Death of a Giant

Tags

Australian poet, Decline of civilizations, Decline of empires, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Rise and Fall, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐡 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐆𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭

You’ve had your time for basking in the sun,
But everything must die, even a giant.
Your face is pale — your race is almost run —
No longer are you fearless and defiant.
You once were dominant and self-reliant,
But now the dwarves have tied you to the ground.
You have become pathetic and compliant —
With bonds of your own making you are bound.
The dwarves all cheer — a little man is crowned —
He reads his speech — the writing’s on the wall.
His dwarfish slurring words declared profound
By all the dwarves who engineered your fall.
You breathe your last; the sky is dull and grey.
A scribe records: a giant has died this day.

— D.N. O’Brien

A Discarded Inauguration Day Sonnet

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Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, Inauguration Day Poem, Joe Biden inauguration, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐀 𝐃𝐢𝐬𝐜𝐚𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐮𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧 𝐃𝐚𝐲 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐭

In praise of Joe this poem I have writ.
But I’ll not mention any of his flaws —
His hair-sniffing, his groping, all that shit;
His keen support for all those foreign wars.
I love him, for he’s opened many doors
For me, a budding poet laureate.
Oh I know old Joe farts — at times he snores;
But he’ll be dead before long — you can bet
Your house on that. Still, let us not regret
Selecting this frail, barely conscious guy
To lead our fast decaying nation — let
Him show the way as all the old ways die.

I’ll start again and throw this in the bin.
I’ll write some whiny waffle — that should win!

— D.N. O’Brien

A Giant Awakens

Tags

australia, Australia Day, Australian poet, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐀 𝐆𝐢𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐀𝐰𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐧𝐬

You slumbered in the south whilst all around,
The world closed in as daring men set sail.
Before long would your barren shores be found,
As eastward did the roaring forties wail.
These sailors and their nations, would prevail —
Your stone-age people would be swept aside;
Their ancient ways dispersed before the gale.
They’d built no walls to stop the rising tide;
Your moat was crossed; they had no place to hide.
And so did you awaken — and in fright!
As to the world your eyes were opened wide.
You rose from sleep — emerged into the light,
And saw the old ways were forever dead.
Your heart was filled with hope — and too with dread.

— D.N. O’Brien

Joe Blow

Tags

Australian poet, Inauguration Day, Joe Biden, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐉𝐨𝐞 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐰

You’ve banished Donald to the flaming pit;
So take the throne that you have slyly earned.
Joe, you have shown that surely does the shit
Float to the top — the tide of truth you’ve turned.
Your gaze averted as the cities burned;
As BLM supporters took their loot.
You and your Democrats were unconcerned
When masked ANTIFA thugs put in the boot.
Who would have thought that a demented coot
Would lead the greatest country on the Earth?
But votes were harvested — low-hanging fruit,
And even rotten windfalls were of worth.
Though you’re a husk that time will blow away,
Wake up Joe! It’s Inauguration Day!

— D.N. O’Brien

The Last Day

Tags

poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐃𝐚𝐲

I worked with a man who was young and smart;
He was honest too, as the day is long.
Forty years ago did our paths then part,
And I thought forever, but I was wrong.
When I’d last known him he was straight and strong,
But the man I met on the year’s last day,
To my memories he did not belong:
He was bowed and bent and his hair was grey,
And he said as I shook his hand: “G’day”
In a feeble voice, (Oh his hand was cold),
And he gazed at me in the strangest way,
And he softly said: “Well you have grown old.”

So we reminisced, then said our goodbyes,
And he shuffled off — with his two good eyes.

— D.N. O’Brien

Certa Cito

Tags

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

Hungary’s Right

Tags

Australian poet, Hungarian ban on Islamic immigrants, Hungary, Hungary under Islam, Islamic infiltration, islamic Terrorism, Islamization, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐇𝐮𝐧𝐠𝐚𝐫𝐲’𝐬 𝐑𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭

The scourge of Islam Hungary well knows;
So Allah’s followers it will not take —
That river of humanity that flows
Into the European poisoned lake.
The freedom of its citizens at stake,
It tells the Western fools to go to Hell.
That their veiled threats and posturing won’t shake
Hungarian resolve — they know the smell
Of centralized control only too well.
They’ve learned from history — they know their past —
The cruel oppression after Buda fell.
They gaze on Germany and France aghast.
Hungarians won’t sacrifice their pride;
For it too many patriots have died.

— D.N. O’Brien

Boxes

Tags

Australian poet, Joe Biden, Kamala Harris, poem, poetry, sonnet, Spenserian sonnet

𝐁𝐨𝐱𝐞𝐬

Kamala is a girl — I’m sure of that.
Unlike Michelle, who’s possibly a bloke.
And she’s presentable — the girl’s no bat,
And obviously she is super-woke.
But consequently she can’t take a joke
Unless it is devoid of all offence.
She’ll be POTUS when Joe decides to croak;
And being kind of black, will beat Mike Pence
Next time around. She has no common sense,
But has Indian blood (sub-continent).
She’s way way left — this darling of the dense,
The Bolsheviks, the bitter, and the bent.
Sure, she’s a fraud but when all’s said and done,
Kamala ticks the boxes — every one.

— D.N. O’Brien

In the Matter of Lives

Tags

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