’69

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Drought in Queensland, Formal poetry, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, Queensland dairy farms, sonnet, Vietnam War

‘69

The rains have come and washed away the dust.
The drought of ’68 is in the past.
The old man talks of selling-up at last —
Another drought like that and we’ll go bust.
Our worn-out ploughs are little more than rust.
The overdraft is climbing way too fast.
With falling prices for our milk forecast,
There’s little chance that we will earn a crust.

Dan’s back from Vietnam — he nearly died;
Was burning up — the Yanks packed him in ice.
War kills in different ways — the fever tried,
But some are not meant for the sacrifice.
He knows my thoughts, and so takes me aside —
Gives me his army boots — and his advice.

— D.N. O’Brien

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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

The Syrian Hill

Tags

2nd AIF, 7th Division 2nd AIF, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Hill 1054 Syria, poem, poetry, Syria, The Levant, Vichy French, Vichy French in Syria

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐲𝐫𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐇𝐢𝐥𝐥

In the cruel Levant lies the Syrian hill,
And the men who hold it have strength and will.
And two of the men who would take the height,
Mere boys when they landed, now men who’ll fight
The French and their vassals, the Senegalese.
From the distant south — the Antipodes,
They are seen once more in an ancient land
Where the blood of their fathers, it stains the sand.
And soon will theirs flow on this rocky mound;
But now do they dig in the blasted ground.
And the shells fly near and the air it groans
As they shake the hill and the buried bones
Of the countless soldiers who here have died
For a sultan’s dream or a far king’s pride.
Now their bayonets fixed for the last mad rush
That will seal their fate or their dark foes crush.
One looks to his right and his mate looks back,
As the air explodes — then a shout:”Attack!”
One looks to his right and his mate lies there,
And glazed are his eyes and there’s blood in his hair.
But the charge is on and the scene’s a blur.
There are shouts and shells and the bullets whir.
At the Senegalese do their officers scream,
But it is the end of a mad French dream,
As the Frenchmen flee and the French flag falls.
And the Vichy French from their towering walls,
Now their last hope gone, fly surrender’s flag.
And upon the hill with a Frenchman’s rag,
With the tricolour is a bandage made
For a soldier wounded — his mate is laid
With the others who on that day had paid
With their bright young lives for a barren mound.
Now I think of them when I hear the sound
Of a bugle blown — of the boys who fell;
Of the wounded soldier I knew so well.

— D.N. O’Brien

{𝘐𝘯 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘯 𝘰𝘧 2/25𝘵𝘩 𝘉𝘢𝘵𝘵𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘰𝘯 7𝘵𝘩 𝘋𝘪𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 2𝘯𝘥 𝘈𝘐𝘍 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘵𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘏𝘪𝘭𝘭 1054, 𝘚𝘺𝘳𝘪𝘢 8𝘵𝘩 𝘑𝘶𝘭𝘺 1941 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯 𝘱𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘢𝘳 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘮𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘈𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘯 𝘕𝘰𝘦𝘭 𝘖’𝘉𝘳𝘪𝘦𝘯 — 𝘣𝘢𝘥𝘭𝘺 𝘸𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘥𝘢𝘺 — 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘝𝘪𝘤𝘩𝘺 𝘍𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘤𝘩 𝘪𝘯 𝘚𝘺𝘳𝘪𝘢 𝘴𝘶𝘳𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘥 12𝘵𝘩 𝘑𝘶𝘭𝘺}

Sarah Island

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Convicts in Australia, Macquarie cat, Macquarie Harbour, Penal settlements, poem, poetry, Sarah Island Tasmania, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, Tasmania, Transportation of convicts, Transportation to Australia, Van Diemen's Land

Sarah Island

There are few signs that once this lonely isle
Was home to men of Empire and their slaves.
Just scattered bricks, worked stone, and shards of tile,
Remind us of when England ruled the waves.
But no doubt close at hand forgotten graves
Hold bones of some of those who trod this ground —
The convicts of The Crown, and other knaves,
Who for Macquarie Harbour once were bound;
And where they’d surely hear the dreaded sound
Of the “Macquarie Cat” — that fiendish whip.
Those men who died in chains and those who drowned,
Were payments made for every well-built ship.
“Hell’s Gates” the convicts called the harbour’s mouth —
Beyond it lay the Hades of the South.

— D.N.O’Brien

Sarah Island

The Gore Effect

Tags

Al Gore, Al Gore coming to Queensland, Anthropogenic Climate Change scam, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, poem, poetry

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐄𝐟𝐟𝐞𝐜𝐭

It seems that wherever Gore goes,
The forecast is for record lows.
Wherever he’s chosen
To go — it is frozen!
In Queensland where it never snows,

It’s snowing! Oh well done Al Gore!
We’ve never seen this stuff before!
Your amazing powers
Have brought snowy showers.
(Now go home, you climate change bore.)

— D.N. O’Brien

P.T.S.D.

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bomb Happy, Combat fatigue, Formal poetry, Italian sonnet, mental illness, Mental illness industry, P.T.S.D., Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, Quacks, Self reliance

P.T.S.D.

What noble thing this soldier boy has done.
He’s served his time so bravely at the front.
Now he’s light-hearted – it was his last stunt
He laughs, as he lays down his faithful gun.
It was he says, this patriotic son,
Much like those good old days when he would hunt,
Except the prey were armed. He’d borne the brunt
Of their attacks, and luckily he’d won.

His unseen wounds will gradually heal
If left alone: the visions of the dead,
The nightmares when he wakes alone in fright;
They too will fade with time. But some would steal
His patience, wish to meddle with his head
For gain – must he a friendly foe now fight?

— D.N. O’Brien

Dark Beauty

Tags

Agelessness, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Dark Beauty, Formal poetry, Lasting beauty, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, The Evening Star, Venus

𝐃𝐚𝐫𝐤 𝐁𝐞𝐚𝐮𝐭𝐲

{For Helen}

Dark Beauty, how is it you never change?
Should not your beauty fade as years go by?
Whilst I grow old, I find it somewhat strange
That time’s accursed attrition you defy.
But still of course your beauty you deny —
What this admirer spies you do not see.
But be assured, his eyes they never lie,
And surely would discerning eyes agree.
It’s true, and yet a mystery to me —
A very pleasant one; how is it so,
That loveliness so lasts — how can it be?
You cannot tell me, for you do not know.
Perhaps, Dark Beauty, that is why you are
As everlasting as the evening star.

— D.N. O’Brien

{Photo — D.N. O’Brien}

Bill’s Bandits

Tags

Australian Federal Election 2019, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Franking Credit theft by Labor, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, Opposition leader Bill Shorten, poem, poetry

𝐁𝐢𝐥𝐥’𝐬 𝐁𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐢𝐭𝐬

No one wants to be poor when they’re old,
But these thieves have their eyes on your gold.
You may not have a lot,
But you’d best vote for Scott,
If your wish is to keep what you hold.

— D.N. O’Brien

Underpowered

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, poem, poetry, satire

Underpowered

My satire sir, I’ll not explain,
No matter how much you complain.
The problem’s not mine
But is of your design –
You use less than half of your brain.

— D.N. O’Brien