OTHER PEOPLES POETRY - the stuff I consider is good - has
always  drawn me - especially when its as good as some of
the following:

    The farmer - poet ode (Graffiti variation). I dont know how other
       people feel but I see some clever graffiti around and think to
       myself how unfortunate the writer saw fit to put it in the format
       they did. With little extra effort from their talents they could
       have made it "consumable" for all to enjoy. This is  one of "those
       poems" that was not so bad that I felt guilty including it:

             *   The farmer poet when he dies
                 Will find erected in the skies
                 A fitting tribute to his wit
                 A monument of solid shit


  This one is my wording but NOT THE CONCEPT.

          I recall reading a poem years ago and thinking what a great
          composition - even though it didn't flow too well.

          I believe poetry should 1 - rhyme and 2 - flow smoothly.
          I dont see it as poetry otherwise, whatever some may claim.
          So I made this poem below follow that simple criteria as much
          as I could, in the process changing the construction slightly.

          I would never do this to another named persons work here the
          author is not known and very likely its been hacked around

          I edited this approximately 25 years ago (1974):

                *      TOO OLD TO REMEMBER

                   Just a note to say I miss you
                   And I wish that you were here
                   But I'm getting real forgetful
                   Tell me - where am I my dear

                   Sometimes I can't remember
                   When I stand upon the stair
                   Am I going up for something
                   Or coming down from there

                   Standing at the frig sometime
                   My mind is filled with doubt
                   Have I just put something in it
                   Or taken something out

                   Some nights when its a full moon
                   With my nightcap on my head
                   Am I planning to retire
                   Or did I just get out of bed.

                   The telephone confuses me
                   Its happening more and more
                   The ringing just continuous
                   But there's no one at the door

                   I've accepted my arthritis
                   To my dentures I'm resigned
                   I'm  used to my bifocals
                   But God I miss my mind

                   Well I must stop writing now
                   Cause mail time's nearly here
                   I've got to post this letter
                   So I'll say goodbye my dear

                   I'm standing at the mailbox
                   And my face is really red
                   I haven't mailed this letter
                   I've  opened it instead

     Somewhere in my corridor (of life) this popped up. Maybe 20 years
      ago and (just decipherable) with the name Kenneth Boulding at
      the bottom of the sheet. I hacked it quite a bit to improve it !!!!!!!!
      The sort of stuff found around ANY university I imagine - and as I
       like clever poetry - here it is, (2 part):

             The Conservationists Lament
            Our planets growth is in reverse
            Things are bad and will be worse
            Coal is burned and gas exploded
            Forests cut and soils eroded
            Wells are dry and air's polluted
            Dust is blowing, trees uprooted
            Oil is fading, ores depleted
            Temperatures are overheated
            Land is sinking seas are rising
            Man is far too enterprising
            People breed like fertile rabbits
            Knowing they must change their habits
            But there's little done to ban it
            Soon we'll have a plundered planet

                     Pity the evolutionary plan
                     It went astray creating man

    and....               The Technologists Reply

            Mans potential is terrific
            You cant go back to Neolithic
            Things are really not that grim
            The cream is here for us to skim
            Every mouth has hands to feed it
            Food is found when people need it
            Progress comes you cant just ban it
            All we need is on this planet
            Yeast and algae give us meat
            Our soil is almost obsolete
            Technology will find the ways
            Man can tame all he surveys

                     Man's a nuisance, mans a crackpot
                     But only man can hit the jackpot


In 1969 my first daughter Raeleen was born. 19+ years later
in 1989 we lost her to a lung infection and many everyday
things happen that remind me of her. Maybe a twenty year
"habit" that you never recovered from is with you the rest
of your life, especially when you didn't "break the habit"

I'll never accept the loss of that Raeleen "habit"

This poem deserves its place here on merit and the fact
it hit "that" spot with me.

On Loan from God
"I'll lend you for a little while,
A child of mine" God said,
"For you to love while she's with you,
And mourn for when she's dead.

It may be five or fifty years,
Or only two or three,
But will you, till I call her back,
Take care of her for me?

She'll bring her charms to gladden you,
And should her stay be brief,
You'll have such lovely memories
As solace for your grief.

I cannot promise she will stay,
Since all from earth return,
But there are lessons taught down there
I want this child to learn.

I've looked the wide world over
In my search for teacher's true,
And from the throngs that crowd life's lanes,
I have selected you.

Now will you give her all your love?
Not think the labor vain
Or hate me when I come to call,
To take her back again?"

To God we only could reply,
"Dear Lord, thy will be done.
For all the joy the child shall bring,
The risk of grief we'll run.

We'll shelter her with tenderness,
We'll love her while we may,
And for the happiness we'll know
So grateful we will stay.

And should the angels call for her,
Much sooner than is planned,
We'll face the bitter grief that comes,
And try to understand."

        by Edgar A. Guest ..... thankyou)

This is so true it should frighten the egotist........


                  Sometime when you're feeling important
                  Anytime that your ego's in bloom
                  Sometime when you take it for granted
                  You're the best qualified in the room

                  Sometime when you feel that your going
                  Would leave an unfillable hole
                  Just follow this simple direction
                  And see how it humbles your soul

                  Take a bucket and fill it with water
                  Put your hand in it up to your wrist
                  Pull it out and the hole that's remaining
                  Is the measure of how you'll be missed

                  You may splash all you please as you enter
                  You can stir up the water galore
                  But stop and you'll find in a minute
                  That it looks quite the same as before

                  The moral of this quaint example
                  Is just do the best that you can
                  Be proud of yourself but remember
                  There's no indispensable man

                           by Saxon White Kessinger 
                ....so true (and so neatly written)

Am Aussie poet, with great humour and understanding of her subject.

                     The Dunny Out the Back

They were funny looking buildings, that were once a way of life,
If you couldn't sprint the distance, then you really were in strife. 
They were nailed, they were wired, but were mostly falling down,
There was one in every yard, in every house, in every town. 

They were given many names, some were even funny,
But to most of us, we knew them as the outhouse or the dunny. 
I've seen some of them all gussied up, with painted doors and all, 
But it really made no difference, they were just a port of call. 

Now my old man would take a bet, he'd lay an even pound, 
That you wouldn't make the dunny with them turkeys hangin' round. 
They had so many uses, these buildings out the back," 
You could even hide from mother, so you wouldn't get the strap. 

That's why we had good cricketers, never mind the bumps, 
We used the pathway for the wicket and the dunny door for stumps. 
Now my old man would sit for hours, the smell would rot your socks, 
He read the daily back to front in that good old thunderbox. 

And if by chance that nature called sometime through the night, 
You always sent the dog in first, for there was no flamin' light. 
And the dunny seemed to be the place where crawlies liked to hide, 
But never ever showed themselves until you sat inside.

There was no such thing as Sorbent, no tissues there at all, 
Just squares of well read newspaper... a hangin' on the wall. 
If you had some friendly neighbours, as neighbours sometimes are, 
You could often sit and chat to them, if you left the door ajar..

When suddenly you got the urge, and down the track you fled, 
Then of course the magpies were there to peck you on your head. 
Then the time there was a wet, the rain it never stopped, 
If you had an urgent call, you ran between the drops.
The dunny man came once a week, to these buildings out the back, 
And he would leave an extra can, if you left for him a zac. 
For those of you who've no idea what I mean by a zac, 
Then you're too young to have ever had, a dunny out the back. 

                                           by Judy Jenkinson

    If you can forget the (shock - horror) cries of racism welling up in
      your purist throats for a second, you'll probably enjoy this clever
      little poem that was handed to me in the late sixties (along with
      stacks of other rubbish).  If you're well under the spell of the
      "mind police" then stop now.
     (author unknown)

                     In Vietnam things not OK
                     Think to self "must get away"
                     So jump on boat and come to Aussie
                     Ah so, this is lovely pozzie

                     Go quick smart to Welfare fella
                     He hand me money, I give bank teller
                     Welfare say "Come here no more"
                     "We send you cheque, right to door"

                     Six months on dole - no longer poor
                     Drive around in Commodore
                     Write to friends in Vietnam
                     Tell them "Come - quick as can"

                     Still on welfare (and have a job)
                     So go get loan from finance mob
                     Get pretty smart - know what to do
                     Buy big house in Kenmore too

                     Soon friends write "On the way"
                     Can I find them place to stay
                     When they come - with beds I fix
                     In just four months - get twenty six

                     Soon am banking plenty rent
                     Some in backyard - some in tent
                     All are drawing social money
                     All think government bloody funny

                     With all my friends I have no care
                     Next door neighbour start to swear
                     Tell me he must move away
                     I buy cheap house - with cash I pay

                     Now everything is going good
                     Soon I own whole neighbourhood
                     Open fish shop next to Coles
                     Make big money - sell spring rolls

                     Get real fat from eating nice
                     Sure as hell beats bloody rice
                     Still on welfare - still get rents
                     Think I buy Mercedes Benz

                     Very happy - real good life
                     Bring out girl and make her wife
                     Take up hobby - call it breeding
                     Baby bonus pay for feeding

                     Kids need dentist - wife need pills
                     We get for free - we pay no bills
                     Aussie good - he pay all year
                     He keep the welfare coming here

                     We thank Australians - damn good place
                     Too damn good for Aussie race
                     So if you no like yellow man
                     SOON PLENTY ROOM - IN VIETNAM !!

                       Author unknown


I downloaded this poem from the internet and "reworked' it
 I was taken by the structure and the obvious sentiment it conveys
(? to me anyway).        Author unknown

               Red Roses

Red roses were her favorites - her name was also Rose.
And every year her husband gave them tied with silken bows
The year he died they came still,  delivered to her door,
The card said "Be my Valentine" - like all those years before.
For years he'd sent her roses, and the note would always say,
"I love you even more this year, than last year on this day.
My love for you will always grow, with every passing year."
She knew this was the last time that the roses would appear.
She guessed when he had ordered roses well before this day.
Her loving husband did not know, that he would pass away.
He always liked to do things early, way before the time.
Then if he got too busy, everything would work out fine.
She trimmed the stems, and placed them in a very special place.
In a crystal vase beside the portrait of his smiling face.
Then she sat for hours, in her husband's favorite chair.
Just staring at his picture, and the roses that were there .
A year went by, and it was hard to live without her mate.
With loneliness and solitude, that seemed to be her fate.
Then at the very hour, as on Valentines before,
The doorbell rang - and there were roses, sitting by her door.
She brought the roses in, and then just looked at them in shock.
Then, went to dial the telephone, to call the florist shop.
The owner answered, and she asked him, if he could explain,
Why anyone could do this to her, causing her such pain?
"I know your husband passed away, and more than a year ago,"
The owner said, "I knew you'd call, and you would want to know.
The flowers you received today, were paid for in advance.
Your husband always planned ahead, he never left to chance.
There is a standing order, that I have on file down here,
And he has paid, well in advance, you'll get them every year.
There also was another thing - he wanted you to know
He wrote that card you got today, he did it years ago.
That if I ever found out that he'd gone and wasn't here,
You'd have the card he wanted sent, to you the following year".
She thanked him, as she hung the phone her tears now flowing hard
Her fingers trembled, shaking as she reached to get the card.

Inside the card, she saw that he had written her a note.
And she could only stare in shock, for this is what he wrote..........

"Hello my love, I know it's been a year since I've been gone,
I hope it hasn't been too hard for you to overcome.
I know it must be lonely, and the pain is very real.
For if it was the other way, I know how I would feel.
The love we shared made everything so beautiful in life.
I loved you more than words can say, you were the perfect wife.
You were my friend and lover - and you filled my every need.
I know it's only been a year, but please try not to grieve.
I want you to be happy, even when you shed your tears.
That is why the roses will be sent to you for years.
When you get these roses, think of all the happiness,
That we both had together - and how we both were blessed.
You know I always loved you - and you know I always will.
But, my love, you must go on, you have some living still.
Try to find some happiness, while living out your days.
I know it wont be easy, but I hope you find some ways.
The roses will come every year, and they will only stop,
When you dont come to your door,  as the florist stops to knock.
He will come five times that day, in case you have gone out.
But after his last visit, he will know without a doubt.............
To take the roses to my grave, as I've instructed plain,
And place the roses where we are,  together once again.

                                   By: James A. Kisner

(It really hits the melancholy nerve)

I had to edit this pretty heavily and apologise to anyone still
offended.  The concept is good - and what would anything
be in value if the male/female rivalry wasn't catered to.


     I'm Glad I'm A Man
I'm glad I'm a man, you better believe.
I don't live off of yogurt, diet coke, or cottage cheese
I don't bitch to my girlfriends about the size of my breasts
I can get where I want to - north, south, east or west
I don't get wasted after only 2 beers
And when I do drink I don't end up in tears.
I won't spend hours deciding what to wear,
I spend 5 minutes max fixing my hair
And I don't go around checking my reflection
In everything shiny from every direction.
I don't whine in public and make us leave early
And when you ask why get all bitter and surly.
I'm glad I'm a man, I'm so glad I could sing
I don't have to sit around waiting for that ring.
I don't gossip about friends or stab them in the back
I don't carry our differences into the sack.
I'll never go psycho and threaten to kill you
Or think every guy out there's trying to steal you.
I'm rational, reasonable, and logical too
I know what the time is and I know what to do.
And I honestly think its a privilege for me
To stand up relaxed when I want to  pee
I live to watch sports and play all sorts of ball
It's more fun than dealing with women after all
I won't cry if you figure out it's not going to work
I won't remain bitter and call you a jerk.
Feel free to use me for immediate pleasure
I won't assume it's permanent by any measure.
Yes, I'm glad I'm a man, a man you see
I'm glad I'm not capable of child delivery
I don't get all bitchy every 28 days
I'm glad that my gender gets me a much bigger raise
I'm a man by chance and I'm thankful it's true
I'm so glad I'm a man and not a woman like you!


(yep - there's a reply!)

    I'm Glad I'm A Woman
I'm glad I'm a woman, yes I am, yes I am
I don't live off of Budweiser, beer nuts and Spam
I don't brag to my buddies about my erections
I won't drive to Hell before I ask for directions
I don't get wasted at parties and act like a clown
And I know how to put the damned toilet seat down!
I won't grab your hooters, I won't pinch your butt
My belt buckle's not hidden beneath my beer gut
And I don't go around "readjusting" my crotch
Or yell like Tarzan after downing a scotch
I don't belch in public, I don't scratch my behind
I'm a woman you see -- I'm just not that kind!
I'm glad I'm a woman, I'm so glad I could sing
I don't have body hair like shag carpeting
It doesn't grow from my ears or cover my back
When I lean over you can't see 3 inches of crack
And what's on my head doesn't leave with my comb
I'll never buy a toupee to cover my dome
Or have a few hairs pulled from over the side
I'm a woman, you know -- I've got far too much pride!
And I honestly think its a privilege for me
To have these two boobs and squat when I pee
I don't live to play golf and shoot basketball
I don't swagger and spit like a Neanderthal
I won't tell you my wife just does not understand
Stick my hand in my pocket to hide that gold band
Or tell you a story to make you sigh and weep
Then screw you, roll over and fall sound asleep!
Yes, I'm glad I'm a woman, a woman you see
You can forget all about muscle strutting from me
I don't long for male bonding, I don't cruise for a chick
Join the Hair Club For Men, or think with my dick
I'm a woman by chance and I'm thankful it's true
I'm so glad I'm a woman and not a man like you!

           (anyone know the author/s?)

Thought this one was good ....... you?


One fine day in the middle of the night,
Two dead boys got up to fight,
Back to back they faced each other,
Drew their swords and shot each other,
One was blind and the other couldn't, see
So they chose a dummy for a referee.
A blind man went to see fair play,
A dumb man went to shout "hooray!"
A paralysed donkey passing by,
Kicked the blind man in the eye,
Knocked him through a nine inch wall,
Into a dry ditch and drowned them all,
A deaf policeman heard the noise,
He came and killed the two dead boys,
If you don't believe this story’s true,
Ask the blind man he saw it too!

 * Another of similar vein from the early 1900's

Ladies and gentlemen, hoboes and tramps,
Cross-eyed mosquitoes and bow-legged ants,
I come before you to stand behind you,
To tell you something I know nothing about.
Next Thursday, which is Good Friday,
There will be a Mother's Day meeting for fathers only;
Admission is free, so pay at the door,
Pull up a seat and sit on the floor.
The topic to discuss...
The crime that has never been committed.

               Author unknown? 


Many many years ago when I was twenty three,
I got married to a widow who was pretty as could be.
She had a grown-up daughter whose hair was fiery red
My father fell in love with her, and soon the two were wed.

This made my dad my son-in-law and changed my very life.
My daughter was my mother, for she was my father's wife.
To complicate the matters worse, although it brought me joy,
I soon became the father of a bouncing baby boy.

My little baby then became a brother-in-law to dad.
And so became my uncle, though it made me very sad.
For if he was my uncle, then that also made him brother
To my wife's grown-up daughter who, was also my step-mother.

Father's wife then had a son, who kept them on the run.
And he became my grandson, for he was my daughter's son.
My wife is now my mum's mother and it makes me sad and blue.
Because, although she is my wife, she's my grandmother too.

If my wife is my grandmother, then I must be her grandchild.
And every time I think of it, it simply drives me wild.
For now I have become what is, the strangest case so far.
As the husband of my grandmother, I'm now my own grandpa!

  (Very clever stuff - attributed to Guy Lombardo(?)
       musician/writer of the 30's 40's and 50's)

During the second world war this was very well known to the
adult generation of the time.  If you happen to know the tune
"My bonnie lies over the ocean" then you can use these rather
clever words to it.  I have carried this composition with me
for around 45 years now and it was officially known as ......

               "Shares in the Very Best Companies"

I've shares in the very best companies
In tramways, tobacco and tin
In brothels in Rio De Janero
My God how the money rolls in

       Rolls in, rolls in, my God how the money rolls in, rolls in,
       Rolls in, rolls in, my God how the money rolls in.

My father sent field guns to Franko
My brother raised loans for Berlin
My uncle sold "pig iron" to Tojo
To make sure the money rolls in

       Rolls in, rolls in, my God...........

With wealth in the big German steelworks
No wonder I helped Hitler win
For when he suppressed the trade unions
My God how the money rolled in

       Rolls in, rolls in, my God...........

My cousin's a starting price bookie
My mother sells synthetic gin
My sister sells sin to the sailors
My God how the money rolls in

       Rolls in, rolls in, my God...........

I've very quickly (#minutes) "updated it for those who are not
"dated" enough to fully appreciate what it tries to convey......

I've shares in the very best nationals
In banks and computers thrown in
In brothels in Rio Janero
My God how the money rolls in

       Rolls in, rolls in, my God how the money rolls in, rolls in,
       Rolls in, rolls in, my God how the money rolls in.

My father sent field guns China
My brother raised loans for a crim
My uncle sold bombs on to Saddam
To make sure the money rolls in

       Rolls in, rolls in, my God...........

There's wealth in the Yankee elections
That's why I helped Bill Clinton win
And when he suppressed big mouthed women
My God how the money rolled in

       Rolls in, rolls in, my God...........

My cousin's got "crops" in the forest
My mother sells synthetic gin
My sister sells sin to the sailors
My God how the money rolls in

       Rolls in, rolls in, my God...........

                 (hope that helped any younger reader)


                A lady with manner superior
                Sought divorce from her hubby inferior.
                And her grounds were that once,
                She had called him a  "Dunce!"
                And he'd booted her in the posterior!"
                                       author (?)

This clever little poem inspired me so much I included it here.
As with so many poems around these days, the writer has made
him/herself anonymous or has sadly been forgotten.

This is one of those little "feelgood" poems there are too
few of...........I've called it "Discovery", because it's
something we should all "find" benefit from.


			Today I smiled and suddenly
			Things didn't seem so bad
			Today I shared with someone else
			The dreams of hope I had
			Today I sang a happy song
			And felt my heart grow light
			I walked a joyful little mile
			With not a cloud in sight
			Today I worked with what I had
			And longed for nothing more
			And what before I saw as weeds
			Were flowers at my door
			Today I loved a little more
			Complained a little less
			And in the giving of myself
			Forgot my weariness

                                 Author - Arielle Perkins


This one has an author quoted..... I like it.

The Hunter.................
  I have fought against the poodle with his gory, deadly paws;
  I have faced the fearsome kitten, wild and bony,
  And somehow I've evaded the enormous chomping jaws
  Of the frighteningly ferocious Shetland pony.
  My triumph o'er the rabbit is now sung throughout the land,
  And men still speak in whispers of the day
  When, attacked by twelve mosquitoes, with my one unwounded hand,
  I killed nine of them and drove the rest away.
  I have faced the housefly in his lair, I have stalked the ladybug
  And the caterpillar, grim and fierce and hairy;
  That trophy there is bumblebee, and this, my favourite rug,
  Has been fashioned from the hide of a canary.
  I have dived into the ocean to do combat with a shrimp,
  I have dared the hen to come on out and fight;
  I have battled with the butterfly (that's why I have this limp),
  And I slew a monstrous grubworm just last night.
  But this evening I must sally forth to meet the savage moth,
  And if I don't come back in time for tea,
  You shall know that I fell gallantly, as gallantly I fought
  So please be gentle when you speak of me.

        (Sheldon Allan Silverstein - legendary stuff)


Nice little poem with plenty of heart tugs. Written with complete
disregard for poetic assembly yet the author gets great flow on.
Have you ever watched kids
On a merry-go-round?
Or listened to the rain
Slapping on the ground?
Ever followed a butterfly's erratic flight?
Or gazed at the sun into the fading night?
You better slow down.
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.

Do you run through each day
On the fly?
When you ask "How are you?"
Do you hear the reply?
When the day is done
Do you lie in your bed
With the next hundred chores
Running through your head?
You'd better slow down
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.

Ever told your child,
We'll do it tomorrow?
And in your haste,
Not see his sorrow?
Ever lost touch,
Let a good friendship die
Cause you never had time
To call and say "Hi"?
You'd better slow down.
Don't dance so fast.
Time is short.
The music won't last.

When you run fast
To get somewhere
You miss half the fun
Of getting there.
When you worry
And hurry through your day,
It is like an unopened gift
Thrown away.
Life is not a race.
Do take it slower
Hear the music
Before the song is over.

     Author  David L Weathorford


This illustrates the confusing spelling/pronunciation 
we encounter in our English language. Nicely done too...
(I included this in the language section as well)

I take it you already know
Of tough and bough and cough and dough.
Others may stumble, but not you,
On hiccough, thorough, slough and through.
Well done! And now you wish, perhaps,
To learn of less familiar traps?
Beware of heard, a dreadful word
That looks like beard and sounds like bird.
And dead: it’s said like bed, not bead;
For goodness’ sake, don’t call it deed!
Watch out for meat and great and threat.
They rhyme with suite and straight and debt.
A moth is not a moth as in mother,
Nor both in bother, broth in brother
And here is not a match for there, 
Nor dear and fear for bear and pear, 
And then there's doze and rose and lose-
Just look them up- and goose and choose, 
And cork and work and card and ward 
And font and front and word and sword, 
And do and go and thwart and cart- 
Come, I've hardly made a start!
A dreadful language? Man alive! 
I'd learned to speak it when I was five! 
And yet to write it, the more I sigh, 
I'll not learn how 'til the day I die.

               Author - Richard Krogh (?)

AND IN SIMILAR VEIN..... ( a string of similar...)


We must polish the Polish furniture.
He could lead if he would get the lead out.
The farm was used to produce produce.
The dump was so full that it had to refuse more refuse.
The soldier decided to desert in the desert.
This was a good time to present the present.
A bass was painted on the head of the bass drum.
When shot at, the dove dove into the bushes.
I did not object to the object.
The insurance was invalid for the invalid.
The bandage was wound around the wound.
There was a row among the oarsmen about how to row.
They were too close to the door to close it.
The buck does funny things when the does are present.
They sent a sewer down to stitch the tear in the sewer line.
To help with planting, the farmer taught his sow to sow.
The wind was too strong to wind the sail.
After a number of injections my jaw got number.
Upon seeing the tear in my clothes I shed a tear.
I had to subject the subject to a series of tests.
How can I intimate this to my most intimate friend?
I read it once and will read it again
I learned much from this learned treatise.
I was content to note the content of the message.
The Blessed Virgin blessed her. Blessed her richly.
It's a bit wicked to over-trim a short wicked candle.
If he will absent himself we mark him absent.
I incline toward bypassing the incline.

                        Author unknown (?)     



I have a spelling checker,
It came with my Pee See.
It plane lee marks four my revue
Miss steaks aye can knot sea.

Eye ran this poem threw it,
Your sure reel glad two no.
Its vary polished in it's weigh.
My checker tolled me sew.

A checker is a bless sing,
It freeze yew lodes of thyme.
It helps me right awl stiles two reed,
And aides me when eye rime.

Each frays come posed up on my screen
Eye trussed too bee a joule.
The checker pours o'er every word
To cheque sum spelling rule.

Bee fore a veiling checker's
Hour spelling mite decline,
And if we're lacks oar have a laps, 
We wood bee maid too wine.

Butt now bee cause my spelling
Is checked with such grate flare,
Their are know fault's with in my cite,
Of nun eye am a wear.

Now spelling does knot phase me,
It does knot bring a tier.
My pay purrs awl due glad den
With wrapped word's fare as hear.

To rite with care is quite a feet
Of witch won should bee proud,
And wee mussed dew the best wee can,
Sew flaw's are knot aloud.

Sow ewe can sea why aye dew prays
Such soft wear four pea seas,
And why eye brake in two averse
Buy righting want too pleas.

         Author - Jerrold H. Zar.


    Under the SPELL of English
Would you like to be Carnegie's heir,
With never a worry or ceir?
That most of us would is well understould.
One who would not would surely be reir.

When one makes a hole in eight
It's a very sad story to releight
Bad work with the putter and he will mutter
"I'll correct that at some leighter deight."

Once there was an infantry colonel
Who fought where the blitz was infolonel
Want to know the result? You'd better consult
The obituary writ in the Jolonel.

The groom advanced down the aisle
With a smaisle he thought to begaisle
The crowd into thinking he wasn't shrinking
But was scared to death all the whaisle.

A poem is writ word by word;
May be lofty, or may be absord,
May picture the sea, or a bord wild and frea,
Or tell of hope long deford.	
If a fellow is a regular guy
He'll aim for marks way up huy
He'll push to the top of the hill, witha will
Never pausing to loiter or suy.

Kayak and Seabiscuit raced
They were urged to move and make haced
But for humans to hurry, speed up or, worry
Would be breaking the rules of good taced,

What causes a horsie to neigh,
And what causes a donkey to breigh?
Is it because of their diet they shatter our quiet
Or for pride in their vocal displeigh?

To fly a plane over the ocean
Is possibly not a bad nocean.
Such a perilous flight will turn out all right
If you are able to keep up the mocean.

Look back at the deeds you have done,
Tale stock of your griefs and your fone.
Can you really feel pride and frankly decide
You approve of the race you have rone?

                   Author - by Arthur Bennett


Anything (within reason) that's clever and funny is OK to me:

              There once was a bloke named Garuda
              Who wooed a nude prude in Bermuda
              She said "I'm too shrewd to be wooed in the nude"
              But Garuda was shrewder and screwed her.


This pretty little poem deserves its place here and anywhere
 else appreciation for good feelings exists.

Thankyou for sending it Wendy ....... {(*)=this line I edited}

 I am a tiny angel
 Much smaller than your thumb:       (*)
 I live in people pockets
 And my life's a lot of fun.         (*)

 I don't suppose you've seen me,
 I'm too tiny to detect:
 Although I'm with you all the time, (*)
 I doubt we've ever met.

 Before I was an Angel...
 And a fairy in a flower,           (*)
 God Himself, hand-picked me,
 Then gave me Angel power.          (*)

 Now God has many Angels
 That He trains in Angel pools:
 We become His eyes, and ears,     (*)
 We are His special tools.         (*)

 Because God is so busy,           (*)
 With way too much to do;
 He said that my assignment
 Is to keep close watch on you.

 When He tucked me in your Pocket
 You were blessed with Angel care;      (*)
 He said to never leave you,            (*)
 So you know I'm always there.          (*)

   (Author unknown)

This is very clever stuff:

                    A dozen, a gross, and a score
                    Plus three times the square root of four
                    Divided by seven
                    Plus five times eleven
                    Is nine squared, and not a bit more.


This one is common amongst the "commercial" offerings and in that
  spirit completely neglects the right to recognition of the man
  or original poet.   Very clever and entertaining "methinks"....

Me Mudder

When me prayers were poorly said
Who tucked me in me widdle bed
And spanked me till me bum was red
   Me Mudder....

Who took me from me cosy cot
And sat me on the iced cold pot
And made me pee when I could not
   Me Mudder....

And when the morning light would come
If in me crib me dribbled some
Who wiped me tiny little bum
   Me Mudder....

Who would me hair so neatly part
And hug me gently to her heart
Who sometimes squeezed me till me fart
   Me Mudder....

Who looked at me with eyebrows knit
And nearly have a kingsize fit
When in me Sunday pants me shit
   Me Mudder....

When at night her bed did squeek
Me raised me head to have a peek
Who yelled at me to go to sleep
   Me Farver.....

                 (Unknown author)


Misfortune is everywhere ..... this is plain sad

A dog sits waiting in the cold autumn sun --
Too faithful to leave, too frightened to run.
He's been sitting there for several days true
He sees nothing better
Than waiting for you.

He can't understand why you left him that day;
He thought you and he were stopping to play.
He's sure you'll come back and that's why he stays --
How long will he suffer?
How many more days?

His legs have grown weak, his throat parched and dry;
He's sick now from hunger he falls - with a sigh.
He lays down his head, and he closes his eyes --
I *wish* they could see
How their waiting dog dies!

(from a poem by Kathy Flood)


A change of pace  ..... for those who appreciate the serious
 humor intended here.

                 The Piddlin' Pup

           A farmers dog once came to town
           His Christian name was Pete
           His pedigree was two yards long
           And his looks were hard to beat
           As he trotted proudly down the road
           'Twas beautiful to see
           His work on every corner
           His work on every tree

           He watered every gateway
           And never missed a post
           For piddlin' was his masterpiece
           And piddlin was his boast
           The city dogs stood looking on
           With deep and jealous rage
           To see this simple country dog
           The piddler of their age

           Then all the dogs from far and wide
           Were summoned with a yell
           To come and 'sniff' the stranger out
           And judge him by his smell
           They sniffed beneath his stumpy tail
           Their praise for him ran high
           But when one sniffed him down below
           Pete piddled in his eye

           They smelled him over one by one
           They smelled him two by two
           And noble Pete in high disdain
           Stood still 'till they were through
           Then just to show the city dogs
           He didn't give a damn
           Pete walked into a grocers shop
           And piddled on a ham
           He piddled on the onions and
           He piddled on the floor
           And when the grocer kicked him out
           He piddled on the door

           Behind him all the city dogs
           Decided what they'd do
           They'd start a piddling carnival
           And see this stranger through
           They'd show him all the piddling posts
           They knew around the town
           Then started of with many winks
           To wear the stranger down
           They called the champion piddlers
           Who were always on the go
           Who sometimes held a piddling comp
           Or have a piddling show

           They sprang this on Pete suddenly
           When halfway through the town
           But Pete just piddled on and on
           And wore their champions down
           For Pete was with their every trick
           With vigour and with vim
           A thousand piddles - more or less
           'Twas all the same to him

           So Pete was piddling merrily
           His hind leg kicking high
           When most were lifting legs in bluff
           And piddling mighty dry
           On and on, Pete sought new ground
           On which to lay the dust
           Till every bloomin' dog was dry
           And gave up in disgust

           But on and on went noble Pete
           Then watered every sandhill
           Long after city champions
           Had piddled to a standstill
           Pete gave an exhibition
           Of all the ways to piddle
           Like double drips and fancy flips
           And now and then a dribble

           And all the time this country dog
           Did never wink or grin
           But piddled blithely out of town
           As he had piddled in
           The city dogs said "So long friend
           Your piddling did defeat us"
           But no one ever put them wise
           That Pete had diabetes

                          (author Jo Anderson)


This is clever feelgood stuff ...... and I like it

                           MY OATH...

          When you are sad.....I'll dry your tears.
          When you are scared.....I'll calm your fears.
          When you are worried.....I'll give you hope.
          When you're confused.....I'll help you cope.
          And when you're lost.....And see no light.
          I'll be your beacon..... Shining so bright
          This is my oath.....Until the end.
          I pledge to you .....Cause you're my friend.


Another nice little well written poem

           Children's Eyes

What kind of world is it my friend
   that little children see?
   I wonder if they see God first
   because they just believe?

Do they see strength in caring eyes
   who watch them as they play --
   or maybe love through gentle hands
   that guide them on their way?

Do you think they dream of future times
   when they would be a king --
   or just enjoy their present life
   while with their friends they sing?

Do they see the acts of kindness
   done for people who are poor?
   Is the very best in everyone
   what they are looking for?

And when the day is over,
   as they close their eyes to sleep,
   do they look forward to tomorrow
   with its promises to keep?

If this is what the children see,
   then it should be no surprise,
   the world would be a better place
   if we all had children's eyes.

                       (By Tom Krause)


    Given to me by a friend - a message poem and nicely done.

                          Dont Blame the Kids

              We read in the papers and hear on the air
              Of mugging and stealing and crime everywhere
              We sigh and we say we notice the trend
              This young generation? - Oh where will it end
              But can we be sure its their fault alone?
              That maybe some part of it isn't our own
              Are we not more guilty who place in their way
              Too many things that lead them astray?
              Too much money for spending - too much idle time
              Too many movies of passion and crime
              Too many books that aren't fit to be read
              Too much evil in what they hear said
              Too many children encouraged to roam
              By too many parents who just wont stay at home
              Kids dont make the movies, they dont write the books
              That paint pictures of gangsters and devils and crooks
              They dont make the liquor, they dont run the bars
              They dont make the laws and they dont make the cars
              They dont peddle hard drugs that addle the brain
              That's all done by the adults who do it for gain
              Delinquent teenagers - oh how we condemn
              The sins of the nation and blame it on them
              The rules for the blameless, our Saviour made known
              So who's there amongst us to cast the first stone
              For in so many cases, it's sad but its true
              The title "delinquent" fits older folk too
              So if laws should be kept in spirit and letter
              The title "delinquent" fits older folk better

                    (author unknown)


    Given to me by a friend and I love the ending........

                                Lovely Hand

                        I held a lovely hand last night
                        It nestled there in mine
                        I fondled it in sheer delight
                        That lovely hand divine
                        No other hand in all the world
                        Could make my heart beats race
                        Like that dear hand I held last night
                        The ten, jack, queen, king, ace

                           (author unknown)


I downloaded this from a "dont remember site".
This is a talented poet  and  accomplished work.

                        Take Some Time

            Take some time to smell the flowers
            As you walk the paths of life.
            Take some time to ease the tensions
            From the challenge and the strife.
            Take some time to hear the birds sing
            As they usher in the dawn.
            Though the day be just emerging,
            Alas too soon it will be gone.
            Take some time to watch a sunrise,
            Now and then a sunset too.
            Just be sure that seeking pleasure
            Isn't all you ever do.
            Take some time to count your blessings,
            Though you feel they're not that great.
            You could find they're more abundant
            Than you thought, at any rate.
            Take some time to banish hatred
            Where you are and when you can.
            Dont give in to poor responses
            Just because you're just a man.
            Take some time to hug your family
            Every moment you can spare.
            You will find the joys exceed
            Any pleasure you can share.
            Smile and wave to your close neighbor
            And even more important still,
            Make the effort to feel happy
            Then you'll find that others will.
            And if you can't put out that image
            Of yourself that others see,
            Take some time to make some changes,
            Be the best that you can be.
            Take some time to help another
            Who you think might need a hand.
            You will find the satisfaction
            Leaves you feeling sort of grand.
            Take some time to live by virtue
            In the best way that is known,
            And respect the rights of others
            They have rights to match your own.
            Take some time to feel you're lucky
            Just the fact that you are here,
            Know that there's a Higher Power
            And to trust It without fear.
            If you do these things with purpose
            In reflection you'll be glad.
            If you don't attempt to do them
            You may one day wish you had.
            Although this could impose upon
            All your time for seeking wealth,
            You should know that as you do it
            That it will improve your health.
            And though you might not be as wealthy
            Or drive around so fine a car,
            You will find that you are richer
            Just because of who you are.

                 Leon Hanson (you are a purist)


How's this ........ nice little poem and feelgood too!

      No moving parts, no batteries.
      No monthly payments and no fees;
      Inflation proof, non-taxable,
      In fact, it's quite relaxable;
      It can't be stolen, won't pollute,
      One size fits all, do not dilute.
      It uses little energy,
      But yields results enormously.
      Relieves your tension and your stress,
      Invigorates your happiness;
      Combats depression, makes you beam,
      And elevates your self-esteem!
      Your circulation it corrects
      Without unpleasant side effects
      It is, I think the perfect drug:
      May I prescribe my friend,...........the hug!

              and all returns are happily accepted!

(I may seem weird, but I love this stuff .......)


This one was sent to me by a friend who knows appreciation
of good poetry in any classification.

I class this one as clever and its my guess even those who
are not even computer literate will understand its cleverness,
in rhyme if not its content.

If Doctor Suess wrote your PC Repair Manual..........

If a packet hits a pocket on a socket on a port,
and the bus is interrupted as a very last resort,
And the address of the memory makes your floppy disk abort,
then the socket packet pocket has an error to report.

If your cursor finds a menu item followed by a dash,
and the double-clicking icon puts your window in the trash,
and your data is corrupted 'cause the index doesn't hash,
then your situation's hopeless and the system's gonna crash!

If the label on the cable on the table at your house,
says the network is connected to the button on your mouse,
but your packets want to tunnel on another protocol,
that's repeatedly rejected by the printer down the hall,

And your screen is all distorted by the side effects of gauss,
so your icons in the window are as wavy as a souse,
then you may as well reboot and go out with a bang,
'cause as sure as I'm a poet, the sucker's gonna hang!

When the copy of your floppy's getting sloppy on the disk,
and the microcode instructions cause unnecessary risk,
then you have to flash your memory and you'll want to RAM your ROM,
quickly turn off the computer and be sure to tell your mom.

    (Sorry....author unknown....!)


This poem was sent to me by a friend I had not seen or heard from
for nearly fifty years. We went to school as 12 year olds in 1952
and he just seemed to disappear from then.

He wrote "The BBC conducted a survey of the most popular poem in the
British Isles in the year 1995. The one that came out on top was
called 'Do Not Stand at My Grave and Weep'. It was thought to be
written by a soldier called Stephen Cummins who was killed on active
service in Northern Ireland.      Here it is:

                 Do not stand at my grave and weep

                 Do not stand at my grave and 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 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 cry
                 I am not there. I did not die.

 (From all of us who have suffered loss........ thanks Stephen)


  Ready yourself for some classic "egging on" that should
stir all students of positive thinking....

                     Don't Quit

         When things go wrong as they sometimes will,
         When the road you're trudging seems all uphill,
         When the funds are low and the debts are high
         And you want to smile, but you have to sigh.
         When care is pressing you down a bit -
         Rest, if you must, but don't quit.
         Life is queer with its twists and turns,
         As everyone of us sometimes learns,
         And many a fellow turns about
         When he might have won had he stuck it out.
         Don't give up though the pace seems slow -
         You may succeed with another blow.
         Often the goal is nearer than
         It seems to a faint and faltering man;
         Often the struggler has given up
         When he might have captured the victor's cup;
         And he learned too late when the night came down
         How close he was to the golden crown.
         Success is failure turned inside out---
         The silver tint of the clouds of doubt,
         And you never can tell how close you are,
         It may be near when it seems afar;
         So stick to the fight when you're hardest hit -
         It's when things seem worst that you must not quit.

                                           Edgar A Guest

Parting words are always sad and the saddest parting words
are the ones with final irreversible fabric in them.
  They say it takes a minute to find a special person, an
hour to appreciate them, a day to love them and the rest of
your life to forget them.

                  Miss Me But Let Me Go

         When I come to the end of the road
         And the sun has set for me
         I want no rites in a gloom filled room
         Why cry for a soul set free
         Miss me a little - but not for long
         And not with your head bowed low
         Remember the love that we once shared
         Miss me - but let me go
         For this is the  journey we all must take
         And each must go alone
         It's all a part of the Master's plan
         A stop on the road to home
         So when you're lonely and sick at heart
         Go to the friends we know
         And bury your sorrows in doing good deeds
         Miss me - but let me go.
                                 ....... Deidre Love Graham

              WHEN I AM OLD

When I'm an old lady, I'll live with each kid,
And bring so much happiness...just as they did.
I want to pay back all the joy they've provided,
Returning each deed. Oh, they'll be so excited!
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids)

I'll write on the wall with reds, whites and blues,
And bounce on the furniture wearing my shoes.
I'll drink from the carton and then leave it out.
I'll stuff all the toilets and oh, how they'll shout!
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids)

When they're on the phone and just out of reach,
I'll get into things like sugar and bleach,
Oh, they'll snap their fingers and then shake their head,
And when that is done I'll hide under the bed!
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids)

When they cook dinner and call me to eat,
I'll not eat my green beans or salad or meat.
I'll gag on my okra, spill milk on the table,
And when they get angry I'll run...if I'm able!
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids)

I'll sit close to the TV, through the channels I'll click,
I'll cross both my eyes just to see if they stick.
I'll take off my socks and throw one away,
And play in the mud 'til the end of the day!
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids)

And later in bed, I'll lay back and sigh,
I'll thank God in prayer and then close my eyes.
My kids will look down with a smile slowly creeping,
And say with a groan. "She's so sweet . when she's sleeping!"
(When I'm an old lady and live with my kids)

                                (Author unknown)


This poem came to me in an email (thanks Rob & Norm) and is
well worthy of inclusion here. None of us wish to be involved
in an accident, but if we are, lets hope this applies to us
and anyone else involved.....

                             Highway 109

                    A drunk man in an Oldsmobile
                    They said had run the light
                    That caused the six-car pileup
                    On 109 that night.

                    When broken bodies lay about
                    And blood was everywhere,
                    The sirens screamed out eulogies,
                    For death was in the air.

                    A mother, trapped inside her car,
                    Was heard above the noise;
                    Her plaintive plea near split the air:
                    "Oh, God, please spare my boys!"

                    She fought to loose her pinned hands;
                    She struggled to get free,
                    But mangled metal held her fast
                    In grim captivity.

                    Her frightened eyes then focused
                    On where the back seat once had been,
                    But all she saw was broken glass,
                    Two children's seats crushed in.

                    Her twins were nowhere to be seen;
                    She did not hear them cry,
                    And then she prayed they'd been thrown free,
                    "Oh, God, don't let them die!"

                    Then firemen came and cut her loose,
                    But when they searched the back,
                    They found therein no little boys,
                    But the seat belts were intact.

                    They thought the woman had gone mad
                    And was travelling alone,
                    But when they turned to question her,
                    They discovered she was gone.

                    Policemen saw her running wild
                    And screaming above the noise
                    In beseeching supplication,
                    "Please help me find my boys!"

                    They're four years old and wear blue shirts;
                    Their jeans are blue to match.
                    One cop spoke up, They're in my car,
                    And they haven't got a scratch.

                    They said their daddy put them there
                    And gave them each a cone,
                    Then told them both to wait for Mum
                    To come and take them home.

                    I've searched the area high and low,
                    But I haven't found their dad.
                    He could have fled the crash scene,
                    And I find that very bad.

                    The mother hugged the twins and said,
                    While wiping at a tear,
                    "He could not flee the scene, you see,
                    For he's been dead near a year"

                    The cop just looked confused and asked,
                    Now, how can that be true?
                    The boys said, Mummy, Daddy came
                    And left a kiss for you.

                    He told us not to worry
                    And that you would be all right,
                    And then he put us in this car with
                    The pretty, flashing light.

                    We wanted him to stay with us,
                    Because we miss him so,
                    But Mummy, he just hugged us tight
                    And said he had to go.

                    He said someday we'd understand
                    And told us not to fuss,
                    And he said to tell you, Mummy,
                    He's watching over us.

                    The mother knew without a doubt
                    That what they spoke was true,
                    For she recalled their dad's last words,
                    "I will watch over you".

                    The firemen's notes could not explain
                    The twisted, mangled car,
                    And how the three of them escaped
                    Without a single scar.

                    But on the cop's report was scribed,
                    In print so very fine,
                    "An angel walked the beat tonight
                    On Highway 109!"

                                   Noting Author as Ruth Gillis
                                    (claimed by several others)


                               Aussie Poem

     The sun was hot already - it was only 8 o'clock
     The cocky took off in his Ute, to go and check his stock.
     He drove around the paddocks checking wethers, ewes and lambs,
     The float valves in the water troughs, the windmills on the dams

     He stopped and turned a windmill on to fill a water tank
     And saw a ewe down in the dam, a few yards from the bank.
     "Typical bloody sheep," he thought, "they've got no common sense,
     "They won't go through a gateway but they'll jump a bloody fence."

     The ewe was stuck down in the mud, he knew without a doubt
     She'd stay there 'til she carked it if he didn't get her out.
     But when he reached the water's edge, the startled ewe broke free
     And in her haste to get away, began a swimming spree.

     He reckoned once her fleece was wet, the weight would drag her down
     If he didn't rescue her, the stupid sod would drown.
     Her style was unimpressive, her survival chances slim
     He saw no other option, he would have to take a swim.

     He peeled his shirt and singlet off, his trousers, boots and socks
     And as he couldn't stand wet clothes, he also shed his jocks.
     He jumped into the water and away that cocky swam
     He caught up with her, somewhere near the middle of the dam

     The ewe was quite evasive, she kept giving him the slip
     He tried to grab her sodden fleece but couldn't get a grip.
     At last he got her to the bank and stopped to catch his breath
     She showed him little gratitude for saving her from death.

     She took off like a Bondi tram around the other side
     He swore next time he caught that ewe he'd hang her bloody hide.
     Then round and round the dam they ran, although he felt quite puffed
     He still thought he could run her down, she must be nearly stuffed.

     The local stock rep came along, to pay a call that day.
     He knew this bloke was on his own, his wife had gone away,
     He didn't really think he'd get fresh scones for morning tea
     But neither was he ready for what he was soon to see.

     He rubbed his eyes in disbelief at what came into view
     For running down the catchment came this frantic-looking ewe.
     And on her heels in hot pursuit and wearing not a stitch
     The farmer yelling wildly "Come back here, you lousy bitch!"

     The stock rep didn't hang around, he took off in his car
     The cocky's reputation has been damaged near and far
     So bear in mind the Work Safe rule when next you check your flocks
     Spot the hazard, assess the risk, and always wear your jocks!

         Thanks Fred.    (Talented Aussie author (?) unknown)


   A tender Aussie moment.....


        Of course I loves ya darling
        You're a bloody top notch bird
        And when I say you're gorgeous
        I mean every single word

        So ya bum is on the big side
        I don't mind a bit of flab
        It means that when I'm ready
        There's somethin there to grab

        So your belly isn't flat no more
        I tell ya, I don't care
        So long as when I cuddle ya
        My arms can get round there

        No Sheila who is your age
        Keeps nice round perky breasts
        They all give in to gravity
        But I know ya did ya best

        I'm tellin ya the truth now
        I never tell ya lies
        I think its very sexy
        You've got dimples on ya thighs

        I swear on nanna's grave now
        The moment that we met
        I thought u was as good as
        A bloke like me could get

        No matter wot u look like
        I'll always love ya dear
        Now quiet coz the footy's on
        And fetch another beer.

                      (Author not known)



    A row of bottles on my shelf
    Caused me to analyse myself.
    One yellow pill I have to pop
    Goes to my heart so it won't stop.?
    A little white one that I take
    Goes to my hands so they won't shake.
    The blue ones that I use a lot
    Tell me I'm happy when I'm not.
    The  purple pill  goes to my brain
    And tells me that I have no pain.?
    Some capsules tell me not to wheeze
    Or cough or choke or even sneeze..
    The red ones, smallest of them all
    Go to my blood so I won't fall.
    The orange ones, so big and bright
    Prevent my  leg cramps  in the night.
    With such a range of brilliant pills
    That help to cure my many ills.
    One thing I'd really like to know..
    Is how they all know where to go!

                     (Author not known)


      Pass On The Patriotism!

A soldier or veteran  is someone who, at one point in his life,
writes a blank cheque made payable to his country, for an amount
of "up to and including my life".

That, is a great Honour that too many people no longer understand.

"A poem to read for ANZAC day" was how this poem was described.
That is fitting, but there are so many that qualify...

        A Soldier Died Today

      He was getting old and paunchy
      And his hair was falling fast,
      And he sat around the Legion,
      Telling stories of the past.

      Of a war that he had fought in
      And the deeds that he had done,
      In his exploits with his buddies;
      They were heroes, every one.

      And 'tho sometimes to his neighbors
      His tales became a joke,
      All his Legion buddies listened
      For they knew whereof he spoke.

      But we'll hear his tales no longer,
      For old Bill has passed away,
      And the world's a little poorer
      For a soldier died today.

      He will not be mourned by many,
      Just his children and his wife.
      For he lived an ordinary
      And quite uneventful life.

      Held a job and raised a family,
      Quietly going on his way;
      And the world won't note his passing,
      though a Soldier died today.

      When politicians leave this earth,
      Their bodies lie in state,
      While thousands note their passing,
      And proclaim that they were great.

      Papers tell their whole life stories
      From the time that they were young,
      But the passing of a soldier
      Goes unnoticed, and unsung.

      Is the greatest contribution
      To the welfare of our land,
      A guy who breaks his promises
      And cons his fellow man?

      Or the ordinary fellow who,
      In times of war and strife,
      Goes off to serve his Country
      And offers up his life?

      A politician's stipend
      And the style in which he lives,
      Are sometimes disproportionate,
      To the service that he gives.

      While the ordinary soldier,
      Who offered up his all,
      Is paid off with a medal
      And perhaps, a pension small.

      It's so easy to forget them,
      For it was so long ago,
      That the old Bills of our country
      Went to battle, but we know....

      It was not the politicians
      With their compromise and ploys,
      Who won for us the freedom
      That our Country now enjoys.

      Should you find yourself in danger,
      With your enemies at hand,
      Would you want a politician
      With his ever-shifting stand?

      Or would you prefer a soldier,
      Who has sworn to defend,
      His home, his kin and Country
      And would fight until the end?

      He was just a common Soldier,
      And his ranks are growing thin,
      But his presence should remind us
      We may need his like again.

      For when countries are in conflict,
      Then we find the Soldier's part
      Is to clean up all the troubles
      That the politicians start.

      If we cannot do him honor
      While he's here to hear the praise,
      Then at least let's give him homage
      At the ending of his days.

      Perhaps just a simple headline
      in a paper that would say:

                               © 1987, Lawrence Vaincourt



              Giving her the eye

       A beauty stood on a balcony high,
       Sneezed and lost her blue glass eye.
       A young man walking down The Strand
       Caught the eye-ball in one hand.
       Invited up to receive her thanks
       He drooled on her figure and her flanks.
       Then dining on champagne and chicken
       Both their heart beats were to quicken,
       Gazing eyes, imperfections indiscernible,
       Even the eye-ball that was returnable.
       Then over coffee the very next morning
       The young man asked, suspicion dawning,
       "Would you do this for any passer-by?"
       "Oh No" she said,"He'd have to catch my eye".

                       (Clever author -?)


  When I was a lad, we moved out of the city (Sydney) to 
  Milperra Bridge, between Bankstown and Liverpool. The area
  wasn't serviced by sewerage at that time (1957) so we had 
  a dunny out the back! Judy Jenkinson's humorous poem below 
  explains in detail just what impact a "dunny" had on life 
  then and still has in many unsewered outer and rural areas.   

                 THE AUSSIE  DUNNY

They were funny looking buildings, that were once a way of life,
If you couldn’t sprint the distance, then you really were in strife.
They were nailed, they were wired, but were mostly falling down,
There was one in every yard, in every house, in every town.

They were given many names, some were even funny,
But to most of us, we knew them as the outhouse or the dunny.
I’ve seen some of them all gussied up, with painted doors and all, 
But it really made no difference, they were just a port of call.

Now my old man would take a bet, he’d lay an even pound,
That you wouldn’t make the dunny with them turkeys hangin’ round.
They had so many uses, these buildings out the back,
You could even hide from mother, so you wouldn’t get the strap.

That’s why we had good cricketers, or my name isn’t Crump,
We used the pathway for the wicket and the dunny door for stumps.
Now my old man would sit for hours, the smell would rot your socks,
He read the daily back to front in that good old thunderbox.

And if by chance that nature called sometime through the night,
You always sent the dog in first, for there was no flamin’ light.
And the dunny seemed to be the place where crawlies liked to hide,
But never ever showed themselves until you sat inside.

There was no such thing as Sorbent, no tissues there at all,
Just squares of well read newspaper, a hangin’ on the wall.
If you had some friendly neighbours, as neighbours sometimes are,
You could sit and chat to them, if you left the door ajar.

When suddenly you got the urge, and down the track you fled,
Then of course the magpies were there to pick you on your head.
Then the time there was a wet, the rain it never stopped,
If you had an urgent call, you ran between the drops.

The dunny man came twice a week, to these buildings out the back,
And he would leave an extra can, if you left for him a zac.
For those of you who’ve no idea what I mean by a zac,
Then your too young to have ever had, a dunny out the back.

For it seems today they call them the bathroom, or the loo,
If you’ve never had one out the back, then I feel sorry for you.
For it used to be a way of life, top race along the track,
To answer natures call, at these buildings out the back. 

                                            Judy Jenkinson


And in the same vein as the Aussie dunny poem (My Mum had one.....)

                  THE AUSSIE CLOTHESLINE

A clothesline was a news forecast, To neighbors passing by,
There were no secrets you could keep, When clothes were hung to dry.
It also was a friendly link, For neighbors always knew
If company had stopped on by, To spend a night or two.

For then you'd see the "fancy sheets", And towels upon the line;
You'd see the "company table cloths", With intricate designs.
The line announced a baby's birth, From folks who lived inside,
As brand new infant clothes were hung, So carefully with pride!

The ages of the children could, So readily be known
By watching how the sizes changed, You'd know how much they'd grown!
It also told when illness struck, As extra sheets were hung;
Then nightclothes, and a bathrobe too, Haphazardly were strung.

It also said, "On vacation now", When lines hung limp and bare.

It told, "We're back!" when full lines sagged, With not an inch to spare!
New folks in town were scorned upon, If wash was dingy and grey,
As neighbors carefully raised their brows, And looked the other way.

But clotheslines now are of the past, For dryers make work much less.
Now what goes on inside a home, Is anybody's guess!
I really miss that way of life, It was a friendly sign
When neighbors knew each other best... By what hung on the line.

                                (Couldn't find author)

     Another sad Aussie poem about an old photo bought from an 
     antique shop and discovery....

                   The Anzac on the Wall

I wandered thru a country town, 'cos I had some time to spare,
And went into an Antique Shop to see what was in there.
Old Bikes and Pumps and Kero lamps, but hidden by it all,
A photo of a soldier boy. An Anzac on the Wall.

'The Anzac have a name?' I asked. The old man answered 'No’,
The ones who could have told you mate, have passed on long ago.
The old man kept on talking and, according to his tale,
The photo was unwanted junk, bought from a clearance sale.

'I asked around,' the old man said, 'But no one knows his face,
He's been on that wall twenty years... deserves a better place.
For someone must have loved him, so it seems a shame somehow.'
I nodded in agreement and then said 'I'll take him now.'

My nameless digger's photo, well it was a sorry sight
A cracked glass pane and a broken frame I had to make it right
To prise the photo from its frame I took care just in case,
Cause only sticky paper held the cardboard back in place.

I peeled away the faded screed, and much to my surprise,
two letters and a telegram, appeared before my eyes
The first reveals my Anzac's name, and regiment of course
John Mathew Francis Stuart of Australia’s own Light Horse.
This letter written from the front... my interest now was keen;
this note was dated August 7th, 1917

'Dear Mum, I'm at Khalasa Springs, not far from the Red Sea
They say it's in the Bible looks like a Billabong to me.
'My Kathy wrote, I'm in her prayers...she's still my bride to be,
I just can’t wait to see you both, you're all the world to me.

And Mum you'll soon meet Bluey, last month they shipped him out
I told him to call on you, when he's up and about.'
'That bluey is a larrikin, and we all thought it funny,
He lobbed a Turkish hand grenade into the C.O’s dunny.

I told you how he dragged me wounded; in from no man's land
He stopped the bleeding, closed the wound, with only his bare
'Then he copped it at the front, from some stray shrapnel blast,
It was my turn to drag him in, and I thought he wouldn't last.
He woke up in hospital, and nearly lost his mind
Cause out there on the battlefield, he'd left one leg behind.'

'He's been in a bad way Mum, he knows he'll ride no more
Like me he loves a horse's back, he was a champ before.
So Please Mum can you take him in, he's been like my own brother
Raised in a Queensland orphanage he’s never known a mother.'

But Struth, I miss Australia Mum, and in my mind each day
I am a mountain cattleman, on the high plains far away.
I'm mustering white-faced cattle, with no camel's hump in sight,
and I waltz my Matilda, by a campfire every night
I wonder who rides Billy!! I heard the pub burnt down!!
I'll always love you… and please say Hooroo, to all in town'.

The second letter I could see, was in a lady's hand,
An answer to her soldier son, there in a foreign land.
Her copperplate was perfect, the pages neat and clean
it bore the date, November 3rd 1917.

'T'was hard enough to lose your Dad, without you at the war
I'd hoped you would be home by now each day I miss you more'

'Your Kathy calls around a lot, since you have been away,
To share with me her hopes and dreams, about your wedding day.
And Bluey has arrived and what a godsend he has been
We talked and laughed for days, about the things you've done and seen'

'He really is a comfort, and works hard around the farm,
I read the same hope in his eyes, that you won't come to harm.
Mc Connell's kids rode Billy, but suddenly that has changed.
We had a violent lightning storm, and it was really strange.'
'Last Wednesday, just on midnight, not a single cloud in sight,
It raged for several minutes, it gave us all a fright.
It really spooked your Billy and he screamed and bucked and reared,
And then he rushed the sliprail fence, which by a foot he

'They brought him back next afternoon, but something's changed I fear,
It's like the day you brought him home, for no one can get near.
Remember when you caught him, with his black and flowing mane?
Now Horse Breakers fear the beast, that only you can tame,'
'That's why we need you home son Then the flow of ink went dry
This letter was unfinished and I couldn't work out why.

Until I started reading, the letter, number three
A yellow telegram delivered news of a tragedy.
Her son killed in action Oh! What pain that must have been,
the same date as her letter 3rd November 1917
This letter which was never sent, became then one of three.
She sealed behind the photo's face the face she longed to see.

And John's home town's children, when he went to war,
Would say no greater cattleman, had left the town before.
They knew his widowed mother well, and with respect did tell,
How when she lost her only boy she lost her mind as well.
She could not face the awful truth, to strangers she would speak
My Johnny's at the war you know he's coming home next week.

They all remembered Bluey, he stayed on to the end.
A young man with wooden leg, became her closest friend.
And he would go and find her when she wandered, old and weak,
and always softly say 'Yes dear John will be coming home next week.'

Then when she died, Bluey moved on to Queensland some did say.
I tried to find out where he went, but don't know to this day.
And Kathy never wed, a lonely spinster some found odd.
She wouldn't set foot in a church she'd turned her back on God.
John's mother left no Will, I learned, on my detective trail.
This explains my photo's journey, of that clearance sale.
So I continued digging, cause, I wanted to know more.
I found John's name with thousands, in the records of the war.

His last ride proved his courage a ride you will acclaim
The Light Horse Charge at Beersheba of everlasting fame.
That last day in October back in 1917,
at 4pm our brave boys fell that sad fact I did glean.
That's when John's life was sacrificed, the record's crystal clear.
But 4pm in Beersheba is midnight over here......
So as John's gallant sprit rose, to cross the great divide,
Were lightning bolts back home, a signal from the other side?
Is that why Billy bolted, and went racing as in pain?
Because he'd never feel his master, on his back again!
Was it coincidental? Same time... Same day Same date!!
Some proof of numerology or just a quirk of fate?

I think it's more than that you know, as I've heard wiser men,
Acknowledge there are many things, that go beyond our ken
Where craggy peaks guard secrets, neath dark skies torn asunder,
Where hoof beats are companions, to the rolling waves of thunder
Where lightning cracks like 303's, and ricochets again,
Where howling moaning gusts of wind, sound just like dying men
Some Mountain cattlemen have sworn, on lonely alpine track,
They've glimpsed a huge black stallion with  Light Horseman on his back.

Yes Sceptics say, it's swirling clouds, just forming apparitions.
Oh No, My friend you can't dismiss all this as, superstition.
The desert of Beersheba or a windswept Aussie range,
John Stuart rides on forever there I don't find that at all strange.

Now some gaze upon this photo, and they often question me,
and I tell them a small white lie, and say he's family.
'You must be proud of him.' they say I tell them, one and all,
That's why he takes the pride of place, 
       The Anzac on the Wall.

Lest We Forget
                                                By Jim Brown




©Ted Middleton 1999.

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