Stanley River

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian traditional poetry, bush poet, Bush Poetry, poem, poetry, Stanley River Queensland

The water rippling o’er the bars whispers these words to me:
“You came and swam in my cool depths when you were young and free.

Then all your worries were so small and how the world was wide;
But now the world has wearied you, come here, a while abide.

For I have waited patiently while you were far away,
And deep within my heart I knew that you’d return one day.

Your step is slower than before, for many years have passed,
And you have aged, as too have I, but I still flow as fast.

Come rest your body and your soul here by my crystal pools,
Where long ago, my glistening rocks, to you were precious jewels.”

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Bougainville

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Arawa, Australian bush poetry, Australian traditional poetry, Bougainville Copper Limited, Bougainville Island, Bougainville War, Panguna, poem, poetry

So quick to strike are the seeds of war
And the harvest reaped is bitter.
An emerald jewel with a fatal flaw,
For a speck of hatred lay at its core
For the progress made and the rule of law
When the treasure had lost its glitter.

How many of you in your graves lie dead?
How many lives were shattered?
The coral sands now stained with red,
And the villages flaming as you fled
From the smothering smoke as your country bled –
To the four winds you were scattered.

The mine in the mountains gone to waste
And the towns where we lived all burned.
Repent at leisure for deeds in haste
For rebellion’s cup is with poison laced
As men go mad as your blood they taste
And too late is the lesson learned.

Where are you John, and Ambrose too?
Did you survive this madness?
And Bilou and Tioni, are they with you?
Tell me, who are left of our old crew?
Though I have asked, none said, none knew;
Seems all that’s left is sadness.

And what of the island I first saw
With the Crown Prince Range enshrouded
With cloud that turned to the smoke of war
As the future burned and the bullets tore –
Can it be plucked from the devil’s maw?
Is its fate forever clouded?

This Day

Tags

ANZAC Day, Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

The soldiers, those who’ve died, moulder away
Beneath their gravestones – flesh and bones don’t last.
Their souls perhaps look down upon this day
And see the flags that flutter at half-mast;
The thinning ranks so proudly marching past –
With many from the rear, now at the fore.
The souls of all the soldiers who have passed
Away – just yesterday, and all before:
The dead who died at home, and those at war.
Perhaps they all gaze on – each mother’s son,
Remembering the smoke, the cannon’s roar,
The corpses in the trenches overrun.
They won our freedom, and they bore the cost;
And none know better – how it can be lost.

Divided

Tags

Ancient Roman law, Ancient Rome, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Republican Rome, The Twelve Tables

That rascal Titus now has paid.
(As time and Titus have expired.)
Divided neatly with a blade –
Distributed – the flesh required.

The law dictated our decision;
It is writ that rogues must pay.
Proportional precise division
Of remains – the fairest way.

Those owed debts of substantial size
Got choicest portions – legs, arms, heart.
My share? But two bits I would prize,
Contained within one wrinkled part.

The parcel came by slave this morning;
Neither severed head nor guts,
For I had given him fair warning:
Titus knew I’d have his nuts.

Drought & Flood

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bush Poetry, drought, Flood, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

Drought

The paddocks bake to brown in summer heat.
The river shrinks to holes where lungfish dwell.
The grass remaining cracks beneath one’s feet.
The water level drops deep in the well,
And everywhere is death, and death the smell,
For scattered on the ground the rotting dead.
A blasted vision of an earthly hell,
Where walk the living with their limbs like lead,
Beneath a sky bloodshot at dusk with red.
The wind stirs dust; the tree limbs crack and fall.
The ants and maggots thrive – they are well-fed.
A crow upon a carcass sounds its call.
The land is dying – drying is its blood;
Its thirst will not be quenched – until the flood.

Flood

The land has languished in the drought’s foul grip,
But now the clouds roll in and soon the rain
Falls lightly, and the downpipes start to drip.
Then steadier, like an approaching train
it’s heavier, that welcome sweet refrain
As gutters gurgle and tanks overflow,
And raindrops drum against the window pane.
The rain turns to torrential – warm winds blow.
The fresh creeps higher in the stream below.
The river’s banks are broken, comes the flood.
Across the flats the surging waters flow
To wash away drought’s sacrificial blood.
The gods appeased – the cycle is complete.
Now throbs the land once more to its slow beat.

Unmarked

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Gayndah cemetery, poem, poetry, Queensland drovers, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, Two-up, Unmarked graves

I’ve walked this graveyard; I know you are here,
But I can’t find a headstone or a cross.
And you can’t give a sign when I am near,
So maybe I’ll just take two coins and toss
Them high, and where they land there’ll be no moss-
Encrusted stone – just a bare patch of earth
That I’ll call yours, and it will mark our loss.
Of grander monuments there is no dearth,
But their inscriptions are of little worth.
The elements erode each written word;
Time blurs the name, the date of death, and birth.
I never knew you. Of your life I’d heard.
My father learned the truth, but much too late.
I came to find you – sorry for the wait.

{In memory of Felix Thomas O’Brien – drover, 1895 – 1963}

{Photo of Gayndah Cemetery by Ruth P}

Lost Paradise

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Border control, Border walls, Culture clashes, Fifth Column, Formal poetry, Infiltration, Obama's open door immigration policy, Paradise - a walled garden, poem, poetry, Strong borders, Uncontrolled immigration

Their land was wrecked; so said a seer:
“There is a paradise quite near.
It is a garden lush but walled.
“The Promised Land”, this place is called.”

And so they ventured quickly there.
They craved a place, verdant and fair,
And soon they saw the high ramparts;
Outside the walls, halted their carts.

They spied the watchers in the towers.
Saw through the iron-barred gates the flowers,
The fountains, and the towering trees,
And then as one fell to their knees;

Beseeched the guards to let them in;
Convinced them ‘twas a wicked sin
To not with all God’s creatures share
The riches they had gathered there.

And so the gates were opened wide
And surged the travellers inside.
Each guard turned to his friend and said:
“They must be housed, and clothed and fed,

So strip the gardens of their fruit;
The game that roam the pastures shoot;
Cut down the trees and gather wood;
We must treat them as good men should.

Though their home they’ve abused and spoiled,
And though for ours our forebears toiled,
We must to these poor travellers give
Our goods and homes so they might live.

Our God, our kindness He will see,
And bless us, as each refugee,
Though foreign, lends a helping hand
To build a better Promised Land.“

There was a paradise quite near,
But should you travel there I fear
You’ll find but fields of barren land,
The ruins of once ramparts grand,

Some shattered fountains, clogged and dry,
No flowers, once pleasing to the eye,
And trees? But stumps like rotten teeth,
Atop the bones that lie beneath.

Vespasian

Tags

Augustus, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Caligula, Claudius, Galba, Nero, Otho, poem, poetry, Roman emperors, Tiberius, Vespasian, Vitellius

Augustus Caesar made the Empire great;
His rule was firm but not imperious.
For his successor Rome would have to wait,
But when he died, his stepson, old Tiberius,

Stepped up and for a while was somewhat fair –
Until Sejanus got the Emperor’s ear.
Soon he was smothered by his awful heir –
Caligula – a man all Rome would fear.

But when with stab-wounds he was duly riddled,
Poor Claudius tried hard to put things right.
As Rome was burning Emperor Nero fiddled;
The legions now were spoiling for a fight.

So Galba’s rise, it put an end to Nero,
As Nero with some help fell on his sword.
Then Galba fell to Otho – Rome’s new hero,
And Otho for a short time Rome adored;

Until Vitellius was crowned as Caesar;
Vitellius turned out to be bad news.
Next to be crowned was the Judea seizer;
Rose to the throne the conqueror of the Jews.

The Empire had endured the worst of men –
Vespasian would make Rome great again.

Grilled (by) Lobsters

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Clean up your room!, Jordan B Peterson, Lobsters, poem, poetry

I had a nightmare about mobsters.
They had whiskers and claws – they were lobsters.
I was tied to a chair, and their pincers,
They pinched, and they laughed at my winces.
And they said in their strange lobster voices:
“Be a man – you have plenty of choices.
Don’t be weak – this is pretty mild torture.
Just remember what Peterson taught ya:
Life is hard, but be brave as you suffer;
You’ll emerge quite considerably tougher.”

I awoke in my bed safe and sound,
And no lobsters were there to be found.
It was like I’d escaped from the tomb.
I proceeded to clean up my room.

Clean up your room!

Let me count the ways

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Donald Trump, Formal poetry, poem, poetry

I like Trump for the way he blurts things out –
Things that he’s thinking. What he’s thought about
For quite some time and really thinks is true;
I like the way he uses satire too.
I like his clear distain for beta males.
I like his tweets – his wins, and too his fails.
I like him for his forthrightness and wit.
I like the way he takes from fools no shit.
I like his clear love for the U.S.A.,
And all the things that he’s not scared to say.
But mainly what I like about the guy
Is how he doesn’t quite know how to lie.

[After reading How He Is at Flammeus Gladius]