Friday, December 31, 2010



So where did that year go to?
It's only just arrived!
Is it really twelve whole months
That I have just survived?
I'd swear that it was yesterday
I was singing 'Auld Lang Syne'!
Wishing everyone good luck
 And drinking too much wine!
Easter slithered past me!
Birthdays hopped on by!
The winter came and then it went!
The sun rolled round the sky!
There are a few more wrinkles
To mark the passing year;
Whatever happens in my life
They, without fail, appear.
But Twenty-Ten was meant to be
A year of such import,
So vital and so different....
At least, that's what we thought.
So we stumble into another year
Trusting that we can cope.
My best wishes to everyone!
Thank goodness we live on Hope!

This was my New Year Wish for you two years ago! Not much has changed!

Another year has passed and gone;
Once more it's time to travel on.
Maybe we view the year askance:
Will it lead us a merry dance?
The year that's gone was not the best,
But still, so far, we've passed the test.
Think of all that we've come through!
We're pretty feisty, me and you.
Everything will turn out fine
(We hope!) in the coming year, Oh-Nine.

My peeyesses have been non-existent lately because I 'lost' my camera's ability to move shots between the camera and the computer. However, I had a brain-wave yesterday so I'll play catch-up.

We had our main Xmas meal on Xmas Eve evening this year as Brian was going to be on duty down in Sydney on 'the day'.
Here are the boys being uncooperative about a photograph on that occasion!

I read the riot act on Xmas Day. The result is TOO serious!!!

 Yesterday Malcolm and I spent the morning at the Lake, having lunch there. After the weeks of rain (Queensland is still a disaster area) it was lovely to enjoy perfect weather.
 At home everything looked lush too. I'm delighted with Malcolm's garden renovations.

Thursday, December 30, 2010

Last Chance to What?


The prompt is 'Last Chance'.


There may be people out there who understand this ad!
Maybe it's something up-to-date, the very latest fad!
Maybe I should 'podium' if it's quite the latest thing!
Maybe it is vital to those who're in the swing.
I've never thought of 'podiuming'. I'm filled with nervous doubt!
This gold and silver message makes me feel that I've missed-out!
I look at people in the street and try to make a guess....
Are they cheerful 'podiumers' all filled with happiness?
What happens if one 'podiums'? Does one get up and speak,
Standing at a rostrum and feeling very chic?
The word seems to imply it, but it doesn't make much sense.
But then, I'm quite 'un-podiumed' so I may be rather dense!
It says 'Last Chance'! Have I missed it? Am I doomed to be inept
Because the whole thing passed me by as I, ignorantly, slept?
Oh woe is me! I'm 'podiumless'! I should feel so contrite!
And yet, you know, it's a funny thing..... I feel perfectly all right!


In a world of windows, some are made of glass;
Others are just spaces we look from as we pass.
A boy is looking at a buoy and watching the river flow
And seeing the fishermen fishing from the jetty down below.
A gentle, hazy afternoon, with nothing much to do,
So a boy is dreaming his time away as boys so often do.
He may be thinking of sailing to lands far, far away,
Maybe he dreams of porpoises and whales and sharks at play.
Maybe he dreams of mermaids in caves combing their hair;
Maybe he dreams of treasure islands, wishing he were there!
But no! I'm almost certain I saw him lick his lips!
'Take the photo quickly Grandma! I want to buy those chips!'

Forecast Foul!


(This does not refer to 2011!)

Look your last on the bright blue sky!(Well, for today, at least!)
A dense and ragged blanket approaches from the East!
The smaller clouds are scurrying in front of the monstrous grey.
One doesn't have to be an expert to foretell a rainy day!

(An Acrostic)

Blogging can be quite exhausting
Unless one takes regular breaks.
Remember! Keep stretching your muscles!
Never mind all the time that it takes!
Though typing seems fairly relaxing,
Our bodies need exercise too.
Undertake frequent slow stretching,
To see what some movement can do.

Wednesday, December 29, 2010

I Was There

(Not me!)




I evade impertinent questions regarding my obvious age,
But I have to admit that, in my youth, two things were all the rage!
One was the clinching leather belt, with the buckle on display.
The other was the wedge-heeled sandal; to be worn at work or play.

Some think the nineteen-fifties were as dull as dull can be,
But it seems that I remember them as a time of frivolity.
The terrible War was over, with all its great excesses,
And coupons were no longer needed for buying shoes and dresses.
We were blessed people; at least that's what I felt,
As I pranced about in my wedge-heels and my clinching leather belt!
It was over sixty years ago that I sat by the fire,
Listening to the radio and hearing my heart's desire;
A serial on Childrens' Hour; it's name was 'Ballet Shoes';
It came on at a special time, just before the news.
I could hardly wait for Sundays; I hated the days between!
For after all, how old was I? An immature sixteen!
Last night I saw the TV show; I found it very trite,
But good enough to pass an undemanding time at night.
The plot was so predictable, the characters unreal,
And, all in all, it had a very adolescent feel.
Which is fair enough because the tale was aimed at the pre-teens,
At least it seemed that way to me, with the rather maudlin scenes.
And they didn't play Wolf Ferrari! That was an awful sin.
How I adored his music! It made the show begin!
'Jewels of the Madonna!' Was ever there such a theme;
It could spirit a dumpy girl like me into the perfect dream!
A girl could start out without much and end up with it all!
Cinderella! Sweetheart! You're going to the ball!
I'd sit there listening , engrossed, there, in the fire-light.
Knowing that, though things weren't too good, it would all turn-out alright.
I believed the story absolutely; it all felt so true!
With the music of Wolf Ferrari there was nothing I couldn't do!
I never made my mark, of course, or entered the promised land.
And isn't it a pity that the tale now seems so bland.

A Bloggy New Year!



Of course it's egocentric! That we all admit.
But it's a pleasant pastime, so I don't mind a bit.
My Family think I'm dotty, my Friends could not care less,
And yet it gives me hours and hours of harmless happiness.
Once my poetry was private, not because I am shy,
But because nobody cared for it! That was the reason why!
But now I'm part of a great world-wide community of 'me',
Other like-minded poets who find Blogging sets them free;
Free to find an audience, a transient one it's true,
But a group of people in Cyberspace who write the way we do.
So a Bloggy New Year to all of us! Some people paint or jog
Or swim or sew or deep-sea-fish!
As for me

Trevor Tucker
'Tis the season of goodwill
(And I would wish no person ill)
So I send the hope that the  New Year
May fill you both with real good cheer
So may you prosper in every way
And continue with your blog each day
* Trevor reads my Blog. Trevor was the son of the house when I was evacuated many, many years ago. We have kept in touch over the years, off and on, and I was delighted to receive this New Year wish in rhyme. (Sadly, his wife, Margaret, is no longer with us, but it gives me pleasure to see her photograph on  my blog.)

Cast Off!


It seemed fitting that I should wear them for that purpose!
You were with me when I bought them from the store.
They were made from the finest leather.
Yes, we bought the gloves together,
For we knew we'd be 'together' evermore.
Oh, it's clear that we were overly sentimental!
Sometimes we'd wear one each! I swear we did!
And you sewed a little sign,
Showing which was yours and mine,
Inside each glove of softest, warmest kid.
Yours said 'Marnie', mine said 'Beau'. Do you remember?
When I wore them as a pair it seemed to me
That you still held my hand,
That, still, everything was planned,
And this was how our lives were going to be.
But everything went wrong last Tuesday evening,
When I saw you out with Peter, looking snug!
You were gazing at his face!
Yes! He was in my place,
And he looked so damned delighted and so smug!
Gloves are useful when one plans to do a throttling!
Detective novels make that very clear.
Finger-prints? Ah, not a chance!
For our symbols of romance
Would prevent that sort of clue! No clues! No fear!
So it's done! My little 'big' romance is over!
But so is yours, my little sweetie-pie!
'One kills the thing one loves',
And my delicate kid gloves,
Were round your neck and made sure you would die!
I dropped them on the floor as I was leaving!
Then I couldn't get back in although I tried!!
Then I gasped at the realisation
Of my terrible situation!
The gloves had 'Beau' and 'Marnie' sewn inside!


A sad clown? Was there ever
A clown as sad as he?
Or was I just impressionable,
As young girls are wont to be?
It was my very first 'foreign film';
To me it was exotic,
The black-and-white of the images
Made it the more hypnotic.
Then there was the music,
And a language quite unknown
And a certain air of decadence
Added a suggestive tone.
Marlene Dietrich's German
Sounded ribald and compelling
And her gaudy giddy life-style
Made the story worth the telling.
But it was the tragic professor
Who caused my flesh to creep.
I could hardly bear to watch him
As he got in far too deep.
And when he finally went mad
When they broke eggs on his head,
And began to crow like a cockeral
I viewed the screen with dread.
Even now I get goose-pimples
Just remembering it all.
How a worthy man became a clown!
How love came before a fall.

The X-Factor


So I wonder what IS Factor X that we hear so much about,
That certain 'something' that a star simply cannot do without?
Is it partly charm? But charm is soft, it creeps into the heart,
It hasn't got that zingy touch singers dramatise and shout.
Is it the same as Clara Bow's old 'IT' of times long past?
She was rather zany, dominating all the cast.
Is it just being different and daring to reveal
Too much of voice, too much of charm? And is it really real?
Is it just a gimmick?  Is it hitting on some ruse
Which will get one in the papers and also on the news?
Or is it that Charisma that undoubtedly exists,
Having nothing at all to do with 'show biz' or those publicists?
Charisma has always existed; every leader in history
Has had that extra something in his personality.
Or is it a case of the Public, being told 'This one has X';
She's got the voice, she's got the style, she clearly oozes sex!',
Saying 'Ah! yes! We see it! So she has! Let's scream and shout!'
Following along like sheep without a single twinge of doubt?
Sometimes 'The X Factor's real for some but not for everybody;
I've witnessed actors full of  'X' who I've found rather shoddy.
'X marks the spot' where 'X' is found but it's all too much for me.
(Now I'm off to watch that gorgeous man just discovered on T.V.!)


Wow! I'm full of envy now! Your partnership's a glory!
Of all the tales in mating's books, yours is the Great Love Story!
Both spontaneous, full of life, bountiful, attractive!
Your sex lives will (how can I say?) be very, very active!
Gemini has a roving eye, but the body follows rarely,
And Gemini knows that Aries will react if used unfairly!
Both of you love adventure. The great wide world awaits!
And best of all, these lovers, can be firm and friendly mates.
You'll both thrive on an argument and love each great conclusion!
Like two bolts of lightning there will always be a fusion!
Intelligent, that's both of you, ingenious as well,
But Gemini's flirtations may involve 'kiss' but not 'tell'.
Aries makes the decisions; Gemini lags behind
But, in the end, it works out well as you will always find.
You're intelligent, and popular; my goodness! You're the works!
But restlessness may haunt you both; dissatisfaction lurks.
You've got it all and yet you yearn for even greener grass.
Hang in there! For those feelings, as the years go by, will pass.
Keep hold of the friendship! That will see you through.
And how the world will envy
The old age of you two!

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Spot the Shop!



I spotted this shop (forgive the pun)
When I was in town one day.
I thought it looked so cheerful
In a happy, childish way.
The other shops that were in the street
Looked drab in the extreme,
While this spotted shop had a sort of charm
With its polka-dotted theme.
I was hoping to pass it another day,
But that was not to be.
The Sydney City Fathers
Decided we should not see
That jolly, extrovert shop-front!
They had to clean-up their act!
At times like these Town Councils
All deserve to be sacked!

(For the Children. It originally had a tune.)

A zebra went out walking and on the road, by chance,
He met his friend Zucchini and he asked her for a dance.
They danced the Zigzag polka from side to side to side,
And they laughed so much they both fell down and cried.
The zebra looked so handsome with zinc upon his nose,
And Zucchini was a lady who was not inclined to doze.
With zest and zeal they hopped around enjoying all the fun
Until they were so dizzy that their zips all came undone!
So, we'll dance the Zigzag polka, we'll dance it while we may.
We'll dance to the Zigzag music till we're crazy!
We'll dance the Zigzag polka, dance it night and day!
But we can't do the Zigzag polka if we're lazy!



(An Acrostic)

Trifles are trivial, trifles are small,
Really, they don't count for much at all!
It's seems that when 'just desserts' are required,
Full of fruit, and with cream inspired,
Laden with alcohol (say sherry),
Everyone gets very merry!


As Shakespeare said, and said quite truly,
Of the handsome and unruly,
'Golden boys and girls all must
As chimney-sweepers, come to dust'.
This handsome creature, Errol Flynn,
Who put the ladies in a spin,
And caused the silver screen to glow,
Was born a century ago!
And so Tasmania celebrated
One of its most admired and feted.
'Mad and Bad' but charming too.
It's sad what the passing years can do!

Monday, December 27, 2010

My Lips Are Sealed!



Well, Little Petal! How are you?
Bet you've heard a thing or two!
Come on! Spill the beans, my dear!
Tell me something I'd like to hear!
It will never be revealed!
I promise you, my lips are sealed!


He was strolling through the desert as intrepid as can be,
When he was attacked by Monoliths as you can plainly see.
They may look rather featureless and harmless from their backs,
But if they turned around I'm sure they'd stop you in your tracks!
Great gaping mouths, and jagged teeth, with lots of fresh  blood dripping.
I tell you, in a horror film you'd find them simply gripping!
But Malcolm is so fearless that he didn't turn a hair
When one of them came up to him he said to it 'Stop there!'
With just one powerful hand he held the ghastly brute at bay,
He stood right in it's shadow and merely shouted 'Stay!'
(He'd tried it out on dogs before so he knew the technique worked!)
The Monolith was so surprised it quivered and it jerked.
So that is how we got away! No Demon could catch us!
We found the other tourists and just got back on the bus!

Found Out!

Fledging Three
Doesn't look like me!
Account for yourself, my lady!
You've failed the test!
 You've fouled the nest!
I find your past is shady!

I trained as a teacher at Brighton Training College, on the South coast of England. Summers were, of course, erratic, but there were days of intense blue heat. At such times we would clamber out of our windows on to the irregularly-shaped roof-tops and sun-bathe leaning up against the lead. This is a poem I wrote sixty years ago when a heat-wave ended as suddenly as it had begun.

The lead is still warm,
Here, between the sloping salty rooves.
The wall, rough as a cat's tongue,
Is gentle to the back as a newly-vacated bed.
Yet the heat-wave has gone.
It burnt itself out like a too-brilliant match,
And the ash is grey,
The grey of the leaden skies above the lead.
Up from the sea came the mist.
There was a hill and a silver spire.
And now there is only a grey net
In which golden gnats are caught and die.
The sky closed-in upon the sun,
Like the shutter of a dusty camera.
And suddenly it was cold.
Yet the lead is still warm.

All Seats on Deck!



How's this for a Travel Agent's?
Don't you, instantly, feel
That holidays are all that counts
And Real Life isn't real?
Don't tell me you're not transported
To an Ocean liner's deck,
Away from the daily humdrum,
Where you always feel a wreck!
Oh yes! You may be waiting
For some considerable while,
Before your turn at the counter,
But you'll just lie back and smile!
You'll hear the wild waves lapping,
You'll hear the seagulls cry,
You'll sip an imaginary cocktail,
And the time will simply fly.
A neat piece of psychology,
Or so it seems to me;
So much better than a sofa!
'Two tickets, please, to the sea!'

Do you recall how you and I
Discussed how it would be to die?
Do you remember how you said
'It will be restful to be dead.
When I reach sixty-four or five
I wont much want to be alive.
I'll realise it's time to go'.
Remember, Jo?
You laughed, quite sure you spoke the truth,
Brimming with certainty and youth;
Life was a thing of verve and zest;
Death just a postscript to the rest.
'It would be mad to linger on,
When it was clear we should be gone.'
At seventeen, as I recall,
We knew it all.
I added my opinion then….
'Who wants to reach three score and ten?
There will be nothing left to see!
I'll have been all I'Il want to be.
I'll feel contented and complete;
Death will be welcome and quite sweet.
Who wants to be wrinkled, old and slow?'
Remember, Jo?
Seventy years on, where are you, Jo,
Now that it's nearly time to go?
Oh, not tomorrow, not next year,
But the future's not in doubt from here.
Are you still sanguine and at peace,
Quite comfortable that life will cease?
Or do you reminisce and fret
And say 'Not yet!'?
There must be times when you declare
'It isn't right! It isn't fair!
There's still so much to do and learn!
It can't be true I've had my turn!
It can't be true there's not much more!'
Are you still wise and brash and sure?
Do you say 'yes' to death or 'no'?
I wonder, Jo.
My rusty lantern, old, unsightly,
Still bears a candle that burns brightly.
The body ages, stoops and fades,
But the mind still sings its serenades.
The passions and the longings last;
The mind still pleads 'Don't go too fast!'
Where did they go, the years between,
Since seventeen?
Had we a choice, which would we choose,
This tiny life we swiftly lose,
Or a vast unending stream of living;
Coming, going, getting, giving?
Would we choose a dandelion puff
And would forever be enough?
So, are you still content to go?
I doubt it, Jo.

Here We Go Again!


The words in blue are from Helen Hunt-Jackson's poem 'New Year's Morning'


Only a night from old to new!
Now we begin again!
One sleep and the subtle magic
Of 'eleven' replacing 'ten'.
It was always so momentous...
New Year when I was young!
 I still recall the frisson
When Auld Lang Syne was sung.
It all felt so historic!
I was living in stirring times!
The year departing enthralled me....
Its triumphs and its crimes.
New Year was something special.
I felt myself reborn;
The whole wide world, along with me,
Transformed by a new dawn.
But I have found, in a lengthy life,
That the old year and the new
Will resemble each other, inasmuch
As we'll all just 'muddle through'.
No doubt there will be achievements;
No doubt there will be much pain;
The weather, politics and wars....
All just 'here we go again!'
New Year Resolutions
Will be broken as soon as made,
We'll stagger on, still imperfect,
As memories of last year fade.
So I just choose to celebrate
Those moments of happiness
Which I know will enrich this New Year
Amid all the muddle and mess!
I hope it wont be hell on earth
And it certainly wont be heaven!
We'll muddle through to twenty-twelve!
Hallo twenty-eleven!

Written when  was fourteen years old!
This-morning rose 11 a.m.,
'Tis late I must agree,
But owing to the fact I saw 
The New Year in, you see.
The day  was fine;
I rushed next-doors
(That's when I'd brushed my hair)
And helped to make mince-pies, tarts, cakes
And trifles creamy fair.
The evening dawned;
I dressed with speed,
Washed arms and legs and face;
I wore my pink frock; round the neck
Are daisies made of lace.
At party had a lovely time;
Some records played by Frank.
The twelve of us, nine girls, three boys,
Year's health in lemon drank.
B.M. not there! We played some games;
It all went with a swing.
We all went home at 12 o'clock
After we'd had a sing.

The Aftermath

supplied the prompt


The pomp and circumstance have gone,
The dignitaries departed,
And we are left just pondering
On the way the evening started.
The titivation of the street,
The carpet, red, unrolling,
The crowds all braying as of one,
The praising and extolling.
The special guests, dressed to the nines,
The primping and the passion,
The tossing back of blonded hair,
The fawning and the fashion!
But now it's dawn, the night has gone,
And we are left to ponder
On trumpets that played not one note
And bounty made to squander!


I love to watch the overflow that streams out of the pool.
To keep the sea enclosed like that seems verging on the cruel!
When gross or giddy people have used it for their pleasure
The freedom of the open sea is something it must treasure.
I almost hear the separate drops saying to each other
'School's out! So come on boys! We're going home to Mother!'

The Blueness of Blue



Midnight Blue darkness.
Breast, beak, claws floodlit.
And then a song! Maybe the Blues!



I remember, I remember how, many years ago,
Men were allowed to whistle, instead of saying 'Hallo'.
I was far from glamorous so it didn't happen much,
But I enjoyed being whistled at by labourers and such!
I didn't find it demeaning, in fact I felt quite pleased.
I felt it was just another way of being, sort of, teased.
No harm ever came of it as far as I could see
And I'd continue on my way as happy as could be!
I suppose for the really glamorous it got to be a pain,
But I always had to wait a while before it happened again!
Now why was the Whistle called a Wolf's, that's had my consideration.
Wolves never whistle, do they? So why that appellation?
Well, we've got to go back a bit, to a time of inequality,
When bedding the nearest female was the cause of some friviloty!
'The Day of the Wolf' was a festival that was held in Ancient Rome,
Where Romulus and Remus, the twin boys, made their home.
They had been nurtured by a wolf, or so the story went,
And so a celebration was the obvious intent.
The Latin name for 'wolf' is 'lupus', as I'm sure you knew,
So choosing a name to echo it was the obvious thing to do.
On the day of the Lupercalia, later called Valentine's Day,
The Priests would smear themselves with blood, a goat's blood, so they say.
The Februa, the womenfolk, would sit round on the hill,
And the Priests would take strips of goatskin and hit them with a will!
All the blood-smeared 'ladies' who 'enjoyed' these fun and games,
Would then be taken to a box, in which they placed their names.
Then, the so-called 'gentlemen' would have a lucky dip!
And, to put it mildly, the whole lot would 'let rip'!
Nor did the 'jolly hockeysticks' last for a day, no fear!
The poor benighted ladies were shacked-up for a year!
Maybe some enjoyed it but I'm glad I wasn't there!
There are many casual gentlemen for whom I would not care!
So that's how the name of 'Wolf' came down to all predatory men.
Let's hope that we don't all regress to Roman times again!
I'm sure, of the two eras, I'm happier with mine.
Maybe it was that behaviour that sent Rome into 'decline'!
The whistle? Well that started in 1952.
It was just a variation on the vocal sound 'Whoo-hoo'!
And now they've gone and banned it! Something I used to treasure!
Young girls walking the streets today are missing-out on pleasure!

Sunday, December 26, 2010

Accidental Grace

(A comment  on 'Aftermath' in 160 characters)


The enormity created elegance
The bare bones back-lit
Brought grace to the aftermath.
And so we see the monument
Rising of its own volition.


Your body may be sick;
It is treated.
Your mind may be sick;
It is treated.
There is no differentiation.
Pills, injections,
Above all there is sympathy.
But go back two hundred years
To a Mental Asylum
In New South Wales.
These steps,
This door
Would have struck terror to your very soul.
Maybe you awoke
In a grey mist of uncertainty.
Who am I?
Where am I?
Maybe I am not here at all!
Maybe someone asked you something.
Maybe someone brushed up against you.
Maybe someone looked at you in a strange way.
Maybe you were made to eat unpleasant food.
For whatever reason
You cracked!
The whole world exploded
In a bewildering array
Of flashes,
Sensations you could not describe.
To escape, you flailed your arms,
Yelled abuse.
The well-meaning attendants were powerless
Against your devilish strength!
Several of them pinioned your arms,
Tied you in a straight-jacket,
Frog-marched you to the steps,
To The Door.
And locked you in.
There, in the dark
You suffered alone.
Until reason prevailed.
Or until you died.
Be thankful.

Shady Corner



My son has a house full of quirk,
Unexpected, yet all seems to work.
Doors lead where we never expect,
And nothing is straight-line direct.
Interleadings surprise at each turn
And the layout is tricky to learn!
A bedroom's beyond this glassed door,
Yet we stand on the sunroom's paved floor!
One step, and, should Greg have the urge,
He can wake, and, still yawning, emerge
To enjoy the first rays of the sun
And drink coffee! The day has begun!
Except he has two little boys
Who wake-up with a great deal of noise
And make a considerable mark
On his life while, as yet, it is dark!
Still, in time, they'll be teenagers! Then,
In no time at all, they'll be men.
When life is no longer so taxing,
He'll emerge and enjoy his relaxing.

ON-LINE 1930

It's a glamorous job, no doubt,
Using all this modern technology.
And females do it! My word!
It goes against their biology!
They speak in dulcet tones;
Their plugs are deftly wielded;
And awkward questions at times,
Are equally deftly fielded.
Not a hair is out of place,
And no-one thinks of chatting.
It's better than sitting at home,
Learning to cook, or tatting.
They feel the commercial world
Is there at their finger-tips.
But, darlings, can't you see,
It's not doing a thing for your hips!


                         Marmalade Rose


We all know what it feels like, dear! That feeling of restriction;
Whenever a straining waistband tells a tale of food addiction!
All that food on Christmas day has just by-passed my lips
And moved on down my body taking up residence on my hips!
I see you trying bravely to push-through your shaggy torso;
That's how I feel when I get dressed except that .....'s more so!
You have three helpers standing by to help you on your way;
Maybe help is what I need at the dawning of each day!
Would any of you volunteer to drag and push and squeeze?
On one thing, though, I must insist!
Keep your eyes closed........PLEASE!


(To the melody of 'Thank Heaven for Little Girls.')
Thank Heaven for little boys!
They grow up in a disappointing way.
Thank Heaven for little boys!
They turn out to be wrinkled old and grey.
Their eyes of baby blue were so disarming,
But now they're kind of pink instead and not so charming.
Thank Heaven for little boys!
Though their physique has gone to pot,
And though their blood's no longer hot,
Without them what would little girls do?
Thank Heaven for little boys!
They have a bit of trouble with their knees!
Thank Heaven for little boys!
Their heavy breathing comes out as a wheeze!
Their hair was once so curly and seductive,
But when you stroke a balding bloke it's unproductive!
Thank heaven for little boys!
Though their passion, you will find,
Is often only in their mind,
Without them what would little girls do?
Thank Heaven for little boys!
They haven't aged as well as vintage wine!
Thank Heaven for little boys!
Are these the boys that said we were divine?
Their teeth once flashed the way to mad adventures,
But now they lack a certain knack without their dentures!
Thank heaven for little boys!
As the years pass, it appears,
They grow long whiskers in their ears!
But without them what would little girls do?
Thank heaven for little boys!
How fortunate that we've not changed a bit!
Thank heaven for little boys!
We're still so slender, beautiful and fit.
We have no need of hair-dye or of make-up:
We look so absolutely perfect when we wake up.
Thank heaven for little boys!
Yes, all of us agree
That we still love your company,
For, without you, what would little girls do?

Saturday, December 25, 2010

Manifestos Made Manifest


I went looking for manifestos;
I'd never done it before.
In fact, of the exact meaning,
I wasn't even sure.
And I found the above example,
Which quickly caught my eye
Because it echoes the thoughts of a friend;
It is her battle-cry!
She'll know who she is when she reads this
And I hope that she approves!
I imagine it it really fitting the bill
In the circles in which she moves!
The word derives from the Latin;
'Manifestum' it began....
A 'clear and conspicuous statement'
Of a creed, an aim, a plan.
Then it became Italian,
As 'manifesto', which we use.
The word has an important ring,
So it's a word politicians use.
Now comes a  smart manifesto.
It's not political at all,
But, to someone who is 'seeking',
It's quite a clarion call!
Now, the best Manifesto
You're ever likely to see!
I'm not too certain what it means
But it really appeals to me!

When first I saw this picture I took it to be antique.
One quick glance made me think of an Old Master.
The hood? Surely a monk's! The crumbling 'Florentine' bricks!
The sense of ancient walls and crumbling plaster.
Then I saw the plastic bags, the modernity, though shabby!
This is no statue formed in alabaster!
I saw some modern agony, not picturesque at all.
Just a very humble intimate disaster.

Best Wishes


Not my home, I'm sorry to say,
But a house I visit frequently.
It typifies, in a certain way
What's special about our geography.
I send this to you on Christmas Day
And the very best wishes come from me.

Brolgas dancing.

by John Wheeler.

This is a very popular Australian Christmas carol with a lovely melody.
'Orana' is 'Welcome' in one of the Aboriginal languages.

Out on the plains the brolgas are dancing,
Lifting their feet like war horses prancing,
Up to the sun the woodlarks go winging,
Faint in the dawn light echoes their singing,
Orana! Orana!Orana! To Christmas Day.

Down where the tree-ferns grow by the river,
There where the waters sparkle and quiver,
Deep in the gullies Bell-birds are chiming,
Softly and sweetly their lyric notes rhyming
Orana! Orana!Orana! To Christmas Day.

Friar-birds sip the nectar of flowers,
Currawongs chant in wattle-tree bowers,
In the blue ranges Lorikeets calling,
Carols of bushlands rising and falling,
Orana! Orana!Orana! To Christmas Day.

Friday, December 24, 2010

Controversy Indeed!

Alberta's as remote from me as I'm remote from it! 
And the state of its education doesn't worry me a bit!
I've enough worries here in Oz to occupy my mind!
And what's the betting the worries 'there' are of a similar kind?
Life's full of controversy, whatever the hemisphere!
Alberta has day-care problems? Guess what we have here!
One problem that I've heard-of is the very poor state of pay
Of the tireless day-care workers who manage the kids all day!
(No! Don't write and elucidate! I'll take it all as read!)
I'll tell you my reason for writing this commentary instead.
Why are the children upside-down? Poor old, cold Alberta!
Are the children treated with an orientation converter?
I have a theory.... I think they're floating upside-down because
They're passing some sort of test to prove they could live in the land of Oz!
For, in Australia, as you know, we all live like that!
Where Albertians wear their shoes we tend to wear a hat!
No wonder it's controversial! I must read and discover
If the contents of the book live up to its quirky cover!


(An Acrostic)

'Put your hands together'
Religious people say.
'Ask for anything you want;
Your God will find a way.
Everything is in his hands.
Relax! He will take care.
Every Believer understands
God is everywhere.'