Drought And Potatoes
The rhythmic rise and fall of swinging hoe,
Red rising dust that coats his arms and legs
And all for spuds that without rain won't grow;
Each plant with wilted leaves to heaven begs
Here on this barren hilltop where the gaze
In all directions shows the blasted earth,
And from the sky, the scorching searing blaze
Of sun that robs the land of all its worth.
Like tombstones stand the forest giants now dead,
All strangled by the pioneer's ringing axe;
They cast no shade upon the digger's head
As from the dust, the stunted crop he sacks.
A fence is strung from one dead tree to next,
‘Tis all that says this patch of earth unique;
Around it lie the bones of death perplexed;
The logs and limbs - the past that cannot speak.
He stops to rest, his back to dead wood pressed;
A cooling drink, a humble meal of bread,
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poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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Changed Shoreline
The shore where once we played is now so neat,
A mass of pavers, brick walls and concrete;
No blade of grass, no rock, is out of place,
And joggers jog where children used to race.
Where gum trees stood and where rank grasses grew,
Now all is perfect, clean and bright and new,
With paths and painted walls and fairy lights,
It's paradise by day and darkest nights.
A seawall, and a narrow strip of sand,
Is all that separates the sea from land,
And when the tide comes up and swamps the beach,
Right to the wall the ocean's waters reach.
And then the sea sends forth its troops in waves,
To batter at the wall like willing slaves.
They strike it hard and search it for a fault,
And blow by blow these soldiers earn their salt.
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poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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The Snake
Like sable coils of twisted cord that glisten in the light,
Scales round with tiger stripes are scored, death spoiling for a fight.
Draped on a stump - a tree long dead, bone dry in heat of day;
A flickering fork from poisoned head that smells the air for prey.
Mulberry bow; Black fletched with crow: an arrow, notched, half drawn.
The boy, the hunter, stealing slow, makes not a sound to warn.
The serpent looks with steely eyes, that see no danger yet.
Though close below its burrow lies, the hunter's trap is set.
A powerful arc, a full drawn bow; The snake in mortal fear,
It dashes for its den below, an arrow thudding near.
A blur of sleek uncoiling rings, swift down the hole it glides;
The bow string twangs, the arrow sings, through flesh and bone it slides.
The threshing tail flies side to side, a writhing lashing whip;
Escape from certain death denied, held in the arrow's grip.
The hunter draws it from its lair, lays on the ground his prize;
The vanquished of a contest fair, like bloodied rope it lies.
And so plays out the ancient duel ‘twixt snake and son of man;
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poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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Beast Of Burden
So lonely stands this poor unburdened beast;
This carrier of sustenance and feast.
Exposed all day to driving rain or sun;
Abandoned once its usefulness is done.
With silver coat or aged to rusty hue
And mostly is its health check overdue.
Its owner's name is branded on its hide;
It even has a small saddle to ride.
And each day come the bands of boys and men
To catch these strays and take them home again.
When pushed it moves with an unsteady gait;
It swerves from side to side towards its fate.
Its master curses it for being lame
But then finds that the whole herd is the same.
A slave but with a mind all of its own;
It moves along with squeak and clack and groan.
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poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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The Globtik Tokyo
Great oil companies they paid,
Ishikawajima laid
For a mighty ship a keel,
Built her out of solid steel.
Big as supertankers go
was the Globtik Tokyo,
Length twelve hundred feet or so,
was the Globtik Tokyo.
Fifty thousand horse power geared,
Through the ocean's waters sheared.
Sixteen knots her speed at top,
Took three miles for her to stop.
Half a million tons displaced,
Engineers a problem faced:
This the largest ship on Earth,
For repairs where would she berth?
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poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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The Twelve Apostrophes
There once were twelve apostrophes
Who'd served their English writers well,
But soon despite concerted pleas,
Their use had all but gone to hell.
The first to go was poor old you're,
Became just your, then out the door,
And closely followed by old it's,
Whose usefulness had had the fritz.
So it's was its, then we'd was wed,
And pretty soon poor that's was dead.
The next to go was faithful where's,
He's dead and buried - no one cares.
And number six was we're to were,
And that's to thats - another pair.
Then the apostrophe of who's,
Where he has gone there are no clues.
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poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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The Selfish Shellfish
Deep in the briny sea
Was a monk fish monastery;
A prayerful variety
Of contemplative piety
From gentle soles to trout,
All swimmingly devout,
Where once a pious oyster
Went strolling ‘round the cloister,
And he was quietly grumbling,
His tummy it was rumbling.
He spied a tasty morsel,
A fellow shark monk's dorsal.
He lopped it with his chopper,
And hid it good and proper.
He'd eat it some time later
With peas and beans and ‘tater.
There's no way he would share it,
His stomach wouldn't bear it.
Meanwhile the poor old shark monk
Swims round and round like he's quite drunk.
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poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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The Alchemist And The Mouse
Once there lived an alchemist in a strange and distant land,
So wise and famous and revered, great power he did command.
For he could turn base metal in a flash to solid gold,
And so the alchemist grew rich, as he in years grew old.
The alchemist had riches, but a mortal man was he,
And came unto his house one day, a gypsy to foresee
His fortune with a crystal ball that showed his time was nigh,
So he a magic potion made, his own death to defy.
And when this potion to give immortality was made,
He took the potion to his lips, but then his hand he stayed,
For there his pet, a small brown mouse, was sitting on his knee;
He gave the mouse a sip and waited, the effect to see.
So time it passed, the mouse it thrived, so then he drank the brew.
Now safe from death, his fame increased, and so his fortune grew.
And so the years went by, he didn't age, always was well;
He and the mouse lived on, and to them nothing bad befell.
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poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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The Honest Politician
There was a man, whose reputation in the land was strong;
In winter and in summer, honest as the day was long.
So all his friends advised him that before his time was spent
He'd have to run for office and go into Parliament.
On honesty and openness this fellow then campaigned;
From telling lies or twisting truths he without fail refrained.
He told the people what he thought they all wanted to hear;
He'd tell his honest policies to all who'd lend an ear.
He said were he in government, then things would have to change;
He'd made a careful study and the laws he'd rearrange;
He'd have to cut some salaries and trim the public spend;
And half the public servants to the dole queue he would send.
He said that we relied too much on borrowings from banks
And we would be in trouble when the housing market tanks.
We'd all have to work harder, for we reap but what we sow,
And all restrictive legislation, out the door he'd throw.
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poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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Creation Of The Fragile Human
The modern world is a perilous place,
Wherever we look there is danger to face.
We attend safety meetings, wear fluorescent clothes,
We stand out like beacons and frighten the crows.
We can't climb up ladders if they are too high,
For we are so fragile we may fall and die.
And children are treated like they're prone to break,
Their playgrounds are gutted for their safety's sake.
The monkey bars, swings, and the wooden seesaw,
We're told are as deadly as weapons of war,
While danger is lurking just over the hill,
A pervert or psycho just waiting to kill.
And on the TV we are constantly told,
No chances to take, if we wish to grow old.
In flood times we're warned to keep clear of the drains
As if we are babies without any brains.
Parades of do-gooders preach on the TV,
About all the dangers they everywhere see.
So suddenly new safety laws are enacted
And lost liberty is the price that's exacted.
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poem by Dennis N. O'Brien
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