Saturday, March 31, 2012

The Beauty Of The Seventies

Three decades back so pretty and lovely to behold
The beauty of the seventies she now is looking old
Though she dyes her hair brown and wears makeup to cloak her wrinkles and gray
It does seem rather obvious she has known a better day.

Her grand daughter is thirteen and time is ticking on
The beauty of the seventies her better days are gone
There was a time she turned heads but those days for her o'er
She was crowned the town beauty queen in nineteen seventy four.

The beauty of the seventies is now a divorcee
Her husband left her ten years ago a faithless one is he
But she will remain single and in her future plan
There isn't anything about she growing old with a man.

The beauty of the seventies is bowing to father time
Three decades back she was twenty two and in her glorious prime
But time doesn't wait for anyone and ageing affects us all
Though of her young years in the seventies she has good memories to recall.

Graham Kennedy

We do not want to believe it though we know he has died
The one who often made us laugh till we cried
And though we will never more see him in the flesh he is forever gone
His great gift of humor with us will live on.

Goodbye Graham Kennedy you were quite a bloke
None better than you for to tell a good joke
Yourself and Bert Newton together were great
Amongst Australia's most humorous you always will rate.

He was such a character his type are rare
As a stand up comedian few with him could compare
And though Graham has died in his seventy first year
It is not the last of him that we will hear.

As in the World of Show business his mark he has made
And videos and d v d's of him will be replayed
He did bring us laughter a marvellous thing
And his praises one almost feels obliged to sing.

Australia's king of comedy is now with the dead
And only good things of the man can be said
He made us all laugh as we sipped on our beers
And he would not want us to recall him in tears.

Our Heroes And Heroines

Our heroes and heroines we may love to recall
But do they believe in a fair go for all
If they are xenophobic or racist even in a small way
Any respect to them I for one never will pay.

Our heroes and heroines are gods in our eyes
But are they kind hearted and generous and wise
And do they embrace egalatarianism as a good idea
Or do they secretly believe in inequality?

Our heroes and heroines we greatly admire
But to be better people us do they inspire?
And if to this simple question your answer is no
Your heroes and heroines not worthy to know.

Our heroes and heroines to us may be great
But are they the people we should celebrate
We put them on a pedestal and give them renown
Though some disappoint us and by them we do feel let down.

Our heroes and heroines their praises we may sing
But a greater sense of self worth to us do they bring
Or are they other mortals with flaws we don't see
For some of them do see quite ordinary to me.

Rambling Dan

The old tramp of my childhood years we called him Rambling Dan
He tramped around the countryside he was a homeless man
I often think about him and where does his old bones lay
In an unmarked and neglected grave from here so far away.

As children we used to tease him as he slowly walked by
But wisely he ignored us he seemed so quiet and shy
At that time as bored school children teasing poor souls we did enjoy
But now for that I do feel sorry I was a naughty boy.

He slept in sheds and haybarns he had no fixed abode
As he traveled around the countryside an old man of the road
'Twas said he had a mental illness by those who ought to know
The old tramp of my childhood years some five decades ago.

He must have been in his sixties he did seem old and gray
The old traveler of Duhallow I still recall today
I often think about him perhaps he was found dead
By some farmer in a haybarn or in a disused shed.

I often think about him he lived in poverty
But he did seem to have wisdom and he had humility
To our teasing he would not respond us he choose to ignore
As he walked towards Ballydaly on the roadway to Rathmore.

I'm On The Road To Nowhere

I'm on the road to nowhere 'tis all uphill from here
The past is gone forever 'tis the future that I fear
And every day that I live is nearer to my end
And that I do not fear the thought of dying I never do pretend.

My past is gone forever fading memories of it only left
And of any hope of a better future I feel utterly bereft
Like a broken winded old horse I quickly seem to tire
About me there is nothing that others might admire.

A stranger in the town I live in and a stranger on my street
And everyone to me a stranger yes everyone I meet
The bird into the hedgerow it quietly crawls to die
He goes to meet the reaper and one day so will I.

Words of praise and condemnation are all the same to me
I feel empty of all feelings as empty as can be
The rhymes I pen are slipdshod them I could never sell
Just one more old poetaster a man of doggerel.

I do not like the egotistical they surely bother me
They have the ugly traits of Humankind they lack in humility
I see them all around me they seek their own renown
They even seek advantage by putting others down.

I'm on the road to nowhere the high hill of me ahead
A lowbrow of the have nots of me it can be said
That I too had my chances but I left them go by
And thinking of the future is something I do not enjoy.

A Good Man Is Hard To Find

A complaint by many women is a good man is hard to find
That many men are selfish and to the needs of women blind
And that some men physically abuse their women so happens to be true
But give the good man credit if credit he is due.

For the crimes men commit against women allow me to feel shame
But for the sins of a minority a whole gender why blame
That one person does not make a Race or Nation also applies to men
One should not be found guilty if not guilty of a sin.

Some women abused by one man condemn all men as bad
But they are generalizing and that seems a bit sad
And though my sympathy is with abused women 'tis not prudent or not wise
To dislike all men for the crimes of one it does seem wrong to generalize.

I suppose there is some truth in that good men are hard to find
But not all men are cruel to women or aggressively inclined
To cause harm to others some men are good and kind
And kindness shown by good men readily come to mind.

The Old Doubting Thomas

The old doubting Thomas is living today
And most of his school friends long with the dead lay
To the war cry of the leader they took up the gun
And they paid with their young lives for the war to be won

The young doubting Thomas he was young back then
He did not march off to war with the other young men
And though in his honour never a parade
He feels no regret at the choice he had made.

The old doubting Thomas he feels rather sad
That in World war 1 he lost his young dad
To his widowed mother a devoted son
He promised her never to take up a gun.

He still talks of the father he never did know
A war hero almost nine decades ago
The only regret in life he's ever had
Is that he never did know the one who was his dad.

The old doubting Thomas from time looking gray
His grandchildren have school going children today
Many of his school friends died in World War 2
And the dreams that they had were not meant to come true.

The Old Brown Bass Waters

Through flat and brown paddocks it crawls ever slow
On towards the great ocean the Bass waters flow
As old as time itself it babbles it's way
Through Bass in West Gippsland by night and by day.

Some call it a river some call it a creek
Through warm weather and dry spells it's babble is weak
Through a Land where in the Dreamtime in the shade of the trees
The Indigenous Bunurong danced their Corroborees.

The old brown Bass waters has inspired bards to rhyme
It has flowed for thousands of centuries before the Dreamtime
Before white men changed the face of the landscape from centuries long gone
But still the old river is babbling on.

A creek or a river call it what you may
The Bass from the high Country babbles it's way
Through the flat brown paddocks close to the sea shore
It's waters will journey on forever more.


Seen as unsuccessful and nagged by his wife
But Billy will tell you his is not a bad life
Every evening after work he's in the pub until late
And he is one who is not short of a mate.

He knows his wife Wendy is having an affair
But that does not bother him he does not care
From each other love secrets they refuse to hide
And he too is having his bit on the side.

He reckons the cause of their bad marriage is they married too young
And Wendy is fiery with a caustic tongue
His love for the alcohol to her condemnation did lead
But in her mission to change him she did not succeed.

From work to the pub for drinks with his mates
To talk about women and their favourite football greats
On saturday and sunday he is with his girl friend and in her flat with her he sleep
His marriage vows to him are seen as quite cheap.

His only mate at home is Pedro his dog
But he has got a lover and he likes his grog
A young man in his prime unsuccesful some say
But Billy will tell you that life is okay.

Back There By Clara Mountain

Back there by Clara mountain the birds sing all the day
And the hawthorn trees look lovely in their white flowers of the May
And the old stream down the high field it babbles as it flow
On it's journey to the river by many a hedgerow.

Back there by Clara Mountain now the old fields look lush and green
And along the ditch on either side of the old stone bohreen
The bluebells and the snowdrops and wild primroses are in bloom
And the mountain air is sweet scenting of Nature's own perfume.

Back there by Clara Mountain at this time of the year
The voice of the migrant cuckoo in the wood the farmer hear
And in the stream the dipper pipes his familiar song
You hear him once and next time you will not get him wrong.

Back there by Clara Mountain at the tail end of the Spring
Male chaffinch with the pinkish breast on a silver birch tree sing
And sparrows under the house eaves chirp as they weave their nests of hay
In that old Townland north of here thousands of miles away.

Back there by Clara Mountain in the ever changing sky
The dark winged barn swallows are chirping as they fly
And the little lark is carolling above the mountain brow
In the place where I was born in and raised in old Duhallow now.

Friday, March 30, 2012

The Day Is Cool And Rainy

The day is cool and rainy it is that time of year
A few days from the start of Winter the currawongs I hear
In late Fall in large flocks they assemble they sing to tell of rain
And their oft repeated song of karrawong karrawong heard over and again.

The day is cool and rainy and dark rain clouds in the sky
But the fluting of the magpie to hear is a thing of joy
To Mother Nature's Kingdom the Seasons come and go
And the more I learn of Nature the less of her I know I know

The day is cool and rainy with a slight chill in the breeze
And the beautiful crimson rosellas can be heard on the trees
Their notes are soft and bell like them one cannot mistake
The wildborn creatures of Nature their own impression make.

Upon us who care to listen to their call or their song
The laughter of the laughing kookaburra the familiar calls of the dark feathered currawong
And all are very different in their own distinctive way
In Nature's own Wild Kingdom we hear and see them every day.

The day is cool and rainy at the tail end of the Fall
And on the tall gums in the wood the pied currawong call
So near to the start of Winter and I wonder will I be here
To hear again the currawongs in the late Fall of next year.

The Footy Man

He wears his club scarf and beanie this cold saturday evening in the late Fall
As he walks from the train to the football oval for to watch a few hours of football
One might say a one eyed supporter he urges his footy heroes on
But he falls silent before the final siren when all hope of a victory seems gone.

In the work canteen on monday morning his workmates at him will have a go
And tease him of how his team lost on the weekend that they were too clumsy and slow
For much livelier and classier opponents though such banter he does not take to heart
One must take the good with the bad days of living and life it's all part.

His passion in life is his Football Club a sports minded fellow is Stan
His favourite song is his Club anthem his nickname is the Footy Man
He always wears his club scarf and beanie and he looks forward to next weekend's game
And when his team loses by a narrow margin the umpires he always will blame.

He is happy when his team is winning the smile of joy is on his face
But on the monday after a loss he must put up with his workmates teasing him in the Workplace
But that is all part of life and living we win and we lose every day
But to next weekend he looks forward to when again he will watch his team play.

The Laws Of Mother Nature

The bird born in an aviary and raised in captivity
Can never live in Nature's World amongst the wild and free
Even the birds of it's own species will peck it till it die
So never allow your feathered pet the freedom of the sky.

I am naive of the laws of Mother Nature and naive of Nature's way
And for interfering with Nature there is some price to pay
The bird born in captivity in a cage must remain
Why even it's own kind in the wilds would kill it is beyond me to explain.

Humans try to manipulate Nature and Nature's creatures control
But Mother Nature far greater than Human kind her's is an eternal soul
For we are like Nature's Seasons we come to life and go
Yet of our Mother Earth who feeds us so little we seem to know.

The bird born in captivity in a cage condemned to stay
For if released the other birds will kill it since this is Nature's way
And Mother Nature herself as old as father time
She claims the young and she claims the old and those still in their prime.

Perfection Doesn't Belong To Human Kind

Perfection doesn't belong to human kind
Though in the worst of people some good you will find
But 'tis not what society expects of you
'Tis to your own self that you remain true.

Do not ever put another person down
Or scoff at their aspirations to renown
Each person to their own as one might say
Though all comes to nothing on the final day.

Do you help poor people in their time of need
For such acts of kindness to good karma lead
Or are you one of those who says 'tis not for me
To work for gratus for those in poverty.

The value of one should not be the amount of money he or she accumulate
Or not of your value to the Government of your Nation or your State
But to the person of help most in need
Each act of kindness to good karma lead.

The Nature Poet

Out there in the great ocean the wild waves toss and roll
The music of saltwater is in the poet's soul
She sits upon the high cliff that overlooks the sea
The beauty in words she captures keeps on eluding me.

She does not write for love of money nor she does not write for fame
She lives a quiet existence and her's is not a well known name
She writes of the four Seasons that ever come and go
A woman who loves Nature and of Nature's ways she know.

Some of those who think they know her say she is rather strange
Her moods are like the Seasons her moods are prone to change
But she is close to Nature and how could they understand
Her anger at human damage to the ocean and the land.

With folded wings into the mighty ocean from the sky the gannets dive
And her wonderment at the ways of Nature's creatures it once more comes alive
And she writes about the gannets as she sits on the cliff above the shore
And her beautiful words inspired by Nature's beauty will live on forever more.

Us And They

The same old ancient disputes are played out every day
The Unions and Employers squabbling over workers pay
For the betterment of all involved why does it have to be this way
But as long as there's a Human kind there will be us and they,
Rumors of another war are in the news again
And human being on human being inflicting injury and pain
And for God people suffer and for God people die
But God is supposed to be the source of love which prompts one to ask why
Some people on his behalf behave in such a way
But the young will always risk their lives in battle for the ageing and the gray,
Will we ever learn from history old mistakes we repeat
Yet we say victory despite loss of lives is always very sweet
And if not all out hostilities mind games with each other we do play
And as long as there's a Human kind there will be us and they.

Mother Nature And Her Creatures Will Live On

We feel we are superior beings we have the right to rule
But to animals and birds do we have the right to be cruel
To since they are creatures who too breathe the free air
Of this Planet we call ours with us some space they share.

There is no cruelty in a bird or beast of prey
To kill to eat that is their Natural way
But we often kill creatures not out of a hunger need
But for financial gain just to satisfy our greed.

Men kill elephants and rhinos just for their tusks and horn
And for money the laws of Nature and man made laws they scorn
The African black rhino is on the endangered list
But in tracking them down and killing them for their horn the outlawed poachers persist.

Some species of whale close to the extinction brink
Some humans always shoot before they even think
Extinction is for an eternity so they say
And we have not yet learned from our mistakes of a bygone day.

We feel that Nature and her creatures we have a right to control
But 'tis Mother Nature and not us that has the eternal soul
And Mother Nature and her creatures will live on
When we will be forgotten and long gone.

One Lie Leads To Another Lie

One lie leads to another lie a wise one once did say
And you must tell another lie tomorrow for the lie you told today
The truth is always better the truth will set you free
Of the sort of guilt that those who lie live with or so 'twould seem to me.

'Tis easy to be evasive and 'tis easy for to lie
But the person who tells you the truth can look you in the eye
And tell you as you should be told with them you know where you stand
People like them earn your respect and trust since about them nothing underhand.

Those who find it easy for to cheat and lie have lost their sense of fair play
What goes around always comes around they don't see it that way
They do not believe in karma and cannot see wrong in their dishonesty
In trustworthiness in others a weakness they only see.

One lie leads to another lie and some for financial gain
Will cause hardship to others and how can one explain
How some people can cheat and lie and not feel any guilt or shame
But Humanity is made of all kinds of people and no two are the same.

I Am Not One To Be Talking

Twenty five million refugees in refugee camps is Humanity's great shame
And here am I a selfish man yearning for wealth and fame
Save for circumstance of birth 'twould seem one of them might be me
And I might be in a refugee camp a Stateless refugee.

I should be happy with my lot but I only crave for more
Recognition and money for one close to three score
Of years that's not a healthy attitude and to me the words too apply
That I have used for others such as me, myself and I.

So many must grow poorer for every new millionaire
And far too many hungry, homeless and Stateless and far too few who care
About the squalor that they live in we think of our own need
And the barriers to justice and fair play for all people are ignorance and greed.

I am not one to be talking as I am not one without sin
But even I too can feel saddened to think that many must lose for one to win
And millions around the World live in abject poverty
Which speaks far more than words can ever say of our inhumanity.

Old Ken

Absence makes the heart grow fonder some have been known to say
And the migrant yearns for the old hills a half a World away
But Ken will never again see England's shore with his deceased wife and daughter he will lay
When the reaper pays him a call in a not too distant day.

Old Ken is in his early seventies the years have left him gray
His memory is quite brilliant though his health is in decay
Whenever we meet in the park we chat for a short while
An honest man who worked quite hard free of conceit and guile.

His English accent with him still and with him 'twill remain
Until he breathes his very last that bit of England he'll retain
His wife Lyn was an Aussie and their only child a daughter Sue
Drowned in the sea at Shoreham back in nineteen seventy two.

He has a brown and white jack russell Sandy a faithful little mate
A three years old one person dog to him his master is a true great
'Tis true what  some say about dogs a dog can be your best friend
Your dog to you devoted until the very end.

I often meet him in the park a nice and gentle man
One nearing his mid seventies towards the end of his time span
Still he always seems so happy there is warmth in his hello
He is one of those good people I feel privileged to know.

Thursday, March 29, 2012

Of The New Cures For Ageing

Of the new cures for ageing we read of and hear
And life can be prolonged by many a year
And you can live for longer if you are a millionaire
You can buy more time doesn't that seem unfair?

You can buy a new heart and you can buy a new brain
And thanks to modern science and miracle medicines young you can remain
But if you are a poor person young you will die
And your short span of life you won't even enjoy.

You well may look young at one hundred and four
An ageing sugar daddy a silly old bore
With a young beauty in her twenties always at your side
A boost to your ego and your manhood and pride.

Till one day you'll drop dead and others will say
One hundred and twenty when he passed away
The grim reaper claimed him despite his great wealth
Though money had bought him more time and better health.

The miracle medicines you cannot afford to buy
So a long life you cannot expect to enjoy
But live every day as if it were your last
And enjoy the present and forget your past.

Of the new cures for ageing we now have been told
Even in your late eighties you will not look old
With money more life and more time you can buy
But one day you too will keel over and die.

In The Land I Was Raised In

In the Land I was raised in so many were poor
And most of the population financially insecure
But people were happy though times they were tough
And we had food, clothing and shelter and that for us enough.

Of the Land I was raised in nowadays great stories I hear
The economy is booming or so 'twould appear
But where have the poor gone to I would like to know
For progress there always is some price to show?

The Land I was raised in so green in the Spring
And on the hedge by the roadway the dunnock did sing
The little brown bird to the reaper long gone
But despite habitat destruction does his descendants live on

In the Land I was raised in with joy I recall
The nest of the great tits in the hole in the stone wall
The young birds were chirping for food all the day
And the hawthorns looked lovely in their white flowers of May.

In the Land I was raised in and where I first saw light of day
The gray crows familiar in their cloaks of black and gray
The birds the sheep farmers had grown to detest
High on the beech tree in April they built their stick nest.

To the land I was raised in the Seasons come and go
And not many there now of me even would know
For seven months of the year the weather wet and cold
But the economy is booming so I have been told.

On Torture We Should Not Keep Our Silence

In many so called Democratic Countries Human Rights laws are being transgressed
And people due to their difference from others are imprisoned and oppressed
And suffer the worst forms of torture should we in silence stand idly by
For a wrong against any individual is a wrong against you and I.

A loss of Human rights to any individual is a loss of rights to all
The huge plague of locusts destroyed the grain crops though their numbers once were small
And like the locusts those who go along with torture their numbers multiply
But on such a matter for me to keep my silence would be to live a lie.

On torture we should not keep our silence 'tis time we made a stand
I've got a lethal weapon here the pen is in my hand
I may not command much power but to my own self I must be true
For if you do not speak out against torture you become a torturer too.

In many so called Democratic Countries Governments to torture turn a blind eye
And people due to torture have even been known to die
And those who keep their silence on such a matter are saying torture is okay
Though a loss of rights to one individual is a loss of rights to all or to me 'twould seem that way.

In The High Wood By The Old Hill

In the high wood by the old hill in the cool evenings of the Spring
The robin with the orange coloured breast on a silver birch tree sing
'Tis not for the joy of May he pipe or for the love of song
But to tell the other robins that this plot to him belong.

From the high wood by the old hill two hours before the sun goes down
The fields and hedgerows looking green that border the old town
You are nearer to utopia when you climb to higher ground
So lush and green the countryside for miles and miles around.

In the high wood by the old hill the chaffinch I can hear
He always sings his finest song at this time of the year
His wife on nest sits on the five bluish red spotted eggs she did lay
And the hawthorns look resplendent in their white blossoms of May.

Through the high wood by the old hill the shades of evening creep
And birds are silent in their nests and only the mother sheep
Can be heard bleating to their lambs in the field nearby where the ever babbling rill
Flows on to the big river down the high field by the hill.

The Joy Of Their Laughter

The children are playing football in the park off of the street
The joy in their laughter it does sound so sweet
'Tis true youth is such a marvellous thing
Like the flowers of the fields that bloom lovely in Spring.

The joy of their laughter bring back memories to me
Of happy boyhood days of any cares free
In the Town park on Summer evenings we kicked the football
Such wonderful memories are good to recall.

The years went so quickly and time did not wait
And I've grown grayer and slower and I'm putting on weight
The future belongs to the youth of today
Though they too will grow to learn that time quickly ticks away.

Some of those I went to school with now with the dead lay
And some are grand parents and their grand children play
The games they themselves played they run up and down
In pursuit of the football in the park by the town.

As I walk to the bottle shop for to buy beer
The laughter of the children playing football I hear
Their best days approaching and mine in the past
But time keeps on ticking and nothing does last.

God On Their Side

Some say that after death the soul in the body does not dwell
The good souls go to heaven and the bad souls go to hell
And others believe in our deaths our souls die
What is true to some others see as a lie.

Of an after life none has yet returned to tell
Though religion as such is alive and well
And many people convinced that their god is right
For their religious beliefs are even prepared to fight.

Some people for their god are prepared to die or kill
Since the fear of god into them their mentors do instill
And of any hope of salvation for me now too late
Since I am a fellow who is without faith.

In the existence of a hereafter or a belief in a god
In whose name people are victimized and downtrod
I am just stating facts I am not casting blame
When I say far too many wars have been fought in god's name.

The religious fundamentalists feel they have a right to rule
And in their god's name they can be very cruel
And because of them and their kind far too many have died
But then they believe they have god on their side.

With Words We Can Be Insulting

Words can be so very hurtful we hurt others when crude things to them we say
I should know I've hurt people with words in karma for that I will pay
Some times we can hurt people's feelings without even meaning to
Amazing the power of the written or the spoken word the damage a few words can do.

Words can be so very dangerous and they can cause so much offence
When they are used to cause insult against them there's only one defence
And those are words of retaliation that often to violence does lead
A word can be a hurtful weapon to hatred bad words are the seed.

With words we can be insulting and with words we can be rude
Kind words can make people happy and people with words can be crude
With our words we ought to be careful with our words friends we lose and we win
'Tis said the pen is mightier than the sword though the sword has killed more than the pen.

Old Linda

Old Linda neglects her appearance she seldom combs her scraggly gray hair
She just turned seventy in April and she doesn't seem to worry or care
What others think or say about her she says I am finished with men
My fourth husband left me for a younger woman in life and love 'tis hard to win.

She says I have raised seven children and men to my life came and went
I fell in and out of love so often but I am not one to lament
For what might have been but was not to four husbands I was a good wife
Good men are so rare as she well know but then one might say such is life.

From four different males she raised children and nowadays she lives on her own
Yet she'll tell you life is worth living the good and the bad times she's known
She smokes and she drinks a few red wines and life is a thing she enjoy
She says I have never been thirsty and of hunger I will not die.

She does not worry about her appearance of her one might say she is what you see
By life she does not feel embittered of worry and stress she is free
On nice days she sits in her verandah enjoying the warmth of the sunshine
And nothing she seems to like better than a cigarette and a glass of red wine.

What's Life About

What's life about apart from care and stress
And our search for elusive happiness
And our constant yearning for wealth and power and fame
And the pride at having a successful name.

What's life about apart from love of greed
And always thinking of our self and our own need
Yet at the end we fade away and die
What's life about if life we cannot enjoy.

What's life about ask one wiser than I
The clock ticks on and time goes quickly by
With hair dye we may cloak our ageing gray
But each new dawn nearer to our final day.

What's life about since death will be our fate
Yet we desire in the flesh our own image to create
'Tis Nature's reason for our sexual drive
That through our children our genes will survive.

What's life about I wouldn't even know
I've seen so many Seasons come and go
Yet life is so brief and death is an eternity
And the reaper too will claim the life in me.

A Role Model He's Surely Not

Oh Mary take the floor with me we'll dance the Siege of Ennis
The stout has breathed life in me 'tis marvellous stuff this guinness
The inhibitions from me gone I've seldom felt so merry
Since I've left my old home by the hill by the road that leads to Derry.

There's life in the ageing legs yet he does not seem like an old stager
You watch him dance around the floor he looks like a teenager
He drinks he smokes he stays out late he surely loves to party
To father time he does not bow he feels young, hale and hearty.

A role model he is surely not since he is past all caring
His ageing wife she stays at home at him she's always swearing
She has not slept with him for years due to his many vices
She says he drinks and smokes and womanize in life we do have choices.

He dances around the barroom floor with thirty years old Mary
With balding head and open necked shirt showing his broad chest so hairy
Their drunken mates they clap them on and though Mary she is tiring
He revs on like a brand new car on all cylinders firing.

A role model he's surely not though he is not offensive
With him at least one never has to feel on the defensive
He likes his drink and he likes his smoke and he is past all caring
And his wife she always stays at home and at him she's always swearing.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

In Death All Are Quite Equal

More than eighteen million dollars per annum Macquarie Bank pay their top C E O
Whilst millions are going without food his bank account does grow
One might think I begrudge him but good luck to him I say
Though 'tis sad to think that thousands of poor people die of hunger every day.

'Tis sad to think that asylum seekers though not guilty of any crime
Are held in detention centres like common prisoners serving time
Their crime to want a better life for deportation they wait
Back to the Lands where they fled from to an uncertain fate.

In death all are quite equal but one cannot say the same of life
The wealthy bloke for a birthday present buys a new mercedes for his wife
Yet thousands of homeless people in some third World Country of malnutrition slowly die
Unsheltered from the sun that's blazing fiercely in a mid Summer sky.

Millions of dollars being paid to Sports and Movie stars life does seem so unfair
And thousands must grow poorer for every new millionaire
And poor people fleeing from Warlords in unsafe boats across the seas
And in refugee camps around the World 25 million refugees.

An Aged Veteran Of World War 2

I'll tell to you a story of one I vaguely know
An aged veteran of World war 2 some sixty years ago
A poor worn out old warrior the years have left him gray
In the early stages of forgetfulness his memory in decay.

Part of his right leg amputated ten centimetres below the knee
As a result of a grenade a horrific war injury
It ruined his chances of finding love and winning for himself a wife
And all of the dreams he's ever had of enjoying a happy life.

In his electrical wheelchair on the sidewalk a sad look on his face
A frail and an elderly citizen and familiar to the place
Decorated for his bravery under fire more than six decades ago
An old man waiting for his end that few now wish to know.

He lives in the retirement home from the shopping centre a short drive
The killing fields of Europe he was lucky to survive
But he did not return home unscathed as his missing limb testify
For a lesson that's unlearned millions of young people had to die.

An old man in his late eighties the hard life on him show
And I see him fairly often though me he does not seem to know
Yet when we meet to his sad face there comes a smile and he always says hello
A veteran of World war 2 some six decades ago.

You Did Not Come In The Winner

You did not come in the winner though second place is okay
And next time you'll go one better tomorrow is another day
Not everyone can be a winner as you and I well know
So get back on the training track and have another go.

The next time you may be the winner and to honour your renown
We'll have a big party for you and a bonfire in the town
And you'll feel so proud and happy when we'll drink to you a toast
And victory is only for the one who wants it most.

You did not come in the winner and though gallant in defeat
The next time you will find out victory is far more sweet
And for you we'll have a party and your praises we will sing
Since to our street and our suburb great honour you did bring.

You did not come in the winner but better luck next time
And you might be the person to inspire the poet to rhyme
For to fully enjoy victory you first must know defeat
And next time 'twill be different since this time you were beat.

A Pretty Face But A Wrong Attitude

When I was in the Superstore the check out girl to me was rude
I was there at the wrong time and she was in a bad mood
And though she did look pretty her attitude seemed cheap
But like they say of beauty it is only skin deep.

I feel she may be ageist at least 'twould seem that way
Perhaps she does not realize she too will age one day
For the groceries I bought at the store I felt quite glad to pay
A smile doesn't cost us anything a wise person did say.

A pretty face but a wrong attitude that's life I do suppose
Though in the flowering garden not every flower's a rose
Our attitude affects other people a smile doesn't cost a thing
The whole World sings along with you when in the shower you sing.

Her attitude one would think comes from arrogance or conceit
And if she could only learn to smile she would seem far more sweet
But a little thing like that does not spoil my day the sun shines in the sky
And today we'll never see again so life we should enjoy.

I smiled at her she did not smile back perhaps she thought me strange
And she did not even thank me as she handed me my change
A woman in her late teens or very early twenties and quite close to her prime
But to her I do feel grateful since she inspired me to rhyme.

Don't Call Me A Loser

'Tis my own fault if I'm a poor bloke the wrong choices I've made
And for my negative attitude in poverty I've paid
But don't call me a loser that term I do hate
Just say he's had his chances and now for him too late

For him to earn his first million but that's life I suppose
As I grow older and sillier my lack of self worth grows
But don't call me a loser since we are all losers in the end
To egalatarianism only the reaper is a friend.

I had my opportunities for self betterment but I left them go by
But I like everyone else a good laugh can enjoy
Yet don't call me a loser that word is a put down
Just say he's not successful a stranger to renown.

To be seen as unsuccessful is not a cause for shame
And for my lack of money others I cannot blame
But don't call me a loser at least not to my face
Though for that word I do suppose there is a time and a place.

I had my opportunities of which I did not avail
And the test to be successful I hopelessly did fail
But don't call me a loser that's all I ask of you
Just say I'm not successful since I have feelings too.

Vincent Van Gogh

He struggled on through life with a mental illness a marvellous artist his mind was in strife
In his thirty seventh year in the year 1890 the great Vincent Van Gogh he took his own life
Others they made millions out of his works of genius but the poor Dutchman he died in poverty
Yet many experts claim he is the greatest and few if any are as great as he.

Supported for many years by his brother Theo but his mental illness on him took it's toll
For many years he struggled as an artist his genius bloomed but his was a troubled soul
The greatest ever artist of his Nation yet he died without a penny to his name
And others have made millions from his paintings good luck to them though it does seem a shame

That the artist himself died poor and disappointed but such is life and life can be unfair
In life he struggled without recognition but out of art dealers he created many a millionaire
For his greatness he never was rewarded the greatest artist many experts say
Only National Galleries and billionaires own Van Gogh paintings his works of art are worth millions today.

He was afflicted with a mental illness and at his own hand he died as a young man
The success he yearned for him eluded during his brief and his troubled life span
The greatest from a Nation of great artists Vincent Van Gogh is now known Worldwide
But through his life he was beset by troubles and as a disappointed man he died.

Like Man Like Dog

One of my neighbours dog is a fierce beast he growls and bares his teeth at me
And each time I walk the street by the wire fence that keeps him in the savagery in him I can see
With his front paws pressing agaist the wire his eyes are full of hate
If he ever gets through that fence havoc he will create.

A huge dog of pit bull terrier x ridgeback cross he snarls by the gate
I walk on the other side of the street to avoid him of late
In case he would come through the fence discretion in such cases pay
Such dogs should be kept in a house or safely locked away.

His owner is a surly bloke not that unlike his dog
He is always alone in the pub and alone he drinks his grog
He never talks to anyone not even a good day
The message he has for the World his dog for him convey.

'Tis said our personality is in our animals though some with that may not agree
Yet another one of my neighbours has a friendly golden retriever and that man loves humanity
And from these two comparisons your own conclusion draw
Though like man like dog in any case is not in Natural Law.

One of my neighbours dog is a savage beast from him I keep away
Perhaps he's trying to tell the World what his boss would like to say
Such as I hate you for being alive of me you best stay clear
His hateful eyes and strong sharp teeth instil in me great fear.

Robert Cameron Hazelton

To The Web Poetry Corner he's like a breath of fresh air
And doubtless we ought to thank him since his fine verses he share
With us lovers of poetry and credit he is due
Since to the great Goddess of Poesy he is one who is true.

Fair dues to Robert Cameron Hazelton remember this man's name
His cleverness shows in his verses and that will be his key to fame
His site is worth a visit since he is quite a good poet
And why not we sing his praises since he is worthy of note.

Though some may beg to differ and choose to disagree
As a poet he has a future that's how 'twould seem to me
Amongst the best of The Web Poetry Corner he is one to compare
With the likes of Joyce Hemsley and Ompapa and poets like them are rare.

A poem lives forever and a doggerel dies in a day
And poets are born and not made a wise one once did say
With words of such profound wisdom 'twould be hard to disagree
And Hazelton's a natural poet or so 'twould seem to me.

In Willy Chaplin's Web Poetry Corner one held in high esteem
And his site well worth a visit or so to me 'twould seem
Amongst the best of The Web Poetry Corner he is one you can rate
With poets like Joyce Hemsley and Ompapa and they are surely great.


Elusive birds them one don't often see
Treecreepers build their cup shaped nest of bark behind loose bark of tree
From predators concealed and hidden away
And pinkish spotted eggs the female lay.

Shy woodland birds of humans they show respectful fear
They climb tree trunks in search of insects and when human to them venture near
Of the tree trunk they disappear to the other side
Of watchers eyes they'd much prefer to hide.

They will never be renowned as birds of song
Though their familiar chirps one hardly could get wrong
The ornithologists and bird watchers on studying them don't spend much of their time
And they seldom have inspired the poets to rhyme.

From the day they leave the nest until the day they die
From ground up they climb the tree and then to the next tree fly
To climb again in search of invertebrates such things they like to eat
They must have great strength in their tiny feet

In wooded places they like to reside
And from predators their cup shaped nest they hide
Shy little birds when human to them venture near
To the other side of the tree trunk they disappear.

You have It In You For To Succeed

You have your ideas and opinions and you have a right for to dream
And the road to a better life not as hard as you well may think it does seem
As we know there are plenty people who only try to keep you down
Since you don't live in the leafy suburb you live in the wrong side of town.

There are only two kinds of people the haves and the have nots and to the latter you belong
But you make the most of your chances since others they have proved them wrong
Remember you came up the hard way and you know what the hard life's about
You have it in you for to be successful though others your true worth may doubt.

We know it won't be easy for you handicapped by tour postal address
But even thus far you have come a long way on your uphill climb to success
You show them you are not a quitter for you success will be more sweet
You know how it feels to be hungry you were raised on Poverty Street.

They look upon you as a failure they don't expect you to succeed
But where you live to be a survivor you have to be of hardy breed
Prove to them you are not a quitter keep on climbing the success hill
You have it in you for to succeed since you have the drive and the will.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Robert Burns

He was the poor Plougboy from Alloway in Ayrshire one who laughed in the face of despair
The one who became the National bard of old Scotland the one with brown eyes and brown hair
He drunk and made love and made merry and his songs are sung Worldwide
His legend outlives his existence and of him greatness cannot be denied.

Jean Armour has become very famous because she was Robert Burns wife
The Ploughboy who became a legend and the great poet who could laugh at life
The one who loved People and Nature in the good in humanity he did believe
He laughed and the whole World laughed with him and for a mouse he too could grieve.

A fellow who rose above poverty and who never gave way to despair
The National bard of his Homeland and a legend in the big World out there
He was the true bard of the people and for people he genuinely did care
The poet for all ages and Seasons and few with him one could compare.

The National Bard of his Homeland but to the whole World he belong
The Ploughboy who became a legend he had in him the gift of song
There won't be another like Burns the pride of his clan and his race
He was one who rose above poverty and love of life he did embrace.

There Are Only Two Forms Of Terrorism

Those who brand others as terrorists are only playing games with our mind
Since there are only two forms of terrorism the so called legal and the outlawed kind
Those who declare war on others are not terrorists or so they lead us to believe
But try telling that to the next of kin of the victims of their so called collateral damage who for their dead family members grieve.

The words collateral damage when used in such context is an insult to humanity
Far worse than adding insult to injury or so it would appear to me
By belittling the loss of good people perhaps from themselves they are deflecting blame
How can we have empathy for others if for crimes committed against them we do not feel shame.

Those who warn us of terrorists and terrorism are creating their own reality
For talking of terrorists leads to war on terror we create our own enemy
We convince ourselves we are the good guys and our own flaws we never do see
We blame the other side for trying to incite warfare and blame leads to disharmony.

There are only two forms of terrorism and both of them instil widespread fear
And only one side of the story is all that we ever do hear
As a payback for acts of terrorism our so called goods guys bomb foreign Cities under cover of night
One wrong only leads to another and two wrongs never do make a right.

In The Future The World Will Be Different

The World energy resources depleted and the oil wells are running dry
And perhaps in a decade from now the super rich will become poorer when they realize their money cannot buy
Gas to put into their big cars parked in their garages the people with nowhere to go
To yet it is a known fact out of hardship that spirituality can grow.

We are being told that this is to happen by those one might say in the know
The oil reserves won't last forever we heard of that decades ago
Yet what did we do to conserve energy we went out and bought bigger cars
And spent billions in money and wasted huge amounts of energy building rockets for research on Mars.

What will happen when the oil wells will run dry when the super rich will realize
That Government Bureaucracies them were deceiving and leading them on with their lies
Will billionaires jump off of big buildings when with financial disaster they come face to face
In a decade from now the World as we know it could be a much different place.

In the future the World will be different and that may not be such a bad thing
For Nature will live on as usual and songbirds in the morning will sing
And we must go back to the pushbikes and with less pollution in the air
We will be far healthier people and more spiritually and environmentally aware.

On Those Old Brown Hills By Wonthaggi

On those old brown hills by Wonthaggi 'tis said there once were many trees
Where the black tribes lived in the Dreamtime and enjoyed their many Corroborees
Till the pioneers came and cut the trees down and the tribal people went to live elsewhere
Another word for dispossession but all in life is never fair.

On those old brown hills by Wonthaggi where cattle and sheep live today
Descendants of the animals the pioneers brought with them from their old home Countries far away
Overlooking the Pacific ocean an old man the years had left gray
Told me amongst those hills in a lost graveyard the bones of the tribal chiefs lay.

On those old brown hills by Wonthaggi the spirits of the Bunurong
At midnight still dance their Corroborees this Country to their tribe belong
They will always be the first Australians and of their lands they took such good care
The Country they loved much worse off without them and those old hills are now looking bare.

To those old brown hills by Wonthaggi the Seasons and years come and go
And I a migrant from the Northlands so little of this Country know
The Bunurong the first Race of South Gippsland were those sinned against and oppressed
By people of skin colour like mine and my song is for the dispossessed.

Just Reminiscing

'Tis that time of year when nesting birds are singing and the hawthorns are cloaked in their fragile white flowers
And the raindrops on the grass in the sunshine are sparkling and the Landscape looking greener after a recent shower
Of drizzly Spring rain and the dipper is singing his familiar song in the old mountain rill
That babbles it's way downland towards the big river along by the hedgerow in the field by the hill.

O'er the fields of Cloghoula the skylark is carolling and Nature's wild flowers in their billions are now in full bloom
In the fields and by ditches and hedges and the grassy margins by the road out of Millstreet that leads to Macroom
On a leafy birch tree his orange coloured breast puffed up the robin sings his territorial song
As a warning to his own kind he proclaims his borders this acre to him and his partner belong.

Nineteen Springs have passed since I've seen that old Parish and since a new generation into adults have grown
Perhaps there now I would be seen as a stranger even by those who once see me as one of their own
But Mother Nature lives on she is an immortal though people like the Seasons they come and they go
And still the old Finnow his old song he is singing as on through the fields by Millstreet Town he flow.

Above the old hill of Clara in Millstreet in Duhallow I first heard the lark carolling in the sky
On a sunday morning in May something I still remember he seemed to shrink to a small speck as upwards he did fly
I am just reminiscing of a life that I once knew but that in the past and the past it is gone
And songbirds now sing in the woods and on the hedgerows and life without me in the old Parish goes on.

If By Chance

If by chance there is a life hereafter I'll settle for an eternity of hell
As long as Satan gives me pen and paper and allows me to pen doggerel
To pen stuff of a poet unworthy of the Earthly experiences I've had
Though my fellow condemned may well laugh at me and tell me my verses are bad.

I'll bore them to tears with my doggerels of my Earthly life centuries ago
In the fields of Millstreet in Duhallow where the waters of the Finnow flow
Through Inchaleigh, Coomlogane, Claraghatlea and Liscreagh as to the Blackwater it winds it's way
And though a poem will live on forever a doggerel will die in a day.

I'll write of how I felled pine trees by Mushera an old mountain as old as time
An old hill in the Boggeragh ranges that I glorified in bad rhyme
And of how I picked potatoes in St Davids in South Wales by the Atlantic sea
All I need is a pen and paper 'tis easy to satisfy me.

I'll write of my years in Victoria where I grew to be feeble and old
And of the large mobs of roos in Baxter's land a marvellous sight to behold
Them hopping across the brown paddocks as fast as a speedy greyhound
One can only watch on in amazement them cover twenty metres in every big bound.

If by chance there is a life hereafter and I who on Earth could not win
In Hell must pay the price for failure for failure's a terrible sin
I will not be even unhappy if I have a notebook and pen
For to write of the Nature I once knew and the song of the robin and wren.

You May As Well Go To The Barroom

You may as well go to the barroom and drown your sorrows in a few beers
Because crying over a lost love seems such an awful waste of your tears
He is not the only young and single man in the World there are plenty of others out there
Who could grow to love and respect you and who for you would genuinely care.

Get over him he has made his decision his future 'twould seem will not be with you
You loved him perhaps a bit too much though to you he was not so true
Even at the time he was your lover he was having his 'bit on the side'
He did not find it hard for to dump you and how easily he cheated and lied.

Grieving over lost love seems so pointless it does seem such a waste of time
Though lost love has inspired the novelists to write novels and inspired the song makers to rhyme
You will meet a nicer and a more faithful fellow and you will bring great joy to his life
And you will learn love is not all one way and to him you'll be a good wife.

You may as well go to the barroom than staying at home grieving for someone who from you has gone
'Tis saturday night go out and enjoy the night life for life as you know without you will go on
Tonight is the night you may meet that someone special he will not come and knock on your door
Go to the pub and meet your friends and have a few drinks and enjoy yourself for a few hours or more.

Don't Talk To Me Of Your Life

Don't talk to me of your life it comes to nothing doesn't matter if others your praises sing
We live and die and we are gone forever each Spring we see may be our final Spring
The ruthless reaper he claims everybody though to egalatarianism he is a true friend
He is the one who makes us all equal and we all come to nothing in the end.

You hear them say he or she has left their mark that their legacy outlived them and lives on
But it won't matter to you if you are feted or forgotten if the breath of life from you is forever gone
Thus let me live as one of no importance and let me die forgotten and unknown
The need for recognition and approval are feelings I have seemingly outgrown.

I am tired of people who are into self promotion their conversations to themselves only lead
They crave for to be the centre of attention for fame and glory they have this great need
Their swollen egos are over inflated and their value they over-estimate
Such people I don't waste much precious time with I leave them to tell some one else that they are great.

From the moment we are born life is a battle before we walk we have to learn to crawl
But even for the most famed high achievers success in life doesn't come to much at all
So don't talk to me of your life I'm not interested I've already met a few like you today
Narcissistic people I grow quickly tired of from themselves their conversation seldom stray.

Each Time I Return To Old Sherbrooke

Old Belgrave it hasn't changed that much the traffic buzzing up and down
To and from the Melbourne eastern Suburbs on the Burwood highway through many an old Sherbrooke Town
Yet out of Belgrave it is quieter in Kallista of the tall gum trees
The wind in the mountain ash soughing in the freshening mountain breeze.

The whistle of the steam train Puffing Billy as it slowly chugs up Selby hill
In the quietness of the mid morning the blast of it's hooter sounds shrill
It puffs up black smoke as it climbs on up through the wooded higher ground
Towards Emerald and on to Gembrook and to Belgrave again homeward bound.

Each time that I return to Sherbrooke I hear the big black cockatoos
Dark brown birds with the yellow striped tails that some refer to as weerloos
And their cousins the white sulphur crested cockies their grating calls one cannot mistake
In flocks when assembled together quite a noisy racket they make.

Each time I return to old Sherbrooke I hear the cawing of the pale eyed crow
And I sometimes hear the song of the lyrebird in the gullies where the tree ferns grow
And in the high parks by the forest the familiar calls of the peewee
One might say an Earthly Utopia or at least that's how it seems to me.

For Each Of Us A Pigeon Hole

There's a spot for the blue collar worker and a spot for the one on the dole
And a spot for the company executive and for the one who mines for coal
And there's a spot for the doctor and surgeon and even for the poor lost soul
We are graded as if we are potatoes for each of us a pigeon hole.

We are told that we are all equal and to that they add in God's eyes
And those who make such silly statements are those who believe their own lies
'Tis mostly money that makes us unequal we are even judged by our postal address
If to make ends meet you have to battle society's judges you will not impress.

For to reach the top 'tis a hard battle 'tis a rat race in the World out there
And if you are down few will bother to help you too few for humanity care
So many into self promotion and belittling others some enjoy
And many doesn't see it as wrong to be selfish their most used words are me, myself and I.

To live life as a decent person to little does not seem to amount
They judge you better by the job you work at or by the amount of money in your bank account
And no respect for the poor homeless or for those who live on the dole
And in this so called age of enlightenment for each of us a pigeon hole.

Monday, March 26, 2012

The Sugar Daddy's Woman

He is seventy four and she is twenty seven with light brown and wavy shoulder length hair
You've guessed right to say he is a sugar daddy one of the town's wealthier a known millionaire
She feels she is better off with him than with one of her own age a fellow with only a few dollars to spare
He buys her a good time and he treats her as special and for her he does seem to genuinely care.

She is happy to be the sugar daddy's woman money speaks every language and 'tis always been that way
An old man with money better than a poor young bloke who will be a battler until his dying day
The local young blokes of the older bloke jealous they find it hard to come to terms with how he
Could be going to bed with the town's fairest young woman without realizing they are restricted by their poverty.

Than seventy four he looks many years younger at a guess one might say from fifty to fifty two
Amazing what a face lift and a bottle of brown hair dye as well as some makeup for an old face can do
She carries her first child it will be his seventh yet he feels as proud as any younger father to be
Her son or her daughter into wealth will be born and that sounds better than being born into poverty.

Despite she being pregnant she does look quite radiant her sugar daddy for her left his old wife
Money speaks every language seems all too apparent and she can look forward to a better life
Than being with one of her own age struggling to make ends meet when poverty bites in love quickly decay
And though she does not love her sugar daddy she does love his money a good reason with him why she ought to stay.

The Same

Just the same newsmakers and the same old voices we hear on the radio news every day
And little new they seem to tell us and over and over the same things they say
Why do we give power to such ordinary people we give them big egos how silly are we
The same boring voices the same boring people their sameness does all seem so boring to me.

The same boring arrogant flawed politicians they mirror our ordinariness it would seem
They live for the power and they live for the glory and they live for the sheer love of their own esteem,
The Judas sheep leads the flock up the slaughter ramp to be slaughtered our leaders no different to the Judas sheep
They deceive us and lead us on and them we follow if our votes prove our values our values come cheap.

On the radio news the same boring voices their sameness is boring as boring can be
Just like a bad smell they cannot be got rid of their voices on the radio their faces on the t v
Their repetitive sameness seems so very boring and far too much of them we do hear of and see
We do need the freshness of feminine beauty a woman of wisdom a beautiful she.

A Message Here For All You Poets

The love poet writes of lovely things like true love and flowers in bloom
And the roses in the poet's garden scent of a sweet perfume
And the gentle hearted applaud him saying what a marvellous poet
He surely is a child of God and one worthy of note.

The love poet writes of love of God and the God fearing say
He's a fine poet one of the best love and respect to God he pay
He hear no evil speak no evil only write of God and love
And there's a place reserved for him in God's Kingdom up above.

The social issues poet writes of the poor and few his verses read
They say he writes such morbid stuff sob stories we do not need
He keeps highlighting the downtrodden and those in poverty
He ought to put more trust in God and in Humanity.

A message here for all you poets don't write of the downtrod
But write of affairs of your heart and write of your love of God
And some will say how great you are and your praises they will sing
And they will pay respect to you and call you their Poetic King.


'Tis not of a sports star or a president or a prime minister and 'tis not of a queen or a king
And 'tis not of a warrior or a high achiever whose praises I am about to sing
But of an ageing German woman the years have left her looking gray
She is such a generous person one who performs a good deed every day.

Marlene she is in her late sixties she is one who has known heartbreak
Her only child a daughter drowned in her early twenties and though her friends dragged her from the lake
And tried their best for to revive her the life from her body had gone
And without her nearest and dearest the grieving mother had to live on.

Her husband he left her for another woman and she raised their daughter on her own
Yet she has overcome her sorrows and few as brave as her I've known
She is always so carefree and happy and helpful in her own sweet way
And those who know her sing her praises and about her one bad word don't say.

Her neighbour Raelene in her eighties on Marlene she likes to heap praise
She says she is my garden angel the woman doesn't cease to amaze
She cleans my home and does my shopping and to help me goes out of her way
And gratitude to her is all I can offer since money I don't have for to pay.

When I sing of heroes and heroines I know who the great people are
I know one she is living on our street from where I live her house is not far
She has known more than her share of life's crosses but a good one cannot be kept down
And she surely is an unsung heroine the best in our side of the town.

The Usual Old Banter

She won't be going back to the Town by the mountain
She works in a suburban pub serving spirits and beer
To fellows who talk of work their families and football
And the usual banter in pubs one would expect to hear.

By day she's at Uni by night she's a Barmaid
For to better herself she is working her way
Life's not meant to be easy so George Bernard Shaw said
And many would agree with what he did say.

In her early twenties and looking quite lovely
Her shoulder length hair it is wavy and brown
A few of the young pub patrons have asked her out to tea
But she told them I've got a boyfriend back in my Hometown.

Of course she lied to them she is a nice person
Since an outright refusal would only offend
Some times one has to lie for to prevent bad feelings
As one can make an enemy out of a friend.

She won't be going back to live in the Town by the Mountain
Few jobs and no career opportunities there
Few she has gone to school with have remained in the old Town
The most of her school friends like her too have gone to live elsewhere.

By day she's at Uni by night she's a Barmaid
She is working her way to a better career
Though the bar room talk does not leave her enlightened
The usual old banter in pubs that one hear.

Oodgeroo Noonuccal

Oodgeroo Noonuccal known to many as Kath Walker was a very famed Aboriginal Australian poet
She was a leading spokesperson for her people and a fine writer and a literary figure of note
Proud to be a descendant of the first Australians she was a credit to her Tribe and Race
Amongst the indigenous Peoples of Australia she is one of those who commands a high place.

Kath Walker she was known by for many years but as Oodgeroo Noonuccal she died
A proud descendant of the First Australians and on her heritage she took a great pride
Her book of poems 'My People' is a beauty and she is famed beyond Australia's shore
A credit to her Nation and her people her legend may live on forever more.

For years she worked for respect for her people and she was one who strove hard to unite
The Indigenous people and other Australians she tried to bring together black and white
Her poems show her to be a non racist person it was by good example she did lead
For Race Relations she did more than her share and more like her we certainly do need.

Descended from the People of the Dreamtime many of her great poems surely will live on
She never will be one of the forgotten though the breath of life from her forever gone
Oodgeroo Noonuccal known to many as Kath Walker assuredly was a poetic great
And amongst the finest poets of Australia she is one that the Literary critics rate.

He Represents The Nation

With everybody won't like you one cannot disagree
The less I'm impressed with him the more of him I see
He doesn't look honest he does not sound sincere
His statements ambiguous or so 'twould appear.

He represnts the Nation of us what does that say?
We who elected him as leader on Election day
When he goes overseas he represents us all
This is a great Nation but he makes it seem small.

He jails asylum seekers and punishes the working poor
And for the wealthy he has made life even more financially secure
He favours the wealthy and punishes those on the dole
And his mean spirited Government does not have a soul.

In the Public opinion polls he always does well
And the opposition parties their policies to the voters can't sell
On polling day few of the poor bother to vote
And of this the Ruling Party have taken note.

So many grow poorer for every new millionaire
Yet he and his Government tell us they are fair
Their huge budget surplus amongst the wealthy they share
And for those with far more than enough they only seem to care.

I did not vote for him and his Government and it rankles with me
That they represent even those who voted against them when they are having high tea
With influential foreign dignitaries, my mistrust of them grows
But having said that such is life I suppose.


Farewell to the young women I used to know
When I was a younger man decades ago
Some of them are ageing grandmothers today
And some of them childless and single did stay.

Farewell to the first feelings of love I knew
Though the one that I loved to another was true
She did not know I loved her 'twas better that way
Since I've always found words like 'I love you' so hard for to say.

Farewell to my childhood friends the girls and the boys
We had fun together and we played with our toys
We grew up too quickly and got to know care
And we found out about life in the big World out there.

Farewell to the Town Park where we played football
An old memory fading that's nice to recall
Still in my flights of fancy the old Town I see
Though life in the old Town goes on without me.

To the old stream that flowed by my old home a tearful farewell
And those old fields that will long outlive my doggerel
And on the leafy hedgerows in the prime of Spring
The songbirds of Nature did whistle and sing.

Farewell to the past since the past is long gone
And without me life in the old Townland goes on
But fond memories of my boyhood years with me remain
And I often go back down memory lane.

Were I A Horse I'd Be Put Down

The disks in my back they are aching 'tis not very pleasant back pain
From long years of physical labouring even financially I did not gain
Suppose I am like many others one more ageing crock of the town
I'm lucky that I am a human for were I born a horse I'd be put down.

I'm one of those under achievers for my time I don't have much to show
My parents would not be proud of me but where they are now they won't know
Whether I be successful or not so all is dark and quiet where they lay
In the cemetery in view of the mountain by my old Hometown far away.

Trying to live up to the expectations of others is not a very good idea
But then suppose we all are different and we look at life differently
Were I born a cat, bird or a dog perhaps I would be put to sleep
Though human life not highly valued and some even see it as cheap.

The disks in my back they are paining no doubt the results of wear and tear
And were I to drop dead tomorrow not many would bother to care
Society sees me as a loser and I'll die a stranger to renown
Though I'm lucky that I am a human for were I born a horse I'd be put down.

The Line Between

'Tis true that the line between madness and sanity can be a thin line
Just like the difference between drunk and sober can be one or two glasses of alcoholic wine
Those we see as mentally affected are they any different to we
I can see the frailties in others as they see the frailties in me,
A middle aged man I meet often he talks to himself on the street
He never takes any notice of others though with his invisible friends he is never discreet
They do have this great conversation though their conversation seems to be one way
That those he converse with are not real people seems way beyond me for to say,
Out of life I struggle for to make sense am I not right in the head?
That bloke there he seems a bit dippy, of me too those words have been said
We all are alone in our own way affected by the decisions we make
And each day in life for us some lesson and we pay dearly for our every mistake,
The line between madness and sanity is a thin line the mad one thinks all others are insane
And life is not all joy and laughter there are tears and some mental pain.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

The Farm Girl

With shoulder length brown hair she is close to her prime
And beauty such as she has does inspire bards to rhyme
A twenty one year old not lacking in charm
She lives and works with her mum and dad on the farm.

So healthy looking from life in the clean country air
Laughter to her comes easily she hasn't a care
At peace with the World of Nature's ways more than most she know
And for Nature's wild creatures respect she does show.

Content in her surroundings and content in her life
For some lucky bloke she will make a good wife
That is if she marry or what she decide
For good young men are scarce now in the Countryside.

The farm girl is lovely and young and carefree
And I've known not many as pretty as she
A woman unaffected by conceit or guile
With warmth in her hello and sunshine in her smile.

Glen Alvie

The swallows from Glen Alvie to North Quuuensland have gone
But life in the old Mountain Country goes on
The sheep they are bleating the cattle are lowing
Though at this time of year natural growth it is slowing.

In a high roadside paddock alpacas I see
Quite valuable animals I counted just three
Their Land of origin is South America of the camel family
To look at they seem quite attractive to me.

A small herd of Scottish highland cattle quite hairy and brown
The bull by the paddock fence marched up and down
He bellowed to the friesian bull two paddocks away who to him bellowed back
Though each other they never may get to attack.

Though in Glen Alvie's high country trees are very rare
Just a few scattered through the hilly paddocks here and there
The views are breathtaking good as one might see anywhere
For scenic beauty few places with it can hope to compare.

A twenty minute drive from Wonthaggi the nearest big Town
The narrow road through Glen Alvie it winds up and down
So green in the Spring and so brown in the Fall
And it's natural beauty I love to recall.

You Have Your Opinions

You have your opinions and that suits me fine
Your ideas of life they are different to mine
Your God is of paper that too is okay
Though you keep me offside by some of the things you say.

With some of the views you hold I could never agree
All people are equal that's how 'tis with me
When the millionaires bleed is their blood not red?
Our values are different like I've already said.

Our ideas are different we see things quite differently
And eye to eye 'twould seem we never could see
Our individuality makes us interesting the wise one did say
And we all look at life in a different sort of a way.

You have your opinions which you like to express
And you judge other people by their Postal Address
But no class distinction where dead people lay
And the reaper will make us all equal one day.

It Comes And It Fades

It comes and it fades like images in a dream
The voice of the dipper in the upland stream
That babbles downhill along by the hedgerow
On to the big river it ever does flow.

With age the old memories are fading away
The song of the cuckoo in the month of May
The wildflowers so beautiful in the sun shine after rain
The past it returns to visit me again.

The song of the chaffinch I fancy I hear
Though the leafy wood-land to me nowhere near
The wood pigeon's wings makes a whirring sound in flight
Fond memories of Nature a thing of delight.

The little brown skylark for to sing has to fly
Above the bracken hill a small speck in the sky
Though in the gray clouds he fades to disappear
The song of the bird I still fancy I hear.

The Goddess of Nature the one God I know
Her beauty is with me where-ever I go
She followed me here from the hills far away
Her birds always sing for to greet the new day.

It comes and it fades like the fair rose in bloom
Though the memories linger of her fragrant perfume
And Nature I love since to her I belong
And she is my reason for writing this song.

I Sometimes Think Of Buninyong

I sometimes think of Buninyong when I'm in reflective mood
And of the people I knew there to me they were never rude
They always made me feel welcome there just like a welcome guest
And many of them sad to say now in their eternal rest.

I still remember Nuffa and where might he be now?
If he is amongst the living to father time he bow
Such a marvellous character and him I still recall
Of those I knew in Buninyong one of the most generous of all.

Lal and Bull Holloway and Frankie Wells to the reaper have gone
But in and around Buninyong memories of them will live on
They were such likeable fellows and kind in their own way
And all of those who knew them only good of them do say.

Ron and Heather of the Crown Hotel have gone to live elsewhere
They owned the licence of the pub in Buninyong when we were working there
We used to drink our grog there where the Locals we got to know
Way back in the late eighties now that seems long ago.

I sometimes think of Buninyong when I think of the past
And of the good times we had there but good times never last
I last was there in eighty seven my hair is now far more gray
And some of the Locals we got to know now with the departed lay.

A Mother Does Not

A mother does not raise her child for to fight and die in war
Or to kill another Human Being in a Country from home far
That her son or her daughter should at someone else shoot to kill
A person they have never known or who have never bore them ill.

Picasso's 'Screaming Woman' is for all woman kind
The mother weeps for her dead child with grief 'out of her mind'
Mothers do not raise their children for to be remembered on War Memorial Day
For to fight in war for war mongering non combatants and throw their lives away.

A mother raises her son or daughter so her seed of life will live on
That her genes will still be around when she herself has gone
From the World of the living to be numbered amongst the dead
I wish for my children to outlive me that's what the mother said.

A mother does not raise her child for to meet with an early death
Not for her War Memorial Day or the words 'Lest we forget'
She wants her son and daughter for to grow old and gray
And she does not wish to hear of War and War Memorial Day.

Young Annie

She throws a wild flower in the river she says the flower will reach the sea
Young Annie has imagination of cynicism she is free
She looks at the World through a child's eyes her World is so different to ours
What to us are noxious weeds only to her are quite beautiful flowers.

Her best friend is Timmy her white pet rabbit she would not part with him for gold
Her mum gave him to her last September on her sixth birthday though a rabbit does quickly grow old
When he will pass away she will miss him and she will look back in future years
And recall her furry friend Timmy whose death caused her heartache and tears.

Children make their own earthly Utopia their own imaginary World they create
They marvel at the wonders of Nature though time for them too does not wait
They quickly grow into young adults and they too become victims of time
And they will have lost their young innocence years before they even reach their prime.

Young Annie she has her pet rabbit and the World to her is a beautiful place
With wavy brown hair to her shoulders she always has a smile on her face
When I was her age I too was happy but the years have left me looking gray
And I've not grown wiser but cynical where she sees beauty I see decay.

You May Be

You may be a kind hearted person love and care for your family and wife
Yet some will see you as quite unworthy if you do not have God in your life
You must have the fear of God in you for them to score you nine out of ten
In a World of so many religious people respect is a hard thing to win.

Fundamentalist Muslims and Christians as well as fundamentalist Jews
They try to cloud over our thinking and impose on us their own views
And if your God is different to their God to their beliefs you they will try to change
They will look upon you as inferior though an atheist to them than you even more strange.

You may be a hard working person and perform at least one good deed every day
And to help out people in trouble you even go out of your way
But religious zealots will see fit to condemn you if to their God you do not kneel to pray
Far too much religion and too little tolerance ignorance can be bliss so they say.

It is true that like minded people to like minded people relate
In you there may be huge room for improvement but you tell everyone God is great
You cheat others out of their money and you are unfaithful to your wife
But you are seen as a good person since you have got God in your life.

I Was Born By A Northern Mountain

I was born by a northern mountain though perhaps far from that mountain I will die
But my past to this day remains with me and my heritage I won't deny
In the Parish where I grew to manhood I would feel like a stranger today
Few there now would even recognize me the years have left me looking gray.

The schoolboy of the nineteen fifties three decades of years past his prime
He may not live to be an old man but he surely will outlive his rhyme
But memories of the old fields are with him old memories will not fade away
Of the familiar song of the chaffinch and the beautiful wildflowers of May.

The scratchy song of the white breasted dipper in his home in the mountain rill
That babbled on down towards the river along by the hedgerows down the hill
And the beautiful song of cock robin his partner sits in her cup shaped nest
With her five pale eggs freckled pinkish kept warm by her orange coloured breast.

I was born and raised by a northern mountain but the bigger World I went to see
Still the old fields to me once familiar at times don't seem distant from me
In my flights of fancy I can hear the cawing of the rook and gray crow
And the shy cock pheasant he is cucking in the rushy patch by the hedgerow.

The High Achiever

His family so proud of his success the Managing Director of his Company
And success it fed his big ego and few prouder people than he
His son and daughter studying for their Doctorate his blond and classy wife aged forty four
One of the so called elite high achievers in life he could not have asked for more.

At forty six years of age the high achiever with brown hair dye he covered his gray
And from the good life he kept putting on weight a half a kilo every fouth day
His weight like his ego ballooning but he did not eat or drink any less
Suppose if there's some price for failure there too is some price for success.

Of others he craved admiration the one many wished for to know
And he was one with many admirers and his band of admirers did grow
In his brand new silver mercedes the main street he drove up and down
One might say his wealth he was flaunting one of the rich men of the town.

For the past six months he has not been sighted we come and we go so they say
His blond woman drives the silver mercedes she has a younger lover today
He was one who had a big ego and in his success he did take great pride
But sadly a heart attack has claimed him and one more high achiever has died.

Saturday, March 24, 2012

I Do Grow Tired Of People

One does quickly tire of people who think their ideas cannot be wrong
Those who think to the infallibles that they do or should belong
The huge weight of their ego too heavy for their soul
Of every situation they must be in control.

I do grow tired of people who think that they are great
That their opinions cannot be wrong when their point of view they state
The opinions of others in their arrogance they dismiss
Suppose it is a fact of life that ignorance is bliss.

I do grow tired of people who let the whole World know
That they are wise and knowledgeable and disrespect only show
For the opinions of others which they dismiss offhand
Forgive me if their reasoning I do not understand.

I do grow tired of people who think that they are always right
Their souls are clouded over and not receiving any light
Their own opinions only matter and sad am I to say
That they do not grow wiser they only grow old and gray.

Brid Ui Mhaoluala

A fan of the late Ned Buckley the poet of Knocknagree
The last bard of Sliabh Luachra and few as great as he
Her name is Brid Ui Mhaoluala that is Irish to the core
Her husband from East Kerry from the old Town of Rathmore.

She lives in County Carlow from Sliabh Luachra four to five hours by car
Perhaps not a great distance but to walk it would seem far
A friend of Sliabh Luachra's cultural heritage she helps in no small way
For to keep the literary tradition of the Cork and Kerry border alive and well today.

A lover of the poetry of Ned Buckley a Sliabh Luachra Prince of Rhyme
His marvellous poems and ballads have withstood the test of time
It's thanks to the likes of Brid and Jack Lane and others that Ned's poems still live on
That works of such great beauty from us not forever gone.

Fair dues to Brid Ui Mhaoluala since credit she is due
To the legend of Ned Buckley she remains forever true
Of the Cork and Kerry border a literary man of note
The last bard of Sliabh Luachra he was a marvellous poet.

She Must Settle For Second Best

She walks hand in hand with Joseph but she only has eyes for Fred
The one who has fallen in love is the one who is easily led
She deliberately takes Joseph past the house where Fred lives in hope that by him they'll be seen
She is playing games with the poor silly fellow to the hard facts of life he is green.

Yet Fred in her is not showing interest though her heart races in excitement when to her he says hello
She cannot get the fellow she wants so she has to make do with Joe
Few do get what they most want in life and some must settle for second best
With Joseph she surely will stay since he is the pick of the rest

Of the young men she knows of the town none as sophisticated as Fred
Their interest is in beer and football and taking young women to bed
Though Joseph not as boorish as them he lacks in Fred's good looks and I Q
She must settle for second best her choices 'twould seem are so few.

With Joseph she walks hand in hand though for Fred she only has eyes
He loves her and he thinks she loves him her feelings she is good to disguise
Whenever she sees or meets Fred in the Local Pub or on the street
She blushes like a crimson rose and her heart it misses a beat.

The Young And The Old

The young bloke full of ego the old bloke full of thought
The young bloke talks of glory and battles to be fought,
The old bloke gray from living he has been there and done that
His grandchildren are teenagers and he's growing old and fat.

The young bloke full of passion he needs excitement in his life
He needs to sow his wild oats but he does not need a wife
The old bloke he has done those things and he has fought in war as well
And when he is in the mood to he has good stories to tell

Of his life of adventure though the years have left him slow
In his prime he was quite active some forty years ago
Still now he feels he's past it he has known a better day
Time doesn't wait for anyone it just ticks and ticks away.

The young bloke full of testoterone is in his glorious prime
And the old bloke has a pot belly and is losing out to time
His younger wife has left him he is not the man he once was in bed
In many relationships between men and women the heart doesn't rule the head.

The young bloke full of big dreams and with energy to spare
Is yearning for adventure in the bigger World out there
The old bloke sits on his sofa drinking beer and watching t v
The future belong to the young that's how 'twould seem to me.


Though she's Australian by birth she says what's birth right anyway
I'm a citizen of Planet Earth that's what Miranda say
'Tis power hungry men that gave us passports and our right to freely travel us denied
You may call this your Country but you don't own the Countryside.

She says because of our Government I'm not proud to be Australian they lock up refugees
Poor Stateless and homeless people who arrive in boats from overseas
We celebrate war that leads to dispossession but war victims we disown
The war winners write the war history and one side of the war story only known.

Miranda is in her mid fifties gray haired, graceful and tall
And she feels proud to be a member of the society of 'A fair go for all'
One of those selfless people who speaks out for Human rights
On the hills of justice and morality she has climbed to great heights.

She may be Australian by birth but of that she is not proud
And at the Anzac Day parade she was not one of the crowd
To cheer on the old soldiers as they paraded up and down
With their war medals pinned to their coats through the main streets of the town.

The Evil I See In Others

The evil I see in others in my own self I see
And the so called evil people are no less evil than me
'Tis not my place to judge others leave the Law take it's course
Than us mere living mortals there is some far greater force.

Look at the power of Nature no greater force than she
She claims all living creatures yet of guilt she is free
None ever say she's evil what's evil anyway?
The words of good and evil just words that people say

About those they see as good or evil others we like to pigeon hole
Have I right to condemn others when there's darkness in my soul
I'm only good and evil come tell me what are you
Since you tell me that you have a God but to your own self are you true?

For a callous act of one individual we condemn an entire race
And people are judged by their postal address and the colour of their face
We talk of love and harmony whilst war we do embrace
By making yourself a better person you'll make the World to live in a better place.

The evil I see in others in my own self I see
But you there Mr Perfect of all sin are you free?
You say that one is evil leave that person alone
You are not one that's free of taint so you should not cast the stone.


Hares unlike their cousins the rabbits do not live in a hole in the ground
They depend on their speed and elusiveness for survival and their hiding places hard to be found
They rest in the long grass during daylight hours and at nightfall from hiding venture out
For to feed on the short and sweeter grass and under cloak of darkness wander about

Their territories which can be large areas perhaps of a few miles or more
They can be seen in coastal country or miles inland from the sea shore
Unlike rabbits they mostly are loners and alert at all times they must stay
They can outrun the fox or the greyhound for to kill than them far easier prey.

Hares are brown to a light foxy colour long legged and timid and shy
And in Nature few things more upsetting than the pain in a dying hare's wild cry
I've heard it at Coursing Meetings as the hounds tried to drag the dying creature apart
Of the sight and sound of it the memory with me lingers and it lives on today in my heart.

The renowned English Poet William Cowper he raised many a hare as a pet
His great stories and poems about his hares I am unlikely to forget
Unlike rabbits hares in their wild state for safety don't have a burrow in the ground
They depend on their speed for survival for to outrun the fox or the hound.

The One Who Did Not Fight For His Country

The one who did not fight for his Country he is in his late eighties today
Quite healthy and lucid for his age though the years have left him looking gray
Most of those he went to school with became soldiers and many of them in war died
And he who never wore a soldier's uniform is living though time it is not on his side.

I once asked him why he never became a soldier he said war it does not interest me
To fight overseas for my own Country's so called freedom did not make any sense to me
I do not have a God or a Country nor a patriot I've never been
But to others I'm not any different the ups and downs of life I've seen.

He is such an interesting old fellow his main interests are in the Arts and Poetry
At every important Art Exhibition he goes to the State Gallery
He knows about Poetry and Literature in general and his memory serves him well
The life stories of his long dead school friends he can recall with fondness and tell.

The one who did not fight for his Country doesn't attend the Anzac Parade
He says I've never risked my life in battle but my debt to this Land I have paid
He will tell you war does not interest him he would rather die old than die young and brave
And the Last post for him won't be bugled on the day he is put in his grave.

I'm Tired Of Ageing Politicians

I'm tired of ageing Politicians talking of war
Young soldiers risk their lives for them in Countries afar
And yet they seem to get re-elected when the voters have their say
They play their patriotic card and for them that does pay.

Their war card is their winning card they talk of us and they
And they send young people to fight for them in Countries far away
Not for any moral principle but for their own self interest
War helps them for to cling to power and seems to serve them best.

I'm tired of ageing Politicians who wage war in God's name
Who send others to kill and maim for them in their quest for immortal fame
The winners only write the war history and that's how 'twill always be
Yet the cost in the loss of Human life is huge for every war victory.

I'm tired of ageing Politicians who at the least excuse
Send their war planes off to distant Lands to set terror on the loose
For every death they may boast of another terrorist they create
They talk of peace through the gun barrel and they only give us hate.

May Day

May Day is the day when workers of all Nations their marvellous heritage celebrate
The men and women who through their honest endeavours have played their part in the building of their State
Many of them work hard for low wages and for them never an easy pay
Unfurl the red flag of the workers why not celebrate them today.

We live in a capitalist society where some take far more than their share
Where many poor souls must grow poorer for the making of one new millionaire
A self made millionaire does not exist anyone never makes it on their own
Out of the sweat of the hard working workers some into wealthy people have grown.

'Tis May Day the workers are marching in New York and Moscow's Red Square
In Britain and Cities through Europe the workers parade everywhere
All through Asia and Australia and New Zealand in every big City and Town
The workers today celebrating parading the streets up and down.

In big Cities in Canada and South America as well as Mexico and the U S of A
The workers they are celebtating and toasting the birthday of May
The men and women who build every Nation the back bone of the World one might say
Where would we be without the workers three cheers for the workers today.