Real Fear

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Australian poet, poem, poetry, sonnet

𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐫

From the firmament do the dead men peer
At the world below with their long dead eyes;
At a crazy world they don’t recognize.
And the sounds of strife reach each ghostly ear,
From the crowd’s foul mouth that is twisted, queer,
And they see the smoke and the headline lies,
And the idiots who are now thought wise;
And the shades, they mutter: “They know not fear.”

For these ghosts have been to the depths of Hell,
Braved the bayonet and the screaming shell.
Now they fix their gaze from beyond the sky,
And they see the truth —see the traitor’s lie.
Now see clearly what they have seen before:
Unmistakable are the winds of war.

— D.N. O’Brien

Thinking Nice Thoughts

Tags

Anti-depressants, Australian poet, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

I’ve started thinking nice thoughts every day,
And magically the world’s a better place.
All existential threats have gone away.
No longer are there any foes to face.
I’ve thrown away my nunchuks and my mace.
My rifles I have flung into my lake
With all my ammunition — every case.
It’s so easy to do, a piece of cake!
Nice thoughts are all you need, make no mistake!
They’ll make your wordly worries disappear!
No longer do my limbs begin to shake
When I see scary things — I have no fear!
(These pills the doctor gave me work so well,
I think I’d be exuberant in Hell!)

— D.N. O’Brien

The March of the Insane

Tags

BLM protest march, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, sonnet, U.S. riots 2020

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐜𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐞

With their hate exposed and their minds closed tight
They are marching on to that old red beat
Down the bloodied road and the blackened street.
They’re the nightmare spawned on the darkest night.
They’re the Marxists’ dream, both the black and white.
They’re the proof that the West’s decay’s complete,
With its bones now dust neath the marching feet
Of the damned divisions that smear and smite.

While they know not hunger nor great world war,
And no sacrifice has been asked of them,
Their precept’s the product of one mad brain —
And all but what pleases, it will ignore
And all that displeases, it will condemn,
For it is the master of crowds insane.

— D.N. O’Brien

The Army of the Retired

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Australian poet, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Political Correctness, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝

They are the only army that will fight.
(The regulars have mostly gone to ground.)
The only soldiers who will stand for right —
Their shackled comrades dare not make a sound.
The regulars are silenced — gagged and bound,
Intimidated — forced down on their knees.
No more are they for bravery renowned;
They have their orders — run, retreat, appease.
They are the victims of the new disease —
They are afflicted by postmodern germs.
With heads bowed low, pale platitudes they wheeze.
But those who’ve served are free to state their terms:
They won’t be silenced by the baying mobs.
They’ll fight with words. (They don’t fear for their jobs.)

— D.N. O’Brien

Cicero Silenced

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Ancient Rome, Australian poet, Cicero, Death of Cicero, Formal poetry, Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, Marcus Tullius Cicero, Mark Antony, Octavian, poem, poetry, Second Triumvirate, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐂𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝

The senate will no longer hear his words.
Herennius has stilled the traitor’s tongue.
By citizens, by slaves, and by the birds,
His praises are no longer to be sung.
His works into the Tiber must be flung.
His theories, but the ramblings of a fool.
His famous oratory, worthless dung.
His poems and his prose, seditious fuel.
The tomes must say that Marcus was a tool
Of those who would deny the good and great.
None may impede the three destined to rule —
So Cicero — forgotten be his fate.
See there his body and his severed head!
Go tell the trio — Cicero is dead.

— D.N. O’Brien

Jane

Tags

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

Jane

Thai was her mother, Portuguese her dad.
A waitress working in old Singapore.
Eurasian face so pretty yet so sad,
Hinted of disappointments borne before:
Perhaps a soldier wearied by the war —
A brief but torrid tropic love affair;
Or else a Yankee sailor cast ashore?
These thoughts passed through my mind — why did I care?
Why not then ask her? Really, would I dare?
I held my breath, arose, and called her near —
So close to me, her face, her jet-black hair,
The scent of her — the memories so dear.

Those recollections in my mind remain.
Where are you now, my lovely lady Jane?

— D.N. O’Brien

The Frightened Ones

Tags

Australian poet, Culture of fear, Fear, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬

It is the era of the frightened ones —
The trembling terrified who freeze in fright.
They’re terrified of viruses and guns,
And anything that goes bump in the night.
Of snakes and spiders and potato blight.
Of mice and elephants and also bears;
And darkness, one must not turn off the light
When they’re asleep — they’ll be killed in nightmares!
They’re scared of ants and certain plants and hares,
And every type of mole; and humming birds.
They’re scared of circles, rectangles and squares,
And poets who write poems with big words.
They’re scared of clocks and smelly socks and elves.
But what they’re really scared of is……. themselves.

— D.N. O’Brien

Simoeisios

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Aias, Ajax, Australian poet, Homer, Italian sonnet, Mount Ida, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, Simoeis River, Simoeisios, sonnet, Telamonian Aias, The Iliad, The Trojan Plain, The Trojan War, Troy

𝙎𝙞𝙢𝙤𝙚𝙞𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙨

You fell just as a smooth-barked poplar would.
The spear from Ajax struck you in the chest.
Anthemion’s brave son — he loved you best,
As did your mother. On that field you stood,
A young man, yet unmarried, strong and good;
In armour brightly shining you were dressed.
But no cuirass would shield your noble breast,
For from the arm of Ajax nothing could.

Born by the river that bequeathed your name;
Upon a water meadow you were laid.
Then raised to be your parent’s pride and joy,
Though never would their kindness be repaid.
In bloom of youth, up to the front you came,
To fall and rot upon the plain of Troy.

— D.N. O’Brien

Lock-Down! Or?

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Australian poet, Covid-19 lock-down, Formal poetry, Lock down, poem, poetry, Spenserian sonnet

𝗟𝗼𝗰𝗸-𝗗𝗼𝘄𝗻! 𝗢𝗿?

Lock-down! Raise up the drawbridge, bolt the doors!
A tiny army marches from the East!
We’re in for the most virulent of wars —
A million billion casualties at least!
This microscopic foe expects to feast
Upon the huddled masses of the West.
But we will stay locked-down till he has ceased
His dirty depredations — till this pest
Has gone back to the oriental nest
Whence he did spring. Behind our walls we’ll hide —
A great and noble sacrifice! A test!
A dreadful siege, an enemy defied!

Alternatively, live — ignore distortions,
Remembering to take all due precautions.

— D.N. O’Brien

A Hypothetical Spartan WuFlu Response

Tags

Australian poet, Helot, Laconia, Plague, poem, poetry, sonnet, Sparta, Spartan, Spenserian sonnet

𝐀 𝐇𝐲𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐮𝐅𝐥𝐮 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞

Two kings of Sparta must deliberate.
For o’er Laconia a plague has spread.
The Helots cry: “Act now, or it’s too late!
Before the kingdom’s littered with our dead!”
Now Sparta by its kings is wisely led —
They know the present danger, it is clear;
But how to act? What message must be spread?
Their kings the Spartans worship and revere;
So which course must the kings of Sparta steer?
The Spartans, till their last breath they will fight,
And for the fallen never shed a tear.
What can be said to those who know not fright?

Upon a proclamation they agree:
“Good luck.” the kings declare — laconically.

— D.N. O’Brien