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~ All Poetry © Dennis N. O'Brien, 2010 – 2019

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Monthly Archives: August 2014

The Scrub Feller

31 Sunday Aug 2014

Posted by Dennis N. O'Brien in Historical

≈ 4 Comments

Tags

Australian traditional poetry, bush poet, Bush Poetry, poem, poetry, Scrub feller

I’d been out splitting posts in the sun’s blazing heat,
So I rested a while in the shade
Of an old vine scrub camp – used a stump for my seat,
With a stone there I sharpened my blade.

With my billy swung over the flickering fire
I reclined with my head on a log,
And the work and the sun and the heat tend to tire
So my mind drifted off in a fog.

From the depths of the camp walks a man dressed so strange,
Like the blokes in those old photographs.
At his side trots a dog, old and tattered with mange,
As the man walks up to me he laughs:

“G’day mate, could you spare me a cup of black tea?”
I obliged , was the way of the land;
“And a slice of your bread, if you could please?” says he,
As he holds out a bronzed weathered hand.

“Thank you cobber,” he says and he takes off his hat,
An old slouch hat all stained with his sweat;
“It was me and my mates, well we cleared this here flat,
This old mongrel here, he was my pet.

Yes, the scrub on this flat was the best I had seen,
We were young, had strong arms and straight backs,
And the cedar and beech, and the fig and black bean,
Well we felled them with springboard and axe.

We’d no use for the logs, just the ground for the plough,
So we burnt them wherever they lay;
There were some big old stumps, but I don’t see them now,
O’er the years they have rotted away.

But the cattle need shade, so we left this here camp,
And that cedar’s where I carved my name.”
And he read what was writ on its trunk like a stamp:
“Dan O’Brien 1914 – the same.

I’ve not been back till now, as I traveled for work,
For the scrub was cut out all around.
I enlisted for fun, and I fought Johnny Turk,
And now mostly I sleep underground.

But it’s been nice to meet you – and thanks for the grub,
For you seem like a good sort of bloke,”
And he whistled his dog and strode into the scrub,
And was gone in a shimmer of smoke.

I awoke with a start, and went straight to that tree,
I must know what that inscription said;
It was carved, old and gnarled, in the bark plain to see:
“Dan O’Brien 1914”, it read.

Image – Young axeman on a spring board felling a scrub (rainforest)
tree (blue quandong) in Queensland, 1890’s – source unknown.

Scrub/Vine Scrub: Subtropical and tropical rainforest of Queensland
and northern New South Wales.
Camp or Cattle Camp: A group of trees left for shade for cattle
when the forest was cleared.
Billy: Tin can suspended over a fire to boil water for tea etc..

Cobber: Friend
Johnny Turk: Australian soldiers fought a number of battles against the
Turks during World War 1.

Full of Bull

31 Sunday Aug 2014

Posted by Dennis N. O'Brien in Humour

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

limerick, poem, poetry

Yes the bull won the contest for sure,
For that tourist he twisted and tore.
Loud he bellowed and roared
As that Aussie he gored,
But he didn’t know what was in store.

For although Olivito had won,
They dispatched him quite soon with a gun.
Though the queasy may quake
He was turned into steak;
Then the verdict delivered: “Well done!”

Winner becomes dinner

Balls Up

30 Saturday Aug 2014

Posted by Dennis N. O'Brien in Satire

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

limerick, poem, poetry

Who said he has no strategy?
The timing – that’s really the key.
Get into that groove;
Swing swiftly and smooth;
There! three hundred yards off the tee!

Riddle of the Faiths

29 Friday Aug 2014

Posted by Dennis N. O'Brien in Uncategorized

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Australian traditional poetry, Dennis N. O'Brien, faith, poem, poetry, riddle, two giants

Two giants, in thunderous voice proclaim
That in their faiths no doubts remain.
The true faith surely is but one,
Or of these two, it may be none.

For if one of these faiths be true,
The other’s not – there can’t be two.
So is one of these giants right
Or are both wrong in heaven’s sight?

To selfsame God they each do pray
Yet each claims theirs the one true way.
As each, the other faith excludes,
At least one giant, himself deludes.

In a Pickle

28 Thursday Aug 2014

Posted by Dennis N. O'Brien in Humour

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

limerick, poem, poetry

The pickle is ghastly and green,
Malicious, a menace – and mean.
To her, this good gourd’s
A cylindrical sword;
It’s muscular, ribbed and obscene.

Pickle Girl

The Poetry Sorting Algorithm

27 Wednesday Aug 2014

Posted by Dennis N. O'Brien in Humour

≈ 51 Comments

Tags

Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Poetry algorithm

An over educated twit,
An algorithm he has writ
To analyze poetic Lit
And sort the good stuff from the shit.

No, this is not a silly joke;
I’m not aware that he’s a soak.
He’s just a poor misguided bloke
Who got in with some dodgy folk.

In coding up his little app
This un-poetic confused chap
Post modern brains set out to tap,
But all he got was free verse sap

From pros at universities,
Where each with everyone agrees;
Where rhyme and reason no one sees
And all are paid quite handsome fees.

He reasoned these guys write the best
So used their methods for his test.
No matter how their words were messed
These must be better than the rest.

‘Twas engineering in reverse:
These poets on the public purse
Told him theirs was the proper verse;
All other styles – well they were worse.

He took these shysters at their word;
He’s not a poet – he’s a nerd;
Knows not a sonnet from a turd.
(I’m just repeating what I’ve heard)

He wrote the program based on these
Parameters the system grease;
That keep it turning – stop a seize.
(The works that those in power please)

So rhymes must best be slant or sight;
No satire please – ‘twill grade it “light”
And if the meter’s neat and tight
It gets a fail – imperfect’s right.

So let his program run its course
With Keats or Shelley as its source;
Without a skeric of remorse
They’ll be rejected – and with force.

So too will Shakespeare and Bob Frost;
Into the garbage both are tossed.
All works of Poe and Brooke are lost.
“Just how much did this program cost?”

Now feed the thing some broken prose,
Say, of your inner fears and woes,
Or of the jam between your toes –
“Good Poetry!” the screen now shows.

Terminal Makeover

27 Wednesday Aug 2014

Posted by Dennis N. O'Brien in Satire

≈ 1 Comment

Tags

Jihadists, limerick, poem, poetry, Tripoli Airport falls

If to Tripoli you intend flying,
Don’t expect, duty free, to be buying.
The airport’s redesigned
And the runway is mined,
And the staff, well they are mostly dying.

 

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-2733459/Tripoli-airport-falls-Islamists-Rebels-set-planes-terminal-buildings-fire-weeks-fierce-fighting.html

Rasher Rules

26 Tuesday Aug 2014

Posted by Dennis N. O'Brien in Satire

≈ Leave a comment

Their liberties slowly are taken.
Their forefathers’ faith is forsaken.
They fall to their knees
And the foe they appease,
As they banish, from breakfasts, the bacon.

http://www.nydailynews.com/news/national/vermont-diner-takes-bacon-sign-offends-muslim-residents-article-1.1915158

Spreading the Love

24 Sunday Aug 2014

Posted by Dennis N. O'Brien in Satire

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

Islamic State, jihad, limerick, poem, poetry, Syria

The Jihadists, are Syria – shredding,
And the neighbours, these maniacs dreading.
They’ve a quota to fill.
Infidels they must kill.
So it’s clear where these guys will be heading.

Trigger Warning (with warning)

23 Saturday Aug 2014

Posted by Dennis N. O'Brien in Satire

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

limerick, poem, poetry, trigger warnings

Trigger Warning! Trigger Warning! Trigger Warning!
There – now don’t blame me if you read this and then go into convulsions!

Words are triggering sensitive souls,
Scared of violence and clusters of holes.
Anything that we write
May cause panic and fright,
And don’t mention those wig-wearing moles.

Before posting an image it’s best
To peruse lists of triggers to test
That you won’t be upsetting,
(His or her knickers wetting)
Some left liberal feminist pest.

Trigger Warnings

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