Nana’s Words

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Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bush Poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, World War 2

𝐍𝐚𝐧𝐚’𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬

My grandmother, when very old,
These things to me she quietly told:
“Your father, of my sons the third,
From him you’ll never hear a word
Of certain deeds performed in war;
And so, before I die, I swore
To tell you what he’ll keep from all —
What I was told — what some recall.
Your father was a thoughtful lad;
Inclined to muse and sometimes sad.
No innocents the boy destroyed,
And confrontation he’d avoid.
He showed no liking for the fight —
He’d rather dream — to read and write.
And yet when cruel war raised its head,
His brothers to the fray he led.
And but for him, they now confide,
In foreign lands they would have died.

So this, to you, his son, I say,
Just take his mother’s words away:
In some men courage is concealed,
Till by necessity revealed —
It is the pounding of the guns
That winnows out the bravest ones.”

— D.N. O’Brien

Confined Old Codger Couplets

Tags

Australian poet, Covid-19 lock-down, poem, poetry, Rhyming couplets, WuFlu lock-down

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐟𝐢𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐎𝐥𝐝 𝐂𝐨𝐝𝐠𝐞𝐫 𝐂𝐨𝐮𝐩𝐥𝐞𝐭𝐬

The old man has seen plagues and war,
But not such foolishness before.

He stares out from his lonely cave,
And thinks the Swedes are rather brave.

He’d take his chances — stand and fight,
But that no longer is his right.

They say they wish to keep him well.
He’d tell them all to go to Hell.

Old friends and places he’ll not see,
If he dies in captivity.

— D.N. O’Brien

The Patriot

Tags

ALDI supermarket — German owned, Australian Made, Costco, poem, poetry, Triolet

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐨𝐭

He boasts that Aussie-made is all he’ll buy,
But then he shops at ALDI or Costco.
Send money overseas? He’d rather die! —
He boasts that Aussie-made is all he’ll buy;
He thinks that he’s a patriotic guy —
It seems there are some facts he doesn’t know.
He boasts that Aussie-made is all he’ll buy,
But then he shops at ALDI or Costco.

— D.N. O’Brien

Bullshit Job

Tags

Australian poet, Bullshit jobs, poem, poetry, Triolet

𝐁𝐮𝐥𝐥𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐉𝐨𝐛

It’s true of course that profits are well down;
But that’s okay, I have a bullshit job —
I make a living as a corporate clown.
It’s true of course that profits are well down;
But on my face you’ll never see a frown,
Though shareholders I know may scream and sob.
It’s true of course that profits are well down;
But that’s okay, I have a bullshit job.

— D.N. O’Brien

An Application to Track

Tags

Australian poet, Covid-19, poem, poetry, Tracking App, Tracking by mobile phone, Triolet, WuFlu crisis

𝐀𝐧 𝐀𝐩𝐩𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐭𝐨 𝐓𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐤

You never thought that it would come to this?
A crisis, it excuses such excess.
These clowns, you thought, were just taking the piss —
You never thought that it would come to this.
Their useful fools will salivate and hiss:
“It’s for the common good!” Come on confess —
You never thought that it would come to this —
A crisis, it excuses such excess.

— D.N. O’Brien

Australian Government to track citizens exposed to virus

Imita Ridge

Tags

7th Division 2nd AIF, ANZAC Day, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Imita Ridge, Kokoda Trail, Owen Stanley Ranges, Papua New Guinea, poem, poetry, World War two

An ANZAC Day post:

𝐈𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐚 𝐑𝐢𝐝𝐠𝐞

The letter, from my father to his mother, my grandmother, and baby brother, is written on a biscuit pack wrapper, as he had no writing paper. It is the 21st of September 1942 and he and his fellow soldiers of the 2nd/31st Battalion 25th Brigade of the 7th division 2nd AIF, all volunteers, are bivouacked on Imita Ridge, in the ranges behind Port Moresby — they have begun to drive the Japanese back over what will become known as the Kokoda Trail of the Owen Stanley Ranges — he will be one of the first to find the village of Kokoda deserted by the retreating Japanese.

He is 21 years old, a platoon sergeant, and a veteran of the Syrian Campaign, where he was severely wounded. He will suffer more wounds, internal parasites, starvation, exposure to the elements, and cerebral malaria from which he will come close to death, but will be one of the 56 soldiers of the original 800 strong infantry battalion who will stand to parade at the end of the campaign. This poem is a tribute to him, sergeant Allen Noel O’Brien, and his fellow soldiers.

(The letter was found at the bottom of a drawer some 45 years after it was written, following the death of my Grandmother.)

The night was drifting closer — the rain a misty veil.
They’d gained this slender foothold by a steep and muddy trail.
The soldier glanced to westward — a weak and fading light,
And overhead the sullen sweeping clouds— a mournful sight.

His uniform was wet and stained, the air was turning chill.
His boots and socks were water logged and leeches drank their fill.
The unfurled flimsy groundsheet, his head and shoulders cloaked,
As his half blanket he unrolled — it too, was sodden — soaked.

He scanned the gloom around him — saw the ghostly forms of men.
He wiped the rain streaks from his face, and lifted up his pen.
His precious ink he opened, and with care the pen he dipped.
The paper for the letter, from a biscuit pack he’d ripped.

He knew that he must hasten, very soon there’d be no light,
And once night fell a feeble glow would draw the sniper’s sight.
For in the dark the enemy would climb the highest tree,
And should a digger strike a match, then home he’d never see.

So with his slouch hat held to shield his letter from the rain,
He penned the loving words: “Dear Mum, I’m writing home again
To say that all is well with me and hope that you are too,
And hope the little one and Sis are not too much for you.

I’ve not received a letter from you yet but pray I will;
I know you will have written Ma, so I am hopeful still.
How is my girl who waits for me? Tell her I’ll not be long.
This business will end soon I think, meanwhile we must be strong.”

He asked for news of relatives and friends since long ago;
Of younger brothers who would soon be joining in the show.
Then finished off the letter with a reassuring line:
“Don’t worry for me Mother, for your son is doing fine.”

He folded up the letter, and he slipped it in his pack
When chance arose he’d hand it to be taken down the track.
But while he could, he’d try to sleep, for come the morning light,
“Advance!” would be the order; very soon would come the fight.

— D.N. O’Brien

Destruction of a Nightmare

Tags

Australian poet, Destruction of Sennacherib, George Gordon Lord Byron, Nightmares, poem, poetry, Virus

{Sorry once more Lord Byron}

𝐃𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐍𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐞

The virus arrived like a thief in the night,
And the chaos it caused was a terrible sight,
For the people all trembled and half of them fled
As the streets they were strewn with the armies of dead.

And my skin turned to parchment and all fell away,
And my eyes that were green suddenly turned to grey,
And my flesh it dissolved and my sight it grew dim,
And paralysis spread to each germ-ravaged limb.

And mad mobs and police roamed the virulent streets.
(I stole this driving rhythm from Byron — not Keats)
Soon a zombie looked at me and I matched his stare,
Then he lifted his axe — it was too much to bear!!!!

I awoke with a scream, and I flicked on the light,
And I stared out the window and into the night.
No dead bodies, no rioting mobs and no fire,
And no last requiem issued forth from a choir.

All was tranquil and silent — as quiet as a mouse,
With the prisoners safely locked-down in each house.
All quite safe should the virus come down on the fold.
Then I sneezed: damn and blast! Am I getting a cold?

— D.N. O’Brien

Destruction of Sennacherib in song

Kim Jong Kaput

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Australian poet, Kim Jong-un, Kim Jong-un heart surgery, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, North Korea, poem, poetry

𝗞𝗶𝗺 𝗝𝗼𝗻𝗴 𝗞𝗮𝗽𝘂𝘁

We regret to inform North Korea,
End of Glorious Leader is near.
Chinese Covid-19,
Though it spared his fat spleen,
Broke his heart — or so it would appear.

— D.N. O’Brien

The Waiting Wog

Tags

Australian poet, Covid-19, Covid-19 lock-down, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, poem, poetry, WuFlu crisis

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐖𝐚𝐢𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐖𝐨𝐠

Big Brother the masses is guiding,
As in their safe spaces they’re hiding.
But come out they must
When settles the dust.
The virus, its time it is biding.

— D.N. O’Brien

23 Weeks

Tags

Abortion in Australia, Australian poet, poem, poetry, Triolet

𝟐𝟑 𝐖𝐞𝐞𝐤𝐬

It’s 3 and 20 weeks I’m aiming for;
If I can live till then I may survive.
To not end up discarded blood and gore,
It’s 3 and 20 weeks I’m aiming for.
I’m hiding in my bunker — this is war,
And I’ll be lucky to emerge alive.
It’s 3 and 20 weeks I’m aiming for;
If I can live till then I may survive.

— D.N. O’Brien

No questions asked abortion up to 22 weeks