Poet's Corner

An important message to all fathers..........

FAMILY NAME.

You got it from your father
it was all he had to give
So, its to use and cherish
for as long as you may live.

If you lost a watch he gave you
it can always be replaced;
But a black mark on your name
can never be erased.

It was clean the day you took it
and a worthy name to bear.
When he got it from his father
there was no dishonour there.

So make sure you guard it wisely
after all is said and done
You'll be glad the name is spotless
When you give it to your son.

(Ann Onimous)

Great poem and something to be passed down.

Daddy's Day

Her hair was up in a pony tail,
Her favorite dress tied with a bow.
Today was Daddy's Day at school,
And she couldn't wait to go.

But her mommy tried to tell her,
That she probably should stay home.
Why the kids might not understand,
If she went to school alone.

But she was not afraid;
She knew just what to say.
What to tell her classmates
Of why he wasn't there today.

But still her mother worried,
For her to face this day alone.
And that was why once again,
She tried to keep her daughter home.

But the little girl went to school
Eager to tell them all.
About a dad she never sees
A dad who never calls.

There were daddies along the wall in back,
For everyone to meet.
Children squirming impatiently,
Anxious in their seats

One by one the teacher called
A student from the class.
To introduce their daddy,
As seconds slowly passed.

At last the teacher called her name,
Every child turned to stare.
Each of them was searching,
A man who wasn't there.

'Where's her daddy at?'
She heard a boy call out.
'She probably doesn't have one,'
Another student dared to shout.

And from somewhere near the back,
She heard a daddy say,
'Looks like another deadbeat dad,
Too busy to waste his day.'

The words did not offend her,
As she smiled up at her Mom.
And looked back at her teacher,
Who told her to go on.

And with hands behind her back,
Slowly she began to speak.
And out from the mouth of a child,
Came words incredibly unique.

'My Daddy couldn't be here,
Because he lives so far away.
But I know he wishes he could be,
Since this is such a special day.

And though you cannot meet him,
I wanted you to know.
All about my daddy,
And how much he loves me so.

He loved to tell me stories
He taught me to ride my bike.
He surprised me with pink roses,
And taught me to fly a kite.

We used to share fudge sundaes,
And ice cream in a cone.
And though you cannot see him.
I'm not standing here alone.

'Cause my daddy's always with me,
Even though we are apart
I know because he told me,
He'll forever be in my heart'
With that, her little hand reached up,
And lay across her chest.

Feeling her own heartbeat,
Beneath her favorite dress.
And from somewhere here in the crowd of dads,
Her mother stood in tears.
Proudly watching her daughter,
Who was wise beyond her years.

For she stood up for the love
Of a man not in her life.
Doing what was best for her,
Doing what was right.

And when she dropped her hand back down,
Staring straight into the crowd.
She finished with a voice so soft,
But its message clear and loud.

'I love my daddy very much,
he's my shining star.
And if he could, he'd be here,
But heaven's just too far.

You see he is an Aussie soldier
And died just this past year
When a roadside bomb hit his convoy
And taught Australians to fear.

But sometimes when I close my eyes,
it's like he never went away.'
And then she closed her eyes,
And saw him there that day.

And to her mothers amazement,
She witnessed with surprise.
A room full of daddies and children,
All starting to close their eyes.

Who knows what they saw before them,
Who knows what they felt inside.
Perhaps for merely a second,
They saw him at her side.

'I know you're with me Daddy,'
To the silence she called out.
And what happened next made believers,
Of those once filled with doubt.

Not one in that room could explain it,
For each of their eyes had been closed.
But there on the desk beside her,
Was a fragrant long-stemmed rose.


And a child was blessed, if only for a moment,
By the love of her shining star.
And given the gift of believing,
That heaven is never too far.


Ann Onimous.

Very nice.

It is amazing that our emotions can be stirred

By the affects of life's stories in the written word

We lend ourselves to the writer's ear

And enact the scenes, be they of love or fear

Our heartstrings tug as we emphathise

Revealing just where our feeling lies

Saline tears unbidden spring

As our hearts flutter and our ears ring

With the unspoken words that we have read

Creating conflicting emotions in our head.

The Roman Wall

A change of tact as I digress to a Northumbrian tale...... the building of the 'Roman Wall' (In a sort of dialect) I do try to eddykate as well you know!

THE TRUTH ABOOT THE WAALL

It was built for the Romans, way back in the past;
They built it with stone, and they built it to last.
Quite a change for the locals from digging for coal
And it kept a large number of men off the dole.

It was the Emperor Hadrian who started it all
When he ordered the peasants to build him this waall.
Just what it was for there was neebody sure
And the reasons he gave were a little obscure.

"This waall," said the Emperor, rubbing his chin,
"Is to stop aall the Picts and the Scots getting in;
Aa'm used to the Geordies, Aa knaa aall their tricks,
But Aa just cannit stomach the Scots and the Picts".

They started the Waall on the banks of the Tyne
And they tried very hard for to keep a strite line.
There were thoosands of Geordies with shovels and picks
And the rate for the job was eleven and six.

The stones for the Waall came by bogie and barrow;
They were cut from the quarries at Hebburn and Jarrow.
They floated them over the Tyne on a raft,
(Them owld fashioned Geordies could certainly graft).

They travelled to Byker with nivver a spell
But they stopped for a pint when they reached the "Bluebell".
Then on across meadow and valley and dyke
With nivvor a murmur of trouble or stike.

Onwards they went, heading West all the time,
Still trying their best for to keep a strite line.
In summer they struggled through bracken and heather
And they plodged in the clarts during inclement weather.

They laid the last stone on the second of June
and Hadrian said, "Lads, Aa'm ower the moon,
Aa would like you to knaa that Aa'm proud of you aall,
And Aa thank you aall kindly for building me waall".

A big celebration was held at Carlisle;
They had a grand neet and they done it in style.
The picks and the shovels were aall put away
And the workers were given an extra week's pay.

The Picts and the Scots were a little bit vexed
And voices were raised and muscles were flexed.
But their yelling and shootin' did nee good at aall;
It takes more than taalkin' to get past a waail.

And that is the story, believe it or not,
Of how they defeated the Pict and the Scot;
How the Waall was constructed for one man's enjoyment
And the North-East was rescued from mass unemployment.

A Village Tale

There once were two boys, one five and one three
Who lived in a village, far over the sea.
These boys had a dog, a retriever no less,
And between them, all three, they made such a mess.
Samuel, Joshua and Willie, the dog
Went into the garden to hunt down a frog.
They chased it through bushes and into a pond
And watched as it hopped to the garden beyond.

“What shall we do now?” said Samuel to Josh,
“Best go inside and give our hands a quick wash.”
But Willie had found a wee hole in the fence,
A small one to start with, but he made it immense.
He was after the frog, for he was a retriever,
No one could say he was an underachiever.
Samuel and Josh watched interested in him
As the frog and the dog, both went for a swim.

Then their grandpa raised them all with a shout
“You boys, come here, and you Willie, get out!”
The boys came at once at their grandpa’s command
For he had the cookie jar, right there in his hand.
Now Willie he pondered, er, cookie or frog?
He decided on cookies, that hungry ole dog.
Grandpa and the boys and old Willies as well
Settled for cookies, whilst the frog waved farewell.

Night Vigil

The rustic gate did swing upon its hinge
As the breeze around the hide began to freshen
The evening sky retained an orange tinge
As the setting sun did dip and slowly lessen.
Shadows lengthened and so began to merge
As night's fingers closed upon the scene
The bullfrogs began their nightly dirge
Amidst the pond reeds, tall and bottle green.


The waters stirred up by the freshening breeze
Rippled in a spreading searching ark.
The green leaves sighed throughout the trees
As light gave way to the encroaching dark
Nocturnal creatures soon began to stir
To hunt, to search, to socialise, to forage
To chase their quarry through the cocklebur
Or contentedly graze the grasses and the borage.

Fireflies filled the sky like silvery stars,
Brown owls did swoop on silent wings, with eerie cry,
Whilst on the ground nestled shy and meek chukars
With their offspring chicks beneath their wing close by.
And so began my long and lonely vigil
As I crouched down here within my hide,
Observing the habitat of the tiny hawksbill
In this land where tropical turtles do reside.

Very nice and descriptive DaffyD

Orion the Hunter

It was on the stroke of midnight
When the painting fell off the wall,
It bounced twice on the threadbare stairs
And landed in the hall.
The hanging cord was still intact
As was the hook, therein the wall
There was nought to explain or justify
Just why that frame should fall.

It was on the stroke of midnight
Albeit, on the second day
When another painting left the wall
In an exact and self same way.
I heard it bounce, twice, on the stairs
And found it lying in the hall,
Both cord and hook were still intact
So why should two frames fall?

Oooooooooooeeeeeer!
It was on the stroke of midnight
I sat shivering in the hall,
When up jumped my cat Orion
Chasing spiders, that was all!

A good one Daffyd!

MEEE-OW!

Thoughts in a flickering Flame

Memory paints with a beautiful brush, on the canvas of my mind. I can rummage through it’s vast storehouse to see what pictures I can find. I can parade these images on a private screen and feel the warmth those memories can bring. I can weave the fabrics of that hallucinary dream, whilst choirs of angels sing. I can colour those recollections, in shades to match my mood, for in the most part those memories that remain with us, are very often good.

Memory paints with a beautiful brush even of loved ones long since dead, such thoughts are with me here and now, strolling sedately through my head. I can reach out, I can touch them, I can pass the time of day. I can select a chapter from my past and like a video, can replay the memories that are pleasing and do not upset a wounded heart, and with that magic brush of memory, bring forth those that did depart.

Time and distance is no obstacle for this artistry of mind, the exercise, it soothes me and brings me a peace I could not elsewhere find. For in this I am the creator, the artist with the brush I control the scene, control the pace, for there’s no need to rush. I can review those special moments and take hours to replay the scene. I can deliberate upon conversations and decipher exactly what they mean. I can relive such moments almost any time or anywhere, even in a crowded room, or when no one else is there. Memory paints with a beautiful brush, it paints to one’s desire. It’s just a thought as you sit at home, staring into the fire.

That is one great piece.

A super poem that tells a sad tale.
.
THE ANZAC ON THE WALL.
.

I wanderer thru a country town, 'cos I had some time to spare,
And went into an antique shop to see what was in there.
Old Bikes and pumps and kero lamps, but hidden by it all,
A photo of a soldier boy - an Anzac on the Wall.

"The Anzac have a name?" I asked. The old man answered "No,.
The ones who could have told me mate, have passed on long ago.
The old man kept on talking and, according to his tale,
The photo was unwanted junk bought from a clearance sale.

"I asked around," the old man said, "but no one knows his face,
He's been on that wall twenty years... deserves a better place.
For some one must have loved him, so it seems a shame somehow."
I nodded in agreement and then said, "I'll take him now."

My nameless digger's photo, well it was a sorry sight
A cracked glass pane and a broken frame - I had to make it right
To prise the photo from its frame I took care just in case,
Cause only sticky paper held the cardboard back in place.

I peeled away the faded screed and much to my surprise,
Two letters and a telegram appeared before my eyes
The first reveals my Anzac's name, and regiment of course
John Mathew Francis Stuart - of Australia 's own Light Horse.

This letter written from the front... my interest now was keen
This note was dated August seventh 1917
"Dear Mum, I'm at Khalasa Springs not far from the Red Sea
They say it's in the Bible - looks like a Billabong to me.

"My Kathy wrote I'm in her prayers... she's still my bride to be
I just cant wait to see you both, you're all the world to me
And Mum you'll soon meet Bluey, last month they shipped him out
I told him to call on you when he's up and about."

"That bluey is a larrikin, and we all thought it funny
He lobbed a Turkish hand grenade into the Co's dunny.
I told you how he dragged me wounded, in from no man's land
He stopped the bleeding closed the wound with only his bare hand."

"Then he copped it at the front from some stray shrapnel blast
It was my turn to drag him in and I thought he wouldn't last.
He woke up in hospital, and nearly lost his mind
Cause out there on the battlefield he'd left one leg behind."

"He's been in a bad way Mum, he knows he'll ride no more
Like me he loves a horse's back, he was a champ before.
So Please Mum can you take him in, he's been like my own brother
Raised in a Queensland orphanage he' s never known a mother."

But Struth, I miss Australia Mum, and in my mind each day
I am a mountain cattleman on high plains far away.
I'm mustering white-faced cattle, with no camel's hump in sight
And I waltz my Matilda by a campfire every night

I wonder who rides Billy, I heard the pub burnt down
I'll always love you and please say hooroo to all in town".
The second letter I could see, was in a lady's hand
An answer to her soldier son there in a foreign land.

Her copperplate was perfect, the pages neat and clean
It bore the date, November 3rd 1917.
"T'was hard enough to lose your Dad, without you at the war
I'd hoped you would be home by now - each day I miss you more"

"Your Kathy calls around a lot since you have been away
To share with me her hopes and dreams about your wedding day.
And Bluey has arrived - and what a godsend he has been
We talked and laughed for days about the things you've done and seen"

"He really is a comfort, and works hard around the farm,
I read the same hope in his eyes that you won't come to harm.
Mc Connell's kids rode Billy, but suddenly that changed.
We had a violent lightning storm, and it was really strange."

"Last Wednesday, just on midnight, not a single cloud in sight,
It raged for several minutes, it gave us all a fright.
It really spooked your Billy - and he screamed and bucked and reared
And then he rushed the sliprail fence, which by a foot he cleared"

"They brought him back next afternoon, but something's changed I fear
It's like the day you brought him home, for no one can get near.
Remember when you caught him with his black and flowing mane?
Now Horse breakers fear the beast that only you can tame,"

"That's why we need you home son" - then the flow of ink went dry-
This letter was unfinished, and I couldn't work out why.
Until I started reading, the letter number three
A yellow telegram delivered news of tragedy,

Her son killed in action - oh - what pain that must have been
The Same date as her letter - 3rd November 17
This letter which was never sent, became then one of three
She sealed behind the photo's face - the face she longed to see.

And John's home town's old timers - children when he went to war
Would say no greater cattleman had left the town before.
They knew his widowed mother well - and with respect did tell
How when she lost her only boy she lost her mind as well.

She could not face the awful truth, to strangers she would speak
"My Johnny's at the war you know, he's coming home next week."
They all remembered Bluey he stayed on to the end.
A younger man with wooden leg became her closest friend.

And he would go and find her when she wandered old and weak
And always softly say "yes dear - John will be home next week."
Then when she died Bluey moved on, to Queensland some did say.
I tried to find out where he went, but don't know to this day.

And Kathy never wed - a lonely spinster some found odd.
She wouldn't set foot in a church - she'd turned her back on God.
John's mother left no Will I learned on my detective trail.
This explains my photo's journey, of that clearance sale.

So I continued digging, cause I wanted to know more.
I found John's name with thousands, in the records of the war.
His last ride proved his courage - a ride you will acclaim
The Light Horse Charge at Beersheba of everlasting fame.
That last day in October back in 1917
At 4pm our brave boys fell - that sad fact I did glean.
That's when John's life was sacrificed, the record's crystal clear
But 4pm in Beersheba is midnight over here......

So as John's gallant sprit rose to cross the great divide,
Were lightning bolts back home, a signal from the other side?
Is that why Billy bolted and went racing as in pain?
Because he'd never feel his master on his back again?

Was it coincidental? same time - same day - same date?
Some proof of numerology, or just a quirk of fate?
I think it's more than that you know, as I've heard wiser men,
Acknowledge there are many things that go beyond our ken

Where craggy peaks guard secrets neath dark skies torn asunder,
Where hoofbeats are companions to the rolling waves of thunder
Where lightning cracks like 303's and ricochets again
Where howling moaning gusts of wind sound just like dying men

Some Mountain cattlemen have sworn on lonely alpine track,
They've glimpsed a huge black stallion - Light Horseman on his back.
Yes Sceptics say, it's swirling clouds just forming apparitions
Oh no, my friend you can't dismiss all this as superstition.

The desert of Beersheba - or windswept Aussie range,
John Stuart rides on forever there - Now I don't find that all strange.
Now some gaze upon this photo, and they often question me
And I tell them a small white lie, and say he's family.

"You must be proud of him." they say - I tell them, one and all,
That's why he takes - the pride of place - my Anzac on the Wall.
.
THE ANZAC
ANONYMOUS
(Ex-AWM)

Daftland.

SO TRUE.





We live in a country called Daftland
The England we knew is no more
Where sensible people do ludicrous thing
Or risk breaking some Daftland law.

In Daftland we've police dogs with muzzles
Less the villain has cause to complain
And to steal from a shop and say 'sorry'
Means you're free with no stain to your name.

You had better leave lights on in buildings
When you lock up and go home at night
'cause the burglars might hurt themselves entering
And there's no way you'll be in the right.

When speaking be wary in Daftland
As some terms that you've used all your life
Now have connotations unintended
And you'll end up in all sorts of strife.

We elect politicians in Daftland
To give us the laws of the land
Yet eight laws in ten now come from abroad
The whole thing has got out of hand.

The borders are open in Daftland
And of migrants there's no keeping track
Just a few of the thousands illegally here
Will ever be caught and sent back.

The exception to this is the hero
Who fought for this land in the war
He's old and he's sick, he might cost us a bit
So he's not welcome here anymore.

When the history is written of Daftland
Historians may just recall
That the craziest people in Daftland
are the public who put up with it all.



ANON

Walk With Me


Walk with me while I age
Be a constant at my side
Walk beside those still waters
To a place my love resides
Walk with me through golden meadows
Through woods of ancient trees
Walk o'er hills bedecked with flowers
A smorgasbord for honey bees.

Walk with me and share my sorrow
Of all disharmony and strife
Walk with me through the ages
Be by my side throughout my life
Walk with me while I age
And yet see not this ageing beau
Stride for stride, let's walk together
As we did many years ago.

EXODUS

Deep is the cup that contains my sorrow
And from it I am required to sip
Daily, until that bright tomorrow
When that draught is dashed from hand and lip.
I grieve for loved ones exposed to danger
In the conflict that surrounds my home
Brought down upon us by hostile stranger
Causing exodus from the land I roam.

Joining weary exiles
I traverse this war torn land
Seeking refuge, seeking shelter
Begging with my out stretched hand
I am but one among a faceless throng
Who's cries doth fill the air
Who seek the sanctuary of the strong
And an end to our despair.

The journeys that we undertake
Are forced upon us by our plight
Such is the exodus we must make
If we are to avoid the sectarian fight
We seek the sanctuary of neighbouring lands
Their hospitality, food and care
A tented village on burning sands
And what compassion they have to spare.

Pause a moment in your daily life
And consider the reported news
Envisage the heartache and the strife
And the upheaveal such exodus ensues
Who gains from actions of this sort
What benefits are achieved?
We the exiles need your support
For we are indeed, agrieved.

A Puzzlement!

Pro and Con are opposites
that fact is clearly seen.
If progress means to move forward,
then what does CONGRESS mean?

Now here is one by my favourite author, a fantastic poet, and it was written specifically for you......

THE LIST

I have a list of folks I knoew, all written in a book and every year when Christmas comes, I go and take a look. And that is when I realise that these names are a part
not of the book they are written in, but of my heart. For each name stands for someone who has crossed my path some time and in that meeting they have become the rhythm in each rhyme, and when it sounds fantastic for me to make this claim, I really feel that I'm composed of each remembered name.

Now while you may not be aware of any 'special' link just meeting you has changed my life a lot more than you think. For once I've met somebody the years cannot erase, the memory of a pleasant word or a friendly face. So never think my Christmas posts are just a mere routine of names upon a Christmas list forgotten in between. For when I send my Christmas post that is addressed to you, it is because you are on the list of folks I'm indebted to.

For I am but the total of the many folks I've met and you happen to be one of those I prefer not to forget. And whether I have known you for many years or few, in some ways you have had a part in shaping things I do. Now every year when Christmas comes, I realise anew the best things life can offer is meeting folks like you. Now may the spirit of Christmas that forever and ever endures, leave its richest blessings in the hearts of you and yours.

Author Unknown.

MERRY CHRISTMAS TO YOU ALL!

Well....that's Christmas over for another year with all its joy and glee, but this year ah heard a tale that's bin a hauntin' me...If ah can steal a moment of yer day ah'm sure y'all won't mind, fer ah have fer y'all a Christmas tale of a very different kind.


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That was a super great Christmas one DaffD, thanks.

There was a young Scot fey Montrose

Who discarded all..... of his clothes

He was a nudist you see

Who liked to run free

And feel the wind in the trossachs.... ah suppose!



The lad had a physique like a god

And the lassies arl gave him the nod

But what can ah say

The wee lad was gay

So they left him alone.... on his tod.



He had many an envious glance

As he posed in a provocotive stance

For he was a model you see

For artists like me

To paint, when given the chance!

SEEKING THE MEANING OF LIFE.



Treading carefully as one might

In the darkness of ancient night

I reach out toward the diminishing light

To seek the meaning of life.

What is the purpose, what is the aim

Are we but players in Nature's game

Evolved but to label and to name

Whilst we seek the meaning of life?



Did we create in our elusive way

A religious regime to revere, and obey

With prayers that are chanted by night and by day

Extolling the meaning of life.

With prayers yet unanswered, and a faith unbowed

Requesting salvation from a place in the cloud

We dress our beliefs in a linen shroud

Whilst we unravel the meaning of life.

Poems are like the desert sands that cannot be grasped and fall through one's hands. A fleeting thought albeit in rhyme may taunt and tease us for a time. Floating jigsaws of words askew come together in a poem that's new.

A thought expressed in this timely way may live forever and a day. Such thought may inspire anew a couplet or a rhyme from you.