Poems 2

‘KOMBI’
Nov 1998

She’s looking quite exhausted now,
Her engine’s blowing smoke,
Acceleration’s very slow,
And top speed is a joke.

Her paintwork’s dotted here and there,
With ugly warts of rust,
Enhanced by Sydney’s damp salt air,
That settled like the dust.

One side door doesn’t open now,
The rear door sticks half way.
Four tyres need replacing.
I’ll do it all some day.

The indicators work when warm,
But sometimes fail when cold.
I tried, but couldn’t find the fault.
Maybe we’re both too old.

Two continents we have explored,
In fourteen years together.
Driven through the alpine snow,
And queensland’s sticky weather.

How proud she looked when first we met,
Her paint was gleaming blue,
Her diesel engine in the back,
That purred so sweet and true.

You’ve served your family, oh so well,
And always done your best.
My wonderful VW,
It’s time to take a rest.

Poetalan

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HOPE

Once more those deadly missiles fly,
And light up the Iraqi sky'
As targets that they strike go up in flame.
Why do so many have to die,
Small children in their bunkers cry,
Whilst both sides say the other is to blame.

Moslem, Hindu, Christian, Jew,
And different coloured peoples too,
Men and women, young and old,
From countries hot to freezing cold,
Let us pray together for the children of this world.

Poetalan

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HEADS IN THE SAND

Tell me John Coward, if you really care,
Why do you act as though you’re not aware,
That so many Australians live on the street,
Nowhere to sleep, and so little to eat.
These people need help, not pathetic excuse,
Policy, promise, to them not much use.
Addiction, aids, death, prostitution, Hep-C,
For those on our streets, that is reality.

Tell me Slim Beazeley, what is your plan?
Will you give some hope to each destitute man?
Have you got the ‘ticker’ to do what is right?
Will you walk beside me through Sydney tonight?
Open your eyes to the horror and pain,
Watch Australians sleep in the cold and the rain.

Come politician, don’t be so remote,
Ignore not, these people because they can’t vote.
Assume not, that they live this way by their choice,
Give them some hope, give them powerful voice.
Offer your wisdom, your heart and your hand,
God’s calling you now, take your head from the sand.

Poetalan

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FEROCIOUS FRIEND

The ocean's like a tiger,
It can crush you in it's jaws,
And tear the strongest ship apart,
With powerful sharp claws.

But still, so many put to sea,
In craft of wood or steel,
Or high tech new materials,
To strengthen hull and keel.

The ocean's like a magnet,
Draws men out from the shore,
It’s like a sweet addictive drug,
That calls you more and more.

How nice it is to put to sea,
With gear you know won't fail,
For nothing is more splendid,
Than a vessel under sail.

The bow cuts through the waves of blue,
And dolphins swim close by,
The spinnaker and headsail,
Are white against blue sky.

A fair wind drives us through the night,
Past Jupiter and Mars,
The constellations look so bright,
So do the shooting stars.

The ocean's like a jury,
That your life depends upon,
Just one mistake at crisis time,
No second chance, you're gone.

Poetalan

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CENTAURI

Centauri you’re the nearest star.
You look so close, but you’re so far
Away, that I may never feel
The soft warmth of your glow.
If I could reach across the void,
My heart would sure be overjoyed,
As you begin to teach your student
All the secrets that he craves to know.

Our latest spacecraft are propelled
By burning gases fast expelled.
As yet, no innovation which foreshadows
Humble interstellar flight.
For you and I to ever meet,
Requires a monumentous feat.
Your suitor must come courting in a carriage
That approaches speed of light.

Poetalan

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DAWN CHORUS

The kookaburras sit there laughing,
But nothing goes unseen,
The lorikeets are chatting,
Their feathers red and green,
The cockatoos are screeching,
What they've done and what they've seen,
They compliment the Sydney dawn,
So bright and fresh and clean,

Joe crow just stands there watching,
Majestic in his stance,
The other birds must take good care,
They'll get no second chance,
Joe's eyes look very evil,
His plumage shiny black,
And any unprotected chick,
Will make a tasty snack.

Poetalan

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WASTE NOT

Two hours before the dawn on the Serengetti plain,
The atmosphere’s electric as the lions hunt again,
An isolated buffalo defends himself in vain,
And finally they pull him down, he dies in awful pain.

The lions squabble as they tear apart the hapless beast,
All the pride has gathered now to share the mighty feast,
Out to the east the sun appears, the lions leave the bull,
To find some shade and sleep a while, with all their bellies full.

Hyenas have been laughing as they watched the lions feed,
So swiftly now they take their place to satisfy their greed,
Their hunger now is satisfied, they leave without a care,
The other scavengers arrive by gliding through the air.

The vultures left their rocky crag, to search the plains for meat,
They rose up on a thermal generated by sun’s heat,
Their eyes are like small telescopes that scan the land ahead,
All senses tuned to pick up signs of any creature dead.

So eagerly the birds attack, they’re menacing and mean,
Before the sun’s high in the sky, the carcass is picked clean.
Their take off isn’t easy now, but once more they must roam,
To find another thermal, to carry them back home.

The vultures gone, but even now, the kill is not alone,
A million ants appear to take the marrow from the bone.
Before the sun dries out their meal, the ants must make all haste,
Our mother nature always ensures that nothing goes to waste.

Far away from the Serengetti, meat eaters prowl along supermarket shelves,
Others hunt at McDonalds or Kentucky Fried and don’t cook for themselves,
Mountains of packaging are discarded, collected and buried underground,
For at this point in time, new materials, so easily are found.
When all our forests disappear; slashed, burned, or killed by ‘acid rain’,
Who will tear up the concrete, and let our planet breathe again?

Poetalan

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SOS
11 PM SAT 10-7-99 George St

A young girl stops me as I walk along a Sydney street,
Mister, can you spare ten bucks,
So I can go and eat?

Thin and scrawny, ghostly pale,
Pathetically she told her tale,
Despair and destitution in her eye.
I wonder where this pretty child of god will sleep tonight.
Ten dollars for her food,
Of course, a lie.

Young lady, I can buy you food
And clothes to keep you warm
And pray to god that you don’t come to harm,
But money I won’t give you,
Although I feel your pain,
For surely you’ll inject it in your arm..

Poetalan

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