Controlled

Tags

Australian poet, control, Covid-19 lock-down, Culture of fear, Formal poetry, poem, poetry

𝐂𝐨𝐧𝐭𝐫𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐞𝐝

A frightened mindset now takes hold —
The narrative has been well-sold,
And counted is the gathered gold.

Though many in the past were bold,
These stronger souls have all grown old,
Or moulder in their graves so cold.

They were cast from a different mould.
They would not yield; they would not fold;
They would not do as they were told.

— D.N. O’Brien

Extreme Wokeness

Tags

Australian poet, Formal poetry, hypocrisy, poem, poetry, Triolet, U.S. riots 2020, Wokeness

𝐄𝐱𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐦𝐞 𝐖𝐨𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐬𝐬

I see that you support the Marxist mob;
I envy you — you are so very woke.
While I assumed you were a well-heeled snob,
I see that you support the Marxist mob.
Encourage them to burn and loot and rob.
Watch thoughtfully while wealth goes up in smoke.
I see that you support the Marxist mob;
I envy you — you are so very woke.

— D.N. O’Brien

The Army of the Retired

Tags

Australian poet, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Political Correctness, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐀𝐫𝐦𝐲 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐑𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐝

They are the only army that will fight.
(The regulars have mostly gone to ground.)
The only soldiers who will stand for right —
Their shackled comrades dare not make a sound.
The regulars are silenced — gagged and bound,
Intimidated — forced down on their knees.
No more are they for bravery renowned;
They have their orders — run, retreat, appease.
They are the victims of the new disease —
They are afflicted by postmodern germs.
With heads bowed low, pale platitudes they wheeze.
But those who’ve served are free to state their terms:
They won’t be silenced by the baying mobs.
They’ll fight with words. (They don’t fear for their jobs.)

— D.N. O’Brien

Castrated

Tags

Australian poet, Castration, Formal poetry, Kneeling, poem, poetry, U.S. riots 2020

𝐂𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐝

It isn’t surprising that eunuchs are kneeling,
Nor is it surprising that looters are stealing.
The eunuchs support them, (and that’s not surprising),
Encourage the rioters — bless the uprising.

—D.N. O’Brien

𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Dead stars, Distant stars, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Speed of light, Starlight

𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕

I see the night sky from my chair,
And there’s a star that isn’t there.
It sent its light out into space,
And now it shines upon my face.

But could I travel oh so far;
So close that I could touch that star,
Then I would know the star had lied —
For years and years ago, it died.

— D.N. O’Brien

Cicero Silenced

Tags

Ancient Rome, Australian poet, Cicero, Death of Cicero, Formal poetry, Marcus Aemilius Lepidus, Marcus Tullius Cicero, Mark Antony, Octavian, poem, poetry, Second Triumvirate, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐂𝐢𝐜𝐞𝐫𝐨 𝐒𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞𝐝

The senate will no longer hear his words.
Herennius has stilled the traitor’s tongue.
By citizens, by slaves, and by the birds,
His praises are no longer to be sung.
His works into the Tiber must be flung.
His theories, but the ramblings of a fool.
His famous oratory, worthless dung.
His poems and his prose, seditious fuel.
The tomes must say that Marcus was a tool
Of those who would deny the good and great.
None may impede the three destined to rule —
So Cicero — forgotten be his fate.
See there his body and his severed head!
Go tell the trio — Cicero is dead.

— D.N. O’Brien

Jane

Tags

Australian poet, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

Jane

Thai was her mother, Portuguese her dad.
A waitress working in old Singapore.
Eurasian face so pretty yet so sad,
Hinted of disappointments borne before:
Perhaps a soldier wearied by the war —
A brief but torrid tropic love affair;
Or else a Yankee sailor cast ashore?
These thoughts passed through my mind — why did I care?
Why not then ask her? Really, would I dare?
I held my breath, arose, and called her near —
So close to me, her face, her jet-black hair,
The scent of her — the memories so dear.

Those recollections in my mind remain.
Where are you now, my lovely lady Jane?

— D.N. O’Brien

The Frightened Ones

Tags

Australian poet, Culture of fear, Fear, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐅𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐎𝐧𝐞𝐬

It is the era of the frightened ones —
The trembling terrified who freeze in fright.
They’re terrified of viruses and guns,
And anything that goes bump in the night.
Of snakes and spiders and potato blight.
Of mice and elephants and also bears;
And darkness, one must not turn off the light
When they’re asleep — they’ll be killed in nightmares!
They’re scared of ants and certain plants and hares,
And every type of mole; and humming birds.
They’re scared of circles, rectangles and squares,
And poets who write poems with big words.
They’re scared of clocks and smelly socks and elves.
But what they’re really scared of is……. themselves.

— 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

Lock-Down! Or?

Tags

Australian poet, Covid-19 lock-down, Formal poetry, Lock down, poem, poetry, Spenserian sonnet

𝗟𝗼𝗰𝗸-𝗗𝗼𝘄𝗻! 𝗢𝗿?

Lock-down! Raise up the drawbridge, bolt the doors!
A tiny army marches from the East!
We’re in for the most virulent of wars —
A million billion casualties at least!
This microscopic foe expects to feast
Upon the huddled masses of the West.
But we will stay locked-down till he has ceased
His dirty depredations — till this pest
Has gone back to the oriental nest
Whence he did spring. Behind our walls we’ll hide —
A great and noble sacrifice! A test!
A dreadful siege, an enemy defied!

Alternatively, live — ignore distortions,
Remembering to take all due precautions.

— D.N. O’Brien