Wednesday, February 29, 2012

I Envy The Forgotten Hermit

Our kind has climbed the highest mountains and jumped out of planes in the sky
And walked upon outer space planets in places to where birds cannot fly
We even try to compete with Nature with the emphasis on the word try
But Nature wins out in the long run for we age and grow old and die.

I think of my worthless existence and what have I done with my life
I feel so confused in my thinking and I'm always in financial strife
The more people I seem to get to know the more people to put me down
I envy the forgotten hermit who never ventures into the town.

I envy the forgotten hermit who doesn't yearn for success and fame
He lives in his own little quiet place and he wish for none to know his name
He lives in harmony with Nature and his bond to Nature is strong
And he knows where the roos hide in daylight and he recognize birds by their song.

So many judgemental people that I know perhaps I am judgemental too
We dislike in others what in ourselves we see so happens to only be true
I envy the forgotten hermit who wishes to remain unknown
His tent in the wild wood with Nature and he feels happy to live on his own.

The Conceited Materialist

When he told me about his expensive new car
He wished me for to say to him how marvellous you are
But his praises I was not about for to sing
Since he boasted too much of a material thing.

His own sense of importance had gone to his head
Well done and good luck to you is all I said
I did not wish for to praise him any more than that
As his ego I felt on him had grown too fat.

Materialism as such does not appeal to me
Far too much of it nowadays we do seem to see
Materialistic people so narrow in their own boring way
Though money speaks every language you hear people say.

One should only give credit where credit is due
And though money speaks every language happens to be true
Money did not save the monarch the monarch did die
And the billionaire is a mortal just like you and I.

Of his brand new mercedes he loudly did boast
Though to him I was not about to drink a toast
I did not wish to add to his sense of conceit
You will find one or two like him on every street.

The Final Old Hero

The final old hero has faded away
His bones even beyond the state of decay
He gave rise to many a patriotic song
But to Mother Nature he finally belong.

He was a great King in a Land from here far
And he was one who led his army in war
He died a true hero on the battle-ground
And stories about him in folklore abound.

No heroes amongst the war leaders of today
From the heat of the battle they stay far away
The children of others for them fight and die
And the rewards of renown and wealth they enjoy.

I see them as manipulative deceitful and sly
Yet that the majority cannot see through them I do wonder why
For what they truly are many them cannot see
And the hero to many is a coward to me.

Though his legend inspired the bards for to rhyme
The final old hero almost forgotten in time
He led his men in war and in battle he died
And true greatness of him never can be denied.

Two Conservative Politicians

Two conservative politicians at the local agricultural show
I know them by their faces though them I do not personally know
And though I can't say I dislike them they've not personally harmed me
With their way of thinking and what they stand for I for one cannot agree.

Two conservative politicians each in their turn spoke
And there were a few conservative giggles each time they cracked a dry joke
Amongst their conservative admirers not a socialist in sight
To rule for the wealthy only that they do see as their right.

Two conservative politicians they seemed such a boring pair
Wearing dark suits, white shirts and neck ties and well combed greying hair
To me they seemed so boring though their conservative admirers see them as great
And at each round of applause for them their big egos did inflate.

Two conservative politicians at the local show I see
And though they are supposed to be our representatives they don't represent me
For with most of the things they stand for I strongly disagree
As they do nothing for the battlers and those in real poverty.

Julie Statkus

She always seems so happy a big smile on her face
And humanitarian causes she openly embrace
She sticks up for the underdog and speaks out for refugees
With socialist minded people I always feel at ease.

The humorous Julie Statkus she has such a kind heart
For humanitarian causes with money she readily part
Born with the gift of empathy she genuinely does care
For the people who are doing it hard in the bigger World out there.

And yet she is so witty and she laughs so easily
You won't find many people quite as humorous as she
If everyone were only like her the World would be free
Of terrorism war and famine and the scourge of poverty.

Her emails are so funny she is worth ten laughs a day
And not hard to see the humorous side in some of the things she say
Yet she too can be serious there's more to life than fun
For life's not one big party when all is said and done.

The life of every party and she has been to quite a few
And if she cannot help you she will not harm you
The marvellous Julie Statkus people like her are rare
Her gifts of humor and generosity with all of her friends she share.

A Forsaken Woman

She now despise him though she once did love him since love can be hate upside down
He left her for a younger woman whom he lives with in a nearby town
She can't get it out of her system in her heart a festering thorn
'Tis so true hell has no more fury than a woman angered by scorn.

Because of what has happened to her all men she has chosen to hate
That she may be generalizing is something to which she cannot relate
The hurt of love still lingers with her all things should have a use by date
She may have loved the man she married but he was not her true soul mate.

If so her he'd not have forsaken though he stayed with her for twenty years
Your soul mate would never forsake you and leave you in sorrow and tears
And though him she ought to get over 'tis hard to forget and forgive
But with life's disappointments and heartaches suppose we must learn how to live.

With his new woman he has a baby daughter a child with him she never had
That alone she will grow old and childless is something that does seem quite sad
She will tell you all men are untrustworthy and she does not seem to realize
That all men like all women are different and we ought not to generalize.

Forsaken by the one that she loved and love's disappointment she know
He left her for a younger woman and that's going back five years ago
And because of that she mistrusts all men and she will not give love one more try
And how can she ever feel happy if one more chance of love herself she deny.

If By Chance

I do not believe in a life hereafter but if by chance there happens to be
I will not be going to heaven the road to hell is for me
God will say me you did insult on Earth me you did deny
Down the road satan will admit you good luck to you and goodbye.

I might make a deal with satan I might be happy in hell
If he supplies me with pen and paper and allow me to pen doggerel
In slipshod rhyme I will laud him and maybe to me he will say
You are not such a bad fellow to me you don't have to pray.

Satan does not mind poetasters, badly flawed people he like
And who knows we may even get on well and a deal with him I might strike
If he supplies me with enough pens and paper I'll pen him a doggerel a day
Even with one who is as flawed as old satan a bit of flattery might pay.

If by chance there is a life hereafter hell will be my permanent address
As punishment for my denial of god's existence and my general lack of success
But if satan supplies me with pen and paper I will laud him in slipshod rhyme
And who knows he might even like me and in hell I might have a good time.

My Memories Of Childhood Are Fading

My memories of childhood are fading as I grow older and more gray
Yet in my wild flights of fancy I get the sweet scent of hay
In the mown meadows of Summer in the far northern July
And upwards above the rank rushes the brown lark carols as he fly.

I'm not what you would call a poet I only pen doggerel
Yet I can relate to my memories and I too have stories to tell
Of my childhood close to Nature in the fields and groves by the Town
Where the deciduous green leaves of Summer in late Autumn faded to brown.

Where male bullfinch the quiet sort of a fellow in his cloak of pink, black and slate blue
A beautiful bird of rare beauty to his wife till death he is true
At dawn at the edge of his borders his quiet though familiar song sing
The orchardists they do not like them they eat their fruit tree buds in the Spring.

In my childhood I grew to love Nature and like every other country boy
To me the voice of the cuckoo in late Spring was always a thing of great joy
But I grew to manhood too quickly and time for me too did not wait
And each day I live sees me closer and closer to my use by date.

I fancy I still hear the dipper his voice is not distant 'twould seem
On a black river rock in the shallows in the heart of the babbling stream
His snow white breast to me familiar his wings and his back darkish brown
And as he pipes forth his scratchy notes his head always bobs up and down.

My memories of childhood are fading suppose nothing ever does last
And 'tis said we should live for tomorrow still we all remember the past
And still in my wild flights of fancy the robin sings on the hedgerow
And in the rank grass in the headland the shy pheasant out of sight crow.


Tired of your humdrum existence and stressful indeed is your life
And tired of your troublesome children and tired of your demanding wife
You work hard to provide for them yet them you cannot satisfy
You do your very best for them and to please them you don't cease to try.

Sometimes you do feel suicidal of any happiness you're in despair
But a tiny voice from within you tells you for to hang in there
There's a way out of every problem and you also will find that way
Hang in there through your darker moments and you will see the brighter day.

Tired of waking each week day morning to go off to work on your bike
For to earn your money in the hard way under a boss that you don't even like
Just for the sake of your thankless wife and teenage son and daughter who have no respect for you
With life is not meant to be easy you nod your head and say true.

Tired of being taken for granted you feel a devalued man
This not the life one would wish for not the sort of life you did plan
You and your wife once loved each other now she's never in a good mood
And your children of fifteen and sixteen to you disrespectful and rude.

The weight of the World on your shoulders at least to you that's how 'twould seem
Once happy and quite contented you have lost your self esteem
You don't drink alcohol, take drugs or smoke tobacco and you are morally and physically strong
And you ask of yourself the question tell me where have I gone wrong.

Tired of the life you are leading and overall feeling quite tired
Far worse husbands and fathers than you by their wives and children admired
Sometimes you do feel suicidal life it can seem so unfair
But a tiny voice from within you tells you for to hang in there.

He Wore Dark Sun Glasses

The sun it was not shining and dark gray were the skies
Yet he wore dark sun glasses for to conceal his eyes
From the gaze of other people what was he trying to hide
Since to the mirror of his soul daylight he had denied.

Or maybe his eyes are sensitive to light so dark glasses at all times he must wear
Since seeing one wearing dark glasses on a cloudy morning is quite rare
In sunny weather many wear dark glasses to save their eyes from the sun's glare
On bright and warm Summer days of the sun one must beware.

This morning in the wind and rain it did seem strange to me
A young man wearing dark sun glasses out walking I did see
On such an overcast day sunglasses did seem out of place
If you cannot see a person's eyes you cannot memorize their face.

He may have eyes sensitive to light and have to wear dark glasses every day
But when I said hello to him he had nothing to say
If you cannot see a person's eyes to you that person a stranger remain
And I would not recognize his face were I to see him again.

Tuesday, February 28, 2012

Those Who Spread Propaganda

Those who spread propaganda believe in their own lies
And many grow old and sillier and few grow old and wise
And the silly never question what they want to believe
Though the information they read them is meant to deceive.

Major lies are spread by those with power for to start a major war
For to try out their weaponry of mass destruction no journey seems too far
And whilst poor and innocent people die in bombing raids far away
For to thank their god for their war victory they go to church to pray.

They use terrorism as an excuse for war two wrongs never make a right
At their disposal they may have power but their souls bereft of light
Their will on other people they do try to impose
But out of their thoughts and their ideas violence and hatred only grows.

Those who spread lies and propaganda that to war, death and suffering lead
Of the bad karma that awaits them they have planted the seed
And we only believe what we want to believe though we have been told lies
And many grow old and sillier and few grow old and wise.

Unrequited Love

If you think love is not blind look no further than Joe
He fell madly in love about ten years ago
'Twas unrequited love as him she did not wish to know
Each time he asked her on a date her answer to him always no.

She never led him on she told him to his face
In my life for you Joe there will never be a place
My soldier fights in war and to him I'll stay true
One day I will be his wife I love him and not you.

He knows of the ache of love it lasted for some time
And now he's thirty five and past his physical prime
And still a single man his hair starting to gray
And time for no one wait the clock it ticks away.

Her soldier he came home she is his wife today
With a four year old girl and another on the way
She did not mislead Joe she said no from the start
Though unrequited love is heavy on the heart.

His love for her still lives though the love ache is gone
Love's feeling never dies it keeps on living on
But life it must go on such is the way of life
The only one he loved is some one else's wife.

If Only Humans Were Born With Tails

If only humans were born with tails we then would not be hard to know
Out of the stump sticking out of our rear end the type of person we are one would show
If we slowly walked up to others with our tail wagging rather slow
In human language that would be seen as a very cautious hello.

The one with their tail between their legs would be seen as nervous and shy
Look towards the ground whilst passing others and not look them straight in the eye
Not born to be the life of the party and private in their own quiet way
But it takes all kinds for to make the Nation at least that's what some people do say.

And those with their tails wagging fiercely and who vigourously shake you by the hand
These people a bit over-friendly a surprise for you they may have planned
Like trying to rip you off in some deal with their false charm they hide their deceit
You know what they say about sugar it can cause decay in your teeth.

And those who walk with their tails held upwards and without looking pass you on the street
They have over-inflated egos enamoured in their own conceit
And those who pass you by their tails not wagging with a steely look in their stare
They have an aggressive streak in them and of them you ought to beware.

If human beings were born with tails our body language would be easy to read
And psychologists would be unemployed then as society them would not need
But Nature did not make us that way so a tail we never could grow
Though with one we'd be more interesting and maybe much easier to know.

We Are Born Small And Naked

We are born small and naked and with very little hair
And in the first few years of our lives we need tender loving care
And before a human being learns to walk the human being learns to crawl
And we live till death the equalizer makes us equal one and all.

We are children of Nature and to her one day we must return
Whether we are buried as an entire corpse or our remains to ashes in a crematorium burn
To be scattered in wood, field or mountain or even out at sea
This journey that I make through life must one day end for me.

Success and complete failure in the end one of the same
For beyond the moment you cease to live you cannot enjoy your wealth and fame
The greatest people in the history of human kind now just a memory
Though they are seen as great and they left the human race enriched by their legacy.

We are born small and naked and one day we must die old or young
For the reaper will claim the monarch as he claims the unsung
And we too belong to Nature as does every living thing
And every Spring we live to see is nearer to our final Spring.

That Does Not Mean I'm Right In My Thinking 'For Joe'

We originated from the one woman though different life journeys we've known
And we look at life very differently as one would say to each their own
Our sense of values are so very different the patriotism gene in you is strong
That does not mean I'm right in my thinking and that does not mean that you are wrong.

Separated by distance and ideals we have not met for many years
We grieved at the passing of our parents and for our sibling we shed tears
But little else we share in common you go your way and I go mine
We communicate yearly by letter and that arrangement suits me fine.

The leader you choose to look up to what he stands for I only despise
Suppose our differences makes us interesting we look at life through different eyes
Who knows I may be wrong about him but then again I may be right
To you he's a marvellous leader and to me he is a lesser light.

When you praised him in your letter I felt insulted am I wrong for to feel this way
Thousands of innocent people his victims and then to his god he does pray
And when you say he's a marvellous fellow I do respect your right to your point of view
But on this point as well as in many others I cannot say that I agree with you.

I Wonder Do Those Of Royal Blood

I wonder do those of royal blood whilst having a shower sing
Or to them is to be human not quite a Natural thing
They are so bound to protocol perhaps they feel 'tis wrong
To even in the privacy of their bathroom burst forth into song.

For all of those who are bound by protocol I have only sympathy
Of the restrictions imposed on them by Big Brother they never can live free
The whole World knows about them they have no privacy
Their lives seem quite restricted or so 'twould seem to me.

I wonder about those of royal blood do their blood flow red like ours
And do they not feel happy and whistle whilst having their warm baths and showers
Or are they that bound by protocol that even in their castle out of the public sight
That they feel obliged to remain serious and always so polite?

I wonder do those of royal blood even know what real life truly mean
Of the privileges that they enjoy many would not even dare to dream
And since they are sheltered from the reality of the bigger World out there
Of the poverty of the millions would they for a moment care?

Remembering Nuffa

I often think about him is he alive today
Or with the dead of Buninyong does he forever lay
He may be in his seventies he may look old and gray
But at heart he'll remain young until his dying day.

The bard of Buninyong Village with fondness I recall
In a place of fine people the finest one of all
Far beyond his beloved Buninyong his is a well known face
The good side of humanity he only does embrace.

A poet and a philosopher and a humanatarian all in one
He has never made an enemy and many friends he has won
A gentleman is Nuffa and none so great as he
Unforgettable for his many gifts and for his generosity.

How often in the Crown Hotel did Nuffa make our night
He told stories and sung bush songs and poems he did recite
He spread his gift of happiness to many an encore
Of poems and songs and stories we begged him for some more.

I will remember Nuffa until the day I die
So generous with his talents he shared his gift of joy
Our drinking sessions with him I remember all too well
We drunk and we made merry in the Buninyong Crown Hotel.

A Morning Of Sunshine

A morning of sunshine and on the sunlit trees
The birds chirp and pipe their often sung melodies
And there is a cool freshness in the cool Summer breeze
And the temperatures pleasant around twenty degrees.

In the warmth of the Summer the old hills near the town
Have lost their Spring green they are now looking brown
And not one drop of water in the roadside drain
The drought has set in and we do need some rain.

When birds sing in Summer sunshine though skies are bright and clear
I have heard it said that rain is very near
That it will rain tomorrow if not late today
I only quote here what a wise one did say.

A morning of sunshine the sweet scent of thyme
And warm hearted Summer is now in her prime
And in the sunlit park from flower patch to hedgerow
The white and brown butterflies flit to and fro.

Grey Kangaroos

Up through the knee high scrub the wild grey roos bound
They even go faster than a fast greyhound
Like a big pogo stick they go hopping along
Adult males taller than a tall man and twice as strong.

An aboriginal Australian marsupial as Aussie as you'll find
A grey roo in full flight goes as fast as the wind
They figure in stories of the Aboriginal Dreamtime
And they have inspired poets and bards for to rhyme.

Sometimes whilst out walking small mobs of them I see
They stand on their hind legs and they stare at me
But if I approach them they turn and hop away
I do see them often though not every day.

The joey in mum's pouch his head cocking out
A big weight for her to carry as she goes hopping about
But the other mob members she doesn't lag behind
Speed and endurance insures the survival of her kind.

Of the roo population road traffic takes it's toll
Yet their numbers in some places out of control
I often see them when out walking though not every day
And if I approach them from me they hop away.

The Man Of The Fifties

Conservative people are ruling this land
And our Government leader their ways understand
They love him for his values and to them he appeal
He can read their thoughts and he know how they feel

On social and racial issues and he takes much pride
As one who takes the lead in upholding the cultural divide
The old ways of the fifties still with us today
We still hear of the us and we still hear of the they.

The us are the good guys they stand for what is right
And the they are less worthy their souls don't receive light
Their god he is different quite different to ours
And we have to separate the weeds from the flowers.

The man of the fifties looks up to the one who wears the crown
Suppose with someone to look up to you then can look down
All those who are different to us we treat differently
The poor have only themselves to blame for their own poverty.

All homosexual males and lesbians they do not fit in
May our god forgive them for their awful sin
For sex between the same sex in god's eyes is a damnable crime
They are as bad as the poetaster who pens slipshod rhyme.

Of all radical artists and writers we must feel aware
The damage they do to society is hard to repair
In their writing and art our values they attack
As conservative people we ought to fight back.

The man of the fifties does not like refugees
The poor Homeless and Stateless from war torn lands overseas
Our migrants must be professional and preferably white
New races and cultures for our Country not right.

Our fifties style leader doesn't like the unemployed
He feels the poor jobless are lacking in pride
And the hardworking taxpayers must pay the bill
For those on disability benefits and the mentally ill.

Single mothers on benefits our leader does not like
And workers unions we don't need them since their favourite word is 'strike'
But we need heterosexual married couples with children christians preferably
We just want to return to what we once used to be.

Conservative people are ruling this Land
And our Government leader their values and needs understand
And he suits them better since he serves their need
And him and his party by them have been chosen to lead.

Monday, February 27, 2012

Post Tsunami

Billions spent on war weaponry for death and destruction of that can one make sense
And compared to that the wealthy Governments to the tsunami survivors only offer pence
The money pledged for Natural disaster victims to say the least seems small
Less than a billion dollars that seems puny overall.

Compared to the money needed to avert a major human catastrophe
In the coastal Towns wrecked by the huge waves where millions live in hopeless poverty
Where the stench of death from decaying corpses is wafting in the breeze
In the post tsunami places of hunger, despair, thirst and disease.

This is such an awful tragedy I have heard some people say
Though it does not affect us from us it is so far away
But Nature is not choosy and she does not differentiate
And the fate of those poor millions may one day be our fate.

This recent tsunami disaster more than a wake up call
It goes to show that Mother Nature is the one who rules us all
And the amounts of money pledged by wealthy Governments who spend billions on war
To alleviate the sufferings of the disaster survivors will not go very far.

A Man From Welshpool

I met a man from Welshpool an old Village by the sea
And he had drunk something more intoxicating than lemonade, coffee or tea
He came up to me on the street and he slapped me on the back
And shook my hand saying how do you do hello my name is Mac.

He did seem quite a friendly drunk he just wished to make a friend
And I just went along with that at times we must pretend
Perhaps one in his late twenties celebrating the New Year
We parted with a handshake and he laughed as he wished me cheer.

From Welshpool in South Gippsland I've been to there before
Two hundred kilometres from Melbourne or maybe even more
Just like the one I'd met the people there are friendly a welcoming sort of place
In the Village by the ocean many a smiling face.

He had drunk something stronger far than coffee though he was in quite a good mood
A happy go lucky young person in any way he was not rude
He is from Welshpool in South Gippsland where he hails from his type not rare
A place that I've been to a few times and I was made to feel welcome there.

You Tell The Whole World You're A Poet

You tell the whole World you're a poet yet in your poems you put down refugees
You say they all ought to be deported those from war torn Lands overseas
But poets they are fair minded people and they believe in a fair go for all
You lack in the true humanatarian feelings in your ways you are very small.

Twenty five million people are homeless and Stateless dispossessed in their own Homeland
You refer to them as the would be terrorists that I find hard to understand
Since refugees are victims of terror why do you put the innocent victims of war and terror down
As a poet you will always be minor you will never know literary renown.

You support those who bomb distant cities and the patrons of war victims you see fit to disown
You are such a small minded person true hardship you must not have known
George Crabbe and George R Sims were great poets and in their poems they spoke for the downtrod
In words you deride the Stateless and Homeless the children of the lesser god.

You tell the whole World you're a poet but in words you attack those who only wish for a better life
The people by war rendered Stateless and Homeless those who know about hunger and strife.
As a poet you might know recognition if you looked at life quite differently
But in words you attack Governments who help war victims and those in extreme poverty.

The One From North Queensland

With a smile on her face as she drank a cold beer
She said 'tis warmer in Queensland than it is down here
So many days there of over thirty degrees
Though the evenings are cool with a freshening ocean breeze.

As brown as a ripe chestnut from years of sunshine
The one from North Queensland doesn't look fifty nine
With brown dye she makes sure she covers her gray
And her plastic surgeon from her keep age wrinkles away.

The one from North Queensland for her age looks great
Her only child last year he turned thirty eight
And he has a daughter who will soon be nineteen
Her grandma says she looks beautiful though her I've not seen.

She will be in Victoria till mid January
Her brother and his family she has come down to see
But she is counting the days till she goes north again
Where there is even warmth in the tropical rain.

In North Queensland she'll live till the day that she die
As the tropical climate she truly enjoy
She drank her cold beer with a smile on her face
As she talked of her love of a far warmer place.

Nature Is Getting Angry

I feel for all of those thousands who in Coastal Asia died
And for the million made homeless their hopes and dreams destroyed
By that sea quake or tsunami that ripped through many a coastal town
That flattened houses on it's path and in the huge wave thousands did drown.

I feel powerless for to help them and it would seem to me
That few could have anticipated such a huge Natural tragedy
When a massive wall of water three thousand kilometres in width or more
From Africa to Asia swept up the coastal shore.

In Southern Asia where the most damage has occured the death toll in thousands rise
The ferocity of Nature's anger the survivors realize
Against the power of Nature we seem powerless and small
The tragic deaths and the sufferings of hundred of thousands is a warning to us all.

That Nature is getting angry and she is one to fear
From all corners of the World of her fury we hear
For to make us show respect for her up to two hundred thousand have to die
And what has happened to those unfortunate people can happen to you and I.

The Eve Of New Year's Day

The lorikeets are chirping in the bright sun shine
And the yellow tail black cockatoos shred pine cones on the tall monterey pine
To get at the small dark pine cone seeds to them a delicious treat
What is noursishing and good to them most humans dare not eat.

At noon on the eve of New Year the New Year twelve hours away
When bells will ring and people dance for to welcome New Year's day
The day is warm even for the time of year some thirty five degrees
But in the Town-park in the shade there is a cooling breeze.

In the bottle shop across the street the party goers their liquor buy
Tonight they will drink the New year in their parties they will enjoy
They come from the bottle shop with slabs of beer and wine and spirits by the crate
They will drink into the small hours and party on till late.

The birds sing in the sunlit park in the bright heat of noon
And young magpies practicing their song seem a bit out of tune
And the start of another year only twelve hours away
And all seems happy clear and bright on the eve of New Years day.

I May Seem Pessimistic

I may seem pessimistic though I am not without hope
But in this World of many pitfalls I do struggle for to cope
Some see me as a bit dippy not quite right in the head
Though worse things I remember about me have been said.

In my Primary school going days in the fifties in Millstreet Primary school
The teacher often sat me upon the dunce's stool
But the bright boys of the class-room they too now grow old and gray
And time doesn't wait for anyone they have known a better day.

I go through life anonymously without much success
I've known my bits of sadness and times of happiness
In Millstreet in Duhallow mine was a well known face
But life goes on without me back in the old Homeplace.

The Finnow towards the Blackwater it slowly winds it's way
Through rushy fields and grassy fields and by hedgerows night and day
And to that old green Countryside the Seasons come and go
And the rivers to the ocean onwards and forever flow.

I may seem pessimistic at times most of us are that way
But life for us all a temporary gift we live from day to day
The boys I went to school with were far brighter boys than I
But they grow old as I do and one day we all must die.

A White Lie

A bloke in the pub came up to me he shouted hi there you ne'er do well
Are you that Francis Duggan the man of doggerel
He smiled a silly toothy smile the gap showed in his teeth
Some people when they are drunk they are not nice to meet.

For to be called a doggerelist in public is such an insulting thing
A poet or a song-writer to them have a far more pleasant ring
But to argue with a drunk man is not prudent or wise
I said you've got the wrong man sir someone has told you lies.

To think he had the wrong man to him was a surprise
He said I'm sorry matey I do apologize
I told him not to worry that all was quite okay
We then shook hands in parting some times white lies do pay.

I could have bought him a beer and with him sung a song
But a white lie on such an occasion did not at all seem wrong
I am a private person and my interests are my own
And as a doggerel writer who would wish to be known.

The bloke had one too many the booze had gone to his head
And tomorrow he won't recall anything he had said
And though I felt insulted I did not show offence
To keep calm on such occasions does make for better sense.

On Horse-back The Thief

For a pittance to satan his soul he did sell
On horse-back the thief he is riding to hell
He steals from poor people who are poorer than he
And puts them far deeper into poverty.

That poor gentle old lady who lives on our street
A beautiful person so honest and sweet
He snatched her purse from her with all of the money she had
Is he not a disgrace to his mum and dad?

He can't steal from the wealthy their homes burglar proof and secure
So he goes out instead and he steals from the poor
Not your modern day Ned Kelly or Robin Hood
Those blokes were not all bad in them there was good.

He is one of the sort who believes their own lies
And he can put on the charm this crook in disguise
And innocent old ladies for his charm do fall
And the darker side of humanity they are left to recall.

He has lost his integrity and his sense of pride
And on horse-back the thief down the road to hell ride
Old ladies hang on to your purses real tight
He will smile at you and rob you and he won't feel contrite.

His Child Within

The pitter patter of the tiny feet
Of children running up and down the street
I love to hear them laughing at their play
My child within from me has gone away.

I know an old bloke he is seventy two
And some people laugh at some of the things he do
In the children's playground he see saws on the swing
What's strange to some is such a harmless thing.

He may look old his hair may look quite gray
And he may be many years past his prime day
But he is one of the luckiest of men
He has not lost with age his child within.

Some people they grow old before their time
And quite bored with life though still only in their prime
I am of that sort so I ought to know
I lost my child within decades ago.

I envy those who have their inner child
The goddess of youth upon them has smiled
The old bloke who see saws on the swing In the playground
Is one of the luckiest for miles around.

Sunday, February 26, 2012

Shark Attack Victim

Whilst swimming in South Australia from West Lakes to Semaphore
Stay in the shallow waters don't swim far from the shore
A young man taken by white pointer sharks there a couple of weeks ago
And though his end was painful 'twas not painful and slow.

He had been water skiing behind a boat a victim of circumstance
In the wrong place at the wrong time he did not stand a chance
For sharks are powerful predators their razor sharp teeth tear flesh and big bones crack
And few have lived to tell the story of a white pointer attack.

The man was in his early twenties so young for one to die
In the sunlit southern ocean doing what he did enjoy
To his broken hearted friends and family his death a tragic loss
And in their time of sorrow so heavy is their cross.

'Tis said by those with marine life knowledge that humans not shark's favourite meal
Perhaps the big white pointer mistook him for a seal
But what a shark bites into a shark will try to eat
They've been known to swallow plastic and rubber in their hunger for meat.

The next time you go water skiing, surfing or swimming in shallow waters stay
Do not venture in deep waters big sharks on you might prey
Like the poor bloke in South Australia a chance he did not stand
Two big white pointers claimed him three hundred metres out from land.

Old Marge

On her front verandah she sits on her chair
The freshening morning winds blow and toss her gray hair
The wisdom of the years in her gentle brown eyes
Old marge in her late seventies of great insight and wise.

A book on her life would make an interesting read
And a hard and a sad life was her lot for to lead
She lost her mum and dad when she was only three
Whilst swimming a huge wave swept them out to sea.

She was raised in an orphanage and she is known to say
That her carers made her the one she is today
She learned from them kindness and for others for to care
And they prepared her for life in the big World out there.

Her husband John died just thirteen months ago
He suffered from stomach cancer his end painful and slow
And their only child Jimmy he died in Vietnam
He was such a moral and noble young man.

She has known her life crosses but she doesn't complain
She says for every sorrow a friend I did gain
The sheer joy of living she happily embrace
And a smile easily comes to her wrinkled brown face.

A motoring accident ten months back left her with crippled feet
And on her electrical wheelchair she drives down the street
She smiles at and she greets everybody she meets on her way
And she makes a new friend or two everyday.

He Is That Big Man Of Wonthaggi

He is the big man of Wonthaggi one who has traveled far and wide
And he knows of life in the Outback out there in the brown Countryside
He has traveled all over Australia from Darwin down to Ballarat
Across the south western deserts he has been there and he has done that.

In Queensland he worked as a shearer in New South Wales a jackaroo
For to earn his honest living the hardest of work he did do
In Melbourne and Sydney he worked on building sites no substitute for experience they say
Though that work not as hard as shearing he still had to work hard for his pay.

The big fellow in his mid thirties he has a wife and a young son
He is home for to stay in Wonthaggi no place like home when all is said and done
His days of a traveler are over in Wonthaggi he'll grow old and gray
He has no wish to go beyond Australia there's enough to see in this big Land he say.

He is the big man of Wonthaggi brown haired and over two metres tall
One who has a generous spirit he believes in a fair go for all
He now works for a Wonthaggi builder and each fine evening after work he
Drives his wife and his son and his brown dog for a half an hour walk by the sea.

The Returned Young Migrants

Young Millstreet people home for Christmas from big cities far away
In the pubs in the old Hometown enjoying the Christmas holiday
Meeting old friends, making merry enjoying their guinness and their beer
These are good times in Duhallow coming up to the New Year.

For the ageing absent migrant this is a nostalgic time
Men and women getting older many years beyond their prime
Far from the old fields and the old Town that they left long years ago
They still can see in their flights of fancy the old hill in his hat of snow.

Their sons and daughters themselves are parents and the time it ticks on by
Far from their Hometown and Parish their bones are destined to lie
Still they have their nostalgic memories and young their memories remain
Of the wildflowers in the old fields fresh and lovely after Spring rain.

In heavily populated suburbs time has left them old and gray
Far from where the great Blackwater through Duhallow winds it's way
In their young years in the old pubs they too enjoyed the festive cheer
And they drank and they made merry coming up to the New Year.

The returned young migrants home for the Christmas for to spend time with their kith and kin
In the pubs in their old Hometown they will sing the New Year in
In early January they will be leaving for to return to the bigger town
For to live and work and maybe find love and far from their old parish settle down.


The mighty power of Nature is beyond human control
And when Mother Nature gets angry of human lives she takes toll
The tsunamis or sea quake in South Asia left thousands of people dead
Of this most recent disaster so much written and said.

When thousands die in such a way how can one count the cost
And the families will grieve for their family members lost
To the anger of Mother Nature who is beyond all blame
For the thousands of deaths due to her she does not feel any shame.

Death and life are natural to Nature all things of life must have an end
And we ought to respect her since she is our greatest friend
She grows the food we live on she gives life and she take
And in one outburst of anger she can cause so much heartbreak.

Nature does not respect human made laws since to her we belong
And in her laws you will never find the words of right or wrong
The thousands who died in Southern Asia the young and old and those in their prime
Were only in the wrong place and there at the wrong time.

The irrestible power of Nature it cannot be denied
Just one angry outburst from her and more than one hundred and seventy thousand have died
Our tenure on this Planet is for her to decide
And from her destructive anger there is no place for to hide.

I Love A Quiet Place

I love a quiet place miles from the streets of human created noise
A sunlit place full of birdsong and beautiful butterflies
That flit about the wildering flowers all through the Summer day
I know of such a lovely spot two miles off of the highway.

Where the flute like song of the grey shrike thrush is carrying in the breeze
In temperatures not too warm or cool from twenty to twenty five degrees.
To lay on the lush grass out of the sun free of care and at ease
Alone with Mother Nature in the shadow of her trees.

The busy street is full of noise the cars buzz up and down
And though magpies and magpie larks they sing all day in the parks of the town
I much prefer the quiet place where Nature reign supreme
A shady unpolluted spot beside a rippling stream.

Were I a poet with the gift of words of Nature I would write
Of wildering flowers blowing in the breeze blooming in the warm sunlight
In Nature's garden by the hill a hundred shades of green
And I could share with others of the beauty I had seen.

I love a quiet place by the hills miles from the noisy street
A few miles off of the highway where peace and beauty meet
Where grey butcherbird with the bubbling notes he pipes all through the day
In the place where Mother Nature lives I too would love to stay.

The Migrant He Is Never Far

In the high field by the old hill he fancy he can hear
The hunting red fox barking loud five days and nights from the New Year
Millions of stars in the night sky the moon is full and round
In his heart the migrant never far from his beloved homeground.

The migrant he is never far from the old mountain rill
That babbles to the river down the high field by the hill
Or from the grove by the old home where all through the days of Spring
The chaffinch and the robin and the pink breasted bullfinch sing.

The migrant he is never far from his beloved hometown
Where he was known on every street when he walked up and down
And someone would call him by his name and smile and say hello
But many Seasons have passed since for that was moons ago.

The migrant he is never far from the old furzy glen
Where the grey badgers have their sett remote from the homes of men
In his heart he is never far from home each time he visualize
He hear again the skylark carol in the homeland skies.

O'er the rushy field by the bog in Spring all through the night
With his wings and tail the male snipe makes a goat like sound his mating call in the moonlight
And the migrant in his heart never far from home though he lives far away
From the old fields near the old town where he first saw light of day.


So many are convinced donkeys are stupid
Of Nature's ways so little do we know
Since I had quite a bit to do with donkeys
When I was younger many years ago.

Going home from Millstreet Town from school at evening
There were always donkeys loose on the roadway
I often caught one hoping for a ride home
Though respect for them I soon did learn to pay.

No sooner were I on his back the donkey
Would gallop off to the nearest hedgerow
And drag me by the hawthorns and gorse bushes
And left me with thorns for to pick and with bruises for to show

As my price for under-estimating donkeys
The asses not what we make them out to be
After about ten times of being dragged by thorny hedgerows
The message finally got through to me

That donkeys are far smarter than some humans
Believe me I am one who ought to know
Hoping for free rides on them often left me bruised and sorry
When I was younger many years ago.

Bill's Son Joe

Bill wishes his son had been a well known sportsman
My son's a poet you never hear him say
As if that is something to be ashamed of
'Tis a strange World that we live in today.

Young Joe has no interest in sports or football
He'd rather go to the park by the bay
And watch the seagulls by the park bench tables
Squabble for scraps of food the picknickers throw away.

Joe is nineteen he doesn't have sisters or brothers
A fine young poet with words he has a way
His Nature poems original and special
That's what the poetry critics of him say.

The other fathers talk of their sons sporting prowess
My son ran well, my son played a fine game
But Bill he never talks about his son Joe
As if writing poetry is a thing of shame.

As if writing poetry is for women only
The redneck father has a cultured son
He doesn't feel proud that his son is a good poet
And that a prestigious poetry prize he's won.

Bill son Joe is a poet of rare talent
With which the father he is not impressed at all
He'd much prefer that he were a good sportsman
Good at athletics, boxing or football.

The Beauty Of Nature

The beauty of Nature is such a splendid thing
In the sunlit Parkland the birds chirp and sing
Young magpies are piping on the sheoak trees
And there is a gentle freshness in the mild Summer breeze.

The tiny willy wagtail try to chase the magpies away
From his place in the Park but despite him they stay
They live in his territory him they don't fear
Not always peaceful in Nature or so 'twould appear.

Though the forecast for tomorrow is warm and sunny again
The swallows fly low some say a sign of rain
Not a grey cloud in sight the sky is so blue
And so good to look out on the beautiful view.

It captivates artists and inspires bards to rhyme
And the beauty of Nature it does not change with time
The birds chirp and whistle on bush, hedge and tree
And the sun shining bright on the park by the sea.

Saturday, February 25, 2012

Mrs Vanstone's New Year Present To The Bakhtiyaris

Amanda Vanstone's promised New Year present to the Bakhtiyari family is deportation
She claims the family are from Pakistan
But Mr Bakhtiyari swears he and his wife and children are Afghans
And he does seem an honest enough man.

In this underpopulated Nation of only twenty million
There surely is room for eight people more
One of the largest Land masses on the Planet
Two thousand miles from north to southern shore.

For the past few years the Bakhtiyaris in and out of detention centres
They have been used by the Australian Government for political gain
For to appease the right wing redneck majority
In a society where empathy is lacking the poor are left to absorb their own pain.

A New Year present by the Minister for Immigration Mrs Vanstone to the Bakhtiyaris
A one way trip out of Australia on a plane
To Pakistan and an uncertain future
The Stateless poor are to lose out again.

We First Learned How To Crawl

I do seem quite blind to the things that they see
And though they are my friends they seem strangers to me
The things they believe in I struggle to comprehend
Sometimes I do feel that I don't have a friend.

On some issues they hold quite strong racist views
And to those who are different they don't give fair dues
I argue with them about colour and race
But they think that's funny they laugh in my face.

At the Local Pub with them I socialize
And to some I'm a Redneck just one of the boys
They say the company you keep tells all about you
But that's an assumption and not always true.

Before those of royal birth walked they too learned how to crawl
And I'm one who believes in a fair go for all
But equality as such never was the in thing
And 'tis only of the wealthy and famous that some people sing.

The word loser is used in a disparaging way
And we hurt others feelings by the cruel things we say
'Tis each for themselves in the big World out there
And many through life heavy crosses must bear.

My friends at the pub I don't see much of them of late
And sometimes I do feel that I don't have a mate
They do not believe in a fair go for all
And before we all walked we first learned how to crawl.

The Mother Will Defend Her Child

In her offspring there may be room for improvement
Their character by their behaviour may well be soiled
But against the put down words of others
The mother will defend her child.

Her son may be found guilty of murder
And all others say in jail he belong
But in his defence the mother speaks out
She says the jury got it wrong.

The daughter in jail for drug peddling
The ruination of human lives a serious crime
But the mother says she is not guilty
Her judge got it all wrong this time.

The mothers will defend their children
Though they may have dishonoured the family name
They will not say our children are guilty
They will try to shield them from blame.

Her children may not be good people
And bad things to others have done
But the mother will defend her daughter
And she too will stand up for her son.

Return To Semaphore

In mid to late December thoughts return to home once more
And this Christmas he's going back to Semaphore
The old Town by the ocean far away
In South Australia where he first saw light of day.

The Town he left when he had turned nineteen
The bigger World out there was to be seen
The bug of wander was in his young soul
And the urge to travel beyond his control.

This year for Christmas with his wife and young daughter south he will drive his way
Of his brick home in Sydney's Rushcutter Bay
Close to two thousand miles the journey up and down
For to spend the New Year in his old Hometown.

He last was in Semaphore about five years ago
And many there he did not seem to know
And though the need in us is to cling to the past
In his old Hometown the changes happened fast.

With his wife and daughter from Sydney he will drive down
For to spend a few weeks in his old Hometown
And in Semaphore he will drink to the New Year
And for his old memories shed a silent tear.

Sean O Riordan

The quiet man from Kilcorney we recall
He loved the games of Hurling and Gaelic Football
A Patron of the Millstreet G A A
And a quiet achiever in his own quiet way.

He did not live on for to grow old and very gray
And quiet is the place where he now lay
And though fond memories of the man with us will stay
At a time like this even words are hard to say.

Words won't bring him back to his family and his beloved wife Kathleen
And in Church Street he will never more be seen
Where his was a loved and a familiar face
There won't be one around to take his place.

As Sportsmen and Builders the Riordans Matt, Denis, Sean and Michael knew renown
They built many houses close to Millstreet Town
Quite a name for themselves as builders they did make
A Riordan built house one never could mistake.

From Millstreet Town he is forever gone
But fond memories of a good man will live on
From life's cares one day we all will find release
And Sean O Riordan may he ever rest in peace.

We All Need Recognition

Each of us are entitled to some fame
To know that those who know us at the mention of our name
Will say that he or she is good at what they do
In such way I'm no different to you.

When other people cruel things of me say
Scant attention to their ignorance I pay
And though I'm not one for to turn the other cheek
Revenge is one thing I for one don't seek.

When people say my rhymes are doggerel
I never ever tell them go to hell
Since they are entitled to their point of view
Each to their own so happens to be true.

Only say to myself to them ignorance is bliss
The point of respect for others feelings they do seem to miss
With their cruel words they seek their ill renown
By trying to knock the smaller poppies down.

They criticize for criticisms sake
But any criticism of themselves they cannot seem to take
The flaws we have we never seem to see
If you can give you take that's how 'twould seem to me.

They criticize the powerless but not those with real power
The hypocrites who seek their glorious hour
By waging war on those in poverty
They tell them we have come to set you free

Of the tyrants who to you have been so cruel
For years you have suffered under their rule
But first of all your Cities we must destroy
And to set you free thousands of your people have to die.

You never condemn people such as these
Enough of your bashing of the powerless please
Those who are liberators in your eyes
In truth are only tyrants in disguise.

We all need recognition it would seem
And each of us should be allowed to dream
But you who knock the smaller poppies down
There's far too many like you in the town.

Timmy Duggan

A quiet man and to many a good friend
Today for the last time he passed through the West End
Where he and Bina had lived for many years
Those who knew him will farewell him with tears.

So many years of time have ticked on by
Since the young Timmy Duggan he left Lisnaboy
To learn from his older brother Andy the barbering trade
In Millstreet Town he lived and worked and stayed

Until the reaper on him paid the call
The reaper who will one day claim us all
Our prime goes fast we soon grow old and die
And the one who claimed him will claim you and I.

He often went to Millstreet church to pray
And only good of others he did say
A man who never made an enemy
And few as good or as honourable as he.

A great character in his own quiet way
A new joke or two for his customers each day
As he clipped their hair them he did entertain
His type of man we may not see again.

As an authority on greyhounds in Millstreet he knew renown
One of the wisest people in his old Duhallow Town
In the burial field in the Tanyard with the departed he will lay
But fond memories of Tim the Barber will live beyond today.

The Most Destructive Of All

'Twould seem that we evolved from primates our ancestors swung from the trees
And our distant cousins are gorillas, orang utans and chimpanzees
Though with them we share little in common we have evolved quite differently
Humans have travelled to other planets and gone far in technology.

Yet we are the most destructive of all of Earth's creatures to Mother Earth more harm we do
Than any other species of life to Nature we never are true
Destruction of habitat leads to extinction and billions of trees each year by humans cut down
For to grow crops and put up new buildings and make room for another town.

Despite our amazing successes we are our own worst enemies
We don't do our Planet any favours when we remove billions of trees
When we pillage Nature's wild kingdom the price for us will be huge to pay
We abuse the Planet that feeds us and we will live to regret that one day.

Our Past Lives On With Us

We may not be in prison yet we are not truly free
For of our past we are prisoners that's how 'twould seem to me
Bad memories always haunt us they never go away
Until the reaper claims us they are with us to stay.

For many childhood memories are full of mental pain
Their heavy cross of sorrows through their lives with them remain
Children of war and famines they cannot forget their past
Their living nightmares with them linger though few other things seem to last.

Children of abusive parents bad old memories in them stay young
They live remembering their traumas and die as the unsung
Their innocence stolen from them in their childhood of tears
Bad memories still with them undimmed by the passing years.

We may not be in prison though it would seem to me
That we prisoners of our memories of our past we can't be free
Until the reaper claims us good and bad memories with us stay
Our past seems to live on with us and it never goes away.


James has returned to his old Hometown and gray now is his once dark hair
To end his life journey from where it started he has been in the big World out there
He has seen some strange things in his travels and to tell has strange stories more than a few
And that truth can be stranger than fiction so happens to only be true.

He keeps us entertained at the Local Pub with his stories from far away
From the crowded cities of Asia like Shanghai, Delhi and Bombay
And of his adventures in Europe in big cities distant from home
Like London and Berlin and Moscow, Amsterdam Paris and Rome.

He has been to Canada and the cold Arctic the wild Northlands of the midnight sun
And been to the U S Cities of New York , L A and the gambling capital Vegas where far more money is lost than won
And he has seen the mighty Amazon the jewel in South America's crown
Flowing through the great Rainforest distant from the nearest town.

James has returned to his Hometown for to grow old there and die
Where his Mum and Dad now rest in peace he too one day will lie
├Źn the Local Pub at the weekends when he has had a few beers
He tells us of his great adventures in his younger and his restless years.

Friday, February 24, 2012

A Chance Sighting

I am just your average rhymer and I pen doggerel
And I never did speak to Poesy though poets know her well
Once I did see her briefly that memory with me stay
The sunlit Summer meadow scented sweetly of new mown hay.

She ran along the headland beside the leafy wood
Perhaps some thirty metres or less from where I stood
In her ankle length green dress of Summer a Goddess in bare feet
She glanced my way just briefly though me she did not greet.

Her wavy shoulder length nut brown hair, her lovely eyes of green
The most beautiful woman that I had ever seen
She did not stop or tarry she disappeared from sight
Where butterflies were flitting in the bright and warm sunlight.

Green Mother Nature's daughter she is the poets Goddess
I saw her only briefly in her green flowery dress
The poets seem to know her well she speaks to them each day
She is their inspiration and their respects to her they pay.

It was just a chance sighting I was one of the lucky few
To see the Goddess poesy though she quickly faded from view
I saw her for one minute and never more again
And the memory of her beauty till death with me will remain.


She sits in her room quite relaxed on her chair
With the sunlight on some of her face and brown hair
A woman in her late twenties or early thirties maybe
And she is one who looks so lovely to me.

It's obvious she is in the family way
The beautiful photograph tell what a thousand words cannot say
That the birth pain will come to her before her moment of joy
At the first cry of her baby a girl or a boy.

For to be a mother to most women is enough fame
And this beautiful young woman Jennifer is her name
Must by now be a mother for it would appear
That this photograph was taken some weeks back or last year.

Though all what we hope for not all what it seems
The mother for her child has always great dreams
And Jennifer for her child will have big dreams too
And one hopes for her that all she wishes for comes true.

She sits in her room quite at ease on her chair
Eyes closed in reflection she seems free of care
Her fullness exposed it seems obvious to me
That Jennifer is a young mother to be.

An Ageing Gipsy Woman

An ageing woman of no fixed abode
She has travelled down many a road
The lines of life etched on her face
And she is one who ages with grace.

Born into the wandering way of life
And is she a mother and to an ageing Rom a wife
And do her children play music and sing
And dance around the camp-fire in a ring.

All she asks is a small help from you
A gold or silver coin maybe two
Towards her ticket to her next destiny
How far distant from Paris or to where that might be.

The darkness of her eyes and her hair
And the colourful scarf that she wear
A beautiful though ageing Gipsy Rose
She strikes such a classical pose.

One can detect the pride of her race
And the wisdom in her beautiful face
The wisdom the years only bring
To one who should be a Queen for a King.

Discrimination against her she surely has known
But any thoughts of inferiority she has outgrown
So elegant, graceful and proud
She would stand out in any crowd.

The camera of course never lies
It has captured the wisdom in her brown Romany eyes
The great book of life by her read
And of her what more can be said.

Fair Dues To Joyce Hemsley

Give credit where credit is due seems a fair thing to say
And fair dues to Joyce Hemsley on her Honorary Degree she did it the hard way
By writing four thousand poems in a decade four hundred poems a year
Of such a rare achievement we do not often hear.

The authorities on literature have finally taken note
That Joyce Hemsley of Sunderland is a major modern poet
She has mastered all of the poetic disciplines in her own distinctive style
Such rare poetic talent we've not seen for some while.

Her Honorary Degree on Philosophy one might say overdue
And Wordsmiths of her calibre are and were always few
Just an amazing Human Being who says hard work don't pay
And her most recent award is fully deserved it would be fair to say.

Her poetry has it's own voice and of her it can be said
That in a thousand years from this day her poems will still be read
So humble in her achievements yet of her greatness can't be denied
A woman of great talent she is known Worldwide.

Fair dues to Joyce Hemsley to her we'll drink a toast
Four thousand poems to her credit of which she does not boast
A Doctor of Philosophy few with her to compare
She is a natural Wordsmith and people like her rare.

Her's Is Not The Nine To Five Job

She cradles her baby in her arms I notice her rather large hands
She belongs to a nomadic race who wander through European Lands
A race who have known oppression and as fringe dwellers they remain
But from the beautiful music and culture of the Rom such marvellous insights we gain.

Her's is not the nine to five job there is nowhere she wishes to stay
Tomorrow from Paris in France may find her some distance away
But don't pity her for her lot for she lives the way that she choose
If there is a Stock Market collapse she will not be the one who will lose.

Her high cheek bones and her beautiful face her dark eyes and eyebrows and her tousled dark hair
For this young Princess of the roads do you have some money to spare
To help her to feed her young child and to help for to pay her train fare
On a train out of Paris tonight her world is the big world out there.

Save for her circumstance of birth success wise she may have gone far
A wealthy man's beautiful wife or a world renowned Movie star
But such a life she would not choose she is what she wishes to be
A dark haired Princess of the roads do not pity her for her poverty.

I search her face looking for flaws but she doesn't have flaws
'twould seem to me
And the more that I gaze on her beautiful face the more of her great soul I see
A young Rom mother with baby in arms she never may make headline news
But if the Stock market collapses today she will not be the one who will lose.

The Devotion To Patriotism

The Citizens band play the National Anthem at the front of the parade
And the returned soldiers march behind them in war their mark they had made
In a north eastern country they had done their Nation proud
The National flags are waving and the cheering for them loud

They march up to the City park in the balmy Summer air
Where on a platform erected for the occasion seated and waiting there
Were the leaders of the Government and in patriotism's cause
Each in their speech lauded the brave young returned soldiers to thunderous applause.

They lauded the young men who fought for peace but none of them mentioned the civil war
That they had left behind them in a Land from here afar
Or the thousands of dead civilians or the thousands of war refugees
Who live in camps miles from anywhere beyond the northern seas.

Another war is brewing in a Country far from here
And the Government leaders of terrorism instill in us the fear
And their so called War on terror is never destined to end
You kill somebody's children they will not be your friend.

The young and brave returned soldiers are back in their Hometown
And hundreds of people line the street on either side for to honour their renown
And the Citizen band play the National Anthem at the head of the parade
The devotion to patriotism won't be allowed to fade.

I Apologize

I apologize but for what I do not know
And my standing with some 'twould seem at a low
'Twould seem I hurt their feelings with my pen
But in the game of life one has to lose to win.

I apologize but to me it doesn't make sense
To think some of the harmless verses I write cause offence
I've lost some friends and such is life they say
Though they were never my friends anyway.

I apologize to every Tom, Joe, Jill and Dave
Lets hope they don't take their grudges with them to the grave
And though they do not accept my apology
Of any guilt I've felt I now feel free.

I apologize for what it now is worth
If with my verses feelings I have hurt
But I've known insult had no sympathy
If you give you take that's how it ought to be.

The So Called Good Economic Managers

Due to Government mismanagement we see a society in decay
And the wealthy at the expense of the poor get wealthier it should never be that way
In so called affluent Western Nations people live rough on the street
Without a place to call home to out of rubbish bins they eat.

The Government due to so called good economic management get re-elected but the poor getting more poor
And for the youth of the poor Suburbs job opportunities are fewer
And many young people never find employment because of their postal address
And lack of career opportunities give rise to feelings of hopelessness.

Life is tough for those in the poor suburbs where poverty is rife
From the day that they are born they must struggle on through life
The monarch became monarch due to birthright doesn't life seem so unfair
Whilst millions are dying of hunger in the bigger World out there.

The so called good economic managers are back in power again
But from their good economic mamagement only the wealthy gain
And even in so called wealthy Western Nations there is widespread poverty
And more people dying of malnutrition than ever before in the twenty first century.

Silence In The Dread Of Fear

With it you may well disagree and say it cannot be true
But a loss of Human Rights to some one else is a loss of Human Rights to me and you
They may be complete strangers and from us live far away
But by ignoring their lot those who abuse them we condone though that's not true you do say.

You witness a murder and you walk on and pretend you do not see
Then you are as guilty as the one who commits the crime or so 'twould seem to me
In such a case you ought to help the one under attack though some succumb to fear
And the criminals they thrive on fear those facts seem very clear.

Of the most awful crimes against Humanity we hear of every day
And those who commit such serious crimes their price for them they must pay
And we who do not condemn such acts are we less guilty than they
To keep your silence on such issues is to condone them it would be fair to say.

You journalists, writers and poets in this you have some part to play
Ignore crimes against Humanity and fear won't go away
The brave person only dies once the fearful dies a little every day
And our silence in the dread of fear means fear with us will stay.


Above the undulating hills the welcome swallows fly
And the skylark o'er Penhallow is carolling in the sky
The nearest place to utopia that one might wish to see
The high country of South Gippsland seems beautiful to me.

This was high forested country till the white pioneers came
And though they cleared the forest they must feel free of blame
Since they thought they were doing the right thing at least in progress name
And few things last forever and few things stay the same.

Long before the white invasion or before poets learned to rhyme
The black tribes danced their corroborees in the historical Dreamtime
Long before the name of Penhallow in the un-recorded past
But few things are forever and few things ever last.

The old hills of Penhallow they look so green today
And a freshening wind blow uphill from the not too distant bay
And the airborne lark is carolling and the swallows fly high and low
And my love for this old Country with the passing of time grow.

Thursday, February 23, 2012

Empty Vessel

After a few drinks in the evening with his pub mates in the bar
He brags about his new home and about his brand new car
And about his job promotion and his huge raise in pay
And they seem quite impressed with him boasting for some works okay.

The volume of his voice it raise a little 'twould seem with every beer
Till everyone in the bar-room can't help but overhear
Him boasting of his greatness of which he makes us all aware
But for his hour of self promotion I wish he'd go elsewhere.

Of the not so good side to him he never does relate
Of the unmanly things about ourselves we would not tell our mate
He does not realize yet that his secret is out
That he goes home each evening and knocks his wife about.

He is seen as successful in many people's eyes
But many can be gullible and not what you'd call wise
Material things impress them yet they fail to realize
That the most empty vessel does make the most of noise.

I Write Because

I write I do not know for wealth or fame
And not even one mention of my name
And there is little reason to my rhyme
And I feel lost and years beyond my prime.

I write because I feel the need to write
The window of my soul open to light
I have this useless gift that I can't sell
And if people say I'm strange I think 'ah well'

I write because the blackbird told me to
I hear him say 'I have a task for you'
You write about the marvellous song I sing
But not of where I build my nest in Spring.

I write but why so I do not understand
Perhaps the pen is happy in my hand
And the need within me keeps me writing on
Though all of my better years are dead and gone.

I write because I hear a strange voice say
Keep keeping on don't give the game away
Your efforts may be branded doggerel
But you have dreams to share and tales to tell.

I write because to such I can relate
And I've no wish to set retirement date
And I write because I feel the need to write
And the window of my soul open to light.

Mick Cashman

In the Cork County Senior Football Championship Final of 1957 I still recall the day
The last time I see Mick Cashman for his home club Millstreet Play
At the Cork Athletic grounds that day the Duhallow men were beat
The City Club St Finbarrs proved too good for Millstreet.

The Barrs fans celebrated the victory was sweet
But Mick Cashman played a great game he was gallant in defeat
In the biggest day in Cork County for the game of Gaelic Football
And though Millstreet lost to go that far they did well overall.

Mick Cashman was ordained a priest and for New Zealand he was bound
Far from Millstreet in Duhallow and Tullig his home ground
In the green and gold of Millstreet he was never seen again
But what was a loss to Ireland was surely New Zealand's gain.

Mick Cashman was a gentleman and of him 'twould be fair to say
That to help out other people he went out of his way
A Parish Priest in New Zealand where he was known far and wide
And his success in his adopted Country to Millstreet a sense of pride.

He is buried in New Zealand far south and far away
From Tullig above Millstreet Town where he first saw light of day
Last saw him in a Cork County Final for Millstreet playing Gaelic Football
A good memory till my own end that I surely will recall.

His Old Dog

His old dog now in her long rest her lot will be ours one day
In her grave by the apple tree in his backyard her bones forever lay
She passed on a few years ago with sadness he recall
The clock of life keeps ticking on and time takes care of us all.

His old dog a black and white border collie to him was a true friend
Far more devoted than his ex wife she loved him till her end
He found her dead in her kennel from a heart attack over-night
Though twelve years old she had not shown signs that her end was in sight.

Although he always kept a dog in years and decades past
No canine now in his backyard his old bitch was the last
Dog for to bark in his back-yard he too feels the weight of time
It has been five decades or more since he was in his prime.

On the rose tree on the old dog's grave red roses are in bloom
And the Summer air scents sweetly of Nature's own perfume
And no more beautiful place to rest in peace than beside an
apple tree
In the backyard where you lived your life in your Hometown by the sea.

Some Of The Girls

Some of the girls I knew in my boyhood years in Millstreet in Duhallow
The wanderlust was in their young hearts and their dreams they did follow
To bigger towns beyond the seas far from the Finnow and Blackwater
The saddened parents shed their tears for their migrating daughter.

In the Corpus Christi processions through Millstreet Town the young convent school girls looked pretty
Some of them later on migrated to live and work in the big city
With their baskets of flower petals they kissed the petals and on the street then threw them
Oh they were innocent and young to us young boys who knew them.

Some of the girls I knew in my school going days are now with the departed
But in my memory they live on young and pure and light- hearted
I visualize them as they were and they have not grown older
In their ginger, brown, dark and blond hair that hung loose to the shoulder.

Some of the girls I knew in my school going days still living in Duhallow
They fell in love with and married local men each has a different dream to follow
They kissed and tossed their flower petals as they walked in the procession
In their white communion dresses innocence in their expression.

In Distant South Australia

In distant South Australia where the Murray waters flow
Through Tailem Bend and Murray Bridge so wide and deep and slow
She pines for her young lover who left her in the early Spring
When grey shrike thrush the familiar bird his familiar song did sing.

He promised to write to her but for the letter she still wait
She doesn't have an address for him he may be Interstate
And has he found another love that thought has crossed her mind?
Of never seeing or hearing from him again she almost feels resigned.

He left his lovely brown eyed Murray Rose with wavy golden hair
The wanderlust was in him for the bigger World out there
A handsome dark haired young man of twenty one year older than she
The far off hills and distant towns he yearned for to see.

Where his travels have taken him to one could only hope to guess
He may be travelling north somewhere one of no fixed address
He may be in Melbourne, Sydney, Brisbane or Darwin or by the sea in Broome
In the north western tropics where the coastal banksias bloom.

In distant South Australia through the lands where saltbush grow
The mighty Murray River through the flat country flow
A young woman for a letter waits but her wait seems all in vain
From the lover she may not hear from nor may never see again.

The Farewell Love Song

The love that I feel for you with words I cannot say
But nothing lasts forever or so 'twould seem that way
You left me without warning and in retrospect I see
That I was rather naive to think that you loved me.

The words I longed to hear 'I love you' to me you never said
Though I had convinced myself that you loved me since my heart ruled my head
I should have read your body language though to my self delusion I did cling
Since you had told me more than once that our relationship was just a fling.

You left me for another a year ago today
And for your lesson in Human feelings in heartache I did pay
But our nights of love making passion I never will forget
And having loved you like I did something I don't regret.

I've been told that you are married you've found true love at last
And I must get on with my life the past forever past
But one thing I've learned from knowing you that for love to be true
That it cannot be felt by one it must be felt by two.

And I will fall in love again all things come to those who wait
And next time I may be lucky I may meet my soulmate
I loved you with a passion the greatest love I knew
And this is the farewell love song that I have penned for you.

Each Thunder Shower Is Welcome

The rain come down in torrents and thunder's in the sky
And the rufous whistler whistles in the small wood nearby
'Twould seem loud noise in his tiny heart release his gift of song
But I am not a Naturalist and I may have that wrong.

The warm winds of December blow down from Archies Creek
And thunder showers in the forecast for the rest of the week
The rain is always welcome at this time of the year
Since always in the Summer drought and bush fires we fear.

The hills around Wonthaggi have seldom looked so green
And the flattened grass by the creek in the coastal paddocks tell where the floods have been
The farmers have a brief rest from cutting and baling hay
In the coastal lands of South West Gippsland a fortnight from Christmas day.

Those old hills of Archies Creek above Wonthaggi Town
At present may look quite green but soon enough they may look brown
And each thunder shower is welcome despite what the farmer say
Since next week will be warm and dry and he can bale more hay.

You May impress The Impressionable

'Tis not by the god you believe in or if you drive in a new car
These kind of things do not tell me of the person that you are
Your values as a Human Being tell us more about you
Than your new car or your new house or than your god can do.

As you drive in your new Ferrari me you try to impress
But I do not feel impressed at all though I wish you happiness
You may impress the impressionable but you do not impress me
An over inflated ego is all that I can see.

In every five seconds one more child die of hunger in the bigger World out there
And you flaunt your material things doesn't life seem so unfair?
Of the suffering of the many you don't seem to know or care
And thousands are in poverty for every millionaire.

You poets of the nobility of the upper class you sing
To use your talents in glorifying such people is such a wasteful thing
For you to do why don't you pen your verses for the children of the street
Who search the back street rubbish bins for mouldy food others don't eat.

You may impress the impressionable your type they do admire
And to one day drive a red Ferrari is something to which they aspire
Yet whilst I waste my time penning verse on you hundreds of people of hunger have died
Their right to life due to our greed to them has been denied.


Compassion it is a great gift when all is said and done
You will find it in some people but not in everyone
In a World of Compassion of famines and wars we would be free
And we would not be hearing of crimes against humanity.

It is never in the ruthless such a gift they don't possess
For to get what they want in life some people are merciless
In their climb up the success ladder they knock other people down
And compassion can be sadly lacking in the wealthiest one in town.

You will find it in most women as well as in some men
Those who do not believe that some must lose for others for to win
But those who lack in compassion do not see it that way
One might say in the Human World they are the birds and beasts of prey.

Compassion is a marvellous gift some have in them empathy
And they can be easily moved to tears at the sad things that they see
And though it goes without saying that ruthlessness is a bad human flaw
There is nothing that states that it is a crime in any man made law.

Wednesday, February 22, 2012

Denny Long Of Annagloor

A two time All Star Gaelic Footballer about him he inspired many a song
The pride of Cork and Millstreet the marvellous Denny Long
Arguably Ireland's finest midfielder when he was in his prime
The memory of his greatness will not fade out in time.

His great positional sense and accurate kicking was a pleasure to behold
And the story of his rise to fame it often has been told
From Annagloor to Croke Park he made it all the way
The cheers rang out for Denny on All Ireland Football Final day.

A Gaelic Football legend of the seventies the years have left him slow
But he was quite a hero some three decades ago
So stylish and athletic Sportsmen like him are rare
And with the best in Ireland he surely does compare.

It was a privilege to have seen him play he was a credit to the game
All Irelands, All Stars and County Championship medals and one who knew great fame
His lengthy and accurate kicking his great useage of the football
A great player the Gaelic Football fans remember and recall.

He reached heights in Gaelic Football that only few attain
And though his better days behind him the memories remain
Of Denny Long of Annagloor a Gaelic Football great
He often gave us reason for to cheer and celebrate.

I Thought I Had Left My Past Behind

I still recall the tiny wren in feathers of mottled brown
The one who had a big bird song his one claim to renown
And as he sang on a small bush his head bobbed up and down
He and his wife raised their family in the hedgerow by the town.

I fancy that I still can hear the voice of the clear rill
In the calm of late evening as it babbles down the hill
To join with the big river on it's journey to the sea
I thought I had left my past behind but my past is still with me.

I left the old fields and old hill for to travel far away
But in my flights of fancy I see them every day
And the hawthorns in their white blooms of May so beautiful to see
And I hear the robin singing on a silver birch tree.

The dark brown white breasted dipper with the scratchy sounding song
Once heard and seen him you remember you cannot get him wrong
He and his mate they live and breed and die in the stream the only life they know
And he chirps as he bobs up and down on rock by where the rapids flow.

I thought I had left my past behind but my past followed me on the day
That I left the woods, the fields and hills for to travel far away
And for me to hear the airborne lark I need only close my eyes
And my past is all around me each time I visualize.

My Only War Is With Myself

My only war is with myself I find life quite a battle
In the paddock across the road I envy the red white face cattle
They sit in the sunshine and they chew their cud without a care or worry
Whilst I am full of jumbled thoughts and I'm always in a hurry.

In Nature's leafy woods song birds sing and wildflowers bloom around me
But I do not appreciate the beauty that surround me
True poets and artists feel inspired by such great Natural beauty
To write about and sketch such marvellous things they see it as their duty.

In a hundred years or less from now none will know I had existed
In any book or magazine my name will not be listed
And yet the worries of the world weigh heavily on my shoulder
Like many I have not grown wise I only have grown older.

The grey shrike thrush on wattle tree pipes his notes of December
His song familiar to my ears and so easy to remember
And butterflies with the sun on their wings they look so colourful and pretty
At home in country paddock or park or garden in the city.

I do not believe in this religious stuff like we are all sisters and brothers
My only war is with myself though I do not like some others
The cattle in the paddock as they chew their cud they do look quite contented
And happiness it is a natural thing and by Nature was invented.

The Lure Of Venus Bay

If you drive through South Gippsland on the South Gippsland Highway
It might pay you to visit the Village of Venus Bay
A stone throw from the ocean of wide beaches with miles of strand
One of the quiet beauty spots of this great Southern Land.

I've travelled to quaint places off of the beaten track
But it is the lure of Venus Bay that always brings me back
The beach there never crowded and miles of open space
It is well worth a visit it is such a lovely place.

The last time I was in Venus Bay a couple of years ago
Up from the sunlit ocean a warm Summer wind did blow
The beach it was deserted the tide was rolling in
And the sea spray felt refreshing in my hair and facial

This Summer I must visit Venus bay in January maybe
One of the quietest and prettiest places in South Gippsland by the sea
Relaxing for the body and soothing for the soul
Just a stone throw from the Village where the surf waves beach-wards roll.

His Maiden Speech

Just another wealthy and useless Politician in Parliament giving his maiden speech
He seems so full of his own self importance as if he had some knowledge to impart and for to teach
As he sees it to the unenlightened who did not vote for him yet for him to win his opponents had to lose
His silly fellow party members clap him and applaud him so few wise people make the headline news.

He tells the Nation how great a person he is and he brags aloud of his Uni degrees
why do we elect people with big egos their conceit is like a contagious disease
Since others seem to follow their example and boast aloud of how wonderful they are
And their self promotion seems to work well for them in life their bragging seems to take them far.

He talked of big business and financially successful people but nothing of the poor
Which brings me to think that for social ills he does not have a cure
But since he lives in the leafy Suburb want and need he does not see
And for the homeless of the slums he does not feel empathy.

Just another wealthy and useless Politician he is not one of a few
And to life's higher principles he never could be true
To the poverty of the underclass lip service he did not even pay
He only bragged about himself each to their own they say.

Mary O Dwyer

She has got a lot of charm much about her to admire
Full of good old Aussie humor likeable Mary O Dwyer
If you cannot laugh at her jokes then you need to see a shrink
Or you are a boring person slow to laugh and slow to think.

Few like her live in Wonthaggi few like her live anywhere
People of such wit and humor are and always have been rare
So kind hearted and unconceited as a friend so nice to know
One you always will remember though to your life friends come and go.

With two daughters close to their teens she was never some one's wife
But she makes the most of her lot and looks on the bright side of life
She too has her share of worries but she laughs her cares away
If she feels sad for some reason it won't last for the whole day.

If you cannot laugh with Mary then you ought to face the truth
That you are a boring person of laughter you are destitute
For she is bright and quick witted and she is free of conceit
And one of the nicest people that anyone could wish to meet.

I Am Such A Lucky Fellow

I am such a lucky fellow though I am not a millionaire
I could have been born in some third World Country where paupers are not rare
Slowly dying of malnutrition without a penny to my name
Where two per cent own ninety per cent of the Country's wealth and know all of the glory and the fame.

I am such a lucky fellow that's how 'twould seem to me
I have never known what it feels like to live in true poverty
I have never lived in a war zone where human life is taken cheap
Or heard the grieving bereaved for lost family members weep.

I could have been born to poor parents in a grimy slum back street
Always hungry in my childhood years with never much to eat
Become homeless in my teen years and not be alive today
I am such a lucky fellow at least I do feel that way.

I am such a lucky fellow very lucky it would seem
I could be one of those people who no longer even dream
Of ever knowing happiness some see death as not a bad thing
It is of the so called nobility that the grand poets only sing.

Many end up in refiugee camps on their journey to nowhere
Without any hope of a welcome in the bigger World out there
Compared to them I am so lucky I have no cause to complain
I've a warm house to give me shelter from the frost, wind, snow and rain.

Those Known As The Fringe Dwellers

They live on the social fringes like outsiders looking in
Those known as the Fringe Dwellers those not destined to win
In a World of haves and have nots as have nots they remain
Seen as under achievers many must lose for some to gain.

The Government Ministers try to tell us the Economy is in the best of health
Though five per cent of the people control most of the wealth
Not much use a healthy economy to the homeless of the street
Without a bed to sleep in they cannot make ends meet.

We have those known as the working poor and the people on welfare
And five per cent own three quarters of the Country's wealth doesn't life seem so unfair
Some cannot gain employment because of their address
The few grow very wealthy whilst the many must live on less.

Those known as the Fringe Dwellers their numbers multiply
The battlers of the underclass their children in wars die
The Bureaucrats exploit them and they are used as a Political football
By a Government who pay lip service to a fair go for all.

We Should Be More Like Davies

We ought to be more like the great poet William Henry Davies take time to stand and stare
Instead we worry about life and hurry here and there
We stress about our jobs and about our bills to pay
And yet we're getting older and our time clock ticks away.

To keep up with the aspirational Jones the family next door
We must work a bit harder and of money earn more
For they have bought a new car and a new car we too must buy
They smirk at us in our old car as we go driving by.

We should be more like Davies who penned poems of sheep and cows
Who stared for long as they chewed their cud from under leafy boughs
If the Jones have a new car to that they won't lose sleep
Enough of young grass to eat and nice weather satisfies a cow or sheep.

He lost a leg jumping from a train in his hobo days but he got on with his life
And he went back home and settled down and he found himself a wife
And he did not compete with the Jones next door he penned great poems instead
And Davies the Poet is remembered still though he is long with the dead.