The Swordsmith

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Australian poet, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Swordsmith

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝𝐬𝐦𝐢𝐭𝐡

From the Maker’s furnace is wrought each life,
When are portions promised of joy and strife,
And these both, in measure, for life one pays,
And the price is fate, and it cuts both ways.

And how blows are borne, will in each reveal,
Whether flawed with weakness, or strong like steel.
Knows the smith, when forging a two-edged sword,
How it holds each edge, is its temper scored.

— D.N. O’Brien

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Dams

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Anti-dam fanatics, Australian bush poetry, Australian traditional poetry, Bush Poetry, dams, Green fanatics, irrigation, poem, poetry

The seed that’s planted in the endless rows,
With irrigation sprouts, emerges, grows.
But take away the sprays that make the rain,
And witness then, the graveyard of the grain,
As each seed shrinks and withers where it lies,
As in its blasted shell the life force dies —
A desolation sown thick with the dead,
Where could have been a field of golden bread.

To plant into the ground when parched and dry —
To throw the dice, the seed of wheat, of rye,
Upon the dust — to gamble with the gods;
Or else to irrigate the tumbled sods
And watch the seedlings germinate and thrive,
So those who would destroy the dams — survive.

— D.N. O’Brien

Forest

Tags

Arboretum, Australian babblers, Australian honey-eaters, Australian poet, Azure Kingfisher, Bicheno finch, Brush Box Tree, Bunya Pine, Crested dove, Double-bar finch, Formal poetry, Gum trees, Illawarra flame tree, kookaburra, Owl-faced finch, poem, poetry, Silky Oak, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, Spotted Gum, tea tree

Forest

Around my arboretum take a tour:
A Bunya Pine where owl-faced finches nest —
They buzz and beep. A flash as an azure
Kingfisher dives. A dusky dove with crest
And wings displayed puffs out his dappled chest,
There with his mate high in a silky oak.
Two kookaburras in a tall gum rest;
They chuckle quietly at a private joke.
Amongst the fallen leaves grey babblers poke
And prod the ground for insects. Lipstick-red,
Each flame tree wears its brilliant fiery cloak.
By spotted gum, tea tree and box we tread,
And marvel at the life the forest brings.
High overhead, a honeyeater sings.

— D.N. O’Brien

{Photo – D.N. O’Brien}

Dry Country

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Australian bush poetry, Australian deserts, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bradfield Scheme, Bush Poetry, Flood, Formal poetry, Paroo River, poem, poetry, River diversion schemes in Australia

Like inland seas that stretch to far horizons,
The swirling waters soak the sodden plains.
And brown and foaming flow the streams flood-swollen,
Swelled high and wide by teeming monsoon rains.

The arid deserts bake in summer heat waves,
While ancient stream beds dream of former days.
The deluge on the coast flows out to oceans,
As sense and “progress” go their separate ways.

— D.N. O’Brien

{Image of the Paroo River by Peter Woodard via Wikipedia}

Trees

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Australian poet, Formal poetry, Planting trees, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, Trees

Trees

He planted trees at every place he owned,
But never stayed the years to watch them grow.
It was, he hoped, a pleasure but postponed –
Kept for the future. Many years ago,
He planted the first tree – he didn’t know
That it would be a gypsy life he’d lead;
He’d put down roots, but then up stakes and go.
A planted seedling, or sometimes a seed,
He’d leave with one last water, one last feed,
And hope that with some luck it would survive;
Be not mistaken for a struggling weed.
Some of those trees by a clear pool now thrive.
They cast their shadows on a verdant glade,
Where rest the weary, thankful for the shade.

– D.N. O’Brien

{Photo – D.N. O’Brien}

Monkey Business

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Australian poet, Chimpanzees wage war, Innate instincts, Jane Goodall, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

Postmodernists say humans are the cause
Of all the problems of old Mother Earth.
They claim invasions, battles, bloody wars,
Weren’t present prior to our primal birth.
But such a theory is of little worth,
For so behave the monkeys – chimpanzees.
Of facts to back this up there is no dearth.
(Conclusions that most certainly won’t please
Those worshipers of Nature, birds, and bees.)
They prove that just like us these murderous apes
Will conquer, kill, and territory seize.
Our primate cousin also raids and rapes;
It’s not just us who have this fatal flaw,
For like us humans, chimpanzees wage war.

Chimps wage war

Concrete Canvas

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Australian grain silos, Australian poet, Painted silos, poem, poetry, Silo art trail Australia

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭𝐞 𝐂𝐚𝐧𝐯𝐚𝐬

These stores of gathered golden grains,
Once sombre, dull, and grey,
That rise above the spreading plains,
Now on their walls display
In colours bright, all Nature’s gifts –
Fruits of the wide-tilled earth.
These towering works, the spirit lifts,
As lifted is their worth.

– D.N. O’Brien

The Hunter

Tags

Australian Aboriginals, Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bush Poetry, Formal poetry, Gidgee - Acacia cambagei, Hunter, poem, poetry, Woomera

Stands motionless, with spear haft thrust
Into the desert’s scarlet dust.
Upon one leg, foot on one knee,
Dark eyes through shimmering heat-haze see

Blurred forms towards him leap and bound
Across scorched plains of arid ground.
His muscles flex as ends his wait.
The lance is raised and now too late

The mob explodes in mortal fear
As woomera launches the spear
Of gidgee hardened by the flame;
Its flight is true and so his aim.

One kangaroo, gore-splattered grey;
A feast, his tribe will have this day.
He draws his weapon from the dead;
The jagged point glistens blood-red.

Blessed Birds

Tags

Australian poet, Birds, Formal poetry, King Parrots, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

Blessed Birds

It’s said that life is suffering, yet birds
That come to my backyard don’t suffer so.
They seem quite happy, speaking, not with words,
But songs, of chirps and whistles – they don’t know
What lies in store for them – each day they go
About their business with no thought of what
May come. And when in winter, chill winds blow,
They don’t complain, nor when the wind blows hot.
Perched in a tree, the future matters not –
They sing, for they are blessed with tiny brains;
Have not the power to worry, plan or plot.
It’s true they look bedraggled when it rains,
But soon they shake their feathers and they’re dry.
And though they don’t think deeply…..they can fly.

{Photo – D.N. O’Brien}

Cycles

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Australian poet, Cycles, Formal poetry, Italian sonnet, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, Rise and Fall, sonnet

Cycles

All things that rise up to a peak must fall.
Even the tallest towers of Earth’s empires.
The strongest life-force, given time it tires
And slows and dies – it matters not at all.
A being or a mountain or a wall,
Churches and mosques with heaven-pointing spires –
They all must yield to death, to rain and fires;
All things will be brought low, that now are tall.
The rocks will one day all be ground to dust.
New rocks will rise and reach towards the sky.
The world will once again be clothed in ice,
And steel that girds the world will turn to rust.
Yet what is low, in turn will be brought high,
Until the time comes for its sacrifice.