Golf

Tags

Australian poet, Formal poetry, golf, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐆𝐨𝐥𝐟

I headed off to golf at early morn.
Was still quite dark when I got to the tee.
I hit my first tee shot at crack of dawn.
A mighty strike, it flew left, hit a tree.
I knew it had, for though I couldn’t see
A bloody thing, I heard that woody sound,
And then a white projectile whizzed by me.
It missed, for I’d already gone to ground,
Anticipating just such a rebound.
But then a crash! — The sound of breaking glass!
(So far, I thought, this is a lousy round.)
I heard some shouting — better get my ass
Away from there — I slunk back to the car.
With pencil, marked my card — first hole —a par.

— D.N. O’Brien

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Search for the Tank Man

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Australian poet, Chinese oppression, Communist China, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, poem, poetry, Tank Man, Tiananmen Square massacre

Search for the Tank Man

There’s no doubt that the fellow was game.
But they still cannot find him — his name
Isn’t known to police,
So the suspects increase —
The cops say: ”All these guys look the same!”

— D.N. O’Brien

Tank Man

Emotional-Support Elephant

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Australian poet, Emotional support animals, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, poem, poetry

𝐄𝐦𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥-𝐒𝐮𝐩𝐩𝐨𝐫𝐭 𝐄𝐥𝐞𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐭

What! I can’t take him onto the plane!
No, that’s not good enough, please explain!
Well, the fact he is big
Doesn’t matter a fig!
Either he flies or I go insane!

— D.N. O’Brien

Emotional-support dog bites

A Special Place in Hell

Tags

Ancient Greek Mythology, Australian poet, Elysian Fields, Elysium, Hades, Hell, Italian sonnet, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, sonnet

A Special Place in Hell

Each day is perfect, and each night divine.
Sometimes a misty shower comes on the breeze.
No storms with thunderbolts — calm are the seas.
Upon a hillside graze contented kine.
My emptied bottle soon refills with wine.
My dog, I’ve noticed, is devoid of fleas.
My hay-fever has gone, I never sneeze.
It’s always springtime. On rich food I dine,
And never exercise, but am I fat?
No I’m as fit as any man could be!
And what about the whisky, beer, and rum?
It’s all too neat, too perfect — Is it that
There’s something seriously wrong with me?
Is there a doctor in Elysium?

— D.N. O’Brien

The Cup

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Melbourne Cup, poem, poetry

The Cup

The cup is being run today.
It stops the nation, so they say.
We hardly need such an excuse
To make our bank accounts reduce,
But even so I say: “Have fun!
Cheer loudly at the starting gun!”
For Melbourne’s cup I’ll make a case –
Yes! Here’s my take on this great race:
A midget on a horse’s back
Will guide his nag around the track,
While women draped in finery
Drink grape juice from a winery,
And men all dressed up in fine suits
Get horseshit on their polished boots
While placing bets on horses who,
About their form, they’ve not a clue.
It’s anybody’s guess who’ll win –
Not watching is a mortal sin.
There won’t be much work done today,
We’re going to the cup – Hooray!

Rover

Tags

Australian poet, Dead dogs, Dog skull, Logical fallacies, Nonsense verse, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

Rover

Alas poor Rover, he is losing weight.
I try to tempt him with the choicest meat,
But no, he doesn’t stir – old faithful mate.
I plead with him, but Rover just won’t eat.
No longer does his friendly “woof woof!” greet
His friend and master, me, when I return
To my abode – he is no longer fleet
Of foot. What’s more he doesn’t wish to learn
New tricks – and now I think I do discern
That good old Rover may in fact be dead
And gone – that Rover’s taken quite a turn,
And for the worst – he’s but a bony head,
Poor mutt – no wonder he has been so dull –
A dog can’t wag its tail when just a skull.

The vet tells me that Rover is deceased.
He’s been dead for some time apparently.
The vet, after examining the beast,
Arrived at that conclusion for a fee –
A handsome fee in fact – he said: “I see
No body and no legs or paws – a head
Is all that’s left of him – do you agree?”
“Oh yes indeed, it’s plain to see!” I said,
“Is that why Rover refused to be fed?”
“Such dogs, I’ve found don’t eat”, replied the vet.
I countered: “Dogs that won’t eat then are dead?”
The vet: “You are the strangest man I’ve met –
He’s dead – the consultation is complete.”
I said: “Well I knew that! – he wouldn’t eat!”

{Photo by D.N. O’Brien {published with Rover’s permission}}

Triolet #1

Tags

Australian poet, flammeus gladius, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Tom Riley - poet, Triolet

Triolet #1

Tom Riley writes these damn things all the time!
I’m trying hard to write a triolet.
I’m working hard on rhythm and on rhyme.
Tom Riley writes these damn things all the time!
And his I have to say are quite sublime,
While this is not – I’m working up a sweat.
Tom Riley writes these damn things all the time!
I’m trying hard to write a triolet.

Flammeus Gladius

Quarks 101

Tags

Atomic theory, Australian poet, Fundamental particles, Nuclear physics, poem, poetry, quarks

They’re fundamental particles
Described in complex articles.
They have six flavours which is strange;
They form a hadron when arranged.
The ups and downs are very light
But stable and a common sight,
Could we but see them, for we’re blind
To quarks – by colour they’re confined.
The others are the strange and charmed,
(In writing this no quarks were harmed.)
And top and bottom are the last,
With these four changing very fast
To ups and downs by their decays,
For they were made by cosmic rays.
They have two charges, mass, and spin,
And there is broad agreement in
Each published scientific source
That every quark feels every force.
As each quark has an anti-mate,
What if they meet? What is their fate?
If you are just a cloud of quarks,
Could you end in a shower of sparks?

Discarded Gods

Tags

Ancient Greece, Australian poet, Greek Gods and Godesses, Greek Mythology, Mount Olympus, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, sonnet

On high Olympus Zeus waters his plants.
His garden blooms; he blows away the snow.
Apollo’s firing arrows from his bow,
As Hera, washing done, hangs out her pants.
Poseidon, Shaker of the Earth, just rants;
He can’t get used to life laid-back and slow.
He longs to plunge into the sea below,
And knows that one fine day he’ll get the chance.
Hung-over, Dionysus grunts and groans,
While Hestia, hearth bound, clears out cold ash.
Vain Aphrodite puts her makeup on,
While razor-sharp, his spear-tip, Ares hones.
The smith Hephaestus gives hot bronze a bash.
They’re out of fashion – but they haven’t gone.

Oh no, they haven’t left the mountain top.
Up on those cloudy heights they still reside;
Wait patiently for what The Fates decide.
On fertile slopes, grows high, Demeter’s crop;
The heavy heads of grain she soon will lop.
And Hermes, fleet of foot, still travels wide;
As exercise, the god won’t be denied.
Athena, helping Hera, wields a mop,
As Artemis heads off to hunt for deer;
Her quiver and her bow across her back.
Hephaestus is still making lots of noise,
And Dionysus downs another beer.
Zeus gazes down on Greece, gone to the pack,
And smiles at the obtuseness of his toys.

Snaggletooth

Tags

Australian poet, Dentist, poem, poetry, Toothache

As old car bodies yield to rust,
So we decay – I feel concussed.
A tooth’s been torn from worn old gums,
And will be sorely missed by chums
Whose ranks are thinning. These brave chaps
Between them see the yawning gaps –
The fallen who have lost the fight.
But those few left – no longer white,
Must grind the gruel and chew the crust,
Until the last one bites the dust.