Eurasian Girl

Tags

Australian poet, Eurasians, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Singapore Eurasians

𝐄𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥

Eurasian girl, I knew you well —
Your lips, your almond eyes, your smell;
And now I hear that you have died.
I promised I’d return……..I lied.

— D.N. O’Brien

Certa Cito

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121 Signal Squadron, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Gough Whitlam, poem, poetry, Royal Australian Signal Corps, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝑪𝒆𝒓𝒕𝒂 𝑪𝒊𝒕𝒐

The plan is hatched by foolish faceless men.
The squadron’s fate by treachery is sealed.
The method and the why, the where, the when,
Is to the gathered malcontents revealed.
All that the patriotic have concealed
Will be exposed just when the time is right;
The squadron will be banished from the field —
Its troops will be destroyed without a fight —
All trace of it will fade into the night,
And none will mourn its swift and sure demise;
And on its fate no one will shine a light.
But those who filled its ranks — its ears and eyes,
Who served and sweated on that Asian Hill,
They know how easily mere words can kill.

— D.N. O’Brien

The Greatest Game

Tags

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

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐆𝐚𝐦𝐞

The greatest game is darts — and I must say,
Dart players are the fittest men of all —
Just watch these perfect specimens at play!
No matter whether they are short or tall,
These mighty marksmen with their skills enthral.
Like little arrows shot from bended bows,
Their darts fly at the board upon the wall.
How do they execute such perfect throws?
The dart is held with flights close to the nose,
Then with a smooth movement of arm and wrist,
Toward the triple 20, off it goes,
And seldom is that tiny target missed.
So hail these sportsmen — raise a mighty cheer
To champions of chips, meat pies, and beer.

— D.N. O’Brien

In the Matter of Lives

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Australian poet, Black Lives Matter, BLM, Formal poetry, Irish persecution, Persecution of the Jews, poem, poetry, Russian serfdom, Slavery, Spenserian sonnet, Victimhood

𝐈𝐧 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐚𝐭𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐟 𝐋𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐬

And so the argument it goes like so:
That those whose ancestors were once enslaved
Now suffer for such deeds done long ago.
That on their psyches deeply are engraved,
In bitter words their hate for the depraved
Who bound their forebears up in ropes and chains.
And thus they suffer; all their lives they’ve braved,
Discrimination — seared into their brains
This feeling that they nurture — fact remains
An outcast, for the truth is hard and cold:
Man’s ownership of man the record stains —
In many ways were men once bought and sold.
But victimhood descendants may eschew —
The Irish peasant, Russian serf, the Jew.

— D.N. O’Brien

Anastasia

Tags

Australian poet, Covid-19 lock-down, Formal poetry, Grand Duchess Anastasia Nikolaevna of Russia, poem, poetry, Queensland border closure, Queensland Premier Anastasia Palaszczuk, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐀𝐧𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐢𝐚

Some names should be reserved for only one;
And Anastasia is just such a name.
Her beauty blighted by the tyrant’s gun,
A legendary figure she became.
The forces of the Left of course to blame
For such a monstrous crime — a cruel blow.
Snuffed out, this brightly burning royal flame;
The flowers of youth buried beneath the snow —
Her and her kin all slaughtered by the foe.

Now what of this pretender on her throne?
This accidental leader of the low?
If she’s a heart, then it is made of stone.
A bat straight out of Hell now wears the label,
Of the Grand Duchess from a Russian fable.

— D.N. O’Brien

Queensland Premier Anastasia Palaszczuk stops father’s visit to terminally ill child

Domino Theory

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Belt and Road, Chinese aggression, Chinese expansionism, Chinese infiltration, Chinese spying, Domino Theory, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Vietnam War

Domino Theory

The “Domino Theory”? — Man, that’s so old hat!
We Chinese know many ways to skin a cat.
No need to send armies — make deals! — we can buy
Left wing politicians in blink of an eye!
In Aussie, a target, we have Labor guys
On payroll — have also an army of spies!
We lease port of Darwin — these Aussies so dumb!
We gain naval access for miserly sum.
Take over Australia? It not very hard.
If they try to stop us we play racist card!
We’ll liberate shortly the folk in Hong Kong;
To Mao they’ll be bowing before very long!
And in South East Asia no need to wage war;
Our sneaky takeover those bozos ignore.
For we have a plan that we call “Belt and Road”.
(Means world domination in our secret code).
Yes “Domino Theory” is rubbish you dunce!
Now dominoes, they all fall over at once!

— D.N. O’Brien

Stage Four — the Paid Piper

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Dan Andrews Premier of Victoria, Formal poetry, Kim Jong-un, North Korea, Paying the piper, poem, poetry, Stage four Corona Virus Lock-down, State of Disaster declared in Victoria, Triolet

𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐠𝐞 𝐅𝐨𝐮𝐫 — 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐏𝐚𝐢𝐝 𝐏𝐢𝐩𝐞𝐫

Victoria is moving to stage four.
(Dictator Dan’s a fan of Kim Jong-un).
They’re shutting all the gates and every door —
Victoria is moving to stage four.
The piper stands and plays the tune: “It’s war!”
(Dan pays the piper, so he calls the tune).
Victoria is moving to stage four.
(Dictator Dan’s a fan of Kim Jong-un).

— D.N. O’Brien

A Democrat Encourages the Mob

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Australian poet, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, U.S. BLM riots 2020

𝐀 𝐃𝐞𝐦𝐨𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐭 𝐄𝐧𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐌𝐨𝐛

I understand your need to wreck our town.
I really do, for I can feel your pain.
It isn’t fair, so smash it — burn it down!
You’ve naught to lose and everything to gain.
It’s not your fault, your wrath you can’t contain.
I fully understand why you attack
Those who have more than you — you’re not insane!
You pull a knife — they shoot you in the back!
Oh sure you’re high on fentanyl and crack;
But that is due to racism of course.
You’re tortured daily — stretched upon the rack
Of Trump’s America — that evil force!
In short, we Democrats support your hate —
So let the home fires burn — you’re doing great!

— D.N. O’Brien

Feelings

Tags

Australian poet, Emotional fragility, Feelings, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Triolet

𝐅𝐞𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

You’ve empathy for them? Hey man that’s great!
But don’t let fragile feelings take the wheel —
Between fiction and fact discriminate.
You’ve empathy for them? Hey man that’s great!
But best reality you contemplate,
For reason keeps one on an even keel.
You’ve empathy for them? Hey man that’s great!
But don’t let fragile feelings take the wheel.

— D.N. O’Brien

Pat

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Shell shock, World War 2

Pat

To join his brothers he was keen.
In forty two at just nineteen,
With both he sallied of to war.
Though never under fire before,
Courage he showed, no lack of will,
But no rejoicing at the kill.
But then there rolled a hand grenade,
And with his life Pat almost paid.
Upon a stretcher he was placed.
With morphine were his veins then laced.
A brother’s hand upon each knee,
Pat asked: “What will become of me?”
“You’ve scored a homer”, they replied;
But twice under the knife he died;
For fragments lay close to his heart —
Cold iron with which he’d never part.
Evacuated back to home,
Not buried under foreign loam,
He thought now of the future peace
When murderous war would wane and cease.
So back to health young Pat was nursed,
For by good fortune he was cursed.
Brought back to life when all but dead —
“You’re fit to fight again.” they said.
Too much to ask of one so young,
Scarred by the blast and by the gun;
And in the morning he had fled.
A note his elder brother read:
“I’m sorry Noel, I’ve done my best,
I’ll wait this war out in the west.”
A tear ran down a weathered cheek;
Noel knew that Pat was far from weak,
So three words with a steady hand
He wrote: “Brother, I understand.”
The two boys fought three more campaigns;
Were members of the few remains.
They both returned in forty five,
And thus did all three boys survive.
Then Pat came back to pay his dues,
And to the state his honour lose;
But all three brothers then embraced,
For each had death in battle faced.
But Pat, the guilt bore all his life —
Cared for his mother, took no wife,
Trod the straight path, and bless his soul,
Revered his brothers, Ron and Noel,
Who kept his secret — his great shame —
They knew that he was not to blame.
And when he lay on his death bed,
A doctor turned to me and said:
“Those scars upon your uncle’s chest —
They’re battle scars, we all have guessed.”
“A hand grenade”, I then replied,
“It’s not the first time he has died.”

— D.N. O’Brien