Poems and Stuff



I had posted some of this stuff before, since we had the big Crash, thought I would put it up again.
Anything I put here was written by me unless I say otherwise.
Dunno if you'll like any of it.
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My First Try at writing sonnets.

In love I taste your lips, in deep embrace
Your scent like flowers in the morning mist,
My loves declaration made too late
Such moments now we must resist.
Another has your heart now, not I
Your love divided, fate prevailing over need,
In silence I lament my hesitation, I cry
Yet another knife thrust, my heart still bleeds
To face my darkness, alone I must return,
Your happiness ever taunting, my tortured mind
What god would leave me, forever spurned?
In desolations grasp no love to find.
The scented morning rose, brings thoughts of you,
I am returned to my eternal deja vu

Where lies the wonder that my youthful self-embraced,
When dragons roamed my world and damsels called my name,
What saddened world leaves this shadow so defaced?
Where is my chance for glory where the minstrels sing my fame?
Where are the hero’s that tread Odin’s halls with me,
With Shining blade and golden helms upon their heads
Who fought knee deep in blood and gore till Victory
That strode among a vanquished foe, now dead
This world now cold and filled with stolen dreams
My life now ringed by shallow men with paper hearts
For passage to Valhalla, my soul doth scream
To escape this worthless place, I must depart.
I dream that my princess waits for me,
Until my blade returns to set her free.
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Event Horizon
A boundary in space time beyond which events cannot affect an outside observer.

Standing on my event horizon,
I look inwards to see infinite nothing,
A nothing that consumes everything,
A single unattainable point,
Again and again I reach my hand into the darkness,
Grasping at the infinite possibilities,
But nothing passes my event horizon,
The possibilities don’t even stop to mock me,
I am irrelevant, unnoticed,
Less than irrelevant, invisible,
Nothing escapes the horizon,
Still I balance on the edge.

Looking outwards,
Still more chemicals, to open the door,
I see all that was, all that is to be
Everything in an instant,
Yet each moment stationary,
Each moment a possibility,
Each moment contains,
Important to me,
Some I can name,
Some I can feel,

I reach out, now grasping at the stationary moments.
But my horizon is always present.
A boundary in space time beyond which,
events cannot affect an outside observer.
I am the observer.
My boundary,
My Event Horizon,
One direction invisible,
The other direction red shifted,
Beyond any reachable spectrum.

Still I balanced on the edge.
Which way to step.
I close my eyes to seek clarity,
The possibilities cease,
The moments stop,
Just darkness now,
No points of light.
No distractions

One way peace, the other endless pain,
I look further inwards
deeper into the darkness.
I see secrets,
I see a life, or is it death eternal,
I am not alone now,
There are others here,
Old friends passed,
Lost loves,
Sweet essence,
Red Nectre.

mors tua, vita mea
Your Death, My Life.
Or is it my death your life?

Nosferatu Vampirus,
If only it were real.
I know which way to step.
Opening my eyes for one last look.
I see…. irrelevance.
My choice irrelevant,
I close my eyes again.
I choose my step,
Into the darkness
Into the eternal,
Al that is left is to reduce the impact,
To choose the time,​

"Hold Infinity in the palm of your hand
And Eternity in an hour."

I Understand now what he saw.
I wait.

Greywolf 1961 - 20...​
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How can I face the life that lies ahead?
When hope is gone, the road paved in stark despair,
Each morning fills my mind with dread,
The night’s dreams of you now gone, so fair.
The daily chore engulfs my mind, inert,
With every step my soul is reaped of worth,
Where lies the way to sooth me from my hurt?
One step closer to my home, beneath the earth.
I dream one day your love will set me free,
Your gentle touch to warm my frozen heart,
In vain I wait for your words of love, for me,
Your Indifference to replace all hope, departs,
The candle burns, waits for my bones to fall,
A forgotten epitaph, in faded scrawl.


I love your poetry. I write poetry too & wonder if you want me to share. Maybe we could write something together.


Here is two of my favourites from one of Australais greatest Bush Poets, Banjo Patterson.

Mulga Bill's Bicycle - Poem by Banjo Paterson

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that caught the cycling craze;
He turned away the good old horse that served him many days;
He dressed himself in cycling clothes, resplendent to be seen;
He hurried off to town and bought a shining new machine;
And as he wheeled it through the door, with air of lordly pride,
The grinning shop assistant said, "Excuse me, can you ride?"
"See here, young man," said Mulga Bill, "from Walgett to the sea,
From Conroy's Gap to Castlereagh, there's none can ride like me.
I'm good all round at everything, as everybody knows,
Although I'm not the one to talk - I hate a man that blows.
But riding is my special gift, my chiefest, sole delight;
Just ask a wild duck can it swim, a wildcat can it fight.
There's nothing clothed in hair or hide, or built of flesh or steel,
There's nothing walks or jumps, or runs, on axle, hoof, or wheel,
But what I'll sit, while hide will hold and girths and straps are tight:
I'll ride this here two-wheeled concern right straight away at sight."

'Twas Mulga Bill, from Eaglehawk, that sought his own abode,
That perched above the Dead Man's Creek, beside the mountain road.
He turned the cycle down the hill and mounted for the fray,
But ere he'd gone a dozen yards it bolted clean away.
It left the track, and through the trees, just like a silver streak,
It whistled down the awful slope towards the Dead Man's Creek.

It shaved a stump by half an inch, it dodged a big white-box:
The very wallaroos in fright went scrambling up the rocks,
The wombats hiding in their caves dug deeper underground,
As Mulga Bill, as white as chalk, sat tight to every bound.
It struck a stone and gave a spring that cleared a fallen tree,
It raced beside a precipice as close as close could be;
And then as Mulga Bill let out one last despairing shriek
It made a leap of twenty feet into the Dead Man's Creek.

'Twas Mulga Bill from Eaglehawk, that slowly swam ashore:
He said, "I've had some narrer shaves and lively rides before;
I've rode a wild bull round a yard to win a five-pound bet,
But this was the most awful ride that I've encountered yet.
I'll give that two-wheeled outlaw best; It's shaken all my nerve
To feel it whistle through the air and plunge and buck and swerve.
It's safe at rest in Dead Man's Creek, we'll leave it lying still;
A horse's back is good enough henceforth for Mulga Bill."

A.B. (Banjo) Paterson


And Another...

THE MAN FROM IRONBARK by A.B. "Banjo" Paterson
It was the man from Ironbark who struck the Sydney town,
He wandered over street and park, he wandered up and down.
He loitered here, he loitered there, till he was like to drop,
Until at last in sheer despair he sought a barber's shop.
"'Ere! shave my beard and whiskers off, I'll be a man of mark,
I'll go and do the Sydney toff up home in Ironbark."

The barber man was small and flash, as barbers mostly are,
He wore a strike-your-fancy sash, he smoked a huge cigar;
He was a humorist of note and keen at repartee,
He laid the odds and kept a "tote", whatever that may be,
And when he saw our friend arrive, he whispered, "Here's a lark!
Just watch me catch him all alive, this man from Ironbark."

There were some gilded youths that sat along the barber's wall.
Their eyes were dull, their heads were flat, they had no brains at all;
To them the barber passed the wink, his dexter eyelid shut,
"I'll make this bloomin' yokel think his bloomin' throat is cut."
And as he soaped and rubbed it in he made a rude remark:
"I s'pose the flats is pretty green up there in Ironbark."

A grunt was all reply he got; he shaved the bushman's chin,
Then made the water boiling hot and dipped the razor in.
He raised his hand, his brow grew black, he paused awhile to gloat,
Then slashed the red-hot razor-back across his victim's throat:
Upon the newly-shaven skin it made a livid mark -
No doubt it fairly took him in - the man from Ironbark.

He fetched a wild up-country yell might wake the dead to hear,
And though his throat, he knew full well, was cut from ear to ear,
He struggled gamely to his feet, and faced the murd'rous foe:
"You've done for me! you dog, I'm beat! one hit before I go!
I only wish I had a knife, you blessed murdering shark!
But you'll remember all your life the man from Ironbark."

He lifted up his hairy paw, with one tremendous clout
He landed on the barber's jaw, and knocked the barber out.
He set to work with nail and tooth, he made the place a wreck;
He grabbed the nearest gilded youth, and tried to break his neck.
And all the while his throat he held to save his vital spark,
And "Murder! Bloody murder!" yelled the man from Ironbark.

A peeler man who heard the din came in to see the show;
He tried to run the bushman in, but he refused to go.
And when at last the barber spoke, and said "'Twas all in fun—
'Twas just a little harmless joke, a trifle overdone."
"A joke!" he cried, "By George, that's fine; a lively sort of lark;
I'd like to catch that murdering swine some night in Ironbark."

And now while round the shearing floor the list'ning shearers gape,
He tells the story o'er and o'er, and brags of his escape.
"Them barber chaps what keeps a tote, By George, I've had enough,
One tried to cut my bloomin' throat, but thank the Lord it's tough."
And whether he's believed or no, there's one thing to remark,
That flowing beards are all the go way up in Ironbark.

The Bulletin, 17 December 1892.


The power of a song

Do you know the power of a song?
Songs are a good way of expressing feelings.
They are especially helpful if you dance or sing along.
You can express feelings about your bad dealings.

You can express happiness, depression & rage.
Then you can let go of these feelings.
You can turn another page.
You can concern yourself with other dealings.

You can talk about subjects that are taboo.
You can express these feelings at a volume that goes through the roof.
You don't just have to give people an emotional clue.
You can tell them the truth.

Everyone can have a dance.
They may sing or play instruments if they get the chance.
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I've always loved horses, ponies & donkeys too.
I always wanted to own 1.
I know I'm not the only 1. Most little girls do.
They're all beautiful, whether black, white, grey, chestnut or dun.

I never even got the chance to learn to ride.
I only ever got the chance to see 1 who lived nearby & stroke & feed it.
It was lovely being by its side.
I was taught to lay my hands flat when feeding it apples & carrots so my fingers wouldn't get bit.

I'd love to go somewhere like Shetland, Eriskay, Connemara, Newforest, Dartmoor, Exmoor or the Camargue where they are in the wild.
Those holidays would be a dream to me.
I've always wanted to do this since I was a child.
They are places I'll always want to be.

All the talk of the role of horses in the past first got me interested in history.
Why I've always been attracted to them is such a mystery.
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Did you know Horsa that Australia has lots of Wild Horses.
Over here we call them Brumbies.

Here is a pic of some from the Snowy Mountains, (Banjo Patterson country :) )

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I did. Thank you very much for the picture though. I'd love to see them wild too. They're beautiful.


Horses scare the begeebers out of me. I like them, but have never had a good experience with them.
Give me a Motorcycle any day, at least a bike does what you tell it, and if it bucks you off it is almost certainly your own fault. :)
Horses have an inbuilt idiot detector. They can smell an inexperienced rider at 3 miles and already have a cunning plan to kill you by the time you arrive to ride them :)


I'm very sorry to hear that. I've always loved horses but have never attempted to ride 1. I've only stroked them & fed them apples & carrots. They nuzzle me & lick me to death. You shouldn't say that. You're not an idiot. I think you've just had bad experiences with them. You get some nice, friendly, patient horses too. :0)


This is my latest poem. I decided to share with you.

Why is it so hard to set yourself free?
Why is it so hard to let yourself be?
How come a lot of the time I think less of myself than others think of me?

I've tried to change my attitude.
I've always tried to show my gratitude.

It's very hard to change the way you think.
Unless that is you've had 1 too many to drink.
Afterwards to the depths of despair you sink.

You can change the way you feel.
If you try your best sometimes the truth you can conceal.

All these thoughts & feelings can be overcome with hard work.
You've got to keep plodding on though, you can't allow yourself to shirk.

Things don't happen overnight.
You don't suddenly get a future that's bright.
Things aren't always sweetness & light.
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How come most animals are cuter than grown ups with the exception of owls?
Owls get more beautiful when they get older & they're beautiful fowls?
In fact I think owls are some of the most beautiful birds on earth.
I've thought that since not long after my birth.
I know that they're nocturnal birds so if you're not out late at night with a torch you don't get much chance of seeing them wild.
Owl sanctuaries do a good job of looking after them though & I've been to a few since I was a child.
They let me stroke their stomach though which I've since learnt can cause them to have bald patches.
I wouldn't stroke them again as I don't want their feathers to come out in batches.
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