Wedge Tails

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian traditional poetry, poem, poetry, sonnet, wedge tailed eagle

This morning of a sunny winter’s day
I saw two specks against the bluest sky.
On thermals circled predators on high.
Two floating flecks, they searched the ground for prey,
Carefree, and kings of all that they survey.
Do these great birds in joyous spirit fly
Or simply soar to reach a place to spy?
How can we know? The eagles will not say.

And man who claims dominion from his birth,
In truth has not the freedom of these birds
Who gaze uncaring on the human herds;
On man the wisest creature of the earth.
But could they trade their liberty for words,
They’d surely judge their wings of greater worth.

No Joke

Tags

Australian traditional poetry, poem, poetry

There used to be a lot of jokes
About gay women and gay blokes.
About those macho lesbians
And out of closet thespians.

But here in Aussie we beseech
Comedians to watch their speech,
And sanitize these phobic tales
Else find themselves locked up in jails.

Yes, ridicule of gays must cease
And of the short and the obese.
All jokes and slurs please stop, desist!
Oh damn! Minorities I missed.

Of ethnic backgrounds please don’t joke;
You may upset these tender folk.
Although in jest you make these jibes
Australia’s now a land of tribes.

What was accepted as just fun
Is now a slur – it’s just not done.
“You can’t say that!” people will cry;
“Stop! you degrade and vilify!”

But if you think this isn’t fair,
With comics crying in despair,
There are still some you can defame:
Thin pretty models are fair game

And Irish jokes are still okay;
I told one just the other day,
And you may take your righteous fight
Right up to those who’s views are right.

Bald men must take it on the chin.
(Alright I know I’m getting thin)
Lampoon the Christians, mild and meek;
They tend to turn the other cheek.

And you won’t be beyond the pale;
The thought police won’t scream and wail,
As long as those that you assail
Are always straight and white and male.

Drone

Tags

Australian traditional poetry, Dennis N. O'Brien, Drone, hellfire missile, poem, poetry, predator drone

The shrouded travelers cross the desert sand
As other eyes watch from a distant land.
She knows among these tribesmen walk the foe,
But which are they? And can the watcher know?
As one they raise their eyes towards the sky;
A speck of dust, it drones far off and high,
Just like a bird but somehow not the same,
Then from it comes a flash, a spurt of flame.
The predator has marked its target well
And from its maw it spits the fires of hell.
The guilty and the innocent alike
Have but an instant left before the strike.

And at her console continents away
She rises from her task at end of day
And to her home along the highway drives:
The soldier who from safety takes men’s lives.
She runs a bath and there reclines to soak;
Tries to forget the carnage and the smoke.
The action carried out with good intent,
But doubts of what’s been done will not relent.
The button pressed, the missile gone – too late!
Once it is launched it can’t discriminate.