An Acceptable Diagnosis

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Australian poet, Formal poetry, ISIS, islam, Islamic infiltration, islamic Terrorism, jihad, poem, poetry

An Acceptable Diagnosis

“Allahu Akbar”? – We’ve heard that before.
And “Jihad”? Oh yes, that’s Islam’s holy war.
But terror had nothing to do with your acts;
So listen while we explain some of the facts:
You say you’re a martyr – but that’s not the case.
The problem is that you are in a bad place.
You’re just a lone wolf who is missing his pack;
Your alienation, it made you attack.
If that’s not enough, there’s the other excuse –
That evil addiction – your substance abuse.
So it’s not religion – it’s all in your mind;
Here’s the diagnosis the doctors have signed.
They’ve heard your confession – they’ve studied your brain,
And they all agree that you’re merely insane.

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The Cup

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Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Melbourne Cup, poem, poetry

The Cup

The cup is being run today.
It stops the nation, so they say.
We hardly need such an excuse
To make our bank accounts reduce,
But even so I say: “Have fun!
Cheer loudly at the starting gun!”
For Melbourne’s cup I’ll make a case –
Yes! Here’s my take on this great race:
A midget on a horse’s back
Will guide his nag around the track,
While women draped in finery
Drink grape juice from a winery,
And men all dressed up in fine suits
Get horseshit on their polished boots
While placing bets on horses who,
About their form, they’ve not a clue.
It’s anybody’s guess who’ll win –
Not watching is a mortal sin.
There won’t be much work done today,
We’re going to the cup – Hooray!

Tibbet’s Farm

Tags

Abandoned farms, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Run-down farms

Tibbet’s Farm

We stroll together arm in arm
Down by the wreck of Tibbet’s farm.
At what we knew in better days,
My girl and I in sadness gaze:
The leaning stumps in crooked ranks,
The scattered timber, tumbled tanks,
The space where once there was a home,
The broken plough that tilled the loam,
The garden beds, all overgrown;
Where once were flowers, now weeds are sown.
And there amongst the tufts of grass,
The busted bricks and shards of glass,
A little plastic doll we spy,
With but one arm, and too, one eye.
A long-forgotten ruined toy.
A relic of a fleeting joy.
A girl once looked into its face –
What shadows linger in this place?
We listen – all is quiet and calm
Down by the wreck of Tibbet’s farm.

The Hunter

Tags

Australian Aboriginals, Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bush Poetry, Formal poetry, Gidgee - Acacia cambagei, Hunter, poem, poetry, Woomera

Stands motionless, with spear haft thrust
Into the desert’s scarlet dust.
Upon one leg, foot on one knee,
Dark eyes through shimmering heat-haze see

Blurred forms towards him leap and bound
Across scorched plains of arid ground.
His muscles flex as ends his wait.
The lance is raised and now too late

The mob explodes in mortal fear
As woomera launches the spear
Of gidgee hardened by the flame;
Its flight is true and so his aim.

One kangaroo, gore-splattered grey;
A feast, his tribe will have this day.
He draws his weapon from the dead;
The jagged point glistens blood-red.

Blessed Birds

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Australian poet, Birds, Formal poetry, King Parrots, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

Blessed Birds

It’s said that life is suffering, yet birds
That come to my backyard don’t suffer so.
They seem quite happy, speaking, not with words,
But songs, of chirps and whistles – they don’t know
What lies in store for them – each day they go
About their business with no thought of what
May come. And when in winter, chill winds blow,
They don’t complain, nor when the wind blows hot.
Perched in a tree, the future matters not –
They sing, for they are blessed with tiny brains;
Have not the power to worry, plan or plot.
It’s true they look bedraggled when it rains,
But soon they shake their feathers and they’re dry.
And though they don’t think deeply…..they can fly.

{Photo – D.N. O’Brien}

To a Dead Girl

Tags

Australian poet, death, Formal poetry, poem, poetry

To a Dead Girl

Are you with God? Serene now is your face
In death – in satin and in lace,
So pretty there you lie today,
How could such beauty pass away?

The Old Soldier

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Italian sonnet, Old soldiers, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, Sacrifice in war, sonnet

The Old Soldier

He sits there in the winter’s morning sun.
His pale blue eyes have faded with the years,
And shed in solitude some bitter tears.
This man so frail, could he have been the one
Whose wasted arms once held a victor’s gun?
He’s seen the darker side, no death he fears,
But as the day of reckoning it nears,
He wonders was the loss worth what was won.

His life, a story mixed of hope and toil.
The years have gone – how rapidly they fly.
And now he sees the enemy is nigh –
A foe no bullet and no steel can foil.
To fight and win but finally to die,
And gain at last a tiny patch of soil.

Triolet #1

Tags

Australian poet, flammeus gladius, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Tom Riley - poet, Triolet

Triolet #1

Tom Riley writes these damn things all the time!
I’m trying hard to write a triolet.
I’m working hard on rhythm and on rhyme.
Tom Riley writes these damn things all the time!
And his I have to say are quite sublime,
While this is not – I’m working up a sweat.
Tom Riley writes these damn things all the time!
I’m trying hard to write a triolet.

Flammeus Gladius

Cycles

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Australian poet, Cycles, Formal poetry, Italian sonnet, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, Rise and Fall, sonnet

Cycles

All things that rise up to a peak must fall.
Even the tallest towers of Earth’s empires.
The strongest life-force, given time it tires
And slows and dies – it matters not at all.
A being or a mountain or a wall,
Churches and mosques with heaven-pointing spires –
They all must yield to death, to rain and fires;
All things will be brought low, that now are tall.
The rocks will one day all be ground to dust.
New rocks will rise and reach towards the sky.
The world will once again be clothed in ice,
And steel that girds the world will turn to rust.
Yet what is low, in turn will be brought high,
Until the time comes for its sacrifice.

Lawyers and Liars

Tags

Ambulance chasing lawyers, Australian poet, Formal poetry, Lawyers, Litigation, poem, poetry, Solicitors, Something for nothing, Victim mentality

If your bank account is dipping
In the red, then just try slipping
In a supermarket shopping
(Where there’s always something dropping
and they haven’t started mopping)
And just lying there and groaning,
Clutching at your leg and moaning,
Then off to the lawyers limping
(For they specialize in pimping).
Pretty soon you will be suing
And your bank account accruing
Money that you weren’t deserving,
But then lawyers are self-serving –
They don’t care that you’re a liar,
You’re a victim – they’re for hire.