Coincidence?

Tags

Beersheba, poem, poetry

Yesterday, Friday the 31st of October, was the 97th anniversary of the famous charge of the Australian Light Horse at Beersheba.

So what? you say. Well the thing is, I had no idea that it was. Also I was not even aware that yesterday’s date was the 31st of October. (being semi-retired I literally often don’t know what day it is).

I had previously, quite some time ago, written a poem about the charge but I was less than happy with it.
Yesterday for some reason, having not written much lately (apart from limericks) I got the idea of writing a whole new Beersheba poem – it just popped into my head from nowhere.

Now, having a military background myself and having had numerous relatives who served in both major conflicts (including my father – an infantry sergeant in WWII) I have always taken an interest in military history, particularly where Australians were involved.

My great grandfather, James Benzie, a Scot from Aberdeen who had arrived in Australia in the 1880’s on a sailing ship, had lied about his age and joined the Light Horse in 1915 and served in Palestine (as it was then) until 1919; he was 50 years old when he sailed for home to rejoin his wife and six children. (the standard family joke was that that was why he joined up).

So back to my poem. Having written it I decided to check when the anniversary was, as it seemed appropriate to publish it then.
Imagine my surprise to find it was that very day – perhaps my long dead great grandfather had whispered in my ear.

The Wells of Beersheba

Tags

Australian Light Horse, Beersheba, Bush Poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, traditional poetry, Waler

97th anniversary of the Light Horse charge at Beersheba, 31st October 1917.
The author’s Great Grandfather was a trooper in the Light Horse in Palestine.

Three lines of Light Horse on the plain stark and wide;
“Three miles to the wells of Beersheba!” they cried,
As the Turks, from their trenches, they fearfully stared,
As the troopers, their bayonets from scabbards they bared.
On their backs, loaded ready, their rifles were slung,
As this gamble with fate, in the balance it hung.
From a trot to a gallop, the colour of rust,
Like a storm cloud approaching, the red desert dust
From the hooves of the walers rose high as they thundered;
This charge into hell – would it fail? Had they blundered?
The guns, from redoubts, how they rattled and roared
And the shrapnel red hot from the bursting shells poured
Like a hail on the riders and horses below
As now near to the trenches they closed with the foe.
And the Turks fired their guns till the barrels glowed red,
While the plain there before them lay littered with dead,
But the horses came on like a torrent in flood
And their riders with bayonets hungry for blood,
And the Turks turned and fled from this vision of hell,
And the brave who remained – by the victors they fell.

Now the battlefield silent – the hundreds lay dead,
But was barely a mark on the dust where they bled
As the wells of Beersheba the horsemen had won
Gave up their life-blood to the sword and the gun.

Kealakekua Bay

Tags

Australian bush poetry, australian formal poetry, Australian traditional poetry, Captain James Cook, Hawaii, Kealakekua Bay, poem, poetry

A monument stands by this peaceful bay,
Close to the shore where laps the rising tide,
And marks in shining stone that fatal day
When Cook, the greatest navigator died.

Was on these wave-washed rocks the cruel blow struck,
By those who he had sought to treat so well.
With knife and spear and club they ran amok;
There in the shallow sea was where he fell.

His body taken, naked and debased.
Destroyed upon the searing coals of fires,
While sailors out to sea this horror faced:
The smell of smoke, the glow of funeral pyres.

Mistake, misunderstanding, sealed his fate,
And superstition fueled the murder lust,
As on each side saw friendship turn to hate,
And trust the years in building, turn to dust.

And when this madness had at last been quelled;
When eye taken for eye and more bereaved,
The King of all who on this island dwelled,
He gave up Cook’s remains to those who grieved.

And then in mourning, those on sea and land,
As silence over all the people fell.
His bones they were, for there his severed hand!
Across the waves the Resolution’s bell

Tolled out, to sound for him a last adieu,
And hardened men were heard to softly weep,
As at half mast, above, the ensigns flew,
As his remains committed to the deep.

Black smoke, it plumed from Resolution’s side
As guns fired out to him a last salute.
No more to sail uncharted oceans wide.
No more determination resolute.

Much loved and missed – a genius at sea,
Now mouldering beneath this tropic bay,
And Clerke and Bligh and King would all agree
The world, a giant, had lost here on that day.

Sandy

Tags

limerick, poem, poetry

OK, how’s this then?

I once knew a teacher named Sandy.
At poetry she was quite handy.
Her verses were nice,
Some were sugar – some spice,
But her best, they were sweeter than candy.

Gough Departs

Tags

Gough Whitlam, limerick, poem, poetry, Whitlam ex Primeminister dies

Vale to the wizened old red.
A right band of bastards he led.
While the country still pays,
Now deceased he is praised;
He is topping the polls – now he’s dead.

Focus Shift

Tags

Ebola, limerick, poem, poetry

They’re falling like flies in Liberia.
Each hour someone dies in Nigeria.
They’re just skin and bone
In Sierra Leone,
So who cares about ISIS or Syria?

Left Right

Tags

limerick, poem, poetry

The new guv’ment’s conservative-light.
No left liberal notions they’ll fight.
For they don’t have the guts
To stand up to the nuts;
They lean left when it’s hard to be right.

Cane Toad Golf (haiku)

Tags

cane toad, golf, haiku, poem, poetry

Toad Abode

Summer’s nearly here
Black tadpoles in the shallows
Cane toads multiply

—————

Let’s Go Clubbing

Cane toads under foot
Toads in shoes, in pool, on lawn
Break out the golf clubs

—————

Teed Up

Toad on a toad stool
Sportsman selects his driver
Suited to a tee

—————

Calculating on the Hop

One fifty to hole
It’s a medium sized toad
Seven or eight iron?

—————

Amphibian Ace

Keep eye on the toad
Now take a nice relaxed swing
A toad in the hole!

—————

Super Toad!

Oh well struck my friend!
A great drive down the fairway
Who said toads can’t fly?

—————

Toads Get Message

Caution, cane toad plague
Bloody toads are ev’rywhere
Except golf courses

—————

Racism

Green frogs protected
Toads are exterminated
Easy being green

————–

Hobson’s choice

Hit with club or freeze?
Killing methods debated
Cold blooded murder

————–

Skin Deep

Green frogs are pretty
Brown warty toads are ugly
Toadaphobia

————–

Desperate Measures

Green paint gone missing
Rumours of a cover up
Cane toads suspected

————–

False Frogs

Green frogs ev’rywhere
While cane toads have disappeared
Paint stripper needed

————–

Play On!

Toads allege cruelty
Substituted for golf balls
Nothing proven…… Fore!

————–

Suspicious Death

Cane toad murder case
A golfer is arrested
Witness croaks, case dropped

————–

Good News and Bad News

Toads declared useful
Cane toads briefly celebrate
Buy toad skin handbags!

Sharia

Tags

limerick, poem, poetry, Sharia law

The left media like to ignore
The prospect of Sharia law.
In the ultimate fate
Of an Islamic State
It’s the dead hand that lies at its core.