Monday, 22 December 2014

December 22: When I write a rhyme ...


When I write a rhyme, the words come from my mind
Sometimes they are fact, sometimes fiction
And I don’t decide, what words come from inside
It’s not about truth, it’s the diction

I write about feelings, I write about life
What you read might be mine, it might not
I don’t pick a direction, I don’t care for perception
I just write the words I have got

Sometimes I might muse, that someone could lose
Someone special, and never recover
But you should not read in, that it is my sin
Or that I’m lamenting the loss of my lover

Some rhymes contain truth, but it would be uncouth
If I was bound just to my thoughts and feelings
Then my stories would be, only tales about me
So from other sources I often go stealing

So when you read, that my heart it does bleed
Or when I think of her that my eyes rain
Don’t give it a thought, it’s not my heart that’s fraught
It’s a poem, I’m just channelling pain

If every song writer, or crooning all-nighter
Was bound by their words sung or spoken
They would be so very sad, every romance would go bad
And every song would have to leave a heart broken

Sunday, 7 December 2014

December 7: Why must I sit dispassionate?


Why must I sit dispassionate, when I so clearly feel the pain
As you read your words aloud, the tears they well again
But I cannot show emotion, I cannot down my guard
In a moment I must rise again, you've no idea how hard

It is for me to do this, I’m not made of stone or wood
I would join you in your grieving, I feel deep down I should
But dispassionate I must remain, when I get up to address
My words are strong and full of force, but inside I am a mess

It’s not your pain I'm stealing, but my feelings are for you
I put myself in this place, doing what it is I do
Every time it's different, but this one grabbed me deep
I wish you well as you go on, and for the memories that I’ll keep

Sunday, 16 November 2014

November 16: Do yourself a favour ...


Countdown it's back, and I’m watching a track
Of ABBA when the girls were so hot
I was in love with them all, and a very young Paul
Would sing with just all that he'd got

There were dozens of bands, from so many lands
But there were hundreds from right here in Australia
And we watched as he tried, though his brain was it fried
The short chat with Prince Charles was a failure

Now I look back at those days, which for some are a haze
And my eyes they swell with my tears
I loved every song that I heard, the new, old and absurd
But for me they were wonderful years

Back when Molly was King, and for him they did sing
His ear was a passport to fame
To our lives he brought passion, and the most awful fashion
But no Sunday at six was the same

So we thank you old mate, your show it was great
The stars and the songs they had flavour
Not to everyone’s style, but is lasted a while
Countdown's on, so do yourself a favour ...

Saturday, 15 November 2014

November 15: Verandah blues ...


I’m on my verandah, I’m having a beer
The music is playing, the wife she’s not here
I’m playing Paul Kelly, there’s nought on the ‘tele
I think I might have one more

The weather is cooling, the sky it is grey
It’s really quite pleasant, hope the rain stays away
I’ll just have that next one, the day is all gone
A barbeque sounds quite inviting

I’ve been thinking about it, it’s making me sad
I miss all the good times, that I once had
There’s really no winner, I’m such a beginner
I need to stop it invading my mind

Tomorrow is Sunday, should I get out for a walk
Should I find a Koala, engage in small talk
But once I’m outside I might go for a ride
I won’t know what to do until then

When I was twenty, I thought life was a laugh
Back then I knew nothing, not the wheat from the chaff
Life should be greater, nearly thirty years later
I’m sure it is in it’s way

How did Paul Kelly get inside my head
Was it something he’s singing, is it something he said
The clock on his silo can’t show eleven degrees
Nothing right now makes much sense

Tuesday, 4 November 2014

November 4: Horses for courses ...


Hit me, beat me, whip me hard, so I’ll stretch out another yard
Check your bets, clutch your card, I’ll bring the silver home
Flog me, starve me, run me out, have a drink, and for me shout
You know what it’s all about, I run so hard I foam

Feed me, load me up with weight, so I’ll go faster out the gate
Give not a toss about my fate, just race me ‘til I’m done
Run me ‘til my bones give in, celebrate me when I win
When I win the Cup, it’s you who grins, for me it isn’t fun

What a lot of poppy cock, pissed on champers, in their frocks
Just once a year, eyes on the clock, in minutes it’s all over
This is no sport I’m telling you, and when it’s done we go for glue
Or out to stud with nought to do, chomping on the clover

But if I should once break a bone, get the vet man on the phone
Bring his 22 along, and shoot me in the head
Hold a sheet so no-one sees, as one bullet reaches me
I’ve run my race, and now I’m free, it's better that I’m dead

Tuesday, 14 October 2014

October 14: Robbery in the Shire ...

There was a punch and then a theft, then a king hit from his left
A cut to his eye, then the small bloke stole his ride
He drove off without a thought, but he figured he’d be caught
So he phoned a friend to hide the ride inside

As he drove off in the Suzuki, the whole thing was kind of spooky
The motive for the assault not understood
His choice of friends was lacking, and somewhere near Port Hacking
Was where he found a nasty neighbourhood

To the cops he told his story, all the facts in all their glory
Of his treatment at hands of these two men
The first time late at night, then once more when skies were bright
But soon he’d have to say it all again

Their mobiles held a clue, one that in time it would undo
The mixed up mess of lies on which they rested
So many messages exchanged, and soon their end it came
When the explanation that they proffered it was tested

But our victim he’d been threatened, so the witness stand it beckoned
Tell your story mate, the one you told the cops
But his memory was a failure, but we know here in Australia
There are ways and means of nurturing your crops

From the dock I heard them bleating, though their cries were merely fleeting
As my witness he revealed his sordid tale
Their attempts to quell his version, was but a temporary incursion
As true justice it furled it greatest sail

And in cross-examination, and to the informant’s exultation
Every detail of the beating was adduced
His car they heard was took, by two adolescent crooks
And his evidence, in great detail was produced

There was little they could say, as their freedom flew away
And they watched me as I sealed their fate with glee
So my jury will soon find, as facts they occupy their mind
That their guilt beyond all doubt is plain to see

Monday, 22 September 2014

September 22: Déjà vu all over again ...


Déjà vu all over again, I’ve done this all before
Yesterday, tomorrow, today it's just once more
I stand, I talk, I sit back down, while witnesses have their say
We all sit in pursuit of justice, just like yesterday

But really it’s not like before, no two days are the same
And every case is different, it’s never the same game
The facts, the truth, the evidence, every witness tells it new
Even if it’s the same event, you’ll get a different view

Five people on a corner, watch a Ute race through the red
And smash into a Greyhound bus, he's lucky no-one’s dead
But one witness saw the bus go first, the next described a truck
Stark differences in descriptions, is their observation just pot luck

What is it that the jurors think, when they wrestle with the facts
Do they make concessions, that your memory is not intact
Can they make allowances, for the ravages of time
I like doing what I’m doing and I’m glad that role’s not mine

Sunday, 21 September 2014

September 21: Dementia's got another one ...


Dementia’s got another; Malcolm Young cannot remember
What he did just yesterday, much less back in September
A rock and roller all his life, a founder of that band
That some of us grew up with, though we’ll never understand

Angus he’s the younger, been a schoolboy all his years
But Malcolm he won’t understand, while Angus sheds his tears
They’ve rocked and rolled with millions, hits made by the score
It’s sad to say but it is true, not with Malcolm any more

Forty years of music, he’s played on every stage
Not long clocked up sixty, it gets us all that thing called age
We’ll miss him like a brother, we are saddened by his fate
And the schoolboy will continue, though without his closest mate

It is so sad, but he’s not alone, others will share his world
No-one knows what life serves up, how your flag will be unfurled
But for AC/DC we all hold a flame, and I’ll make with you a bet
Like Bowie, Chisel and the Stones, that band we won’t forget

Saturday, 20 September 2014

September 20: Our jury has come back to us ...


Our jury has come back to us, three days consideration
They listened to the evidence, given great deliberation
Of what they heard from witnesses, who years ago were boys
Eleven, twelve, so very young, they were someone else’s toys

Four weeks of nasty evidence, they’ve listened to each word
He said that they were liars, well that was just absurd
Unpleasant though it must have been, they sat and heard it all
We pressed it hard on their behalf, we had to see him fall

Repeated clear descriptions, I’ll trade you sex for things
Your parents will not give you, but you know I will bring
Beer and money, cigarettes, I’ll even give you pot
In my car, and at my home, I’m not asking for a lot

Forty, thirty, twenty years, decades they passed by
Then one young many came forward, told his story while he cried
The net it just grew larger, more names came to the fore
Eight men told there story, but there must be many more

Ten counts of interference with the lives of boys so young
One he took his own life, when he felt he could not go on
But the jury came back settled, and in that they sealed his fate
Ten from ten convictions, it’s back to jail old mate

She’ll sentence in December, he’ll be sixty three
I betting he’ll get fifteen years, we’d like longer you’d agree
But no-one gets the maximum, but here there’s no excuse
He preyed on boys for fifty years, he never be let loose

Friday, 19 September 2014

September 19: Can you see inside my feelings ...


Every picture tells a story, in every image there’s a tale
Can you see inside my feelings, what do you sense as I exhale 
Does the cold expose my breathing, as my lungs deflate then fill
What is it you are seeing, as I lay there deathly still

My eyes are closed but seeing, as you stand there wondering why
Can you see inside my feelings, as my heart begins to cry
Does the night it hide expression, can you see it on my face
What is it you are feeling, as you stand there in that place

I lie there still not moving, as you reach to touch my hair
Can you see inside my feelings, because I know that you are there
Does my face betray my senses, when you touched me did I move
What is it you are feeling, with your fingers soft and smooth

When my eyelids move I see you, your silhouette there in the dark
Can you see inside my feelings, as I lie here in the park
Does the grass disclose the colour, of my blood as it escapes
What is you are feeling, as you look down at the shapes

My breathing now is shallow, beside me now you lie
Can you see inside my feelings, as my life it starts to die
Does the sound of sirens reach you, I can hear them very near
What is it you are feeling, my face catches all your tears

The sound of running footsteps, their voices strong and loud
I can see inside your feelings, as around me forms a crowd
Don’t cry for me my precious, be strong, you must go on
What is it I am feeling; it’s nothing, I am gone

Thursday, 18 September 2014

September 18: Little boy lost ...


There’s a little boy who's lost, out there on his own
His parents searching desperately
To bring their small boy home
Moments turn to minutes, and the hours slip away
And as optimism turns to hope, her eyes begin to glaze

Dressed in his favourite costume, he wandered down a track
That led to unforgiving bush
Please son, double back
But the hours turn into afternoons, and they turn into days
Hope turns into desperation, and his eyes begin to glaze

Searchers in their numbers, they come to lend a hand
That a little boy could disappear
Not one can understand
While the days turn into darkness, and the darkness into dawn
Desperation turns to fear, is their little boy now gone

Hope it never completely dies, belief it never wanes
But no matter how hopeless or obscure
They’ll forever feel that pain
And the darkness it gets darker, as all hope it disappears
Their little boy is gone for good, confirming all their fears

Tuesday, 16 September 2014

September 17: Has my writing streak just disappeared ...


Has my writing streak now disappeared, if it has, it’s what I feared
I cannot find a rhyme to use, have they arrived, the writing blues
I’m crying out for inspiration, my only adjective, frustration
The days roll by, so very fast, and this rhyme here could be the last

Verbs and nouns and adjectives, deep inside's where motivation lives
Connecting words with ones that rhyme, I need to do it, every time
So many words, so many lines, pronouns injected, just to combine
This entire mass of enunciation, but I think for now, I’ll stay on station

September 16: I am a foreign diplomat ...


I am a foreign diplomat you can't get me 
I have this thing called immunity
I ignore your road rules, I often drink and drive 
Frankly I'm amazed that I am still alive 

I argue with your coppers, and I don't care at all 
Someone else will pick me up if I should take a fall 
You call me to your office, you slap me on the wrist 
You need to settle down a bit, I'm going to get pissed 

Your laws are very interesting, but they don't apply to me
There's an exception for us diplomats, look it up and you will see
Don't take that tone please Constable, can't you see I'm on the phone 
Run along and solve some crime, but please leave me alone

Monday, 15 September 2014

September 15: Happy birthday to me ...


Happy birthday to me, happy birthday to me
Happy birthday, happy birthday, I am fifty-three
So now that I have said that, let me just say this
If you’d said thirty years ago, I’d have said, “Don’t take the piss”

When I went from single figures, I was really pretty small
I did grow up, eventually, but I never got real tall
At twenty-one I’d done six years, serving in the Navy
Sailing all around the world, on oceans deep and wavy

At twenty-five I tied the knot, our lives were rearranged
At thirty I was still at sea, but looking for a change
Then I started law school, at the age of thirty-five
When I finished four years later, I was very much alive

Before too long the thirties, were just a distant memory
And in the wink of a short working day, I was forty-three
I left the Navy, went out alone, working at the Bar
For a while it was quite scary, but I got through without a scar

So on this day, I’m here in Court, my mind is bending, where’s that thought
My final address, to the Jury, as I unleash, words filled with fury
With age comes wisdom, so they say, I’ll try to read that book someday
But for now, I’m fifty-three, please come share my day with me

Sunday, 14 September 2014

September 14: Oscar - Did he do it ...


So Oscar he is guilty, his crime it is manslaughter
The victim was his girlfriend, but someone else’s daughter
What they and others want to know, is will he go to jail
They wonder if the learned Judge, listened fully to the tale

Only one bloke knows the truth, and he’s said all he is saying
We don’t know if he meant to kill, or if he was just playing
Bullets in a darkened door, we may never know the truth
Is Oscar just lying, or has he told the truth

Whatever is the honest truth, it doesn’t matter much
Reeva’s dead, his life is gone, he’s lost his hero’s touch
Bladerunner once, oh yes he was, but that moniker has gone
If he doesn’t go to jail, how can his life go on

He’ll never have the life he had, I think that much is a given
I know for sure he wants one thing, and that’s Reeva with the living
But now it is all over, will he go to jail or not
I’m not bloody expert, and I don’t care one jot

Saturday, 13 September 2014

September 13: The finals are here ...


The finals are here; yep, I’ve waited all year
But my efforts at tipping are not worth warm beer
My team isn’t in it, but that don’t matter a jot
I can’t wait to see what the others have got

Manly got a mauling at the hands of the Bunnies
The Roosters and Penrith, I’m watching for Sonny
Later tonight come the teams from the north
The Bronc’s and the Cowboys, only one will come forth

The other bows out, while the winner goes on
And tomorrow will see yet another one gone
At six o’clock Sunday, the Dogs or the Storm
Will play on next week, when just six will perform