Thinking Nice Thoughts

Tags

Anti-depressants, Australian poet, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐍𝐢𝐜𝐞 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

I’ve started thinking nice thoughts every day,
And magically the world’s a better place.
All existential threats have gone away.
No longer are there any foes to face.
I’ve thrown away my nunchuks and my mace.
My rifles I have flung into my lake
With all my ammunition — every case.
It’s so easy to do, a piece of cake!
Nice thoughts are all you need, make no mistake!
They’ll make your wordly worries disappear!
No longer do my limbs begin to shake
When I see scary things — I have no fear!
(These pills the doctor gave me work so well,
I think I’d be exuberant in Hell!)

— 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

Worms

Tags

Australian poet, Can of worms, Nightmares, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

Worms

Once all the worms, in cans were tightly sealed;
For those invertebrates would cause us harm.
But cans are opening, and there revealed,
The slimy creatures. Some sound the alarm,
But most say: “Do not panic, please stay calm.
The worms will not destroy us – they’re benign;
They even have a certain wormy charm;
Keep opening the cans — all will be fine —
Now try this rich ricotta with your wine.”
The worms all congregate and reproduce,
As on the riches of the host they dine,
Until the last imprisoned worm’s let loose!
I scream: “What is that crawling in my head!”
I’d best not drink that home-brew before bed.

– 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

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

A Hypothetical Spartan WuFlu Response

Tags

Australian poet, Helot, Laconia, Plague, poem, poetry, sonnet, Sparta, Spartan, Spenserian sonnet

𝐀 𝐇𝐲𝐩𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐥 𝐒𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐚𝐧 𝐖𝐮𝐅𝐥𝐮 𝐑𝐞𝐬𝐩𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐞

Two kings of Sparta must deliberate.
For o’er Laconia a plague has spread.
The Helots cry: “Act now, or it’s too late!
Before the kingdom’s littered with our dead!”
Now Sparta by its kings is wisely led —
They know the present danger, it is clear;
But how to act? What message must be spread?
Their kings the Spartans worship and revere;
So which course must the kings of Sparta steer?
The Spartans, till their last breath they will fight,
And for the fallen never shed a tear.
What can be said to those who know not fright?

Upon a proclamation they agree:
“Good luck.” the kings declare — laconically.

— D.N. O’Brien

Sonnet for a Tree

Tags

Australian axemen, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bloodwood tree, Corymbia gummifera, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Red Bloodwood tree, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, Split posts, Tree felling

𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐚 𝐓𝐫𝐞𝐞

Upon a hill there stood a bloodwood tree;
A mighty tree — limbs spread against the sky.
That bloodwood from its crown looked down on me,
As I would gaze upon a feeble fly.
No danger did it see — surely not I
Could threaten it, could bring it to the ground.
And so the tree dismissed me with a sigh —
A rustling of its leaves — a mournful sound.
Its trunk, it was three yards at least around,
For it was old — but I was young and so
My thoughts were of its use when it was downed;
I had a fence to build, a crop to grow.
And many posts from that great log I’d split.
My axe was razor-sharp, and deep it bit.

— D.N. O’Brien

Nigar Kalfa

Tags

Australian poet, Magnificent Century, Nigar Hatun, Nigar Kalfa, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet, Suleiman the Magnificent, Turkish TV series

𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒂𝒓 𝑲𝒂𝒍𝒇𝒂

Controller of the Sultan’s concubines
Is Nigar Kalfa, Macedonian slave.
But for the unattainable she pines;
For Ibrahim, Grand Vizier, the brave.
But whispered is the lie that he’s a knave,
And soon his hopes great Suleiman will wreck —
His body buried in an unmarked grave,
A twisted cord around his loyal neck.
By terror are all subjects kept in check,
So Nigar far from Istanbul must flee.
With babe in arms through forests she must trek.
Soon she is trapped, and sets the baby free.
She spreads her arms and to her death she falls;
And from a hidden grave a spirit calls.

— D.N. O’Brien