Poetry

As times goes on some of my poetry will be available through this site. For the moment, here's a taster, about Aussie blokes learning to be romantic.

O men, those vaults of taciturnity,
With alcohol the only known key;
What’s in that safe remains a mystery
Until they sing their woes in maudlin key.

Oh woe is us, our wives neglecting us,
The lonely lot of men, ‘twas ever thus,
And legends all, we toil but never fuss,
Curt wifely praise an unexpected plus.

In formulaic prose ad nauseam,
Its punctuation ‘Mate!’ and ‘Jeez!’ and ‘Damn!’,
Its favoured form the pithy epigram
As terse and dry as a wartime telegram.

Till manly instinct balances the books;
One fellow sees what self-pity overlooks,
And thumps the bar and says to startled looks,
‘So what are we? A bunch of bloody sooks?’

Then launches into heartfelt, trenchant rant,
With bluish tinge to adjectival slant;
In brief: our solitary ways we must recant.
And our romantic prowess? Bloody scant!

As silence falls, shame-facedly we sit,
While chins are gravely stroked and brows are knit,
Until at last some self-appointed wit
Says, ‘Good one, mate! So now we’ll have to quit

Our blokey ways that are synonymous
With reticence and being autonomous
And all sign up for ‘Blokes Anonymous’,
Which, pardon me, sounds downright onimous!

For I can see it now, our errant knights,
Their brave romantic quest, up there in lights,
The Dashing Blades of Mongrel Flats – in tights –
Swoop in to save a suburb of Snow Whites!

Those sleeping beauties living half asleep
Await that saving kiss so true and deep,
To wake them up from counting dreary sheep,
So lonely, for their men say not a peep.

Alas, there’s truth in what our wives allege;
These dashing blades have lost their winning edge;
‘If you won’t bring me flowers, trim the hedge!’
It’s time we all manned up and took the pledge.

Benighted men, fall now upon one knee
With hand on heart, repeating after me:
‘I promise to my lady, Poetry,
Foregoing blokey taciturnity,
And vowing flowery verbal gallantry;
And True Romance for all eternity!’

For mono-syllables, though tried and true,
Can’t be relied upon to see you through;
To speak of love you can’t just summarise,
And in romance it’s fine to plagiarise,
And feeling like a goose is no excuse –
Reset your soppy-meter and cut loose!
While brevity might be the soul of wit
Romance depends on laying it on a bit,
So lay it on with an earnest heartfelt trowel,
And persevere and don’t throw in the towel,
And though it sounds to you like so much flannel,
The women on Romance’s jury panel
Will let you off on a good behaviour bond,
Just make your plea both penitent and fond.
The plaintiff known to you as ‘Darl’ or ‘Dear’
Will drop her plaint at hint of manly tear,
Just be sincere with flowers, gifts and pledges –
She won’t mind if it’s rough around the edges –
Kiss that sleeping beauty till she sighs,
And wakes with disbelieving, wary eyes,
Till doubting look gives way to true belief,
Astonished you’ve turned over this new leaf.
A hundred kisses later, if she asks,
Kiss her a hundred more, until she basks
In wonderment with melting, trusting eyes,
Forgives you more than you deserve, and cries,
‘At last, my rusty dashing blade returns!
With earnest tokens of affection earns
A plenary indulgence from my heart –
Just one more ‘Sorry’, the waterworks will start!
So pinch me now to see if I’m awake,
For this Snow White is praying this change will take!’

O mea culpa for our blokey sins!
Our sainted wives’ proverbial rolling pins
Can go back in the cupboard with the tins
Of humble pie and past shenanigans.

A glass is left behind, half full of beer;
Some thoughtful calls, ‘I’m on my way now, dear’
And as we step outside I overhear –
‘Ever seen a flower shop round here?’