Pat

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Shell shock, World War 2

Pat

To join his brothers he was keen.
In forty two at just nineteen,
With both he sallied of to war.
Though never under fire before,
Courage he showed, no lack of will,
But no rejoicing at the kill.
But then there rolled a hand grenade,
And with his life Pat almost paid.
Upon a stretcher he was placed.
With morphine were his veins then laced.
A brother’s hand upon each knee,
Pat asked: “What will become of me?”
“You’ve scored a homer”, they replied;
But twice under the knife he died;
For fragments lay close to his heart —
Cold iron with which he’d never part.
Evacuated back to home,
Not buried under foreign loam,
He thought now of the future peace
When murderous war would wane and cease.
So back to health young Pat was nursed,
For by good fortune he was cursed.
Brought back to life when all but dead —
“You’re fit to fight again.” they said.
Too much to ask of one so young,
Scarred by the blast and by the gun;
And in the morning he had fled.
A note his elder brother read:
“I’m sorry Noel, I’ve done my best,
I’ll wait this war out in the west.”
A tear ran down a weathered cheek;
Noel knew that Pat was far from weak,
So three words with a steady hand
He wrote: “Brother, I understand.”
The two boys fought three more campaigns;
Were members of the few remains.
They both returned in forty five,
And thus did all three boys survive.
Then Pat came back to pay his dues,
And to the state his honour lose;
But all three brothers then embraced,
For each had death in battle faced.
But Pat, the guilt bore all his life —
Cared for his mother, took no wife,
Trod the straight path, and bless his soul,
Revered his brothers, Ron and Noel,
Who kept his secret — his great shame —
They knew that he was not to blame.
And when he lay on his death bed,
A doctor turned to me and said:
“Those scars upon your uncle’s chest —
They’re battle scars, we all have guessed.”
“A hand grenade”, I then replied,
“It’s not the first time he has died.”

— D.N. O’Brien

Deathly Detachment

Tags

7th Division 2nd AIF, Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, New Guinea Campaigns, Owen Stanley Campaign, poem, poetry, World War 2

Deathly Detachment

You doubt this tale told to me long ago?
But wait! I heard it from their very lips.
Cruel circumstance may bring the noble low;
It’s bloody war sometimes the balance tips.

Was rendered then without embellishment;
No hint of sentiment — matter of fact.
No judgement; none had reason to repent;
And words once said, they never would retract.

I write it here as best I can recall.
Three men agreed it was at Butcher’s Flat.
They drove them up against a lethal wall
Of spitting guns, they died, and that was that.

The jungle floor a stinking sea of mud.
Like islands were the bodies of the foe.
The biting tropic sun soon dried the blood.
And where the victors sat no one would know.

Detachment was the normal state of mind;
Exhaustion of the body and the brain.
So seated, on a Spartan meal they dined —
Arose, and left the shambles to the slain.

— D.N. O’Brien

Taboo

Tags

Ancient man, australian aboriginal, Australian Aboriginal laws, Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, Stone age man, Taboo, totems and taboos, Tribal societies

Taboo

You ask me, how on earth did he survive
For many centuries? Well here’s a clue:
For more than needed, never did he strive.
His little wealth he carried, his needs few.
He stuck to the old ways and nothing new
Would he allow. So for thousands of years
He didn’t change — for change it was taboo.
Paralysis by superstitious fears —
This saved him. Round the fire at night wise seers
Would tell the dreamtime myths — his history,
Unquestioned by his trusting eyes and ears.
And thus did he remain fearful, not free.
Bound tight by rigid rules that would not bend,
His world would stay unchanged — else it would end.

— D.N. O’Brien

ANZUK FORCE

Tags

28th ANZUK Brigade, 8th Division 2nd AIF, ANZUK Force, Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Fall of Singapore, poem, poetry, Singapore

𝐀𝐍𝐙𝐔𝐊 𝐅𝐎𝐑𝐂𝐄

They come once more to Singapore,
To deter those who would wage war.
The locals see their garb and guns
Have little changed — these are the sons
Perhaps of those who were brought low;
But that was thirty years ago.

The Aussies, Kiwis, British boys,
Their distant Queen once more deploys,
As she plans to give up her best —
Retreat in order to the West.

Now fifty years have passed and most
Have left — have given up the ghost.
Their shoulder flashes slowly fade —
Like memories of their brigade.

— D.N. O’Brien

Burning Desire

Tags

Australian bush fires, Australian bush poetry, Australian Greens, Australian poet, Formal poetry, Greens oppose reduction burning, poem, poetry, ScoMo, Scott Morrison Australian Prime Minister, Triolet

𝗕𝘂𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗗𝗲𝘀𝗶𝗿𝗲

The bush is burning! ScoMo should resign!
No! All the Greens should jump into the fire —
Take with them their chai lattes, cheese, and wine.
The bush is burning! Scomo should resign!
But for the Greens the bush would be just fine!
The stupid Greens have earned the nation’s ire!
The bush is burning! ScoMo should resign!
No! All the Greens should jump into the fire!

— D.N. O’Brien

𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐲

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Grandmother, Granny, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐲

“Old Granny”, so they call the ancient soul —
That little woman sitting by the door.
She’s worn — for her long life she’s paid a toll.
Apparently her family was poor.
She had a dozen kids or maybe more —
At least six daughters and six strapping sons.
Two of her boys she lost in the Great War.
They all were good with horses and with guns;
Were raised on western stations — massive runs.
Her husband was a hard man — so it’s said.
Was typical of those Australians
Who were around back then — now most are dead.
And Granny will soon join them I would say —
She’s just a relic of another day.

— D.N. O’Brien

Sacred Sites

Tags

Australian Aboriginal sacred sites, Australian bush poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Sacred sites

𝐒𝐚𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬

Scared sites are not so much revered —
As noted, avoided, and feared.

— D.N. O’Brien

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}

Little Pride

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Australian politics, David Littleproud, poem, poetry, Rhyming couplets

𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐏𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐞

“It’s liquid gold” smart money cried,
And Littleproud has little pride.

It’s desert where the brave abide,
But Littleproud has little pride.

Fresh waters flow out with the tide,
But Littleproud has little pride.

The plains are parched, the ocean’s wide,
But Littleproud has little pride.

The fools upon the hill decide,
And Littleproud has little pride.

Today another farmer died,
Still Littleproud has little pride.

The hot wind blew, her tears it dried,
But Littleproud has little pride.

“It’s Climate Change” his lips they lied,
Oh Littleproud, you’ve little pride.

— D.N. O’Brien

Littleproud

From the North

Tags

Aboriginal Australians, Australian bush poetry, Australian Megafauna Extinction, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry

From the North

In the south live the lumbering giants of the Earth.
They’ve been slumbering there since the continent’s birth.
In the north is a tide that is turning to south,
And the tide it is black, and it’s wide, and its mouth,
It hungers for meat — for the harvest of fire;
Like a wave it rolls on and it never does tire.
To the north there’s a glow like the east-rising sun,
And it glows ever brighter as each mile is won.

And the sabre-tooth looks from the mouth of his lair,
And he growls at the glow; smells the smoke in the air.
And the giant kangaroo pauses out on the plain,
But he has little sense, for he’s little of brain.
And to all the doomed giants there’s a fact that applies —
From the north will come death — from the ones who are wise.
And the giants in the south, they have nowhere to go;
They are huge, they are powerful — alas, they are slow.
They’ve been safe in the south for these millions of years;
From the north comes their end — from the north come the spears.

— D.N. O’Brien