To those old hills far north of here the Seasons come and go
In that green and peaceful countryside where the Blackwater flow
On it's journey through Duhallow it babbles deep and slow
Through the old fields and by woodlets and by many a hedgerow.

Bureaucracies Rule The World

Bureaucracies rule the world they tell governments what to do
And at the expense of the many they favour the privileged few
And government for the wealthy only the catch cry of the day
And the rich keep getting richer though 'tis always been that way.

The social gap keeps on widening we have never had more poor
And for the escalating world poverty conservative governments do not seek a cure
It always was and is still only hearsay this thing called a fair go for all
In the sad lives of the have nots only sadness to recall.

In a world of so much poverty it do seem an awful shame
That those with the power of money can buy their ticket to fame
In an egalatarian world things would never be this way
And polarization has never been more rampant despite what some might say.

In wars and droughts and famines the wealthy never die
And that one's destiny is in their own hands is a bureaucratic lie
Spread around by the arms tycoons who on the poor inflict pain
Who support wars for selfish reasons for their own financial gain.

Bureaucracies rule the world they have such an ugly face
And the betterment of humankind is a thing they don't embrace
And the poor keep getting poorer in their suburbs of decay
And for the good lives of the privileged few the many have to pay.

Sunday, January 29, 2012

An August Day In South West Gippsland

The weather rather chilly it is cold enough to snow
And the flat paddocks under water where the Powlett river overflow
And even in the distance one can hear the ocean roar
As the tide up the beach races and splash on rocks along the shore.

Yet the magpie he is fluting on this gray August day
He and his wife are nest building Spring cannot be far away
And though rain is in the forecast and in the freshening breeze
The wattlebirds are cackling on the flowering banksia trees.

Between Dalyston and Kilcunda flooded paddocks all around
And sheep and cattle from the flooding have moved to the higher ground
And though the weather not that pleasant Spring with every day draws near
And September is so lovely in the southern hemisphere.

An August day in South West Gippsland the air has a wintery chill
And a flooded Powlett river it flows bank high down the hill
And though the sky looks gray and gloomy and the rain in drizzle fall
The magpie he is singing and the spur winged plover call.

Man Go Home To Your Family

Oh you unlucky fellow you talk of your sad life
And in the pub with your mates you bad mouth your long suffering wife
She sits at home and waits for you and to you she is true
But just by listening to you talk of her one cannot say the same of you.

Man go home to your children and to your devoted spouse
The one who truly loves you and serves your needs and keeps your house
Your so called mates just pub mates they laugh behind your back
If you think they are friends of your's in true friends you must lack.

If they are really friends of your's they will tell you to your face
That talking of your wife in a negative way in a pub for such not the place
The barmaid she does not love you although at you she smile
She is only flirting with you she is so full of guile.

Just a few drinks and you are talking of how great a man you are
And after one too many you go and drive your car
Go home to your wife and children you have no business here
You ought to give up alcohol as you cannot handle your beer.

Man go home to your family your wife at home waits for you
And you never say you love her though to you she is true
The barmaid she smiles at you and winks behind your back
And if you think your pub mates are your true mates then in true friends you must lack.

From The Heaven You Are Near To

To get closer to your god you embrace poverty
And you thank him in your hymns and prayers for your humanity
And with your kin in your house of worship on the sabbath to him you kneel and pray
From the heaven you are near to I seem so far away.

If there is a heaven for poets I am sure you will be there
And with the great poets who lived on earth your great gifts you will share
And I with the condemned poetasters will forever live in hell
And amongst the non believers I will still write doggerel.

You write such marvellous love poems and you love deeply and true
And few if any greater poets on Planet Earth than you
And though you do condemn war in your Nation's flag you take too much pride
And you do not seem to want to know the story of the other side.

Yet you are a good person your words they tell me so
And in your marvellous insights the genius in you show
And though we seem to see things differently that's life I do suppose
And a rose by any other name will still smell like a rose.

You say poverty is not a bad thing to your god it brings you near
And to life's higher principles you do seem to adhere
And your insightful verses are inspiring them I could not criticize
Still we look at life one might say through very different eyes.

Rose Of London

She now lays in the cemetery though life for her was hell
And her life a tragic story though that story I must tell
She migrated to here from London in nineteen fifty two
When she was only twenty brown haired with eyes of blue.

She was known as Rose of London Rosemary was her name
A car accident in her early fifties had left her slightly lame
And in that tragic accident her husband Jim and their daughter died
Her happy life until then by cruel fate was destroyed.

Her husband Jim was fifty two and Ann their only child was twenty three
But Rosemary put her misfortune behind her and she overcame her tragedy
And she soldiered on bravely though her cross heavy to bear
Still the broken dreams of her life even time could not repair.

I often see her at the superstore she always wore the brightest clothes
Her silver hair and lovely face she did look like a rose
With her beautiful cockney accent she was cheerful and free of guile
And she would win the heart of satan with the warmth of her smile.

In her battle with cancer poor Rose did not win through
Still she was a noble person and her equals all too few
Pre-deceased by her nearest and her dearest she battled on till the end
She was loved by many people and I miss her as a friend.

A kind hearted cockney lady and she wore the brightest clothes
She was known as Rose of London and she surely was a rose
She lost her nearest and her dearest and her's was a painful end
But she was admired by many and I loved her as a friend.

Old Bill

Old Bill is very wealthy and always so well dressed
And beautiful young women in their twenties on him feign interest
His girlfriend Lyn is forty five years younger than him a beauty with shoulder length raven hair
Suppose money speaks all languages doesn't life seem so unfair.

He turned seventy in September on his last birthday
And he wears a light brown hairpiece for to cover his gray
He divorced his third wife in her fifties for to be with young Miss Ann
For old Bill with heaps of money she dumped a young man.

Yes money is important despite what some might say
And you can buy most anything if for it you can pay
And most women save for a few will opt for one financially secure
Nobody wants to know you if you are old and poor.

He buys her expensive dresses and her he wine and dine
And she loves the attention and the good life suits her fine
She is younger than his grandson though with old Bill she will stay
For she will still be young and wealthy long after he has passed away.

With a beautiful partner forty five years younger old Bill is feeling great
She loves him for his money though he thinks she's his soul mate
And genuine stories of undying love I would say rather few
Though money speaks all languages so happens to be true.

I Am One Of The Lucky Few

Leading Western politicians squabble over free trade and unwanted children die
In the distant Congo crops don't grow the ground is cracked and dry
And some waste food and money and the good life enjoy
And in the world are many powerless people and one of them is I.

In this world of the haves and have nots the have nots must lose out
They suffer at the hands of the war lords and they know what the hard life is about
Last year's crops are eaten months ago and aid not getting through
And in a world of many have nots the haves as usual few.

I am one of the lucky few I always have enough to eat
I don't ever go short of vegetables or bread or fruit or meat
I could have been a child of a third world country hungry all of the time
Where many die as children or in their teens and few live beyond their prime.

When I think of the poor children of countries far away
I am a lucky fellow is all that I have to say
Where people in their twenties are considered to be old
And where many die of malnutrition though their stories never told.

A War Widow

Adown the streets of the town the winds of Winter blow
And the weather it is chilly and cold enough to snow
And old Joan is out walking a black rain coat she wear
But she does not have a hat on the wind tosses her gray hair.

Old Joan in her mid eighties she is one of the few
War widows to be living from long gone world war 2
Her husband in a mass grave is buried near where he fell
And to anyone prepared to listen to her his story she will tell.

She came and sat near me in the cafe a couple of weeks ago
And she told me of the story of her young soldier husband Joe
His life ended in Europe in nineteen forty one
When she was twenty one years old and carrying Joe their son.

She never did remarry the hard life she has known
And her son now in his sixties has grandchildren of his own
She has had to work hard to survive and she grows old in her one room flat
The only companion she has her ginger tabby cat.

Her young husband died in world war 2 in Europe far away
And Joan remained as a widow and as a widow she will stay
Until the reaper takes her whenever that will be
She is one of the old dears of our street and one I often see.

Will I Be Here

Will I be here in four months from now to sing for Auld Lang Syne
For to farewell the old and welcome the new and drink some beer and wine
Since in life there is no certainty and none to guarantee
Us of how long we live and when we die whenever that will be.

Some old blokes with great arrogance laugh in the face of time
They boast of their successes and recall their glorious prime
They tell of how they came home from war to a victory parade
To risk their lives for their Nation's flag that was the choice they made.

I never was a soldier or learned how to use a gun
And with my pub mates I cannot talk of battles lost and won
And what others think or say of me I really do not care
Since I treat others as equals and I try to be fair.

The wealthy people of today are seen as a great success
It does not seem to matter if because of them the world is in a mess
They pollute the environment and people of hunger die
And they are seen as the heroes and the good life they enjoy.

Will I be around in four months time for to sing in the new year
And with my mates sing Auld Lang Syne and drink a wine or beer
For time keeps ticking on and on and who is to even say
When the reaper will pay us the call we live from day to day.

Happy Birthday Talented One

A rose by any name a rose and you I'm not trying to impress
And you have always been a rose you beautiful poetess
And this rose like flower I give to you to much may not amount
Though some do say and I'm one of those that it is the thought that count.

On this your birthday morning the sky is looking gray
But weather wise at least I hope it won't rain on your day
Tonight on your birthday dinner we'll toast you with the glass of cheer
As we do on every third of August your big day of the year.

You are the star of the poetry anthology known as Mud, Wind And Rain
And those who have read your beautiful poems always return to them again
And you are quite an artist too you can paint as well as write
And in the w w w group you are a leading light.

Happy birthday to you talented one you look well for your years
And tonight at your birthday dinner in Julie's house we will drink a couple of beers
And you will be the centre of attention and credit where credit is due
And we will sing a happy birthday lovely one to you.

What Have We Learned From History

What have we learned from history little if anything
Of war men and war heroes their praises we still sing
Human kind have come far in technology and on the moon surface have trod
And still we fight for our Nation's flag and go to war for our god.

What have we learned from history not much if you ask me
We still have wars and famines and we still have poverty
And we still have this awful thing called ethnic cleansing and we still have refugees
And we still wage war on Mother Earth and we still pollute her seas.

What have we learned from history if anything at all
Before the baby has to walk the baby has to learn to crawl
And life is just a learning curve or so we have been told
But few of those who lack wisdom in their twenties grow wiser as they grow old.

What have we learned from history we have learned to populate
And by bulldozing more virgin woodlands more diseases we create
We pollute Mother Earth who feeds us and our successes seem so few
And that the world would do nicely without us only happens to be true.

What have we learned from history go ask one wiser than I
The world is far more polluted now than when I was a boy
And history has a habit of repeating itself a wise one once did say
And I've not learned from history though I grow old and gray.

Saturday, January 28, 2012

In The Land Of The Blind

'In the land of the blind the one eyed man is king' an old saying that I first heard as a boy
In his small world he was the one to rule because he was blessed with sight in one eye
Those words of someone wise to them have a ring of truth and perhaps to many nowadays do apply
It goes to show how wise a man he was and it only proves that there's none so blind as I.

The one eyed king he leads I follow on the kings we have are kings that we create
The unenlightened by the half enlightened led and the half enlightened we choose to celebrate
Just like the judas sheep though innocent of any crime his own poor kind he always does betray
Up the slaughter ramp he leads them on to death of which he is spared in the clear light of day.

Tomorrow morning again he will lead his own kind up the slaughter ramp to die
They follow on though their trust he does betray and for betraying their trust a long life he'll enjoy
Perhaps to them he is their one eyed king he leads them to their end they follow on behind
Just like the one eyed man we hear about who becomes king and betrays his own kind.

In the land of the blind the one eyed man he rules a little knowledge can be a dangerous thing
The sightless people celebrate his name and they choose the one eyed fellow as their king
And to this so called marvellous man we give our respect and of his greatness far too much we hear
We are the blind and we give him our trust and for trusting him he repays us with fear.

You May Be Great At Something

Doggerels by the million are written by poetasters every day
And poetasters are many and poets are few they say
And artists may be many and good artists are few
And though you may be great at something there is one greater than you.

You may be great at something and only good things of you said
But don't lose track of reality don't leave success go to your head
For there is always somebody greater than you though great indeed you are
And to find your very equal you may not have to travel far.

Pele arguably the greatest footballer though some may not agree
And some will even tell you there is one greater than he
And even some who follow baseball with some conviction say
That Babe Ruth is not the greatest though the greatest of his day.

Some will tell you Jesse Owens was the World's best athlete
And others will tell you Carl Lewis would run him off his feet
And others will tell you Parvo Nurmi was greater far than they
Yet each in their own right great it would be fair to say.

Some will tell you that Pete Sampras was the World's greatest Tennis player
Whilst others say with Rod Laver there was none to compare
And in women's tennis some say Martina Navratilova or Steffi Graf
But you tell that to others and at you they will laugh.

You may be great at something but take it in your stride
And do not brag about yourself though in your deeds take pride
There's always someone better though the greats are few
But always do give credit where credit it is due.

Old Joe From Macroom

On those green banks in Summer wildflowers in their hosts bloom
Where the Sullane gently babbles through the old fields of Macroom
And pink breasted chaffinch singing on the leafy ash tree
Though his memories of the old home place not as fresh as they used to be.

As a boy with his father with their rods and lines they fished for trout
His excitement when he reeled in a big one and on the grass watched it flip about
At the sight of his achievement he laughed aloud in joy
In the heart of every migrant lives the memory of the boy.

Ten thousand miles north of here even as the crow might fly
Far from old river Sullane he is destined to die
Old Joe in his mid seventies the years have left him gray
And it surely can be said of him that he has known a better day.

To the old fields by the Sullane the Seasons come and go
Where he once fished with his father the ageing grand-father Joe
And time it does not wait for anyone it ticks and ticks away
And the older that we get in years the shorter our life stay.

Snowball Is Back With His Hens

Poor snowball the white silky bantam cock not feeling well of late
His son big red has thrashed him he is in a sorry state
Dried blood on his neck feathers from the comb he has bled
He has really copped a hiding from his oldest offspring red.

Red and his half sibling cock white silky bantams by Steve and Annie to be sold
Around the yard with their parent hens they won't grow tired and old
In the fowl pen they are obliged to wait tomorrow at the break of day
Steve will take them in a box to the fowl dealing woman in the house across the way.

Snowball is back with his hens his aggressive son now behind lettuce wire
Will never have another chance of attacking his snow white sire
Snowball is Steve and Annie's favourite rooster and they decide who stay
And violence as big red will find out it does not always pay.

Snowball the silky bantam cock he crows in the backyard
With dried blood on his neck feathers and his comb from warring scarred
And tomorrow big red will be gone and snowball again will reign supreme
And he will recover from his wounds and regain his self esteem.

Above The Wide Brown Country

Above the wide brown country in the gray evening sky
A black shouldered kite out hunting he hover as he fly
With quivering wings it hover suspended there in space
Scanning the ground for small prey it hangs in the one place.

And then it flies a little and the same pattern repeat
And scans around with it's microscopic like eyes for mouse or frog to eat
All in the depths of Winter it hunts for smaller prey
But most little creatures under cover on a chilly Winter day.

With black bands on it's wings and shoulders and mostly gray to white
The reason for it's common name of the black shouldered kite
In the weakening light of evening it is hunting out late
And may have to go to it's roost hungry as the clock on none does wait.

Above the wide brown country at a quarter after four
In the fading lamp of evening just an hour of light or a little more
Left for it for to make a kill and to ease it's appetite
And it may have to go to roost quite hungry for to spend a hungry night.

Some Of You Poets

Some of you poets 'twould seem to me that you write for yourselves only
You ignore the bigger world out there and the plight of the poor and lonely
The me, myself and I 'twould seem to you are all that matter
Whilst thousands of hunger die each day and the rich grow sleek and fatter.

Your gentle poems of undying love to many seem appealing
As you tell the secrets of your hearts and of your deepest feelings
Yet in the bigger world out there the poor growing weak and thinner
'Tis been some while since most of them have eaten a good dinner.

About the me, myself and I you do write with a passion
In your prose like verse the in thing now since rhyme seems out of fashion
Your parents and your lovers and your sisters and your brothers
With yourselves are all that matter at the exclusion of others.

Some poets do not seem to realize that in the world there is much sorrow
That for many people young and old there will not be a tomorrow
Their lives will end in bombing raids yet they scarce will rate a mention
Whilst you refine your precious words and compete for attention.

Some of you poets 'twould seem to me self centred and attention seeking
With self I feel you are absorbed and of self you write and keep on speaking
There is a bigger world out there where some grow sleek and fatter
And many of malnutrition die but to you those things don't matter.

Billy Murphy

He will never more be seen again in Tullig or Currahaly
Or in Claramore or on the Clara road that leads to Ballydaly
But memories of him will not fade like brown leaves of December
For Billy Murphy is one that till death we will remember

He was a happy sort of bloke not one to feel downhearted
And sad to think that by Cashman's Hill he now lays with the departed
He battled on right till his end though he must have felt sickly
Lets hope at least he died in peace that the reaper took him quickly.

In Claramore and Claraghatlea I often worked with Billy
We picked potatoes years ago in weather dry though chilly
Despite a physical handicap he had he worked on without tiring
I admired him for his energy I found the man inspiring.

He did not have an easy life though he was as tough as leather
At night he walked the fields to Duggan's house in every sort of weather
And in the dark and rain he walked back home through the old fields wet and hilly
A gale blowing down from Clara Hill but it did not bother Billy.

A character in his own right and him we will remember
And memories of him will not fade like brown leaves of December
The one who claimed Billy will claim us all if not sooner then later
Than any mortal human being the reaper is far greater.

I Will Not Criticize You

I will not criticize you since you are clever and wise
But you and I like everyone else see things through different eyes
When you say my verse is slipshod perhaps you may be right
But I never said I was a poet I am a lesser light.

If I should give up writing of boredom I would die
For penning rhymes and jingles is somethng I do enjoy
To rhyme I've been addicted since nineteen seventy three
And I will go on rhyming though my rhymes won't outlive me.

A host of little raindrops run down the window pane
And birds sing in the garden and frogs sing in the rain
And leaves upon the gum tree are stirring in the breeze
And yet the day is not cold around sixteen degrees.

I love the sounds of Nature her voice is never loud
Though thunder in the dawning clap above the gray rain cloud
The man created noise is shriller than any natural sound
And far from man made buildings Nature's peace to be found.

I will not criticize you though you say my verses are doggerel
For there is some truth in what you say as I know all too well
But if I should give up rhyming I would feel bored to tears
For I have been a rhymer for more than thirty years.

A Cowardly Man

George W Bush you gutless bloke what sort of a man are you
To any sort of principle you never could be true
Whilst others fight and die for you under guard you hide away
You cannot walk out like a free man in the bright light of day.

To those who say how great you are I only can ask why
Because of you and you alone so many have to die?
'Twas you who heeded the decision for to go to war you heeded the wrong advice
You won a dubious election sometimes people do make the wrong choice.

George W Bush you are a cowardly man that much of you we know
You've started war but any courage you do not seem to show
You are the one with the lion's roar and the heart of a mouse
You hide behind the guarded doors quite safe in the White House.

Napoleon led his men to war and others he did inspire
And though men of war do not appeal to me for that him I admire
And the last Celtic king in battle died his name was Brian Boru
At least by their actions they backed their words that cannot be said of you.

A coward is all that you are George just that and nothing more
You've caused great suffering and death and lots of needless gore
By you trying to re-write history you gave us fear instead
And the poor of Kabul and Baghdad left to mourn for their dead.

Donal Hickey

We were in the same classroom in Millstreet Primary school
And Donal was a clever boy he never once sat on the dunce's stool
He still lives in the old home in Inchaleigh though I live far away
From Clara hill near Millstreet Town and the fields of Claraghatlea.

He has worked in the Cork Marts for many years three decades maybe more
And he is well into his fifties now and of years near the three score
A hunting man he knows the countryside for miles around
And he could tell you where the earth of fox or badger would be found.

I last met Donal Hickey almost two decades ago
On a November sunday cold and gray the stream bank high did flow
And Clara with the bracken face he wore a cloak of fog
Out hunting with his terriers in Jack the Master's bog.

One who lives close to Nature and of Nature much he know
On sunday he's out hunting rain, hail, sunshine or snow
He keep the best fox terriers the best for miles around
Brave and fearless little hunters for fox they go to ground.

One of the nicest people that one could wish to meet
He still lives in the old homeplace at Inchaleigh in Millstreet
In that green and fertile countryside where the Finnow waters flow
And we were in the same classroom more than forty years ago.

Friday, January 27, 2012

The Heroes Of My School Going Days

In cemeteries far north of here thousands of miles away
The heroes of my school going days in eternal rest now lay
They were not famous as fame goes their's was a local fame
But they felt proud of who they were and proud of their good name.

The heroes of my school going days were always kind of heart
And in a worthy local cause they always played their part
They never were the type of folk to kick one who was down
They were the unsung heroines and heroes of the Parish and the Town.

The mentors of my childhood years I think of them today
From anyone in trouble they never turned and walked away
They were the type of people who would help you if they could
And their hearts were full of kindness in them there was so much good.

The heroes of my schoolgoing days I never did forget
In life we admired them and we mourned for them in death
They led by good example and inspiration from them we drew
And to life's higher principles to their end they remained true.

When Last I Was In Buninyong

When last I was in Buninyong 'twas cold enough to snow
And down through Warrenheip Street the chilly winds did blow
But the familiar faces looked happy fit and well
As they drunk beer and swapped stories in the Bunny Crown Hotel.

And Nuffa was in the mood for verse a poem he did recite
His rendering of Bango Paterson's 'Bush Christening' was a thing of delight
And at the end for him a huge ovation we begged for an encore
Of poems and songs and stories he knew a thousand maybe more.

Since last I was in Buninyong sixteen years have passed maybe
And few if any there now would recognize or remember me
The old perhaps at their final rest the young have gone away
And doubtless it is a much changed place the Buninyong of today.

When last I was in Buninyong old 'Skinny' he looked old
His life story would make a best seller if in book form it were told
And old Bull Holloway hale and hearty I hear he died under a falling tree
And memories of the old Village live in my memory.

When last I was in Buninyong young Ross the poet was there
He talked of poets and poetry and the life of John Clare
And though that was many years ago and I did not return to there again
Of the old Villlage near Ballarat good memories with me remain.

The Night Is Rather Calm

A car on the roadway a dog barking nearby,
The calmness is profound stars twinkle in the sky,
I feel a peace within on this cool July night
The air has a slight chill and the moon full and bright.

The frogs sing in the pond and in the watery drain
It has been said by some that their songs tell us of rain
And they will sing all night when I'm asleep in bed
I will hear them in my dreams their songs ringing in my head.

Tranquility abound and hardly any breeze,
The brush tail possums call upon the moonlit trees
Their cries sound so harsh the male's mating and territorial call
The big male always win he overpowers the small.

It seems to be Nature's way that the strongest will prevail
That the only one to mate will be the strongest male
That part of him will survive long after he is dead and gone
Through his sons and his grandsons his genes will live on.

The night is rather calm gray clouds like scattered wool
A sky full of twinkling stars the moon is bright and full
Nocturnal creatures out, the hunting red fox cry
And the only man made sound a car on the road nearby.

There Is Hope For The Future

The bombs have caused death and destruction and the families mourn their dead
But there is hope for the future for better days ahead
When those for peace and world harmony will finally prevail
For those who talk of waging war are surely doomed to fail.

There is hope for the future though I may not live to see my dream
Of a better life for everyone in a world where peace will reign supreme
A world free of borders and camps for refugees
Where the smell of death and destruction is not blowing in the breeze.

There is hope for the future around me not all dark
I hear young children playing in the playground in the park
The children are the future and they may well unite
Behind a peaceful leader who won't lead by power of might.

There is hope for the future and all surely not lost
Though there won't be peace tomorrow and 'twill come at a great cost
The rose of peace will bloom again though with the dead I lay
And the young and enlightened leaders to peace will lead the way.

Good Memories Remain With Me

Good memories remain with me and good memories never die
Of summer days on uncle Dan's and aunty Mary's farm in green old Lisnaboy
Above the rushy meadow the lark carolled in the sky
And the new mown hay it scented sweetly in the sunshine of July.

The wild brown bees were gathering nectar on the flowers by the hedgerow
And above the sunlit meadows the swallows flew to and fro
And butterflies of many hues flitted around the wildflowers
Their life is brief when compared to ours they are old in forty hours.

The childhood years they went too fast the time just seemed to fly
But our happy memories of the past we reflect on and enjoy
Cock robin with the rich red breast sang on the willow tree
The robin king of his small world his hard won territory.

With my uncle Dan and aunty Mary I tossed the hay to dry
In the mid fifties in July in green old Lisnaboy
In old Duhallow north of here and thousands of miles away
But the boy back then now getting old and showing his years in gray.

A Secret Of Nature

The dying bird with an injured wing unable for to fly
Will crawl into a hedgerow and hide away to die
Away even from his own kind to have a peaceful end
It's tiny body under cover to decay in sun and rain and wind.

Most animals when near their end prefer to die alone
With the throes of death upon them even their own kind they disown
Those who know much about Nature do ask why is this so?
But Nature's most precious secrets are not for us to know.

Some wild creatures fall victim to predators and don't live to grow old
And the life story of a wild bird or animal has never been truly told
And some fall victim of the gun some humans can be cruel
We are top of the food chain and we abuse our rule.

The injured bird crawls into a hedge for to die in peace and quiet
Away even from it's own kind alone and out of sight
And those who know some things of Nature ask the question why
The injured creature crawls into a hedgerow for to die?

I Had No Power To Keep You

I had no power to keep you I'll only have you know
That water must flow downhill uphill it cannot flow
You have made your decision and I won't fight to keep you
Since him you do love better and love rings ever true.

'Tis said if someone loves you that to you they will return
But your flame of love for me has quenched whilst mine for you still burn
You left me for another with a love ache in my heart
I did not have the power to keep you so with you I did part.

I will not send you roses or for you write a love rhyme
Though the love that I feel for you may not fade out in time
You are gone from me forever and you won't be coming back
The urgings of your heart you follow we all choose our life track.

Had I the power to keep you such power I would not use
Since you had the right to leave me and that right I dare not abuse
Your parting kiss lacked passion just a soft peck on the cheek
And I wept in your presence some men view that as weak.

When you used to say you loved me your heart ruled by your head
Although at those times perhaps you meant the words you said
And perhaps you felt you loved me until he came along
And feelings of the heart took over and love of the heart more strong.

I had no power to keep you I'll only have you know
The stream has to flow downhill and you went with the flow
You love somebody better and though in my heart there is love ache
I hope your new love will work out for you if only for your sake.

She Said To Me

She said to me you silly bloke your ego needs to be deflated
Just with the minor doggerelists suppose you can be rated
Your minor fame will die with you like the flowers of December
And the many rhymes that you composed none will care to remember.

You silly bloke she said to me you may write with a passion
But your antiquated sort of rhyme for today seems out of fashion
You lack the depth of feeling in your words your rhymes are far too simple
When compared to the poetic gems you are a poetic pimple.

The goddess of Nature that you dream about will surely live without you
And birds will sing when you have died and none to talk about you
You've been insulting to my god and to hell you he will banish
And into the depths of oblivion forever you will vanish.

As poets go I'll have you know you are a second rater
You insult my hero the Prime Minister Mr Howard yet than him is there greater?
For your belittling of the ruling class you anger me how dare you?
And for your abusive way with words my god he will not spare you.

She said to me you awful man the fires of hell for you are waiting
And you will not be one of those that the future generations will be celebrating
You are a doggerelist little else and none will care to write your story
And you will die just like your rhymes the poets will know the glory.

When You Talk Of Winners And Losers

When you talk of winners and losers with you I can't agree
We are such different people and we see things differently
You see them all as failures all of those in poverty
And what you say of losers also applies to me.

No need for you to tell me of how successful you are
Of how up the achievers ladder you are one who has climbed far
You want me to tell you how great you are that's all of me you need
But I must disappoint you as your ego I won't feed.

When you talk of winners and losers I for one doesn't wish to hear
For you only value people for their money or so it would appear
I know many of little worldly possessions who are greater by far than you
Who to the higher principles remain steadfastly true.

When you talk of winners and losers I quickly tire of you
There are many wealthy people you are not one of a few
At the expense of others you are trying to impress me but I do not feel impressed
And to have you in my company I can't say I feel blessed.

When you talk of winners and losers I tell you to your face
That your values and your ideas I never could embrace
For having amassed a fortune due respect to you I pay
But when you talk of winners and losers I don't heed the words you say.

I Long To Be Away From Here

I long to be away from here from the noisy haunts of men
By the creek that flows through the woodlet home of the blue fairy wren
Where the clear notes of the butcherbird are floating in the breeze
And the wattlebirds are calling on the flowering banksia trees.

I'm not a bushman never was though a rural man maybe
I love the coastal countryside the paddocks by the sea
The wide brown lands far from anywhere that inspire the bush poet
Though beautiful in their own right for me seem too remote.

I long to be away from here I tire of man made noise
The factory chimneys billowing smoke pollute the urban skies
The world I love a quieter place where Nature reign supreme
A bungalow close to the sea of such I often dream.

I long to be away from here far from the noisy crowd
Where the loudest voice of Nature it would seem is never loud
Where the river from the highlands it babbles night and day
Across the coastal paddocks towards the sea it winds it's way.

I long to be away from here where when Winter fades to Spring
As the thunder o'er the coastal lands clap the rufous whistler sing
The loudest voice of Nature stirs in him the gift of song
In that old country by the sea I feel I do belong.

Thursday, January 26, 2012

I Will Oppose The Men Of War

I will oppose the men of war until the reaper takes me
Until the breath that gives me life it finally forsakes me
I'll use words for to oppose them they send the young to battle
To fight for the colour of their National flag and die like slaughtered cattle.

I may not be a wordsmith and my rhymes seem out of fashion
But I will oppose the men of war oppose them with a passion
Because of them so many die and so many have to suffer
They may fool some but they do not fool me for I am not a duffer.

I will oppose the men of war those who send their fighter jets to bomb and slaughter
They leave the grieving mother for to mourn her dead her young son and young daughter
Collateral damage they call it by such arrogance how can one not feel disgusted
I will oppose these men of war for they cannot be trusted.

I will oppose the men of war though some may celebrate them
I will prick their egos with my pen with words I will deflate them
They enjoy the good life with their loathsome mates whilst others all too willing
To go and fight their war for them and for them do the killing.

Oh Ancient Hill Of Clara

Oh ancient hill of Clara I've not seen you for sometime
And I am getting on in life and years beyond my prime
Long years ago in July from your green het I picked the dark ripe berry
And viewed the countryside for miles around that stretches far into Kerry.

Oh ancient hill of Clara in sunny Spring and Summer weather
The skylark fly up from his nest cloaked in a tuft of heather
To carol in the clear blue sky his notes I still remember
In the dying flame of my memory remains a flickering ember

Of you an ancient Boggeragh hill the mountain of my childhood
above Claramore and Clarabeg where songbirds sing in hedge and wildwood
And in Winter in your hat of snow you overlook Duhallow
But in cold December I left you since I had dreams to follow

Oh ancient hill of Clara you are still in all of your glory
And of you there has been many a poem and of you there has been many a story
And your beauty hangs on gallery walls through artistic creation
To poets and artists down the years you've been an inspiration.

Oh ancient hill of Clara I've not seen you I remember
Since you wore your hat of Winter snow on a cold morning in December
And that was many years ago and the flame of memory flicker
And as I am getting on in years the time seems to go quicker.

The Przewalski Horse

The last true wild horses of Planet Earth of them it has been said
Of stocky build with dark brown mane and coloured brown to red
Przewalski's horse it is their name in the wild state now quite rare
In the Gobi Desert years ago they were seen everywhere.

'Tis said they were discovered by the Russian Naturalist Nikolai Przewalski in eighteen seventy nine
The last wild horses it is said of an unmixed blood line
In the Mongolian Gobi Desert they have not been seen for years perhaps extinct in the wild state
Those who breed them in captivity save them from a far worse fate.

Long before the historic conquests of the immortal Genghis Khan
Przewalski's horses lived in the Gobi Desert independent of man
But for the increase in the human population wildlife always give way
And the Mongolian wild horses only bred in zoos today.

In Mongolia in the Gobi Desert where they once ranged wild and free
The horses known as Przewalski one unlikely for to see
A captive breeding program has saved them from extinction though endangered they remain
And in the vast Gobi Desert they may never be seen again.

Racism Is Around Me Everywhere

Of human ignorance I am almost in despair
For racism is around me everywhere
But like they say sheer ignorance is bliss
Just like Judas betrayed Jesus with a kiss.

Some people carry their honour in a flag
And of their Nationality they brag
They feel superior and they differentiate
And against those who are different they discriminate.

So many people still judged by their race
For such there never ought to be a place
'A fair go' those untruthful words I do recall
There is no such a thing as a 'fair go for all'.

Though we live in a so called democracy
Of racism we never will be free
They judge you by where you come from and the colour of your skin
For many equality and respect seems impossible to win.

It's been awhile since the days of Martin Luther King
His name to it has a familiar ring
If against racism he did not choose to strive
Today the great man he would be alive.

So many holding the reins of power not spiritually aware
And racism is around me everywhere
And racism only leads to division and war
Just goes to show how ignorant some are.

Out There

Out there in the moonlit paddock beneath a starry sky
I hear the red fox barking a wild and distinctive cry
Perhaps the creature is hungry or out searching for a mate
The nature of survival is the lust to pro-create.

Out there in the quiet woodlet in the chilly freshening breeze
The boobook owl is calling on the gum and wattle trees
Mopoke mopoke the familiar call ring out in the quiet of the night
From a bird that hunts at night-time and sleeps in the daylight.

Out there in the bare paddock in the coldness of July
The masked lapwings are calling as above their breeding grounds they fly
Perhaps a fox or feral cat may be lurking nearby
With eggs to defend in their nest there is fear in their cry.

Out there in the moonlit paddock the night creatures are out
The silent fox now stalking where the rabbits hop about
And the wombat whistle softly and the ring tail possums call
In the chilly depths of Winter as from branch to branch they crawl.

Out there in the stillness of the night the frogs sing in the drain
The urge to breed upon them their songs tell us of rain
The shy nocturnal creatures will hide themselves away
For to rest whilst songbirds chirp and sing in the bright light of the day.

The Former Young Rose Of The Town

The eggs and bacon on the frying pan are frying with a sizzle
And she looks out her window on the morn as the rain comes down in drizzle
A spinster in her late sixties alone though she doesn't feel lonely
There are many like her living on their own she is not the one and only.

With her old mates at the local tennis court Andy, Joan and Denis
Two mornings a week she enjoys their three sets of mixed doubles tennis
At the social club she often plays bridge and she enjoys line dancing
And no time in her busy life for old fashioned romancing.

She did have a few love affairs though she will tell you not many
And the only man she ever loved his name was Ginger Danny
Left her for another years ago though at the time she felt heavy hearted
She does not regret it any more that their life course has parted.

Her friends more important than any man to her though when she was young and twenty
She was the young Rose of the Town and of suitors she had plenty
She had a few brief love affairs with Jim and handsome Larry
But she fell out of love with them and others they did marry.

This morning she will not play tennis due to the inclement weather
She will go down to the Club rooms instead for a coffee get together
With her tennis playing mates for an hour or two she enjoys socializing
Not all who live alone are loners that should not sound surprising.

The fries are sizzling on the pan and the kettle it is boiling
As she looks out on the drizzling rain yet to herself she's smiling
She will go out to join her mates for coffee at eleven
The former young Rose of the Town and life for her is heaven.

I Did Not Ask To Hear

Of your god and your religion I did not ask to hear
That's something to you I've already made clear
The god that I worship is a beautiful she
The great Goddess of Nature will surely do me.

You tell me of Jesus who died on Calvary
Though I too was indoctrinated in Christianity
But as a Christian I won't grow gray and old
As I see it the life story of Christ has been too often told.

I did not ask to hear of how marvellous you are
Of how you drive around town in a new mercedes car
With your ideas of success I do not agree
There is more to a person than the eyes can see.

I did not ask to hear of your country's flag or your nationality
Such things as I see them mean nothing to me
That you be kind of heart is all I wish to know
And that compassion for others you've been known to show.

Stories of you and your wealthy mates I did not ask to hear
You base success on money to me 'twould appear
For those who are poor you lack in empathy
And your stories of self sound so boring to me.


Saltwater from her door a short walk away
The woman who lives down at Coronet Bay
A poet and singer songwriter and a lover of life
She once had a partner though she was not his wife.

Her songs are her children for she loves to sing
And to it her voice has a beautiful ring
To happiness the gift of song always lead
And the heart without song is a cold heart indeed.

She is close to if not fifty though she looks younger by far
And she sings unaccompanied without a guitar
And people like her spread the bubbles of joy
She has such a rare gift one that money can't buy.

And for her there's always a lusty encore
Her audience in one voice they beg her for more
And Jennifer to sing one more she never seems shy
For to entertain others she seems to enjoy.

She walks along the quiet beach at Coronet Bay
As the sun in the west sets at the gloaming of day
With a song in her head birds sing on coastal trees
And the scent of the sea in the freshening breeze.

Bob Says

Bob says the harder I work the luckier I seem to get
And do not tell me there is not money in the loss of human sweat
If I did not work as hard less money I would have for to spend
The wealthy one has lots of mates but the pauper does not have a friend.

Bob says my neighbour Freddy he does like to complain
He only works three days a week and though to him I try to explain
Had he got another part time job how much better off he would be
But he just likes to have his whinge he does not listen to me.

Hard work doesn't seem to bother Bob the harder I work he say
The more money I always make life seems to be that way
One would have to become very lucky to become a lotto millionaire
And those who come by money in the easy way to say the least are rare.

Bob says the harder I work the wealthier I seem to grow
Were I a lazy fellow I would not have much to show
For the opportunities I've been granted for the betterment of myself, my children and my wife
The work shy and lazy person  will never succeed in life.

Another Federal Election Is Looming

Another Federal Election is looming and this time who will be empowered
Will the Australian people retain the right wing Government that is led by the guileful John Howard
Or opt for Labor led by fiery Mark Latham one who to self destruct is inclined
At times he does seem to get into trouble by in public speaking his mind.

Whoever will win the election will not be of importance to me
Or to the thousands of Australian battlers who struggle to keep from poverty
Governments led by Howard or Latham will represent the middle class to wealthy people and if you are not a millionaire
Of who wins the Federal Election I really don't think you should care.

The social gap it keeps on widening and things have not changed much in time
And to be seen to be poor is still seen as your own fault as if to be poor is a crime
And the wealthy they seem to get wealthier and more financially and asset secure
And whoever wins the next election will not work for the good of the poor.

Another Federal Election is looming and 'tis only a few months away
When Howard will go to the Governor General for to name the election day
But to some who wins or loses will not matter for they will not stand for to gain
For when all of the votes have been counted the poor as the poor will remain.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Abu Ghraib

No such a thing as a clean war as all wars are much the same
And another chapter has been written in the book of human shame
And what has happened at Abu Ghraib prison has happened many a time
Suppose that's what happens when so called prison warders do not see torture as a crime.

'Tis not the first time that this has happened and it will not be the last
And will we ever learn from the lessons of the past
We give power to unenlightened men who take their hatred too far
And thousands suffer and die because of them in war.

Abu Ghraib prison in Baghdad where crimes against humanity took place
In the history of conflict no such a thing as a good race
But then suppose that is what always happens with an imbalance of power
All this talk of enduring freedom has suddenly gone sour.

How come the majority of those who suffer in war mostly happen to be poor
And the poor prisoners at Abu Ghraib great suffering did endure
And history repeats itself as we often do hear
And crimes against humanity will always happen when those with power use fear.


He hails from the wide and brown country the land of the big sky
Hundreds of miles north west of here even as the crow might fly
Yet he does not yearn for places off of the beaten track
He is happy in the big Town the man from the Outback.

Dean from Western Australia of six foot one or two
Blond haired in his mid thirties with piercing eyes of blue
Until in his mid twenties he did what few others do
He went out with gun and spotlight at night for to shoot wild kangaroo.

The skins he sold to dealers the flesh to factories for dog meat
The flesh of native wildlife most humans will not eat
He worked hard for his living though his income it was small
And hunting and shooting and skinning kangaroos the hardest work of all.

He thought of the distant Suburb a better way of life to him 'twould seem
So he left the wide brown Outback for to follow on his dream
He works on a city building site for a good take home pay
And with a partner and year old baby girl in life he is doing okay.

Dean from Western Australia will never again be going back
To hunt and shoot at the wild roos off of the beaten track
With his partner and their baby girl in the suburbs he will stay
Far from the wide brown country in the Northwest far away.

Some Dream

To climb to the Everest summit may well be your life's dream
And though to some quite a daunting task not impossible 'twould seem
Yet whilst some have have scaled the World's highest mountain some on climbing it have died
Their remains never to be found but for their goal at least they tried.

Some have never felt the wanderlust for places far away
In their Hometown they feel content and there grow old and gray
Their dream is to marry and raise their children where they first saw light of day
And live where their ancestors lived and there their bones will lay.

Each person has a dream as such some travel far and wide
To cities thousands of miles away from their home countryside
Their dream even in their school days to see the bigger world out there
Whilst afflicted by the wander bug they don't feel settled anywhere.

Some people dream of great wealth as well as power and fame
And that their's will live forever as an immortal name
They pursue their dream with a passion it becomes in them a need
To amass a great fortune their will is to succeed.

Some dream of love and happiness and wedded harmony
And of the one they dream of being with to raise a family
It saves us from depression and helps to keep up our self esteem
And life would seem rather pointless if we did not have a dream.

Child Of The Lesser Gods

For you never an easy day child of the lesser gods
Your life road is an uphill one you compete against the odds
Disadvantaged by where you live and your postal address
Where poverty is prevalent there is not much happiness.

Sacked from the last job you worked in because your honour you did defend
In a factory of hundreds of employees you did not have one friend
You floored a bully with a right hand uppercut he had verbally put you down
They make them tough oh yes they do in your side of the town.

For solving a dispute with your fists the boss gave you the sack
When you went to your Union Rep he said you broke the law you won't get your job back
On welfare in the poor Suburb where jobs are far too few
Where every day there's more and more on the lenghtening dole queue.

Some say we choose our own destiny in life we choose to win or lose
But they do not talk from experience though they are entitled to their views
They do not live in the poor suburb so they would hardly know
That where weeds are in abundance few flowers will ever grow.

Child of the lesser gods on you life has been very tough
And though you've done your best for to succeed your best not good enough
You are hindered in every way by your postal address
And where poverty is abundant there is not much happiness.

Paul Congues

Paul Congues is a very generous fellow a credit to Wonthaggi one might say
And those who know him say there is none better for to help out others he goes out of his way
He has given of his time to poorer people and only asked what they could afford to pay
And he is saving for himself the best of karma and good karma will be his reward one day.

A well known poet and distinguished writer of limericks he has poems by the hundred to his name
And he is young yet only in his forties and he is on the road to literary fame
Yet he is a very down to earth fellow and of him with certainty it can be said
That he will always remain as he now is and that fame will never once go to his head.

Paul Congues is such a wise and clever fellow and well informed in his point of view
And to the principle of a fair go for everybody he is one who remains steadfastly true
He knows what's happening in the world around him and his views he will verbally defend
He can argue his point without getting angry and after shake hands and remain your friend.

Paul Congues a nice person from Wonthaggi a fine poet and a good person overall
He is not a seven foot giant and broad shouldered but in his big heart there is nothing small
He is well liked by everyone who knows him and he would only help you if he could
And if what people say is true of karma then karma to him will be very good.

The Last Rhyme Woman Of Gippsland

The last rhyme woman of Gippsland with the departed lay
She was one who loved Nature her poems live on today
The natural world inspired her and with Nature she belong
She glorified the beauty in the white backed magpie's song.

In her marvellous poems to Nature one can hear the wind and rain
And in wet and stormy weather hear the frogs sing in the drain
And the creek flowing through the woodland ever babbling day and night
And she enjoyed her walks in Nature and enjoyed nature's peace and quiet.

The last rhyme woman of Gippsland back to Nature has returned
And from her poems and ballads much about Nature to be learned
The wattle birds are calling on the flowering Banksia tree
Where the poet at peace is resting in the graveyard by the sea.

The last rhyme woman of Gippsland had a way with words that rhyme
And it can be said about her she was the best of her time
And though rhyme is now on the outer modern poetry the in thing
She will live on in her lyrics for her poetry is to sing.

Each time I hear the butcherbird pipe in the freshening breeze
Or hear the sparrows chirping on the sunlit garden trees
I think of the last rhyme woman of Gippsland in her songs the birds sing
And Gippsland hills are green and beautiful in their wildflowers of the Spring.

Glasgow Jean

Goodbye and may luck be with you the grand old lady said
You need lots of good karma for the tough road ahead
You may be in your late fifties but I am eighty two
And one might say I've been around so much longer than you.

For her years she looks spritely a real old evergreen
And she is a very happy soul the one known as Glasgow Jean
Sixty two years in Melbourne but her accent with her stay
She brought it down south with her from her Hometown far away.

The only man she ever loved he died in World war 2
Her dream of growing old with him for her did not come true
She carried his child and tragically for her the baby girl arrived stillborn
And in her crown of sorrows another painful thorn.

She never married or had more children true love once came her way
And as a single woman she has grown old and gray
But on Saturday evenings at the R S L Club the singalong she enjoy
And when she is asked for to sing a song to sing she is not shy.

I often meet her at the cafe and on parting she always say
Goodbye and luck be with you for to help you on life's way
She is such a grand old lady and a real old evergreen
And she makes a new friend every day my dear friend Glasgow Jean.

A Beautiful Day In Winter

A beautiful day in Winter with warmth in the sunlight
And the clouds in the blue sky so woolly like and white
And the white backed magpie piping on high branch of tall pine tree
A great day for to be alive and life's okay with me.

Some birds already nesting it is that time of year
Their babes will be fully fledged before blossoms will appear
Upon the leafless fruit trees in their blooms of pink to gray
And Spring though seven weeks off draws nearer by the day.

A pleasant day in July without a trace of cold
And dandelions on the Nature strip bloom the colour of gold
And the pink flowers on the camellia tree so lovely to behold
They bloom in the depths of Winter by Spring they will be old.

A beautiful day in Winter without a chill in the breeze
And the house sparrows are chirping on the sunlit garden trees
It would take a grumpy person with this weather to complain
Though by the weather forecast tomorrow will bring rain.

Those Who Are Cruel To Animals

'Tis something I learned early in my life when I was in Primary School
That those who are cruel to animals to humans can be cruel
For cruelty does not have borders as a weapon of power
And the one who is brave with a gun without it easily cower.

Those who are cruel to animals on causing others pain enjoy
And if you can kick a dog or cat I cannot see a reason why
That you will not kick another human being if to cruelty you're inclined
I do not agree with the saying that one has to be cruel to be kind.

If you kick a dog up the backside for that he will remember you
And the next time you pass by his gate on your leg he might chew
An animal will not like you if you he has grown to fear
And he will feel stressed and unhappy when to him you are near.

Those who are cruel to animals can be cruel to humans too
For cruelty does not know borders only happens to be true
The animal you are kind to will always be your friend
And 'tis true that love and kindness always wins out at the end.

Joe The Ex Greyhound Trainer

He used to train greyhounds for a living though that was a long time ago
The dogs he trained were grade race dogs only for the top races they were too slow
He never trained a big race winner top class dogs to say the least few
And the trainer only as good as his dog is so happens to be very true.

Joe works in the Sports Bar as a barman on shift work three days and two evenings each week
The wages not good just award rates and jobs are few though many work seek
But he won't go back to training greyhounds as he says I gave that my best try
For his hard work he was not rewarded and like they say once bitten twice shy.

Still he takes a keen interest in greyhounds and he is an expert on greyhound form
And when you talk of dog racing to him to the subject he always does warm
An authority on breeding and training and not much about greyhounds that he does not know
Yet to make money out of breeding and training you would need to be lucky says Joe.

Joe is an ex greyhound trainer he now works as a barman in the Sports Bar
Where the pay is not good he will tell you he drives an old late eighties car
Still he claims bar tending is better than training greyhounds you cannot make a slow dog run fast
And he will not be going back to training as he has learned from his mistakes of the past.

Tuesday, January 24, 2012

In Castlemaine

The Winter mostly cold and dry
And little rainfall in July
And not much water in the creek and drain
By the old Town of Castlemaine.

In central Victoria a Colonial Town
Of The wild colonial boy renown
One of a dubious sort of fame
A ballad glorifies his name.

The chill of Winter in the air
And in the paddocks brown and bare
The cattle bellowing for hay
Close to their feed barrier they stay.

The magpie's flute is ringing clear
Always a pleasant thing to hear
They build their nest of sticks as Spring draws near
Before blossoms on the fruit trees appear.

In Castlemaine on a Winter's day
The sun doesn't shine through clouds of gray
Yet little water in the creek and drain
And the bone dry paddocks thirst for rain.

Some Women

Some women they are naive and some women they are shy
And some women they are cunning and some women they are coy
But they are less aggressive than the macho male kind
And compassion in women is never hard to find.

Some women they look beautiful of which they are aware
And they spend big on health products as well as beauty care
And some women their beauty brings them great wealth and fame
So many beautiful women far too many for to name.

Though for recognition in a man's world women must work harder than men
And women always find it harder some respect for to win
In a male dominated society gender inequality
And males mostly responsible for war and want and poverty.

Some women they are sinned against and of their husbands live in fear
And stories of violence against women stories I do not like to hear
For women are less physical than men are as a whole
And nothing is more violent than a man out of control.

Some women may have their faults but would you not agree
That women are the glue that binds all of humanity
And in a world ruled by women we would have less of war and poverty
And women they are marvellous or so 'twould seem to me.

Young AL

Young AL believes our destiny is beyond our control
Three months back the factory he worked in went into liquidation he now is on the dole
And of unemployed young people plenty and of jobs for them too few
And that the gap between the haves and the have nots keeps widening only happens to be true.

Were I born to be a President AL has been known to say
I would not be living in a dingy basement flat today
And I would not be born into poverty at the bottom of the social heap
Some must follow on the leader who is like the Judas sheep.

He must have written hundreds of job applications but all to no avail
And better to try than not try at all though at the end you fail
His address is against him and though hard for work he try
Those out of work on his side of the town employers do not employ.

A young man in his early twenties and his future looking bleak
And he has to live on welfare two hundred bucks a week
He lives in the poor suburbs a child of the lesser gods
Where to know any sort of success one has to overcome the odds.

I Have Never

I have never been a soldier and risked my life in war
And I'm not a well travelled person though in miles I do live far
From the land where I was born in where I first saw light of day
By the windswept Boggeragh mountains north of here and far away.

I have never been good at sports never much of an athlete
Never even ran a place once in races in I did compete
Always finished a tail ender such a feeling never sweet
And I left it to the others to win glory for Millstreet.

Yet the heroes of my young years they are moving slow today
Willie Neenan, Paddy Byrne, Willie Shine and Pat O Shea
For their athletic endeavours they have Championship medals for to show
And they brought glory to Duhallow but that now seems long ago.

I've not been much good at writing though I've given it my best try
Just your average poetaster there are many more like I
But then poets they are not plentiful and they always have been rare
Yet our gifts though rather minor with others we ought to share.

I have never been a soldier but thanks be to for that I say
I am just your Mr Average plodder and I have always been that way
But we cannot all be high achievers with that would you not agree
And the one with the most medals one day has to die like me.

Have You Known

Have you known the weight of depression and you often feel alone
And to smile to you seems harder than drawing blood out of a stone
And you feel you've reached the very point at the brink of despair
And your so called friends don't wish to know you and nobody seems to care?

That of late you feel quite lonely and depression you have known
They don't offer you any comfort say we've got problems of our own
The great gift of compassion something your mates do not seem to know
And if empathy is not in one empathy one cannot show.

Have you known the gift of happiness that only lasted for awhile
And though the day was dull and rainy you found it easy to smile
And the world was smiling with you people smiled and said good day
Though such joy to you seem fleeting and is quick to fade away.

Some say life is what you make of it and take your good days with the bad
And we ought to count our blessings for them we ought to feel glad
But words to some come easy and for them we don't have to pay
And how others should feel their feelings should not be for us to say.

Have you known the sheer despondency that emptyness can bring
And the happy lilt of laughter to you to it has a jarring ring
And you sit there in your lounge room so despondent and alone
And to smile to you seems harder than drawing blood out of a stone?


She is in her middle sixties but she does not look her age
And she is wise and intelligent one might say a female sage
And though perhaps she use some dark dye to cover her ageing gray
She does look young and healthy Indira from Bombay.

She came to Australia in the early sixties when she was in her prime
And she is one who has refused to bow to father time
Her husband left her for another though to him she was a good wife
But that setback she overcame and she got on with her life.

Her grand son and grand daughter in their early twenties and time's clock keeps ticking on
But she does not feel nostalgic for the past or lament for what has gone
She plays bridge with her social friends and she works at her art
And she feels happy with her lot and she is young at heart.

Her lovely Indian accent is with her for to stay
And she is one of those nice people who makes a new friend every day
With dark hair to her shoulders and lovely eyes of brown
She still looks more beautiful than some half of her age that one sees in the town.

She may be in her sixties but her beauty she retain
And the accent of the Aussie she never did attain
She is still very much an Indian one of beauty, charm and grace
And she always seems so happy with a big smile on her face.

Federico Garcia Lorca (1898-1936)

He was taken with others to Vizner by the foot of the Sierra Nevadas as dawn's lamp lit up the sky
They were seen to be different so for that they had to die
The loud echo of the Falangists guns shattered the peace and quiet
And the murdered were carried to a mass grave and buried out of sight.

One of them Federico Garcia Lorca was a Spanish literary great
And he like all of those who died with him deserved a better fate
The poet of the gipsies a name he was known by
And he was not an aggressive person which prompts the question why

Were he and his fellow innocents seen as such a threat
That they were taken captive and without trial put to death
Their misfortune was to be different and some see that as a crime
And things are not any different now and have not changed in time.

Seen as a threat to Franco at least in Franco's eyes
Some so called revered leaders in truth are not so wise
Poor Lorca the poet was shot to death because he knew great fame
Some so called liberators for themselves want all of the acclaim.

The National bard of his country his remains were never found
Though for him and those murdered with him people searched for miles around
Though they are not the only people for to die in such a way
Such things always have been happening and are still happening today.

Lorca the poet of the gipsies a twentieth century literary great
You mention anyone by name and with them he can rate
Though he met with a foul end his literary works with us remain
And he will live forever in the hearts and minds of Spain.

A Wet Day In July

Such wild and chilly weather with heavy showers of sleety rain
That flood the spouting and the creek and the storm water drain
And the paddocks around the Powlett river seem like an inland sea
And water everywhere about as far as the eyes can see.

The old bloke Mick scratches his head as he looks up at the sky
Saying more rain clouds o'er the ocean 'twill make a wet July
On either side of the highway from Bass into Wonthaggi there's water everywhere
The paddock by our house is waterlogged 'tis like a quagmire there.

In July in south west Gippsland the weather often wild and cold and wet
But according to Mick from Bass this one the wettest yet
In more than sixty years of life he has known big rainfall
But yesterday is the wettest day he ever can recall.

In the paddocks between Kilcunda and Dalyston water everywhere about
And the Powlett river is overflowing it's banks and it's surplus water is flooding out
Making the land look like an inland sea and cattle on the hill bellow for hay
And in the coastal lands of South West Gippsland another rainy July day.