Mad King George

Tags

Australian poet, George Soros, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, poem, poetry

Too much money can sever the ties
To sanity – evil old guys
Like Soros lack reason;
He champions treason,
And traitors that sane men despise.

A Baboon Tune near Rangoon

Tags

Australian poet, Nonsense verse, poem, poetry

It was just to the west of Rangoon –
We had been in the country since June.
I was leading my press-ganged platoon;
Each a pirate – a paid picaroon,
(Was no place for a pasty poltroon.)
When we spotted a rabid baboon,
By a large lily-padded lagoon.
(On it floated a flimsy pontoon.)
He was wearing, this burly buffoon,
The uniform of a Dragoon.
(If my memory’s correct it was noon;
Overhead shone a silvery moon.)
We observed as this lone loopy loon,
On a battered and buckled bassoon,
(Not perturbed by a howling monsoon –
Or more accurately, a typhoon.)
Played quite skillfully, a marching tune,
So I threw him a shiny doubloon,
And we listened till late afternoon,
Then we bid our farewells to the goon.

Slippery Slope Pope

Tags

Australian poet, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, poem, poetry, Pope Francis

Once in a while comes along,
A pope neither savvy nor strong.
This time Frank’s that pope,
So pray hard and hope
That next time they don’t get it wrong.

Disappearing Trick

Tags

Australian poet, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, poem, poetry, Pope says bad souls disappear, Pope says no Hell

It seems I have nothing to fear,
For Frank, the infallible seer,
Says Hell isn’t real;
No hellfire I’ll feel,
For I will just, poof! – disappear.

Flaky Francis

Tags

Australian poet, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, poem, poetry, Pope Francis, Pope says Hell doesn't exist

This pope’s an unusual bod.
I’m starting to think he’s a clod.
He believes there’s no Hell,
And I’m guessing as well
That he’s pretty sure there is no god.

Pope says Hell cancelled

Drought & Flood

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bush Poetry, drought, Flood, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

Drought

The paddocks bake to brown in summer heat.
The river shrinks to holes where lungfish dwell.
The grass remaining cracks beneath one’s feet.
The water level drops deep in the well,
And everywhere is death, and death the smell,
For scattered on the ground the rotting dead.
A blasted vision of an earthly hell,
Where walk the living with their limbs like lead,
Beneath a sky bloodshot at dusk with red.
The wind stirs dust; the tree limbs crack and fall.
The ants and maggots thrive – they are well-fed.
A crow upon a carcass sounds its call.
The land is dying – drying is its blood;
Its thirst will not be quenched – until the flood.

Flood

The land has languished in the drought’s foul grip,
But now the clouds roll in and soon the rain
Falls lightly, and the downpipes start to drip.
Then steadier, like an approaching train
it’s heavier, that welcome sweet refrain
As gutters gurgle and tanks overflow,
And raindrops drum against the window pane.
The rain turns to torrential – warm winds blow.
The fresh creeps higher in the stream below.
The river’s banks are broken, comes the flood.
Across the flats the surging waters flow
To wash away drought’s sacrificial blood.
The gods appeased – the cycle is complete.
Now throbs the land once more to its slow beat.