Someone Did Something

Tags

9/11, Australian poet, Formal poetry, Ilhan Omar, Islamic infiltration, islamic Terrorism, Islamization, poem, poetry, Political Correctness, Someone did something, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, Twin Towers

𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐃𝐢𝐝 𝐒𝐨𝐦𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠

Did something happen on that fatal day?
Did someone do something? — apparently.
Are many much too scared to even say
Something was done by someone? — can this be?
Did not the whole world clearly hear and see
That something happened? — what? — a dreadful deed
Committed by a ruthless enemy?
Who was this someone then? Are all agreed
Upon this fiend’s identity? No need
For further proof? Of course it’s not required!
Mad men who love a mad fanatics’ creed
Did this. All sane men know the truth; they’re tired
Of those who would defend such evil scum —
Those who, within, beat on the traitor’s drum.

— D.N. O’Brien

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Formalists

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Formalists, free verse, poem, poetry

𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬

Free versifiers, as we know, these folk are everywhere,
But those who compose formally are really rather rare.
As rare as that elusive stuff, a rocking horse’s dung,
And rarely are they read, and rarely are their praises sung.
Hen’s teeth, they are quite plentiful, compared to these composers,
And most of them live in the past, and most are old as Moses.
And though their numbers dwindle fast, and though their foes are many,
They’ll keep on writing to the last — and never earn a penny.

— D.N. O’Brien

Nobody

Tags

Ancient Greek Mythology, Australian poet, Cyclops, Formal poetry, Homer, Homer's Odyssey, Laertes, Odysseus, Petrarchan sonnet, poem, poetry, Polyphemus, Poseidon, sonnet, Ulysses

𝐍𝐨𝐛𝐨𝐝𝐲

{𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘳𝘺 𝘰𝘧 𝘖𝘥𝘺𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘶𝘴 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘗𝘰𝘭𝘺𝘱𝘩𝘦𝘮𝘶𝘴 𝘪𝘯 4 𝘴𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘦𝘵𝘴}

𝐈.

War-wearied are the sailors on the sea.
An isle they reach, a chance to slake their thirst,
To satisfy their hunger — but they durst
Not raise the wrath of Polyphemus — he
Who owns this cave — but take his stores and flee!
Too late! The Cyclops has returned, and first
Two heroes he devours: “You are all cursed!
You sail here but to make a meal for me!”

A stone he rolls, the cave’s wide mouth to block.
And in the morn two more men are consumed.
He then unblocks the cave and drives his sheep
Outside, reseals the cave, and leads his flock
To pastures, there to graze. “We are not doomed,”
Says wise Odysseus, “The giant must sleep.”

𝐈𝐈.

“So craft a pointed stake, a sturdy spear.
Bring out our strong and undiluted wine.”
And in the evening comes the giant to dine
On two more men. Odysseus says: “Here,
Drink of our wine.” His comrades cower in fear.
“Tell me your name — you of the stronger spine,
And I will gift you as a guest. Divine
Poseidon is my sire — to him I’m dear.”

Odysseus: “Nobody is my name.”
Polyphemus: “Nobody I’ll eat last.”
Now drunk, the Cyclops slumbers, soon he’ll wake;
The Cyclops, wise Odysseus will maim:
The spear into the giant’s eye is cast.
He wakes in dreadful pain — pulls out the stake.

𝐈𝐈𝐈.

His friends come as he screams in agony —
They gather by the cave and wonder, why?
“Who hurts you Polyphemus?” is their cry.
“Nobody hurts me! Nothing can I see!
Nobody!” Comes the blinded giant’s plea.
And hearing this they shake their heads and sigh —
Advise, since madness none there can deny:
“Pray that the gods restore your sanity!”

Next morning Polyphemus moves the stone.
And searches all his sheep as they move by
For his tormentors — but not one is found.
For each clings underneath a sheep, alone.
Knowing full well that if he’s found he’ll die,
He dare not move, nor does he make a sound.

𝐈𝐕.

Down to their ship the heroes swiftly run,
As Polyphemus screams and hurls great stones:
“I’ll sink your ship, my teeth will grind your bones!”
Odysseus: ” I am Laertes’s son!
And freedom from your clutches we have won!”
The heroes cheer and Polyphemus moans.
A prayer to great Poseidon then he groans:
“My father, I know I’m your blessed one.

This cruelty, by these men, you must avenge.
Destroy them and their ship; my only eye
Will never see again — Lord, take their lives!
And great Poseidon will take his revenge
For all the men but one are soon to die —
Odysseus, resourceful one, survives.

— D.N. O’Brien

From the North

Tags

Aboriginal Australians, Australian bush poetry, Australian Megafauna Extinction, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry

From the North

In the south live the lumbering giants of the Earth.
They’ve been slumbering there since the continent’s birth.
In the north is a tide that is turning to south,
And the tide it is black, and it’s wide, and its mouth,
It hungers for meat — for the harvest of fire;
Like a wave it rolls on and it never does tire.
To the north there’s a glow like the east-rising sun,
And it glows ever brighter as each mile is won.

And the sabre-tooth looks from the mouth of his lair,
And he growls at the glow; smells the smoke in the air.
And the giant kangaroo pauses out on the plain,
But he has little sense, for he’s little of brain.
And to all the doomed giants there’s a fact that applies —
From the north will come death — from the ones who are wise.
And the giants in the south, they have nowhere to go;
They are huge, they are powerful — alas, they are slow.
They’ve been safe in the south for these millions of years;
From the north comes their end — from the north come the spears.

— D.N. O’Brien

’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

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

Climbing Mount Insanity

Tags

Australian poet, Decline of the West, Formal poetry, Insane Australian policies, poem, poetry, Political Correctness, Radical socialism, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, Western self-destruction

Climbing Mount Insanity

Australia struggles on towards the peak.
A peak that with each minute seems to grow
Still higher, ever higher, as the weak
Cheer on the mountaineer, from down below.
Australia scrambles; never does it slow
Its maniacal climb towards the height;
While all that once was high is brought down low,
And all that once was wrong now must be right.
Australia strives so all may see the light
Shine down on them from high insanity,
But for an instant, before endless night
Descends upon their foolish vanity.
And should one day it scale that mountain tall,
Then on its long descent — then it will fall.

— D.N. O’Brien

The rise and rise of the insane left

Form

Tags

Australian poet, Building construction, Buildings, Formal poetry, Plumb and level, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

Form

I’ve been a builder — buildings I have built
Weren’t crooked — they obeyed the timeless laws.
Foundations poured on rock, not sand or silt,
And concrete piers with steel rods at their cores,
That took the wooden joists that bore the floors.
And walls that were quite smooth and true and straight.
Then trusses, geometric, free of flaws,
With bottom chords fixed to the high top plate —
They’d shoulder with their strength the tiled roof’s weight.
All primed and painted — pleasing to the eye,
There stood the finished form. It’s fair to state,
(I doubt that any could in truth deny.)
A structure, if it is to make the grade,
Must be both plumb and level — and well made.

— D.N. O’Brien

A Universal Problem

Tags

A Singularity, Atheism, Australian poet, Big Bang Theory, Creation of the Universe, Formal poetry, God and Science, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

A Universal Problem

The atheist, he counters faith with fact.
He says that all religions are a lie.
He claims the scientists have all but cracked
The complex code — the age old question: Why?
Why are we here? And where, when humans die,
Do their poor souls reside? There is no place,
No hell below, no heaven up on high
He claims. The awful truth we all must face:
No god bestows on any man his grace;
No soul remains and flesh goes back to ground —
The dust that coats a rock that spins in space.
But is belief based on but science sound?
“The Universe” — a grand scientific name;
But who designed the point from which it came?

— D.N. O’Brien

Their ABC

Tags

ABC, ABC left wing bias, Aunty ABC, Australian Broadcasting Corporation, Australian poet, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, Their ABC

Their ABC

This nest of vipers, it must be destroyed.
This troublesome corrupted lair of liars,
Where only leftist journos are employed.
Of their concocted tales the nation tires.
They are in truth the doubters and deniers
Of science — they swallow snake oil like it’s wine.
They act as though our droughts and floods and fires
Are something new. Don’t try to start a mine!
They’ll trash your plans, and you they will malign.
They’ll have you stopped before you even start.
They and their followers will weep and whine
About, you guessed it, “Climate Change” — don’t fart!
The Earth is dying just because of you!
These friends of aunty just don’t have a clue.

— D.N. O’Brien