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I wrote a long poem for my wife's eulogy and later wrote a little poem after having commissioned an oil painting to remember her by. I have scrubbed her name .... here's my little one ... I hope there is a reunion after death coz I miss my best friend.




There’s a picture in the hall
It’s a portrait of you
Such a beautiful face
Staring lovingly back at me

There’s a picture on that wall
An oil painting so true
It shouldn’t be there
You should be here with me you see

There’s a picture of you on that wall in the hall
Each night I stroke your cheek like I used to do
Do you feel it ..., do you feel the caress
That’s my love for you, to you from me.
Click to expand...
 
as august

as august.jpg
 
I received this reminder from a friend today:

Mulga Bill's Bicycle

'TWAS Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,
The grinning shop assistant said, "Excuse me, can you ride?"
"See here, young man," said Mulga Bill, "from Walgett to the sea,
From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me.
I'm good all round at everything, as everybody knows,
Although I'm not the one to talk - I hate a man that blows.

"But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wild cat can it fight.
There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,
There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof or wheel,
But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight;
I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight."

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,
That perched above the Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road.
He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,
But ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver streak,
It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man's Creek.

It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box:
The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,
The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,
But Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, clung tight to every bound.
It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,
It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;
And then, as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek,
It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man's Creek.

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:
He said, "I've had some nearer shaves and lively rides before;
I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five-pound bet,
But that was sure the darndest ride that I've encountered yet.
I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; it's shaken all my nerve
To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek - we'll leave it lying still;
A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill."

Andrew Barton Paterson
 
For traitors on the block should die;
I am no traitor, no, not I!
My faithfulness stands fast and so,
Towards the block I shall not go!
Nor make one step, as you shall see;
Christ in Thy Mercy, save Thou me!
Click to expand...
Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury - 1473 - 1541
Born14 August 1473
Farleigh Hungerford Castle, Somerset, England
Died27 May 1541 (aged 67)
Tower of London, London, England
Her son, Reginald Pole, said that he would "never fear to call himself the son of a martyr". She was later regarded by Catholics as such and was beatified on 29 December 1886 by Pope Leo XIII. She is commemorated in the dedication of the Church of Our Lady Queen of Peace & Blessed Margaret Pole in Southbourne, Bournemouth, England.
Margaret was buried in the chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula within the Tower of London. Her remains were uncovered when the chapel was renovated in 1876.
en.wikipedia.org

Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury - Wikipedia

en.wikipedia.org en.wikipedia.org
 
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DON’T MISS ME MORE THAN ONCE A DAY
Don’t miss me more than once a day,
For life is moving fast.
Don’t wish all of your time away,
Dreaming of the past.

Don’t waste the moment looking at,
The things I left behind me.
I’m not there anymore my love,
Your heart is where you’ll find me.

Don’t dread to say my name, sweet one,
Don’t fear the wrath of sadness.
Just take the love you had for me,
And turn it into gladness.

Some days your anger will rush out,
Your tears will find their way.
To me, wherever I am then,
I’ll soothe them all away.

When I am gone don’t miss me more,
Than once, or twice a day.
There’s so much life to live, my love.
I’m with you, all the way.
Donna Ashworth (p63 ‘History Will Remember )
 
Keeping Quiet
Pablo Neruda


Now we will count to twelve
and we will all keep still
for once on the face of the earth,
let's not speak in any language;
let's stop for a second,
and not move our arms so much.

It would be an exotic moment
without rush, without engines;
we would all be together
in a sudden strangeness.

Fishermen in the cold sea
would not harm whales
and the man gathering salt
would not look at his hurt hands.

Those who prepare green wars,
wars with gas, wars with fire,
victories with no survivors,
would put on clean clothes
and walk about with their brothers
in the shade, doing nothing.

What I want should not be confused
with total inactivity.

Life is what it is about...

If we were not so single-minded
about keeping our lives moving,
and for once could do nothing,
perhaps a huge silence
might interrupt this sadness
of never understanding ourselves
and of threatening ourselves with
death.

Now I'll count up to twelve
and you keep quiet and I will go.
 

TANGMALANGALOO by John O'Brien 1878 - 1952.​

The bishop sat in lordly state and purple cap sublime,
And galvanized the old bush church at Confirmation time.
And all the kids were mustered up from fifty miles around,
With Sunday clothes, and staring eyes, and ignorance profound.
Now was it fate, or was it grace, whereby they yarded too
An overgrown two-storey lad from Tangmalangaloo?


A hefty son of virgin soil, where nature has her fling,
And grows the trefoil three feet high and mats it in the spring;
Where mighty hills uplift their heads to pierce the welkin's rim,
And trees sprout up a hundred feet before they shoot a limb;
There everything is big and grand, and men are giants too -
But Christian Knowledge wilts, alas, at Tangmalangaloo.


The bishop summed the youngsters up, as bishops only can;
He cast a searching glance around, then fixed upon his man.
But glum and dumb and undismayed through every bout he sat;
He seemed to think that he was there, but wasn't sure of that.
The bishop gave a scornful look, as bishops sometimes do,
And glared right through the pagan in from Tangmalangaloo.


"Come, tell me, boy," his lordship said in crushing tones severe,
"Come, tell me why is Christmas Day the greatest of the year?
"How is it that around the world we celebrate that day
"And send a name upon a card to those who're far away?
"Why is it wandering ones return with smiles and greetings, too?"
A squall of knowledge hit the lad from Tangmalangaloo.


He gave a lurch which set a-shake the vases on the shelf,
He knocked the benches all askew, up-ending of himself.
And so, how pleased his lordship was, and how he smiled to say,
"That's good, my boy. Come, tell me now; and what is Christmas Day?"
The ready answer bared a fact no bishop ever knew -
"It's the day before the races out at Tangmalangaloo.
 
Não sou nada.
Nunca serei nada.
Não posso querer ser nada.
À parte isso, tenho em mim todos os sonhos do mundo

(( I'm nothing/
I'll never be anything/
Apart from that, I have within me all the dreams of the world ))

- Fernando Pessoa
 
Ode To A Chicken Nugget - Poem by Nick Hilton
O my feathery friend,
Some wicked mans hands,
Have grasped your throat,
That Jack the Ripper,
Has turned you into a Chicken Dipper!

O my feathery friend,
For you life was short,
But now you are gone,
And i too feel like i should die,
For they have turned you into chicken pie.

O my feathery friend,
Now i must say goodbye,
And hope in my heart,
The chicken god is your host,
For now you are sunday roast!
Nick Hilton
 

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