Image via Wikipedia
My country is an adolescent youth;
A wayward brash and confident man child.
All one has to do, to find this a truth,
Is to look to our heroes; always wild.
Convict times forged an angry disrespect.
The base metal was hammered until tough;
Fired, fanned, white hot glowing unchecked,
Fire fed, irreverent, hard, full of bluff.
See the inflamed, defamed swagman and thief,
Waltz his way to a cool billabong grave.
Sing loud of misguided indignant grief
And praise this impulsive poacher and knave.
The Kelly gang terrorised the police
And made merry with their cauldron and strife.
Ned, clad in fired armour, broke the peace
Defiance sealed his fate; “Such is life!”
A hero is made of famed dolts and cads;
There is Shane Warne; the philandering fool.
Ben Cousins; one of the drugged likely lads
But if you can handle a ball, “You rule!”
This nation only stops for just two days;
One is the running of the Melbourne Cup.
On the football grand final most will gaze;
All Aussie punters in these times, do sup!
On Our Coat of Arms is displayed proudly;
The kangaroo and emu so unique.
Neither can retreat; we brag so loudly,
Yet we eat them with a diner’s critique!
When does a nation finally mature
And embrace all heroes pure and true?
To reward those who have much to endure,
Yet still enrich their world; this selfless few.
Libby, I see you’ve found your way around our new Literature set-up.
And your wonderful poem is the first entry in this new category.
I live in a forest, Jarrah trees all around.
The wanton wind plays with every leaf,
Winging a whispering, secret sound.
The whispers tell of an ancient grief,
The endless force, the ebb and flow,
Of life, slow death, painfully on show.
The mob visits as twilight descends,
The gentle does and their daughters,
Seeking safe pastures, old friends,
Far away from the forest slaughters,
Where rotting carcass, twisted limb,
Black glass eyes reflect an end so grim.
Too often comes the orphaned joey,
Dehydrated, desperate, to my door.
A lost plucky baby, so tiny, yet so toey,
Rearing up, swaying, falling to the floor.
Can my heart take the blow once again,
Of loving feeding, of loss, then strain?
“Oh, why do you do it?” comes the sigh,
“ Well, you could help relieve my load.”
Thud! Swinging kitchen doors is the reply.
“You will reap what you have sowed,”
Chant the voices of the pulpit trees.
Four hourly feeds, I begin on my knees.
I live in a forest, kangaroos all around.
I watch the stage, I now call my own.
At twilight, the new joeys all abound,
Free of the milk pouch, briefly unsown.
They frolic and leap, these shadow dancers,
Shaking the odds, such promise, such chances.
Libby, that was beautiful. Simply put, beautiful poetry.
Indeed. Agree w/ Migs.
I’ll throw up one I wrote on a monday morning…
25 July, 2005 in fact. Dedicated to our cat Bronky Boy…mightily missed.
Moments in a mad garden
I sit pillared as a gnome
the rays of life
absorbed from my midmorning sun
it’s less entertainment
for any brain of unpredictable play
within the embrace of grandiosity
in a bliss of melancholy
hitting hard ground
in this garden of obligation
fostered in drought-struck years
Emi’s all need & desperate luv
a real Daddy’s girl
strokes are abundant
writhing in ecstasy
the peak special
in her predictable life
of scatty & scamper
there’s creaking Bronk
stretched out, merely a meter away
a bony version of his Big Red past
tired even in tender moments
hunched by cruel time gremlins
riding his back
in the curved space
that is his running water addiction
as Thyroid runs rampant
tempered only by pills & sleep
if I’m up, he follows
Bronk’s sure I know the way
His amber eyes still glow w/ hope
His movements riddled w/ determination
Springs of eternal youth are not my privilege tho
more often than I prefer
I’m sure to provide of late, at best
disappointment to my wee lad
thru the firmness I’m forced to provide
sad attempts to quell
the compulsion & obsession
Bronk’s dominant fiends
in his final days
So I sit, remain glued
beneath the Majestics & Golden Canes
He waits, half awake, ever vigilant
ready to hit the tap
like Groundhog Day
whilst I stroke my viper-smiling girl
for an elongated dime of time
time’s up Emi
Master of our jungle’s home
Apollo down from the mountains
temporarily exhausted by the spacious hunt
for dirt to roll in
a plant to pee on
his arrival almost a relief
he’s the third & last for awhile
allergy awareness unfortunately a main priority
in the altruism of the stroke
It’s tough luv now for a tough cat
as he glances softly on the edge of bite
w/ every sweep of my hand
freeing the obsolete fur
potential carpets of dander
that float slowly in the breeze
he grunts, purrs, vibrates
w/ a tail in occasional spasm
there’s a sense of proud renewal
for a domestic King
once feralhood orphan
sniffin’ at his game
Emi’s it, she’s fight or flight
a rush of blood & she’s up
perched on tree stump, emancipation
w/ scoundrel snufflin’ & bemused below
within seconds he’s moved
a new game’s afoot
there’s more to know
in his destiny of curiouser & curiouser
garden gnome, soon to be Bear on the Net
passionate, slightly less than passive
observes mad garden
it’s all contradictions
wild country w/in civilised borders
a garden sick w/ beauty
the stuff of life
this capricious soul
the lone caretaker
til S’ returns like lady of the lake
the brightness in this heart
for now, and evermore
it’s toiling for satisfaction
sweat-soaked to sit in contemplation
& bathed in the light
of a doomed paradise
saved for one more day
from clutches of eminent domain
some plants wither amidst the thrive
some bloom within the decay
colourful & browned
rioting under exploding palms
w/in rotting mulch
Jurassic park of ferns & lizards
adjacent to a tangle of cream spotted Jasmine
and the antenna flowers of natives
food for the fluttering & flying alike
prickly dry resistance of cacti & succulents
camped out below the hi-rise Ponytail
caressed by the overhanging rainbow
of Bougainvillea the Impaler
thorny friend indeed
Italian parsley & paddles of spinach
wave, content w/ the breeze
flourishing herbs for a meal or twelve hundred
green compatriots to the red competition
hot gut rotting chillies that scarlet the bed
and numerous pots…patient & prettified
it’s life in all its glory
he, I, they are
in magic moment
in mad garden
Nas’, such wondering visualisations. Not only good looking but also talented.
Cheers Min. You should hear me burp the Canadian national anthem.
And you don’t even need a microphone 😀
Thank you Nasking for a truly wonderful poem full of the poignant descriptive elixir of life. Your garden and your pets live in this poem. It was a treat to read and I was brought to tears. Moving.
I agree with what Min and Libby said, only they say it better than me.
Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:
You are commenting using your WordPress.com account.
( Log Out /
You are commenting using your Google+ account.
( Log Out /
You are commenting using your Twitter account.
( Log Out /
You are commenting using your Facebook account.
( Log Out /
Connecting to %s
Notify me of new comments via email.
Notify me of new posts via email.