January 15th, 2010,
Who would have thought I would try my hand at writing poetry after some surprising success at writing verse, or worse, about politicians. I was loath to call them poems, so self-deprecatingly decided to call them pomes and ultimately polliepomes. Now I have to distinguish these slightly more serious attempts at proper poetry, and so have given them their own page and address but still on the same website, Poetry Proper. I may have published them elsewhere, but they don’t have political or satirical overtones.
This month I’ve had success
In writing rhyming satire
No longer now do I obsess
On that decision to retire.
It all began with writing satirical verse about politicians this month with Larvatus Prodeo. Very exciting at my age to win first prize! But now I’ve become a bit obsessed by it all and I wonder if this latest habit I have of continuously trotting out ‘pomes’ is an early onset dementia symptom?
What is happening to me?
I think the word verse
And up comes terse,
And even worse –
Hearse and perverse!
I used to think that as I aged
The younger me that used to rage
Would become more settled and sedate.
Instead I’m itching to explore my fate,
I who once just couldn’t wait
To get dressed up for my next date.
These days you’ll find at night
Sitting at my pc to write
About a certain politician,
The leader of the Coalition,
Whose name is Tony
And who is such a phoney……. etc…. etc……
Australia Day at Fremantle Arts Centre, 26/01/2010,
This garden where birds are singing,
Was once a place of sadness.
Here trees whisper to me, bringing
Sighs of despair and madness.
Women for whom this now sweet sun
A century and half ago
Was so harsh they came undone.
Lost entirely in their woe.
For them it seemed so hot that hell
Was already there upon them.
What judge, condemning them to die
in pain like this for petty felonies,
If here today, could justify
This ‘settlement’ of the colonies?
Will the Poor Always be with us? 16/02/10/
(Tony Abbott thinks yes, unless they decide to be otherwise.)
My poor is always with me
No shoes on chilblained feet
It’s not the cold she’s feeling
But indifference on the street
My poor is always with me
She hides from fights and noise
With a dog eared book for company
And a few dilapidated toys.
My poor is always with me
Even now in happier days
Reminding me that babies
Cannot “change their ways”
My poor is always with me
Reminding me to give
And do my bit to change a world
Where still unhappy children live.
Aussie Guy Proposes, 14/02/11
Hey Chookie!
Here’s one Aussie guy
Who’d love to try
your cookies!
Then again
On second thoughts
I’ve heard reports
You’ve got a brain.
But if you guarantee
Just meat ‘n potato
No talk of Plato
Then you’ll do me.
Bye, Kids!
Sometimes life
Is full of strife.
Let’s not be coy
My girl, my boy.
Thoughts of death
Say, take a breath
And reconsider
To ask whither
Your path leads.
If not to deeds
Then on to love
And thoughts of
Those held dear.
If far or near
Before I go
Be sure you know
The true heart
Of my life’s path
Was always you.
TV News Story, 11/04/2010
TV news is full of death today
Those in Russia far away
Of Polish churchmen,
Ministers and President.
We shrug and say
Well, what’s so different
From every day?
Other deaths we fear
Are much too near.
Somehow beyond our ken
Though there are precedents.
All of us are shocked to hear
Sad and weeping residents
Tell the story.
Just across the road
A local man on overload
Of drugs or drink, but then
It might be loneliness,
Who will ever know,
Killed his three children,
Then shot himself.
Was it only yesterday
Those children played
Out here with ours?
What could anyone have done
To make them safe
If crazy men still have the power
To own a gun?
TV News Story, 11/04/2010 – revised 16/1/2016
TV news is full of death today, those in Russia far away, of Polish churchmen, Ministers and President. We shrug and say, ‘Well, what’s so different From every day?’
Other deaths we fear are much too near, somehow beyond our ken, though there are precedents. All of us are shocked to hear sad and weeping residents tell the story.
Just across the road a local man on overload of drugs or drink, but then It might be loneliness. who can ever know, killed his three children, then shot himself.
Was it only yesterday those children played out here with ours? What could anyone have done to make them safe if crazy men s have the power to own a gun?
Hitchens Again! LP 15/04/2010
Hitchens
again
out there
bitching
and still
pitching
against
the church
claims his
research
is sound
even
profound
says he’s
no atheist
but an
anti-theist
and thus
he’s become
for some
the anti-christ
ergo
satan
so let’s
straighten
this out
without
a doubt
he is
dogmatic
hardly
diplomatic
seen as
fanatic
by those
he so
describes
and often
derides
myself
an agnostic
hopefully
objective
even
diagnostic
without
invective
i’d say
he’s a dope
to take on
the pope
he hasn’t
a hope
if he wins
in court
no matter
how fair
he fought
he’d lose
seen to
have sinned
by the
faithful
still more
fateful
his soul
condemned
to hell
ever after
leaving the
holy father
worshipped
sainted
and adored
a martyr.
Why Mother’s Day? 09/05/2010
I once was very cynical
About this so called ‘special day.’
At best my view was clinical
A card would do from far away.
But times have changed dramatically.
A friendly mother whom I know
Has told me, diplomatically,
Whatever they suggest, just go.
In my youth there were no presents,
We learned to shut up and obey.
All children owed that to parents.
Why now create a special day?
For some it’s just become a bind.
They shrug it off. It seems so dumb.
Although of course it does remind
You, ‘At least today, just call your Mum!’
Child Abuse. (draft) 15/05/10
I woke this morning with the feeling
That sexual abuse of children
Starts with their neglect.
Somehow the lacking of affection
Is worse than failure to protect
From external dangers.
Those fingers pointing out with hate
The lurking strangers
Outside school gates
Are worse than useless.
Those predators
Would never make connection
With our young if mum, dad or Anyone had been there for collection
Death, 15/06/10
Many friends of long ago
Are either dead or dying.
Too often I’ve heard tales of woe,
Of pain, hospitals, time buying.
It makes me want to tell my girl and boy
That when I die I’d much prefer
They first remember all the joy
We’ve shared – me, him and her.
In my long life there has been pain.
Yet I know that given choice
I’d make the same mistakes again,
Deliberately, because I now rejoice
In them. That painful marriage,
Warned against by wiser friends,
A union easy later to disparage,
Bore fruit so sweet which far transcends
That bitterness now long forgiven,
As are other things that I have done.
I’ll need no priest to have sins shriven,
When all is over and my race is run.
(Modified much later)
Many friends of long ago
Are either dead or dying.
Too often I’ve heard tales of woe,
Of pain, hospitals, time buying.
It makes me want to tell my girl and boy
That when I die I’d much prefer
They first remember all the joy
We’ve shared – me, him and her.
In my long life there has been pain.
Yet I know that given choice
I’d make the same mistakes again,
Deliberately, because I now rejoice
In them. That painful marriage,
Warned against by wiser friends,
A union easy later to disparage,
Bore fruit so sweet which far transcends
That bitterness now long forgiven,
As are other things that I have done.
I’ll need no priest to have sins shriven,
When all is over and my race is run.
Chance is a fine thing, but opportunity is better.
Another time another place
Or even of a different race
This child might not survive
Yet here she is alive
Living in prosperity.
This girl-child’s father and her mother
Had no constraint to smother
Her, or choose instead to hide
While waiting for a ride
To hope, across an open sea.
This little one, weak in her chest,
Was able still to pass the test,
For passage to Australia.
No risk there of failure,
An ideal migrant family!
That child is grown and powerful now.
I’m sure she stops to ponder how
It happened, and what would have become
Of her, if not a ten pound Pom,
She’d been instead a refugee.
Not surprising then or sinister
That we have in our Prime Minister
One who wants to give wide access
To every ladder of success
In our wide land of opportunity.
Message from Oz to Boat People, 06/07/10
You’re welcome in Australia,
Land of the young and free,
We offer hands of friendship,
Unless you come by sea.
We know your stories one and all.
Widow, orphan, soldier amputee,
However did you get this far
Beyond the Arafura Sea?
New Zealand’s not so far away
They’d listen to your plea
If you can travel that bit more
And cross the Tasman Sea.
Why try to get here anyway?
You’ll just become a detainee.
Why not stay in Lombok where
You won’t feel all at sea.
This is a harsh and arid place
Our borders lack security
You wouldn’t feel at home at all
Entirely girt by sea.
Shun the people smugglers
Who ask a hefty fee,
Cos Aussie ships may tow you back
Across the Timor Sea.
In our cities it’s impossible
To rent or buy a property.
This wide brown land is clearly full.
Why can’t you bludgers see?
Post Coitum Omnes Animales Tristes Sunt, 26/10/10
Post coitum all beasts are sad
The girls sense that they’ve been had
And the boys feel a bit of a cad
No wonder they’re sad.
If I were a Dad
I’d tell my lad,
Even my lass if one I had,
“Get out there! Copulate like mad.”
Gaudeamus igitur! Yes! Let us be glad!
Fido – Faithful One? 24/11/10
I’ve just had an epiphany
Passing strange for an agnostic
Whose only daily litany
Sought help with the Times acrostic.
I know now that there is a God
Who hears me and who answers prayers.
He came here in the shape of Dog
To cheer me up, relieve my cares.
He shows me how I should behave,
To be patient and more cheerful.
He stays close by, a watchful slave,
‘Cos I’m old and sometimes fearful.
So thank you, Dog, for being here
On days I do my wondering why.
You comfort me – so warm, so near,
Teaching me to rest, content to die!
My Neighbour died the other day. 03/12/10.
My neighbour died the other day, by his own hand.
Was he trying to make me understand
What it was he had in mind, what it was he planned?
Was he hoping for one last helping hand,
When he stood out there beneath that fateful tree
And said, “You’ll be sorry. Just wait, you’ll see!
You’ll wish that you had been more kind to me.”
With hindsight that’s as clear as any threat could be.
That’s what I feel, my unspoken point of view.
To his family, I hear, he’d given not a clue
That this was something he planned to do.
He didn’t say to them, “I’m going to punish you.”
He left no message, however brief,
With explanation, offering some relief
From the horror and the shock beyond belief,
Assuaging guilt and what will be unending grief.
Sunflowers, 29/12/10
Was it just over a month ago
Fremantle for me was all aglow
With brave red poppies on the street?
Now everywhere I go I meet
Sunflowers, big leaved and tall,
Bold yellow against sky and wall.
From whence they came who can tell?
Untended and not watered well,
Under the glaring sun they stand,
Smiling, proclaiming, “Ain’t life grand!”
Cheryl Rourke, 30/12/10, Wonderful sunflowers!
Mobius Ecko, 30/12/10. Agree with the others Patricia, good effort!
Miglo, 30/12/10, Thank you for this lovely post, Patricia
Lyn Sherwood, 30/12/10, Great poem, and great photo (it could almost be Greece!).
Gillian, 30/12/10, Lovely Mum. The photos look fantastic too. Well done.
nasking, 01/01/11, Lovely Patricia. Poem & pics. Luv a positive thread. Thnx.
Humane Tragedy, by Cheryl Rourke, 28/03/11,
Old people, in old people homes,
Sit and stare,
Often unaware
They are like garden gnomes.
Incongruous and grotesque,
Shrunken frames,
Forgotten names,
A toileting sad burlesque.
They take the sun in the garden
But never move
And don’t improve,
For them there is no pardon.
Curiosities dotted here and there,
Ornaments fragile,
Nevermore agile,
Forever in twilight permanent care.
No title yet – 31/03/10
Those among us still in our prime
Should pause and remember
It isn’t such a long, long time
From May to September.
One day that last bell for us will chime.
If in our December,
Let’s pray we’ll welcome that peace sublime;
Not yet ashes, still aware, with one last ember.
Memories of lean, lined, leathery men, 10/05/11
Used to be in my long lost teens
We had our sex symbols of the silver screen.
Though pictures then were in black and white
Those fellahs to me looked more than all right.
Now, as I sit here in the old folks home,
Every day in front of TV in polychrome,
There’s no one who can appeal to me
Like Roy Rogers did or Gene Autry.
Oh I loved those lean, lined, leathery men…..
So what got me thinking about them again?
Some program? What was it? Outriders?
That’s it! Hopalong Cassidy on “Insiders!”
Pip, 10/05/11, patriciawa,, you’ve excelled again
Lyn’s Links: A Hub for the Fifth Estate, 18/08/12
The Political Sword’s rebranding
Is dedicated to Lyn. Her standing
Amongst members of the Fifth Estate
Has recently become so great
Her Links are described as its hub,
Her readers an ever growing club
Of bloggers and Twitterati
Of literate leftie glitterati.
Fittingly Ad Astra has on her conferred
A special Order of The Tweety Bird!
A scrap….so far……
Information technology!
New religion with its shrine
polliepomes 