The Gurley Police

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Formal poetry, Gurley NSW, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, poem, poetry

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐮𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐲 𝐏𝐨𝐥𝐢𝐜𝐞

The Gurley police are not small.
The Gurley police are quite tall.
They’re big brave and strong,
So don’t get me wrong —
They’re not really girly at all.

— D.N. O’Brien

{Photo D.N. O’Brien}

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Formalists

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Formalists, free verse, poem, poetry

𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬

Free versifiers, as we know, these folk are everywhere,
But those who compose formally are really rather rare.
As rare as that elusive stuff, a rocking horse’s dung,
And rarely are they read, and rarely are their praises sung.
Hen’s teeth, they are quite plentiful, compared to these composers,
And most of them live in the past, and most are old as Moses.
And though their numbers dwindle fast, and though their foes are many,
They’ll keep on writing to the last — and never earn a penny.

— D.N. O’Brien

Strange Guides

Tags

Australian poet, Guide animals, Guide dogs, Mongoose, poem, poetry, Red-bellied black snake

𝐒𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞 𝐆𝐮𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐬

I once knew a blind man, his name it was Jake.
His guide was no dog, but in fact was a snake.
A red-bellied black — his reptilian guide
Was six feet in length and was two inches wide.
Jake had it in harness and followed its trail,
And sometimes he’d give it a yank on the tail.
The snake never bit him, though fangs it would bare,
And hiss something like: ”I’m your master.” I swear!
He’d had a guide dog but the poor pooch had died
The day after Jake bought the snake — poor Jake cried.
The vet, he had said: “I suspect those two holes
In your guide dog’s neck, they were not made by moles.”
The snake played his cards right — he tended to cheat,
(Not easy when one has no hands, legs, or feet)
But managed to tempt Jake to give him a go
At guiding his footsteps — they started off slow
But soon got it right, and I’d see them most days,
As Jake trailed behind the snake’s serpentine ways.
The end to this tale, well I’m sorry, it’s sad,
(Although I suspect that that snake, he was bad)
The story was told by blind Jake at the wake:
One morning the pair of them, Jake and the snake,
Were walking (and slithering) slow through the fog.
Another blind man with a guide (not a dog)
Passed by them, and somehow the man’s guide broke loose —
No snake is a match for a hungry mongoose.

— D.N. O’Brien

Logical Extinctions

Tags

Australian poet, Dinosaur, Dodo, Mauritius, Neanderthal, Passenger pigeon, poem, poetry, Rhyming couplets, thylacine

𝐋𝐨𝐠𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐄𝐱𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬

The Thylacine would snatch a pullet —
Soon the last one took a bullet.

On an island named Mauritius,
Lived the Dodo — so delicious.

The passengers that blackened skies
Were baked in lots of pigeon pies.

The Kingpin was the Dinosaur;
Until there came a meteor.

Neanderthals died out we know.
Their IQs were a bit too low.

— D.N. O’Brien

The Bird Band

Tags

Australian birds, Australian bush poetry, Australian bush poets, australian formal poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, bird band, Formal poetry, poem, poetry

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐝

One evening walking through the scrub,
(A shortcut home from Riley’s pub.)
Under the glow of a full moon,
I heard a brisk and lively tune.

I looked around, and there I saw
Upon that moonlit forest floor,
A pumpin’ out a chorus grand,
A finely feathered all bird band.

And all around on stumps and logs
Sat kangaroos and native dogs,
And emus swaying to the beat
Jumped up and down and stamped their feet.

Echidnas danced Irish quadrilles
While skillfully avoiding quills.
Goannas flicked in time their tongues,
While in the band with bursting lungs

Black glossy red-tailed cockatoos
In harmony sang out the blues.
On ukuleles magpies strummed.
A flock of honey-eaters hummed.

With twelve apostles on the drums,
The beat it echoed from the gums,
While lyre birds serenely played.
(They’re known for being rather staid).

A bell bird rang his built in chime.
A whip bird cracked his whip in time.
A kookaburra, with a smile,
On his guitar played finger-style.

I stayed a while, then home to bed
With music coursing through my head.
I woke and wondered had I dreamed.
Outside my window, moonlight beamed,

And all was quiet and nothing stirred.
I listened hard but nothing heard.
No, not a noise of fur or fowl,
Except — the hooting of an owl.

— D.N. O’Brien

Angling Adder

Tags

Australian poet, Fishing snake, poem, poetry

𝐀𝐧𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐀𝐝𝐝𝐞𝐫

I said to the snake: ”Put it down!”
The snake hissed: “Would you see it drown?”
Replied I: “Reptilian beast —
You’re saving it — but for your feast.”

— D.N. O’Brien

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

Search for the Tank Man

Tags

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

Tags

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