Taboo

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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

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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

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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

The Bird Band

Tags

Australian birds, Australian bush poetry, Australian bush poets, australian formal poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, bird band, Formal poetry, poem, poetry

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐁𝐢𝐫𝐝 𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐝

One evening walking through the scrub,
(A shortcut home from Riley’s pub.)
Under the glow of a full moon,
I heard a brisk and lively tune.

I looked around, and there I saw
Upon that moonlit forest floor,
A pumpin’ out a chorus grand,
A finely feathered all bird band.

And all around on stumps and logs
Sat kangaroos and native dogs,
And emus swaying to the beat
Jumped up and down and stamped their feet.

Echidnas danced Irish quadrilles
While skillfully avoiding quills.
Goannas flicked in time their tongues,
While in the band with bursting lungs

Black glossy red-tailed cockatoos
In harmony sang out the blues.
On ukuleles magpies strummed.
A flock of honey-eaters hummed.

With twelve apostles on the drums,
The beat it echoed from the gums,
While lyre birds serenely played.
(They’re known for being rather staid).

A bell bird rang his built in chime.
A whip bird cracked his whip in time.
A kookaburra, with a smile,
On his guitar played finger-style.

I stayed a while, then home to bed
With music coursing through my head.
I woke and wondered had I dreamed.
Outside my window, moonlight beamed,

And all was quiet and nothing stirred.
I listened hard but nothing heard.
No, not a noise of fur or fowl,
Except — the hooting of an owl.

— D.N. O’Brien

The Yanks

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Australian soldiers in Vietnam, Australian traditional poetry, Fourth of July, poem, poetry, Vietnam War

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐘𝐚𝐧𝐤𝐬

{𝘍𝘰𝘳 𝘋𝘢𝘯}

I’ll tell you here a story and I swear I will not lie.
It’s a story of a man we knew — to whom we’ve said goodbye:

Once a jungle scarred and blasted, overhead a baleful sky,
Where with whirring, doleful droning, did a lonely chopper fly
To a clearing where the man lay still — it took him by and by
To a place where they could save him, and I tell you that is why
While he lived for ever after on the fourth day of July
Would that digger quietly praise the Yanks who wouldn’t let him die.

— D.N. O’Brien