Hand Grenade Instructors

Tags

Australian poet, Formal poetry, Hand grenade instructors, Hand grenades, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

Hand Grenade Instructors

It’s not a job most people would desire;
The guys who do it always seem so tense.
They count each day until they can retire.
Their extra pay is little recompense
For teaching those without an ounce of sense,
And petrified with fear, just how to throw
Grenades – the strain I guess must be immense.
Some fool beside you with a bomb – you know
That he may drop the bloody thing and blow
You both to Hell: “Don’t panic – pull the pin.
You see those dummies lined up in a row?
Now throw!” – the trainee’s face twists in a grin.
The primed grenade drops as his body shakes;
And in a cold sweat the instructor wakes.

10 Grenade fails

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Open Borders

Tags

Australian poet, Illegal immigration, Open borders policy, poem, poetry, Rhyming couplets

Open Borders

Such madness would all end in tears!
(Plus showers of arrows and spears).

Bad Body Image

Tags

Australian poet, Body Politic, Civilizational decline in the West, democracy, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, politics

Bad Body Image

It’s not just politicians, friends;
They’ve always worked to their own ends.
You wonder what is tired and sick?
It is the body politic.

Infiltrators

Tags

Australian poet, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, poem, poetry

Infiltrators

Are you a state? – make up your mind!
By what is your ethos defined?
Are you so naive?
Some seek to deceive!
Be careful to whom you are kind.

A Comforting Millstone

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Identity politics, poem, poetry, resentment, Revisionist Historians, Self pity, Slave morality, Victim culture, Victim mentality

For the sins of the fathers no men should be whipped –
For the men who were murdered or slaves who were shipped;
But the sins be acknowledged, a lesson to learn,
Lest the sons be inclined to repeat them in turn.

And the sons of the slaves and the men who were killed
Must acknowledge that they are now free and free-willed;
That they owe naught to any, nor do any owe
For what’s passed, compensation – all claims to forgo.

Now the words writ above are but vain hopes and prayers.
History’s “victim”, a scowl on his countenance wears,
As he sinks neath a burden of self-imposed weight,
And he never will drop it – or wipe clean the slate.

𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝕰𝖓𝖌𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖉

Tags

poetry, poem, sonnet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Islamization, Australian poet, Petrarchan sonnet, Italian sonnet, Richard II, William Shakespeare, This England, England

𝕿𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝕰𝖓𝖌𝖑𝖆𝖓𝖉

This island that once ruled the seven seas.
This misty Eden with her wide-spanned moat.
This land of which the greatest poet wrote
The finest verses – she is on her knees.
The quislings genuflect, the Lords appease.
The foe they flatter, as they seek his vote.
Gone are the Princes and the Knights of note,
And to the gates the traitors have the keys.

Is there a cure for this infected Isle?
Is there a remedy? Unhappy men
Know but too well what is the fate of fools
Who turn a blind eye to the villain’s guile.
The gem’s within his grasp – no poet’s pen
Can help defend a house where weakness rules.

Tibbet’s Farm

Tags

Abandoned farms, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Run-down farms

Tibbet’s Farm

We stroll together arm in arm
Down by the wreck of Tibbet’s farm.
At what we knew in better days,
My girl and I in sadness gaze:
The leaning stumps in crooked ranks,
The scattered timber, tumbled tanks,
The space where once there was a home,
The broken plough that tilled the loam,
The garden beds, all overgrown;
Where once were flowers, now weeds are sown.
And there amongst the tufts of grass,
The busted bricks and shards of glass,
A little plastic doll we spy,
With but one arm, and too, one eye.
A long-forgotten ruined toy.
A relic of a fleeting joy.
A girl once looked into its face –
What shadows linger in this place?
We listen – all is quiet and calm
Down by the wreck of Tibbet’s farm.

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}

To a Dead Girl

Tags

Australian poet, death, Formal poetry, poem, poetry

To a Dead Girl

Are you with God? Serene now is your face
In death – in satin and in lace,
So pretty there you lie today,
How could such beauty pass away?

Cycles

Tags

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.