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TASMAN GLACIER, ARCTIC ICE, AND THE WAKE-UP CALL

They say the Tasman glacier has melted in its valley
receded up its sking face, and now a liquid alley,
what God would place the thing so low in altitude and latitude?!?
some idiot who wouldn’t know we’d fry it with ingratitude !:eek:

They say a thousand glaciers have turned into a lake
and not in your time (or your grandson’s) will you see it back
they say the arctic ice is melting – none left in 10 years !
the iceshelf fed to iron-smelters, dawn of doomsday nears.

"Not happening, what nonsense rules" say voices in the crowd
"how gullible these greenie fools, to prey to cleaner-powered”
"deny, refuse, I don’t accept the science or predictions"
except – too late! – I overslept! – please ignore my contradictions.

PS which one of us has overslept – and which has been feed on fictions. :eek:

PS Of course it wasn’t oversight – cos noone knew for sure -
it happened sorta overnight – and none could have done more -
I always said – for ten years now “if it happens so be it”
cos there’s damn all I can do – besides - I couldn’t give a shinbone.
 
Now I'd never suggest that Keats would have put it better than you 2020, but this is his take on our impermenance and nature's onward march.


Bright star! would I were steadfast as thou art””
Not in lone splendour hung aloft the night,
And watching, with eternal lids apart,
Like Nature’s patient sleepless Eremite,
The moving waters at their priestlike task
Of pure ablution round earth’s human shores,
Or gazing on the new soft fallen mask
Of snow upon the mountains and the moors””
No””yet still steadfast, still unchangeable,
Pillow’d upon my fair love’s ripening breast,
To feel for ever its soft fall and swell,
Awake for ever in a sweet unrest,
Still, still to hear her tender-taken breath,
And so live ever””or else swoon to death.
 
A DAY SPENT ON EARTH vs ETERNITY IN A STERILE HEAVEN.

they don’t have any godly soul
these butterflies and birds,
no pearly gates to pay a toll
sort haloed sheep from herds,
they don’t have any heavenly goal
nor clever human words,
their death is just a forward roll
from off their little perch.

these trees are not that over fussed
on heavens in the sky,
prefer to end as earthly dust
enjoying “now” not “why”,
it’s hard to get an anchor
in some cloud up 10 miles high
they prefer to keep their bank account
in credit till they die.

I think that I’d prefer to spend
a day with birds and trees,
than endless prayers where I pretend
some god is there to please,
eternity would be so droll
without these other critters,
It’s 'now' - it’s 'here' – it ain’t parole
and not just gold that glitters.

and not just pearly-gate-border-control
it's life on Earth that glitters ;)
 
Life's hard....
......Then you die...
.............(a message from J Edwards)...
.......................I thunk.........
.................................Charred
................................................Kauri
 
sonnet 12

more shakespeare here :- ;)
https://www.aussiestockforums.com/forums/showthread.php?p=86026&highlight=rot#post86026
AND SO FROM HOUR TO HOUR …
From Billy Shakespeare’s “As You Like It” (Jacques):-

And then he drew a dial from his poke….
And looking at it with lacklustre eye
Says very wisely “It is ten o’clock……
Thus may we see” quoth he “how the world wags..”

...

And so from hour to hour we ripe and ripe
And then from hour to hour we rot and rot
And thereby hangs a tale and lots of tripe
And such words mean the least when there’s a lot.

The question is I guess which is the faster
Which, ripening or rotting, takes the lead
The thing determines which one is the master
Is whether we eat onions or birdseed.

And so we “let er rip” - if given rope,
And reap our wild oats where the wild oat grows,
And under grip of grape we probably grope,
But who-the-Hell remembers days like those.
etc
 

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.....
A BUSH CHRISTENING - A.B. "Banjo" Paterson

On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
One Michael Magee had a shanty.

Now this Mike was the dad of a ten-year-old lad,
Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest
For the youngster had never been christened,

And his wife used to cry, "If the darlin' should die
Saint Peter would not recognise him."
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.

Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',
And he muttered in fright while his features turned white,
"What the divil and all is this christenin'?"

He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,
And it seemed to his small understanding,
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,
It must mean something very like branding.

So away with a rush he set off for the bush,
While the tears in his eyelids they glistened-
"'Tis outrageous," says he, "to brand youngsters like me,
I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!"

Like a young native dog he ran into a log,
And his father with language uncivil,
Never heeding the "praste" cried aloud in his haste,
"Come out and be christened, you divil!"

But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,
And his parents in vain might reprove him,
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
"I've a notion," says he, "that'll move him."

"Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;
Poke him aisy-don't hurt him or maim him,
'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,
As he rushes out this end I'll name him.

"Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name-
Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?"
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout-
"Take your chance, anyhow, wid 'Maginnis'!"

As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head
That was labelled "Maginnis's Whisky!"

And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,
And the one thing he hates more than sin is
To be asked by the folk who have heard of the joke,
How he came to be christened "Maginnis"!

The Bulletin, 16 December 1893.
Click to expand...
 
WARMTH FROM AN UNKNOWN EMBER

We are all of us given a "Christian" name
whether Jack or Jill or Tarzan or Jane
whether Biblical Saint or Grecian God
whether named after “Granpa” or milkman’s dog
or as Banjo would say as we ran from some log
“you’re christened Maginnis's Whisky!!”

He might like “Frederick , - ok ok Fred”
She’s bound to retort with a “Jethro or Jed -
Remember we made love once high in a tree?
what’s wrong with Tarzan?” – “It’s ok by me
except if he doesn’t like monkeys you see!
No, Tarzan is just far too risky!”

……
In my own case, I’m born in the post war boom
when the bedroom walls creaked making sons by the moon
and the registry records began to fill fast
where the ebbtide departing had turned at last
and the ones who had died before bullet and mast
could be laid to an honoured slumber.

They’d been published, the Names of the Fallen, you see
There’d been Tommys and Harrys ; - and then Mum had me.
and she figured she’d give me a name lost to war
who had fought but not lived to see Peace reign once more
and one day she would knock on some sad Mother’s door
and explain that her son was remembered.

Ahh, it never did happen, it was miles from our town
and both Mothers moved on as their plans were unwound
Praps she shied at the “linking of family trees”
Still it’s had an effect when I kneel to my knees
that I swear Anzac Day has a comradely breeze
and some warmth from an unknown ember.
 
THE PEARL THAT IS LIFE

I like the way an oyster learns to tolerate some grit,
and coats it in a little ball and makes a pearl of it,
and grit and oyster happily thereafter coexist,
I like the way that life adapts to beauty I’d have missed,
and Nature is one beauty best not missed.

Perhaps a thought discomforting, with sharp and jagged edges,
I find a 30 minute walk (avoiding jumping ledges),
A walk along a seashore perhaps where swelling waveforms curl,
will somehow turn that jagged thought into a sort of pearl,
and life itself into a sort of pearl.

Praps pearls are just an attitude, a smile from Jack to Jill,
a grain that highlights gratitude on the journey up the hill,
such memories are mental pearls to make the journey bright,
and hand to kids of future worlds, for their turn in the light,
when our oyster shell locks closed for the long night. :2twocents
 

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Found a proverb.. "The shoemaker's son will always go barefoot".
Got me thinking...
hell next thing I've got this stupid poem going round in my head ;)

THE VERY BEST WAY TO KEEP WARM THIS WINTER ...

We’re heading into winter daughter,
that dress will be your last
unless ten weeks you’ve scrubbed the floor
or the current debts are past,
there’ll be no Cinderella gown
just go to the ball with a smile
there's no need for makeup - but just don't frown,
go barefoot – and with style.

And across the town in another shed
a father and son spoke that day
and we’ll eat every now and then my lad
and we’ll smile through the strife come what may,
for warmth we’ll restrict ourselves each night
to a single pinebox splinter
and although you’re a shoemaker’s son, things are tight-
there’ll be no shoes for you this winter.

The dance night came, the couples spun
the pulses rose and fell
the prince and the pauper laughed in fun
with the poorest girl and the belle
- when midnight came, more in love there were none
of all the embracing twos,
and they’re still locked in warmth since the next day’s sun
.... and they still refuse to wear shoes. ;)

and they’re still locked in warmth since the next day’s sun
.... and they find no need to wear shoes. :2twocents
 
From my recently released book "Rhymes of Times". Even with all the rain we have had, this is still happening.





Drought

Dawn heralds a new day
Breezes blow the same way
Dust builds on the fence rail
Homestead’s dirty and pale.

Teasing clouds pass on by
Too dry even for a fly
Machinery caked in dust
Chains coated in rust.

Willy-willy’s continuous swirl
More dust they do hurl
Bleached skeletons dot the paddocks
Dead gardens hold rusty mattocks.

Old cockey gone to the city
Not looking for any pity
In his flat eyeing the sky
Alone the old man does cry.

Dawn heralds a new day
Breezes blow the same way
Dust builds on the fence rail
Homestead’s dirty and pale.

For his home he grieves
Banks, calling them thieves
His plea’s they find boring
Forced out that terrible morning.

Finishing his last beer
Onto the bed that’s near
Dreaming of a lush pasture
Drifting to the hereafter.

Who’ll know he’s passed away
He will be found one day
They’ll think “another old man”
Knowing not his life was grand.

Dawn heralds a new day
Breezes blow the same way
Dust builds on the fence rail
Homestead’s dirty and pale.


David J Delaney
 
Voices

Electric activity in dark corridors
deep within my mind
knowing I shouldn’t do this
Haunting voices echo - Do it! Do it! Do it!

Sweat running from my forehead
Vessels pumping, pushing blood through veins
Brain feels like exploding
Voices saying - Do it! Do it! Do it!

Moving forward every muscle straining
can’t stop, what’s started must be finished
ending result could be disastrous
Voices again say - Do it! Do it! Do it!

Why do I do this, hurts so much
day in day out, why can’t I stop
Thinking of people who need me
Persistent voices say - Do it! Do it! Do it!



Why, Why? - I ask



Why do they need bloody pianos’



UPSTAIRS !!!!



David J Delaney


Reliving one of my nightmares as a former removalist.:bad:
 
Storm

Moisture in the air
Humidity stifling
Animals’ skit in despair
Knowing and hiding

Light rain now falling
This heat so oppressive
Storm birds stop calling
Darkness so progressive

Wind blowing stronger
Rain heavy and swirling
Staying out no longer
Inside sounds of howling

Distant rumbling closer
Lightning lights the sky
Perfect time for a muser
Into the darkness I pry

Trees bending almost breaking
Leaves shredded by stinging rain
Weak branches start snapping
Living foliage feels pain

Flash of white blinding
Earth vibrates shudders
Natures show mesmerising
Recorded by Philosophers

Through gauze, eerie screaming
Wires touch, spark brilliant blue
Dog in the corner cowering
Is it over, has it passed through?

Rain eases, now a misty shower
Winds gone, trees standing firm
Lightning and thunder, its power
Over the sea, till another return

Moisture in the air
Humidity stifling
Animals’ skit here and there
Birds, chirping, flying

Light rain again falling
This heat so oppressive
Storm birds begin calling
Darkness, now regressive.

David J Delaney
04/12/2007


Winner for the month of December 2007, awarded by “The Creative pen” worldwide poetry web site.
 
When Autumn Comes Again

Breezes blowing, your free spirit is in the air
Today won’t be easy, as my thoughts turn to despair
This goodbye, how it will be such a mental strain
When Autumn comes again.

Thousands of leaves gently falling to the ground
Trudging through dragging my feet, not making a sound
Why is this day so hard, so tough, such a drain
When Autumn comes again.

Clouds overhead becoming so thick and so grey
Blue disappearing as darkness continues on its way
Trying to cover from the cold, seems only in vain
When Autumn comes again.

That cancerous disease came and took you from our life
Always in our minds, Mother, Aunty, partner, wife
Our friends know of, but they can never feel our pain
When Autumn comes again.

No more cuddling on the sofa by the fire warm
Snuggling in each others arms, till the early morn
Wondering about my life, is there anything to gain
When Autumn comes again.

I come to you this day; I leave flowers and a card
Future seasons now without you, will it be hard?
The state I’m in now, wondering if I will stay sane
When Autumn comes again.

Service will be nice; words spoken will be so sweet
Only place now I can hold you is deep in my sleep
In all the seasons your memories will vividly remain
Never more so,
When Autumn comes again.


David J Delaney




In memory of our cousin Vicki, 50 years young, passed away 11/10/2007 a victim of cancer.
RIP


If any of you are interested, both my books (1st vol. "My small book of poems" & 2nd vol."Rhymes of Times") are available from any Angus & Robertson store & depending where you are they might have to order from the Cairns store.:)
 
The Democrats can't seem to choose -
white woman or black man;
Praps Michael Jackson couldn't lose ?
a bit of each :confused:
yes we all can :confused:
 
THE BURMESE MILITARY RESPONSE TO THE CYCLONE

The military junta - what a pompous pack of fools,
just lump the dumbest punters with the stubbornest of mules,
ensure their golden epaulets are sown in bludy spools,
their lanyards and their scrambled egg – but stuff the golden rules.

As useless to their citizens as t1ts on bludy rams,
and when they need a leader they expose their little shams,
they strut around their dais, and they crow and yell and gape,
but when their people need some help – they resort to blood red tape.

No way are good Samaritans entitled to a visa,
No way has any foreigner the right of out-shine Caesar,
So what if paddy fields are full with corpses since refloated,
the red tape must be signed off – and the referendum voted.:(
 
just found this song on youtube - pretty damned good (imo anyway) ;)
It Gets Lonely (Caruso and Cooper)

"It Gets Lonely"
(Copyright 2008, Cooper & Caruso Music,
Ltd.)

It gets lonely
so, so lonely
Surrounded by all these people
With important things to do

It gets lonely
so, so lonely
Surrounded by all these people
When none of them are you.

The meetings they are running late for
And the calls they need to take
Syncing calendars and appointments
on their cigarette break.
Blinking schedules and reminders
and the emails BCC'd
Wanting things they're never getting.
Getting things they'll never need.

It gets lonely
so, so lonely
Surrounded by all these people
With important things to do

It gets lonely
so, so lonely
Surrounded by all these people
When none of them are you.

Feels like I'm moving in slow motion
Or am I standing still?
In an ocean filled with taxi cabs
and people dressed to kill.
As their watches tick the hours
diamond dangling from their ears.
Like a symphony of silence.
Making music no one hears.

It wouldn't be this hard for me
if I knew you were still mine.
I tell myself I'm doing better
I tell myself I'm doing fine.

It gets lonely
so, so lonely
Surrounded by all these people
With important things to do

It gets lonely
so, so lonely
Surrounded by all these people
But none of them are you.
None of them are you.
Click to expand...
 
MEMORIES FROM WHEN I WAS KNEE-HIGH TO MY GRANDPA

My dad he knows, well, lots of things
he says that “knowledge is power” (?)
when he talks like that (like a wound up spring)
my grandpa just nods on the hour;
but I reckon my grandpa knows more- and all
about things of real value and worth,
- when he DOES things – that make him seem ten feet tall,
- when he DOES things exciting and things that enthral
- when he DOES things – and problems, both big and small,
just disappear from the earth.

He erases that problem without any trace
with a grin and his hobbling knee
when he gives me a hammer - and smiles in my face -
and some nails and a lump of tree,
yeah my dad might say heaps and bits about lots
(and he makes half it up in the end)
- but my grandpa can DO things – and join ALL the dots
- and he knows about saddles and tying knots
- and he knows how to ride when the big horse trots
with that smile that he gives me for lend;

- and he knows how to plant tomatoes in pots
- and he reads from old books about Castles and Scots
- and he knows about toadstools and drawing yachts -
he’s my oldest and smartest friend. ;)
 
DAYDREAMING THOUGHTS WHILST TAKING THE DOG FOR A WALK 20080512

Suppose I had just one plastic
like the one that I use at work

and suppose I was robbed near a Cash machine
and told to withdraw by some jerk,...

Is it out of my pocket ? (like a parking fine docket)?
or come out of petty cash?...

So too speeding fine coppers?, or brown bomber robbers?
they're more subtle - less knife point - same slash. :eek: :2twocents
 

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