ASF Poetry Thread

[2020hindsight]

A SPIN-DOCTOR’S TAKE ON BEING ONE OF THE FOOLISH XXX BRAVE FEW TO BE STILL HOLDING SHARES

Editor's Note .. This is a pisstake, ok? - DYOR on when to get out or into the market lol (wish I had - got out that is).

Horatio came forward – I’ll defend this bridge alone
and a hundred more Horatios stood together made of stone
and they stood there unaffected by the panic in the ranks
and the stock market was sliding, but they turned it – AND the banks.

The days grew fierce and frightening, the Horatios held their ground
They watched the market (like Queen Mary) slowly turn around
And in time the rich came crawling back, the crisis had dispersed
The Horatios had won the day, and steered clear of the worst. .

Us few who held should maybe feel like Horatio in this game
while the capitalists among us, ran like rabbits (to their shame).
Cos, tell me how a man responds when panic fills his frame
watch this Horatio-lead-recovery ... then I’ll tell you that man’s name.

these first-to-fear are first-to-flight, such cowards and such conmen
yet sadly they are well paid dudes, and also "hinge upon men"
these masters of the capitalists , these leaders of our time
proponents of this moral abyss, these subtle kings of crime.

 

[derty]

Ode to Sean Hannity

by John Cleese

Aping urbanity
Oozing with vanity
Plump as a manatee
Faking humanity
Journalistic calamity
Intellectual inanity
Fox Noise insanity
You’re a profanity
Hannity

 

[drillinto]

A New Poet

Linda Pastan

Finding a new poet
is like finding a new wildflower
out in the woods. You don't see

its name in the flower books, and
nobody you tell believes
in its odd color or the way

its leaves grow in splayed rows
down the whole length of the page. In fact
the very page smells of spilled

red wine and the mustiness of the sea
on a foggy day - the odor of truth
and of lying.

And the words are so familiar,
so strangely new, words
you almost wrote yourself, if only

in your dreams there had been a pencil
or a pen or even a paintbrush,
if only there had been a flower.



from Heroes In Disguise, 1991
W.W. Norton & Company, Inc., New York, NY

 

[2020hindsight]

great stuff drill.
sorry - back to amateur hour lol...

THE SUN AND MOON WORSHIPPERS

whatever makes the seasons dance, and paints the summer hills
whatever makes the tide advance, and roll back as it wills
whatever tempts the boomerang to gracefully return
yet gentle as a moonbeam as it luminates a fern.

whatever "eggs" the albatross to break forth into strife
and growing up to learn to fly and meet and mate for life
and spend long months in ocean winds and hemispheres of sky
returning to that special friend, and so on till they die.

whatever chose the rainbow colours arcing oer the earth
whatever chose the forests as the place of bio-birth
whatever chose five petals for the buttercup’s broad smile
That’s where the heavens settle, and that’s where I’ll kneel a while.

http://library.thinkquest.org/27890/applications5.html
http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=4884152789466423754

https://www.aussiestockforums.com/forums/showthread.php?p=90703&highlight=gurgling#post90703

 

[2020hindsight]

two more in similar vein ... not that there's any literary merit there, just that it makes a change from reading about the end of capitalism and our lifestyle as we know it

https://www.aussiestockforums.com/forums/showthread.php?p=88166

https://www.aussiestockforums.com/forums/showthread.php?p=86893

 

[2020hindsight]

CARPUS TOMORROW

I don’t know how to say, Swahili, “wow the market’s bad”
or shout in Bantu “cmon – really! Dow, you must be mad!”
it’s getting to where the world must beg so that banks will let us borrow,
but every language has that word, that beautiful word “tomorrow”.

Tomorrows are like a row of blocks between unconscious commas,
or maybe like some shipping locks - that you fill with hope and promise,
endorphins if you free em that can raise you from this sorrow
if you can’t manage “carpus diem” – maybe settle for - “carpus tomorrow” ?.

Tomorrows are out there slumbering hiding over the sunrising hills,
and nature wakes to a humming and a painting there that thrills,
the curtain call at the music hall, - the kookas laughing drums,
full of poems and prayers, promise and all – believe ! - tomorrow comes !.

PS hard to concentrate here - these flaming birds making a racket outside !

 

[2020hindsight]

THE ARMCHAIR CRITIC SYMPHONY - IN FOUR MOVEMENTS

From my armchair it's so easy, and they’re all a pack of fools,
give this farmer boy a chisel, let me carve MY ten top rules,
I can carve this mess in front of me into Simpson and his mule,
bring the wounded world economy, to this armchair – by this pool.

So the man who’s in the hot seat wants to play it supercool
I can tell him why and what he needs to drop the price of fuel
I can tell him stuff I learnt at tech, when I went to business school
- when you count the beans it’s important that you oil that old slide rule!

……………

All this talk of global warming, I can take on all these nuts,
Here’s my final bold brainstorming ... “Live in airconditioned huts!”
I’ve dared the world – “Do nothing!” - but they haven’t got the guts
what they need to do? – stick to cussing! just stay sitting on their butts!

…………..

From my armchair it’s a shoe-in, like the wargames in Irarq
send the napalm-bombing crew in, make a furnace from the spark,
I can solve all worldly problems with one walk around the park,
ending back here in my armchair, with a summing up (burp) remark.

From my armchair I can orchestrate, and rant and cheer and rave
I can (paraphrasing) parachute with the next offensive wave
Hey I’m only there in spirit, and I don’t have to be brave
And if they are hurt or “wear it”, I can crawl back in my cave.

………….

These high school kids – I’m armchair told - are perfect nowadays
and teachers’ pay should be on hold till kids all get straight A’s
the fact they’re truant and/or high - it’s clearly not the kid’s fault
neither attitude nor altitude - its clearly how they’re taught!

Some kids aren’t into English, they prefer life in “gin-sling-land”
“Hey why should we learn English, when we don’t plan trips to England!”
…..
[hey armchair man, it’s relative dude, - let’s call the least wise “fool”
I don’t mean to be glib or rude, maybe both of us go back to school ?]

 

[Wysiwyg]

The next page ...


I see the printed story, of what is in the lens
I see the faces twisted, a son in holden wreck
What business is it anyway, not yours nor mine nor theirs
Why for do we interest, in Brad or Ange or Beck

Its `cause our lives are empty, the void from life to death
The printed story fills it, a whisper and a breath
Each day the story differs, sometimes an earthly jolt
A talking piece I hear you say, oh yeah...for sure... alright

The pictures and the words I ask, do we-all have to know
Do you feel the paining mate, of those in them photo
Of course its not our business, the next page but a flick
Why for do we interest, in Brad and Ange and wreck.

 

[2020hindsight]

I met this poet tonight
she's brilliant - the concept? recycled paper somehow hanging onto the soul of "old words incarcerated between the fibres"

Poems on Recycled Paper

you're so prolific.
sometimes i worry
one day you will run-
out of words.
or the world of paper.
and
the thought of you-
worldless
erases all of mine.

so,
i'll teach you to recycle
paper. and
i'm working on a new language
so you'll never have to repeat
yourself...
again.

you'll hand me a poem
on recycled paper
the old words incarcerated
between the fibres
and the new
patterning the surface...
but we won't yet understand.

and you'll wonder how
i can love what
you have written,
twice.
and I'll swear I
can feel the pulpy
beat of recycled
heart
needing me.

(and then i'll start you a new dictionary)

 

[2020hindsight]

A poem to consider for a funeral or a wake, assuming the deceased was religious

http://www.bereavement-poems-articles.com/poems/general/poems.php
http://www.bereavement-poems-articles.com/poems/faith/108-rose-beyond-wall.php

Rose Beyond the Wall
by A.L. Frink

A rose once grew
where all could see,
sheltered beside
a garden wall,
And as the days passed
swiftly by,
it spread its branches, straight and tall...

One day, a beam of light
shone through
a crevice that had
opened wide ~
The rose bent gently
toward its warmth
then passed beyond
to the other side

Now, you who deeply
feel its loss,
be comforted ~ the rose blooms there ~
its beauty even greater now,
nurtured by
God's own loving care.

and again ...

I Did Not Die
Mary E Faye

Do not stand at my grave and forever weep.
I am not there; I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond glints on snow.

I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn’s rain.
When you awaken in the morning’s hush
I am the swift uplifting rush

Of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and forever cry.
I am not there. I did not die.

 

[2020hindsight]

THE PILOT AND THE POET

As the presidential politician’s gallup polling shows
it’s the pilot and the poet – but the poet by a nose,
and I’m kinda looking forward to when ballot boxes close
and the new man starts the healing – post election stoops to prose. …

"Now let's take up where Abe Lincoln left off – hundred year old woes"

 

[2020hindsight]

Since I saw the Red Bull Race on the weekend, I found myself comparing life to smoketrails - hence the extra verse or two.

TO WALK THE PATHS AGAIN - AGAIN

To walk the paths again my friend, to walk the paths again,
To take the uphill path my friend, instead of through the glen,
Or maybe find some truth my friend, on why the paths of men
Gang aft’ a'glay, as oft' they do, it's all beyond our ken.
And would we choose the self-same path again?
If "here and now" was somehow "there and then"?

Sometimes when I am half in trance I retrace steps of old,
When I was young and liked to dance, and brasher praps and bold,
When there were risky things I chanced which I let Fate unfold,
And some delivered cactus plants, where they had promised gold.
Ahh, paths can get so complex, even cold,
And much is lost to moss, and much to mould.

To walk some different pathways chaps, or follow different yearns,
To set a different campfire praps, without so many burns,
To make a better damper with the skills of one who learns,
To sidestep indigestion traps and other like concerns.
Ideally - using "hindsight maps" - return
And make the right decision at each turn.

Life's like a dodgem car careering, foot flat to the floor,
And little time to "twig" the steering, taking hits galore,
And doors have opened left and right, and options by the score,
……But …I have used THIS path my friends,
THIS set of doors around THESE bends
And there's NO way doors come again,
- And I'm THIS path, - And I'm THESE doors.
- And I'm THESE strengths and I'm THESE flaws
- And I'm THESE footprints through the moors
- And I'm effect; and I am cause.

.........................................
Praps life’s a smoke trail going back to early childhood hills
which criss cross campfires on the track as criss-crossed timing wills
these loci of a million yarns and twenty thousand quills
these barrel rolls and laughs and mental thrills
these fires and embers toasting mental krills
- And I’m these embers and this blaze
- And I’m this fire in this haze
- And I’m these blacks and whites and greys
- And I’m this trail of yesterdays

And we are where our smoke trails blend
like colours at some rainbow’s end
let’s share this gold adventure friend …
until … our smoke trails bend again.

 

[2020hindsight]

BALI BOMBERS, DRUG MULES, and CIGARETTE COMPANIES

The vengeance sanctioned by the state is now a bygone fact,
The signup book for “bomber’s mate” is filling if not packed,
You schoolies who have tickets booked to let off steam afar,
If those tickets are to Bali, just avoid a beach or bar.

The Bali Nine were running drugs, wow! that’s about as bad
as Rothmans or those other mugs - "tobacconist’s jihad”
Praps Scott Rush should be jailed in Aus ? – after all that’s why his Dad
advised the AFP ten hours before he flew there ...... … sad

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scott_Rush

During February 2006, Rush's parents gave an interview to Australian Broadcasting Corporation television program, Australian Story, speaking out against Australian Federal Police actions.

"I was informed at 1.30 in the morning that Scott would be spoken to and asked not to board the flight to Bali. It wasn't until about mid-morning that I received a call from Bob and a distressed tone in his voice he said, 'Mate, we could not stop him, they have let him go through and he's on his way to Bali'. Under no circumstances do I condone the trafficking of drugs - I particularly dislike drugs of any nature, always have. When I received a call from the Australian Government authorities that Scott had been detained in Indonesia for attempting to export heroin, I was speechless, sickened to the gut."

Rush's mother, Christine Rush, also spoke of her disappointment with the Australian Federal Police. "I feel very let down by our Australian Federal Police - we tried to lawfully stop our son leaving the country, it wasn't done." [12].

The interview aired on ABC's Australian Story on February 13, 2006.

 

[2020hindsight]

ABEL TASMAN DISCOVERS THE ANTIPODAL CORNER OF THE WORLD

Abel Tasman, poop-decked, said
“As the far horizons hinted
We’ve found Argentina - which is really NZ
but the name NZ’s not "invinted" -

“And Greymouth might be about as far
as this Dutchman can possibly roam,
and I’ve been to cities that never close down ...
but I still call the Old Holland home."

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Abel_Tasman

On 13 December [1642] they sighted land on the north-west coast of the South Island, New Zealand, becoming the first Europeans to do so. Tasman named it Staten Landt on the assumption that it was connected to an island (Staten Island, Argentina) at the south of the tip of South America.

From the point of view of the Dutch East India Company Tasman's explorations were a disappointment: he had neither found a promising area for trade nor a useful new shipping route. For over a century, until the era of James Cook, Tasmania and New Zealand were not visited by Europeans - mainland Australia was visited, but usually only by accident.

 

[2020hindsight]

CURES FOR BUSH's LEGACY

Bush is raving like the captain on a steeply sloping deck
"Blame the iceberg, blame the map, or blame the milkman" (what the heck)
“This is not a crisis failure of free marketing as such”
But (?) - it’s worst where market’s free-est !! – so George – thank you very much

So the Xmas Party’s looming, New Year’s hangover’s ahead
That’s with half a headache booming here on Xmas Eve already
When you search the New Year’s lockers – Whence the New Year’s ships embark
For a headache try Baroccas, for a head’s up, try Barack.

 

[2020hindsight]

Some Force Majeure! God's passion! He hath teeth - and there's substantial!
The glacier's recession - might be saved by the financial.

 

[2020hindsight]

http://www.rangerjohn.com/bootand.html

Australia's first poet :-

"In my ear the wind that whispers, Seems to make reply-- ....

'Question not, but live and labour , Till yon goal be won,
Helping every feeble neighbour, Seeking help from none;
Life is mostly froth and bubble, Two things stand like stone,
KINDNESS in another's trouble, COURAGE in your own.' "

Ye Wearie Wayfarer - Fytte VIII
Finis Exoptatus [A Metaphysical Song}
Adam Lindsay Gordon

'There's something in this world amiss
Shall be unriddled by and by.'--Tennyson.


Boot and saddle, see, the slanting
Rays begin to fall,
Flinging lights and colours flaunting
Through the shadows tall.
Onward! onward! must we travel?
When will come the goal?
Riddle I may not unravel,
Cease to vex my soul.

Harshly break those peals of laughter
From the jays aloft,
Can we guess what they cry after?
We have heard them oft;
Perhaps some strain of rude thanksgiving
Mingles in their song,
Are they glad that they are living?
Are they right or wrong?

Right, 'tis joy that makes them call so,
Why should they be sad?
Certes! we are living also,
Shall not we be glad?
Onward! onward! must we travel?
Is the goal more near?
Riddle we may not unravel,
Why so dark and drear?

Yon small bird his hymn outpouring,
On the branch close by,
Recks not for the kestrel soaring
In the nether sky,
Though the hawk with wings extended
Poises over head,
Motionless as though suspended
By a viewless thread.

See, he stoops, nay, shooting forward
With the arrow's flight,
Swift and straight away to nor'ward
Sails he out of sight.
Onward! onward! thus we travel,
Comes the goal more nigh?
Riddle we may not unravel,
Who shall make reply?

Ha! Friend Ephraim, saint or sinner,
Tell me if you can--
Tho' we may not judge the inner
By the outer man,
Yet by girth of broadcloth ample,
And by cheeks that shine,
Surely you set no example
In the fasting line--

Could you, like yon bird discov'ring
Fate as close at hand,
As the kestrel o'er him hov'ring,
Still, as he did stand?
Trusting grandly, singing gaily,
Confident and calm,
Not one false note in your daily
Hymn or weekly psalm?

Oft your oily tones are heard in
Chapel, where you preach,
This the everlasting burden
Of the tale you teach:
We are d---d, our sins are deadly,
You alone are heal'd'--
'Twas not thus their gospel redly
Saints and martyrs seal'd.

You had seem'd more like a martyr,
Than you seem to us,
To the beasts that caught a Tartar,
Once at Ephesus!
Rather than the stout apostle
Of the Gentiles, who,
Pagan-like, could cuff and wrestle,
They'd have chosen you.

Yet, I ween, on such occasion,
Your dissenting voice
Would have been, in mild persuasion,
Raised against their choice;
Man of peace, and man of merit,
Pompous, wise, and grave,
Ephraim! is it flesh or spirit
You strive most to save?

Vain is half this care and caution
O'er the earthly shell,
We can neither baffle nor shun
Dark-plumed Azrael.
Onward! onward! still we wander,
Nearer draws the goal;
Half the riddle's read, we ponder
Vainly on the whole.

Eastward! in the pink horizon,
Fleecy hillocks shame
This dim range dull earth that lies on,
Tinged with rosy flame.
Westward! as a stricken giant
Stoops his bloody crest,
And tho' vanquish'd, frowns defiant,
Sinks the sun to rest.

Distant, yet approaching quickly,
From the shades that lurk,
Like a black pall gathers thickly,
Night, when none may work.
Soon our restless occupation
Shall have ceas'd to be;
Units! in God's vast creation,
Ciphers! what are we?
Onward! onward! oh! faint-hearted;
Nearer and more near
Has the goal drawn since we started,
Be of better cheer.

Preacher! all forbearance ask, for
All are worthless found,
Man must ay take man to task for
Faults while earth goes round.
On this dank soil thistles muster,
Thorns are broadcast sown;
Seek not figs where thistles cluster,
Grapes where thorns have grown.

Sun and rain and dew from heaven,
Light and shade and air,
Heat and moisture freely given,
Thorns and thistles share.
Vegetation rank and rotten
Feels the cheering ray;
Not uncared for, unforgotten,
We, too, have our day.

Unforgotten! though we cumber
Earth, we work His will.
Shall we sleep through night's long slumber
Unforgotten still?
Onward! onward! toiling ever,
Weary steps and slow,
Doubting oft, despairing never,
To the goal we go!

Hark! the bells on distant cattle
Waft across the range,
Through the golden-tufted wattle,
Music low and strange;
Like the marriage peal of fairies
Comes the tinkling sound,
Or like chimes of sweet St. Mary's
On far English ground.

How my courser champs the snaffle,
And with nostril spread,
Snorts and scarcely seems to ruffle
Fern leaves with his tread;
Cool and pleasant on his haunches
Blows the evening breeze,
Through the overhanging branches
Of the wattle trees:

Onward! to the Southern Ocean,
Glides the breath of Spring,
Onward, with a dreamy motion,
I, too, glide and sing--
Forward! forward! still we wander--
Tinted hills that lie
In the red horizon yonder--
Is the goal so nigh?

Whisper, spring-wind, softly singing,
Whisper in my ear;
Respite and nepenthe bringing,
Can the goal be near?
Laden with the dew of vespers,
From the fragrant sky,
In my ear the wind that whispers
Seems to make reply--

'Question not, but live and labour
Till yon goal be won,
Helping every feeble neighbour,
Seeking help from none;
Life is mostly froth and bubble,
Two things stand like stone,
KINDNESS in another's trouble,
COURAGE in your own.'

Courage, comrades, this is certain,
All is for the best--
There are lights behind the curtain--
Gentles let us rest.
As the smoke-rack veers to seaward
From 'the ancient clay',
With its moral drifting leeward,
Ends the wanderer's lay.

 

[noirua]

Can't really follow all this fine poetry presented by 2020.
Anyway, this is one by my own fair hand:

"Suddenly", by noirua

Oh suddenly, oh suddenly,
it happened the end came
then nothing was important,
seriousness has come to an end.

Looking back seemed brighter,
and friendlier, remembrance suddenly,
then reality, a feeling lighter
adjusting appearances strained.

Then it's onwards adrenaline rushing,
the funeral ahead speech adjusting,
what to say, doubt, feelings pushing,
the day, the dreading, gone now.

Suddenly, must go on again,
happiness, gone, no mind,
time caresses, time adjusts,
again, not in time, but suddenly.

 

[drillinto]

Ladies and Gentlemen in Outer Space
Ron Padgett

Here is my philosophy:
Everything changes (the word "everything"
has just changed as the
word "change" has: it now
means "no change") so
quickly that it literally surpasses my belief,
charges right past it
like some of the giant
ideas in this area.
I had no beginning and I shall have
no end: the beam of light
stretches out before and behind
and I cook the vegetables
for a few minutes only,
the fewer the better. Butter
and serve. Here is my
philosophy: butter and serve.



from New & Selected Poems, 1963 ”” 1992, 1995
David R. Godine, Publisher, Inc.

 

[2020hindsight]

The First and Worst Accident at Tarthra Wharf in 150 Years

The night was dark and slippery, and no rails for the old wharf,
so easy to gain access, and so easy to fall off,
and bad luck piled on bad luck, and they fell with fatal speed,
and .. their God decided sadly that he wouldn’t intercede.

The dad was such a brave man , of his ilk so too the kids,
at their funeral, one large coffin, bosom bonded, closed eyelids,
just their photos now to fondle, and the ones behind will weep,
Thus their dreamlike lives are bounded by an honoured hero’s sleep.
...
Though the children's dreams were shorter, so too, bounded by pure sleep.

http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,24709837-661,00.html

Funeral for Tathra wharf victims Shane, Riley and Travis O'Neill
November 26, 2008 12:16pm

A WOMAN who lost her long-time love and two young sons in a drowning accident has issued a heartfelt plea to them via the priest at their funeral.
Queanbeyan's Reverend James Wood christened Stacey Lambert's sons Riley and Travis, but on Wednesday he stood before the casket carrying their little bodies, and that of their father, Shane O'Neill.

The trio drowned off Tathra Wharf last week when a fishing trip turned to tragedy.

"I asked Stacey the other day what she would like me to say,'' Rev Wood told the mourners who spilled out of Bega's biggest church.

''(She said) Shane, Riley and Travis, I'm with you, have fun, stay safe and warm, stop fighting, stop working, be you, go fishing, tell me what I'm here for. What do you want me to do?''
….
Reverend Chris Short described Mr O'Neill, 28, as a "special, ordinary country bloke''.

"Their lives were lived in uniqueness with us and as such, have passed into the ultimate community of human existence,'' Rev Short said.

"Our lives are more beautiful because they lived among us.''
…
Family members encouraged mourners to wear bright colours to "celebrate the lives'' of Mr O'Neill and his boys.

http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,24683109-661,00.html
Boys' pram slipped out of rescuer's fingers
November 21, 2008 12:00am

HEROIC fisherman Robert Brown, who dived from Tathra Wharf to try to save a father and his two sons, had hold of the pram containing 15-month-old Travis but it slipped from his hands in the rough seas.

Three times he pulled the pram to the surface, and he was trying to unclip Travis when he was smashed against a pylon by the rough seas and lost it.

The heartbreaking story of the rescue emerged yesterday as the historic wharf on the NSW South Coast became a memorial to brave father Shane O'Neill and his two lost boys, Travis and Riley, 4.

As the community rallied around Stacey Lambert, who lost her sons and her fiance, people gathered quietly at the wharf to pay tribute.

They left flowers and cried, while Mr O'Neill's nephews and niece put into words and pictures what everyone was feeling.

Their simple drawings, pinned to the wharf first thing yesterday morning, showed Uncle Shane and their cousins fishing and smiling.

"To Shane, Riley and Travis. We miss you very much. Love from Kasey," said one message.

Prospero:The Tempest Act 4, scene 1, 148–158

We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep.