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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Climbing Mount Insanity

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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

The Sonneteer!

Tags

Australian poet, poem, poetry, sonnet, sonneteer, Spenserian sonnet

Trigger Warning!

{I have, with some trepidation, published the following rather rude and insensitive sonnet due to the persistent urging of the author — an unfortunate and somewhat misguided acquaintance who refers to himself as “The Sonneteer”. This anti-social but arguably talented individual has been banned from all online platforms and I realize that I am taking a risk here in publishing his work, but feel it is my duty as a passionate supporter of free speech to give him a voice. I must, however, state very clearly that I do not necessarily condone the graphic language used nor the sentiments expressed by “The Sonneteer” and have warned him that while I wish to support him, the possibility of my posting any of his works (sonnets no doubt) in future will require a reasonable toning down of such profanity.}

The Sonneteer!

Come, sing high praises to the sonneteer!
And damn to Hades all those worn-out crocks —
Those fiends who’d mock him, and his good name smear.
Upon their houses and their heads a pox!
On them, from high, descend a rain of rocks!
And let them burn in Hell for wicked words!
The sonneteer knows well the knave who knocks
His works — he knows the smell of stinking turds
Of cawing crows and vultures — bitter birds
Who feast on carrion and call it art.
The sonneteer, his loins with courage girds,
And in the faces of such fools does fart!
He voids the moist miasma of his bowels
Unto the lungs of such fine-feathered fowls.

© The Sonneteer, 2019

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

Zeus the Climate Changer

Tags

Ancient Greek Gods, Ancient Greek Mythology, Anthropogenic Climate Change scam, Australian poet, climate change, Palaeocene, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, Warm Palaeocene Epoch, Zeus

𝐙𝐞𝐮𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐂𝐥𝐢𝐦𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐫

The climate? What a pack of stupid fools!
They think that they affect it? The idea!
At my command it either heats or cools.
From here on high Olympus do I steer
The clouds, the winds! They say the atmosphere
Has too much CO2 — a load of rot!
Computer models? Dear, oh dear, oh dear.
They think the climate simple? Well it’s not!
In winter it is cold — in summer hot!
In autumn and in spring it’s in between!
They think that’s simple? Are they smoking pot?
Can they explain the warm Palaeocene?
I’d best calm down; I need to cool my rage.
I wonder how they’d handle an Ice Age?

— D.N. O’Brien

Watchdog

Tags

Australian poet, Facebook Algorithm, Facebook censorship, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

Watchdog

The Facebook algorithm never sleeps.
It’s watching everything you post or view.
It scrutinizes Facebook friends and peeps.
Right now I’m sure that it is watching you!
Its methodology is nothing new —
It looks for keywords in the things you post,
And phrases will get its attention too.
It haunts the Facebook pages like a ghost,
And if it catches you, you may be toast!
And so be careful with your use of words,
For Facebook is a temperamental host.
The algorithm is controlled by nerds
Who think that they know best what’s good for you,
Despite the fact that they’re a brainwashed crew.

— D.N. O’Brien

Sarah Island

Tags

Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Convicts in Australia, Macquarie cat, Macquarie Harbour, Penal settlements, poem, poetry, Sarah Island Tasmania, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, Tasmania, Transportation of convicts, Transportation to Australia, Van Diemen's Land

Sarah Island

There are few signs that once this lonely isle
Was home to men of Empire and their slaves.
Just scattered bricks, worked stone, and shards of tile,
Remind us of when England ruled the waves.
But no doubt close at hand forgotten graves
Hold bones of some of those who trod this ground —
The convicts of The Crown, and other knaves,
Who for Macquarie Harbour once were bound;
And where they’d surely hear the dreaded sound
Of the “Macquarie Cat” — that fiendish whip.
Those men who died in chains and those who drowned,
Were payments made for every well-built ship.
“Hell’s Gates” the convicts called the harbour’s mouth —
Beyond it lay the Hades of the South.

— D.N.O’Brien

Sarah Island

Golf

Tags

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

𝐆𝐨𝐥𝐟

I headed off to golf at early morn.
Was still quite dark when I got to the tee.
I hit my first tee shot at crack of dawn.
A mighty strike, it flew left, hit a tree.
I knew it had, for though I couldn’t see
A bloody thing, I heard that woody sound,
And then a white projectile whizzed by me.
It missed, for I’d already gone to ground,
Anticipating just such a rebound.
But then a crash! — The sound of breaking glass!
(So far, I thought, this is a lousy round.)
I heard some shouting — better get my ass
Away from there — I slunk back to the car.
With pencil, marked my card — first hole —a par.

— D.N. O’Brien