Power of the Pen

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Dennis N. O'Brien, pen, poem, poetry, power

Despite what you may have seen or heard,
Don’t doubt the power of the written word.
When freedom falls as a nation fails,
It’s the writers first, who are put in jails.

Copyright © Dennis N. O’Brien, 2011

Creation of the Fragile Human

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antipodean poetry, australian poetry, Dennis N. O'Brien, fragile human, nanny state, poem, poetry

The modern world is a perilous place;
Wherever we look there is danger to face.
We attend safety meetings, wear fluorescent clothes;
We stand out like beacons and frighten the crows.
We can’t climb up ladders if they are too high,
For we are so fragile we may fall and die.
And children are treated like they’re prone to break;
Their playgrounds are gutted for their safety’s sake.
The monkey bars, swings, and the wooden seesaw,
We’re told are as deadly as weapons of war,
While danger is lurking just over the hill:
A pervert or psycho just waiting to kill.
And on the TV we are constantly told,
No chances to take, if we wish to grow old.
In flood times we’re warned to keep clear of the drains
As if we are babies without any brains.
Parades of do-gooders preach on the TV,
About all the dangers they everywhere see.
So suddenly new safety laws are enacted
And lost liberty is the price that’s exacted.
These measures, we’re told, are to stop litigation;
A disease that was once very rare in our nation,
But, if this is true, and if this is the cause,
Would surely be better to limit the laws;
Put brakes on the lawyers; (my – how they would curse)
Stop ambulance chasers who fatten their purse.
But most politicians, you see, practice law,
So tend, in this argument, to see a flaw.
But how much of this nanny state can we take,
Before those who still have a brain start to wake
Up to the fact that this stuff is designed,
To deaden your spirit and weaken your mind.
With clever persuasion and media compliance
They’ll gradually, wear down, your own self reliance,
Until you become but a dependant drone,
Til even your soul – even that will they own.

Unbowed

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Dennis N. O'Brien, poem, poetry, unbowed

After seeing a certain President bowing to people he should not bow to

Unbowed

To none on Earth will we ever bow,
On our fathers’ graves do we make this vow.
To neither man nor the rising sun,
To a tyrant’s rage or oppressor’s gun.
Now we meet as friends and your ways respect,
But our meek compliance do not expect.

Copyright © Dennis N. O’Brien, 2011

Unrequited

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Dennis N. O'Brien, poem, poetry, unrequited

An unrequited love is sad they say.
It hides alone within a timid heart,
Its hidden secret never to impart.
A chance for love is but a word away,
But both are silent, so a price to pay.
For not a word by either when they part
They’re fated for eternity apart.
A love that never sees the light of day,
As one or both not brave to take a chance,
A poem writ, or just a moment shared,
A sign of love to show how much one cared,
A whisper heard or just a knowing glance.
Alas, no pure undying love declared,
And thus perhaps was lost a sweet romance.

© Dennis N. O’Brien, 2011

Poetic Persecution

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Dennis N. O'Brien, poem, poetry

There used to be a lot of them about,
But luckily they nearly all died out.
‘Twas in the “Poetry Wars of Attrition”
(When most of them expired from malnutrition.)
So he is quite a curiosity,
(Some even say he’s a monstrosity)
He almost every day commits a crime,
With metered verse and dare I say it – rhyme.
These vices were all banned some years ago,
Apparently no one has told him so.
This heretic is even known to curse
Our sacred cult of prose we call free verse.
For all of this he’s constantly berated,
Some even say that he should be castrated,
For if he meets a female formal poet,
There may be more of them before we know it.

Sometime later…….

Why do they with their formless prose persist,
Our efforts to enlighten them resist.
We’ve tried to teach these reprobates to rhyme,
But they keep writing twaddle out of time.
Their convoluted writing we find sick,
But their retort is simply that we’re thick.
Of what they write we can’t make head nor tail.
They sneer at us – award us “F” for Fail,
They sing songs out of time and in strange keys,
And publishers are deaf to all their pleas.
Starvation consequently is the norm,
Which serves them right for total lack of form.
We persecute them throughout all the lands,
Where they are found in small informal bands.
Let’s hope that all these free verse bards die out,
For they had once, (it’s rumoured), all the clout.

Copyright © Dennis N. O’Brien, 2011