Green Men

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Jungle green, Jungle greens, poem, poetry

The green men came on through the rain and the mud;
Through the green that was stained with the blackest of blood.
And the fragments of iron from the leaden sky rained
As a fragment of green in the vast green they gained.

But the green that was gained was soon taken away,
And the green men lay crumpled and cold on the clay,
And the blood on the green, it became darker still,
As the green men, in silence, they counted their kill.

The Pink Bits

Tags

Australian Imperial Forces, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Colonialism, poem, poetry, The British Empire, The Pink Bits

It was in an imperial army he fought;
For the pink bits were ours, and that’s what he was taught.
Now the pink bits are gone and they’ll never come back,
For they’ve fallen, and festered, and faded to black.

Vercingetorix

Tags

Ancient Rome, australia traditional poetry, australian formal poetry, Battle of Alesia, Battle of Gergovia, Formal poetry, Gallic Tribes, Gaul, Julius Caesar, Roman Triumph, Vercingetorix

Armed with spear and bow and sword,
So advanced the Gallic horde.
At Gergovia struck a blow;
Laid the Roman legions low.
At Alesia – fortified,
There the legions, they defied;
But besieged by Roman might,
Weakened, they gave up the fight.
Vercingetorix the bold,
On his horse adorned with gold,
Swiftly then to Caesar went;
Rode a circle round his tent,
Then dismounted at his feet,
Flung his armour, took his seat
On now uncontested ground;
Looked to Caesar, made no sound.
So to Rome he was conveyed;
In captivity he stayed.
Soon, said Caesar: “While he lives,
To the tribes, false hope he gives.
He, to Rome, no loyalty feigns,
At my Triumph, bound in chains,
Let this King, to all the Gauls,
Show how low their saviour falls;
Then to foil his Gallic tricks,
Strangle, Vercingetorix.

Iraq Etc.

Tags

Arab Spring, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Invasion of Iraq, Knee-jerk reactions, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, Middle East chaos, Middle East wars, poem, poetry, Radical Islam

Emotions may land you in trouble.
They shatter; they burst like a bubble.
Look over the oceans –
Acts based on emotions
Bring misery, carnage and rubble.

HMS Terror

Tags

HMS Terror, HMS Terror naval base, Lion of Singapore, poem, poetry, Sembawang docks, Singapore, Traditional Australian poetry, Woodlands

Since 1696 nine ships of the Royal Navy have had the name
“HMS Terror”. The sixth HMS Terror explored the Antarctic and Arctic before being lost in the ice. She is mentioned in Joseph Conrad’s “Heart of Darkness”. The last HMS Terror was the naval base at Sembawang in Singapore ( a so called stone frigate) from 1945 to 1975.

By “Terror” known – the name they proudly bore;
At Sembawang the last was built.
She languished there beside this foreign shore;
Her namesakes sinking in the silt.

For centuries they sailed for England’s pride;
By wind and screw they sallied forth.
Nine ships, and then this last she died,
And none will bear the name henceforth.

Three hundred years of “Terror”, proudly shown
Upon the prows of England’s ships.
As changing times throughout the East dethrone,
From Empire’s grasp a jewel slips.

A symbol of how transient the gains
Of crumbling queens and navies too.
This isle no more will hear foreign refrains
As sailors march in proud review.

For all must leave – to home and kin they must
Return, on ships of other names.
HMS Terror crumbles into dust;
The Lion at last, its prey it claims.

Brigitte

Tags

australian formal poetry, Australian traditional poetry, Brigitte Gabriel, Brigitte Tudor, Formal poetry, Nour Semaan, poem, poetry, sonnet

She knows the suffering of war too well.
The blast of bombs she managed to survive
And safety reach, and so her story tell.
Thank Providence that she escaped alive
And for her work – untiring does she strive
To free those whom the powerful ignore;
Those whom the evil legions would deprive
Of life, by their relentless holy war.
Her eyes have witnessed killing, seen the gore.
She bears the scars of wounds inflicted there.
Reminders of that day when shrapnel tore
Her flesh, but still her enemies she’d dare
To stop her, as she seeks to spread the light:
Tell all who value freedom – they must fight.

Reading Churchill

Tags

limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, poem, poetry, The River War, Winston Churchill

I read Churchill – and little has changed –
Just the borders and tribes rearranged.
Though he’d note, were he here,
There is much more to fear –
With the natives now far more deranged.

“How dreadful are the curses which Mohammedanism lays on its votaries! Besides the fanatical frenzy, which is as dangerous in a man as hydrophobia in a dog, there is this fearful fatalistic apathy. The effects are apparent in many countries. Improvident habits, slovenly systems of agriculture, sluggish methods of commerce, and insecurity of property exist wherever the followers of the Prophet rule or live. A degraded sensualism deprives this life of its grace and refinement; the next of its dignity and sanctity. The fact that in Mohammedan law every woman must belong to some man as his absolute property – either as a child, a wife, or a concubine – must delay the final extinction of slavery until the faith of Islam has ceased to be a great power among men. Thousands become the brave and loyal soldiers of the faith: all know how to die but the influence of the religion paralyses the social development of those who follow it. No stronger retrograde force exists in the world. Far from being moribund, Mohammedanism is a militant and proselytizing faith. It has already spread throughout Central Africa, raising fearless warriors at every step; and were it not that Christianity is sheltered in the strong arms of science, the science against which it had vainly struggled, the civilisation of modern Europe might fall, as fell the civilisation of ancient Rome.”
― Winston S. Churchill, The River War

Attila the Hun

Tags

Alans, Atilla the Hun, australian formal poetry, Battle of Châlons, Emperor Valentinian, Formal poetry, Honoria, poem, poetry, Visigoths

Each armed to the teeth and a merciless killer;
All led by a right piece of work called Attila,
The nomadic Huns were the toughs of their day,
And heaven help any who got in their way.

From east of the Volga they came down in waves.
They raped and they plundered and took many slaves,
And there at their head was the rampaging son
Of Mundzuk of Nimrod – Attila the Hun.

He struck at the Romans – at first in the East.
At Utus he triumphed; his power increased,
But Constantinople, the Byzantine jewel,
Would never submit to barbarian rule.

Attila held counsel and made other plans;
He’d strike to the West, at the Visigoth’s lands.
The Huns left the Balkans and marched on to Gaul,
And all in their path, to Attila would fall.

But one, by betroval, she sought peace to bring;
The Roman, Honoria sent him her ring.
Atilla was firing – no time for a date;
Valentinian’s sister would just have to wait.

The Huns, like a wave in a murderous flood,
Washed over the land with dead bodies and blood,
And spread devastation with pillage and fire;
But one power could stop them: The Roman Empire.

Their general, Aetius, pride of the West,
at Châlons, the Huns, did his great army test:
The Visigoths, Romans, and Alan allies,
With broad sword and axe, cut the Huns down to size.

Atilla, his luck it was fast running out.
Depleted and weary, he started to doubt,
But then came to Rome – the Hun’s final demand:
“One half of your Empire – Honoria’s hand!”

The Romans said “No!”, and to him: “Do your worst!”
His dream now was fading, his vision was cursed,
While close by their eagles, the legions, they stood.
They’d banish this northern invader for good.

The Huns and their allies stopped north of the Po.
Attila retreated, defeated – laid low.
It’s rumoured he finally died of the drink,
Though murder, perhaps, is more likely I think.

And so did the Huns, for their great leader mourn.
(While everyone else wished he’d never been born)
They buried him under a river we’re told,
In a coffin of iron and silver and gold.

So whether expired from the wine or the knife,
(Supposedly wielded by Gudrun his wife)
His name’s now a symbol of horror and dread,
His kingdom, a box, neath a cold river bed.

Klandasan July 1st 1945

Tags

7th Division A.I.F., australian formal poetry, Balikpapan, bush poet, Bush Poetry, Klandasan, poem, poetry

From Syria to Milne Bay,
At Shaggy ridge, the fall of Lae,
Two men had seen each other right,
Now one last battle left to fight.

From landing craft they hit the sand;
At Klandasan the diggers land.
The Alligators roll ahead,
But quiet and still, a man lies dead.

He thought the end within his reach,
But now he sleeps upon this beach.
His blankets are the tropic sands
And at his head his rifle stands

With slouch hat for a digger’s cross,
For those to come, to mark the loss,
As by the grave there stands his mate;
For some the war will end too late.

Wacky War

Tags

ISIS, Levant, Libya, Middle East, poem, poetry, Yemen

One couldn’t make this up – I’m sure –
This Middle Eastern wacky war,
As ISIS like a blood stain spreads
And in its wake leaves heaps of heads
In Libya and in the Levant.
As in The West the liberals chant:
“Lone wolves, they are, who’d do us harm.
They’ve no connection to Islam.”
The Russians smile and lift the ban
On missiles for their friend Iran.
Iraqis from the fighting fly,
While Christians and Yazidis die.
The Turks don’t even try to hide
Support for this new genocide.
The U.S. doesn’t seem to care
(It’s way way way way over there)
Iran to Yemen sends its ships.
Obama swivels his snake hips.
His faulty strokes he has to stop;
No more hard hitting from the top –
Sliced balls! – it’s for straight shots he yearns.
The Fertile Crescent bakes and burns