Poetry

[Aussie]

What is life without optimism?

And a woman a sassy as you is worth dreaming the impossible dream about.

Jesus wept........as did Brooke, kanki, Ravi, maybe even Gwenyfarter, et al!

[Auzgurl]

whats up aussie

[Jovial Monk]

Nobody flirts with Aussie, he's jealous

[Auzgurl]

aaaww

[JW Frogen]

Jesus wept........as did Brooke, kanki, Ravi, maybe even Gwenyfarter, et al!

Not Gwen, I do have taste you know.

I don't do chardoney drunk as real booze.

I like women who can write in a manner other than trite.

[Jovial Monk]

Only frauds drink chardonnay. And poofs. Hi Jubial

[Auzgurl]

I'm 6'2" and handsome
Ask anyone who's met me
I'm rich and bored and happy
Come on line and get me

Every woman wants me
But I'm looking for the one
That special little lady
For fantasy and fun

My life is so fulfilling
I'm out most every night
I only roam the internet
On days when it is quiet

Rare though this occurrence be
The body must have rest
So on the nights I stay at home
This does as second best

My body is a work of art
I'll send a photo soon
Adonis in a birthday suit
The women always swoon

So, If you'd like to talk to me
And send a steamy greeting
Make sure it's on a Monday
When my wife is at her meeting

[Auzgurl]

Terrible Rhymes

Sometimes when I try to find a good rhyme
With a word, for example, like purple,
I can rack my brain for hours on end
And come up with just maple syurple.

So I decided to give this problem some thought
While I sit here on my veranda,
Why doesn’t every word have a rhyme
It’s something I don’t understanda.

While sitting here and writing a poem
I have fun making rhymes with most of the verbiage.
Then I hit a point usually in verse three
That I can’t find a word and I get quite disturbiage.

Because I read much, I know lots of words.
And always made use of an extensive lexicon
I try and I try to find a fantastic rhyme
Until I reach that point and shout, ”What the hecksacon!”

So I have been struggling for what seems like an eternity
I see fresh coffee sitting on the credenza,
So I lay this down with a big R.I.P.
I’m done! I quit! This is the endza.

[Auzgurl]

A Bush Christening

On the outer Barcoo where the churches are few,
And men of religion are scanty,
On a road never cross'd 'cept by folk that are lost,
One Michael Magee had a shanty.

Now this Mike was the dad of a ten year old lad,
Plump, healthy, and stoutly conditioned;
He was strong as the best, but poor Mike had no rest
For the youngster had never been christened.

And his wife used to cry, `If the darlin' should die
Saint Peter would not recognise him.'
But by luck he survived till a preacher arrived,
Who agreed straightaway to baptise him.

Now the artful young rogue, while they held their collogue,
With his ear to the keyhole was listenin',
And he muttered in fright, while his features turned white,
`What the divil and all is this christenin'?'

He was none of your dolts, he had seen them brand colts,
And it seemed to his small understanding,
If the man in the frock made him one of the flock,
It must mean something very like branding.

So away with a rush he set off for the bush,
While the tears in his eyelids they glistened --
`'Tis outrageous,' says he, `to brand youngsters like me,
I'll be dashed if I'll stop to be christened!'

Like a young native dog he ran into a log,
And his father with language uncivil,
Never heeding the `praste' cried aloud in his haste,
`Come out and be christened, you divil!'

But he lay there as snug as a bug in a rug,
And his parents in vain might reprove him,
Till his reverence spoke (he was fond of a joke)
`I've a notion,' says he, `that'll move him.'

`Poke a stick up the log, give the spalpeen a prog;
Poke him aisy -- don't hurt him or maim him,
'Tis not long that he'll stand, I've the water at hand,
As he rushes out this end I'll name him.

`Here he comes, and for shame! ye've forgotten the name --
Is it Patsy or Michael or Dinnis?'
Here the youngster ran out, and the priest gave a shout --
`Take your chance, anyhow, wid `Maginnis'!'

As the howling young cub ran away to the scrub
Where he knew that pursuit would be risky,
The priest, as he fled, flung a flask at his head
That was labelled `MAGINNIS'S WHISKY'!

And Maginnis Magee has been made a J.P.,
And the one thing he hates more than sin is
To be asked by the folk, who have heard of the joke,
How he came to be christened `Maginnis'!

[Hebe]

I see with my ears
I hear the leaves in the tall trees, whispering in the night.
I hear the sea, dark and deep, and the splash of the dolphin's leap.
I hear the flames crackling and the window frames rattling in the wind.
I see with my ears.

I see with my nose .
I smell the blossoms pearly-grey and hay new mown.
I smell the ploughed earth, cows in the byre, the smokey fire.
I smell Grandpa's pipe, Gran's lavender room and Mum's faint perfume.
I see with my nose.

I see with my mouth.
I taste the strong black coffee and the thick brown toffee I between my teeth,
I taste the yellow of the lemon, the green of the melon and the red of the tomato,
I taste the orange of the carrot, the purple of the plum, the gold of the sun on my face,
I see with my mouth.

I see with my hands.
I feel the sharp edges, slippery floors, smooth ledges.
I feel lemonade in cold canisters, hard wooden banisters,
I feel hands to hold, arms on shoulders, faces to touch,
I see with my hands.