Dear Mia

Oh dear Mia, quiet one
Our time is not long now
And I have done what must be done
Before the final hour
They say that we should leave a place
Much better for our time
And you have done just that my love
A beauty that's sublime

Oh dear Mia, perfect one
I watched your dance of grace
You wound yourself into my soul
So none could take your place
And so it is from year to year
Your hold on me has grown
And I look back with blessed awe
The harvest we have sown

Oh dear Mia, gentle one
You've left this mortal fold
But why you went so suddenly
This answer none can hold
The only thing I know is true
The void you've left in me
Cannot be filled by anything
So it will ever be

Oh dear Mia, peaceful one
I give you to the ground
We've sung your soul away with words
Wherever it is bound
But pain of death is one of which
The dead may never know
The living bear the burden
This way is always so

March: 2007

My Muse

I thought I'd be a writer ('twould not be hard I thought)
and so I joined a writers' group to find out what I sought.
They told me, "Listen carefully, for this will be of use,
before you can write anything, you're going to need a muse."
"Aha!" I thought (but to myself) "this sounds a strange asset,
but if they say I need a moose, a moose is what I'll get."

I booked a trip to Canada, a mountain top retreat,
and spent a bleak and lonely time up there amongst the sleet.
But finally my prey came by and as he stopped to eat,
I trapped him with the oldest ruse, a female moose in heat.

The journey home was int'resting, my moose made quite a fuss;
I fed him all of Shakespeare's verse and asked him to discuss.
And then on our arrival, as we both sat down to tea,
I waited for the words to be, but they were not to be.

So still I'm not a writer, was I taken for a ride?
The moose has trashed the garden and wrecked everything inside.
But maybe I misheard the word, for while I'm on my knees,
I spy a mousehole near the floor... I'll get a piece of cheese.

July: 2007

Dramatic Art

The tele’s got a contest,
I can’t believe my luck,
they’re looking for a piece of art,
and paying fifty bucks.

Now someone who’s resourceful,
and clever to a tee,
could make a bit of money here -
I think that someone’s me.

I visited a gallery,
to see a masterpiece,
a motor mower busted up
and called ‘Eternal Peace’.

‘Man!’ I thought, ‘How easy’s that?
This contest is a cinch.
I’ll have it done by dinner time,
tomorrow at a pinch.’

I asked Dad for the Victa,
but he just said ‘No way!’
Some people really cannot see
pure genius these days. 

And then I had a brainwave,
I thought it would be smart,
To paint my little sister up
and call her ‘Joan of Art’.

But things have not gone smoothly,
my sister won’t stay still.
She says the paint-brush tickles and
the smell just makes her ill.

And when I wasn’t looking,
she snuck off for a snack.
There’s footprints on the carpet now,
the pantry door is black.

The dining chair she sat on,
has turned a fuchsia pink.
The table’s smudged an orange shade,
called bottlebrush I think.

This modern art’s exciting,
but not a lot of fun,
and I just heard Mum coming so
I think I’d better run!

September: 2007

The Coopers Creek Ball

They say down on the Coopers Creek, whenever there's a drought,
you just put on a formal do and this will help things out.
Forget the TV weathermen and experts from the smoke,
the locals know just what to do to get the frogs to croak.

It goes a way back fifty years, a dry and bitter time,
there'd been no rain for fifteen weeks, the worst since 'twenty-nine.
But 'twasn't just the weather that was making things so glum,
they hadn't seen a sheila since before the drought had come.

Dan Murphy sometime barman and the local 'man about',
was given just a single week to sort this matter out.
And so, while he thought long and hard, an answer came by chance,
"I've got a bold solution boys, we're gonna have a dance!

Let's make it a right proper do with dinner suits and ties,
remember there'll be ladies there, so button up your flies.
We'll hold it in the old hay shed, it ain't been used for years,
it's got no roof but that's OK the weather holds no fears."

And so the news spread near and far about this formal fling,
down south they heard in Mandersville and north in Jenners Spring.
They heard way out in Berringbar and even Oakleys Fair.
Just anyone and ev'ryone was going to be there.

The day arrived, the weather fine, the shed it looked a treat;
they'd done it up real fancy to impress the girls they'd meet.
They catered cheese and biscuits and some sandwiches for lunch,
six dozen crates of ale and twelve pints of strong rum punch.

Old Ernie rode in on a pig, she weighed three hundred poun',
though done up very properly in ribbons and a gown.
Ted Garrett, who'd been mucking out, was on the nose a tad.
While Simmo wore an old top hat and monocle by gad!

The band played some Glenn Miller and some boogie-woogie tunes.
That old hay shed was jumping by the early afternoon.
But just as all the revelers were getting in their stride,
a mighty loud commotion came from somewhere to the side

The pig had got into the punch and had a right old time.
She looked around and smelled old Ted who stank of muck and grime.
And that was when she knew that she had found her perfect mate.
Ted saw that love was in her eye, and what she thought his fate.

He took off at a gallop with the pig right at his feet,
a frightened skinny farmer and a massive sow in heat.
They streaked straight past the dig'nitries, the rector and his wife,
and frightened Jones the grocer who declared "Upon my life!"

They crashed right through the dance floor in the middle of the jive,
with dancers diving left and right and fearing for their lives.
They cut across the bandstand tossing instruments aside;
the chaos and the carnage quickly spread both far and wide.

Then just as they were heading for the simple luncheon spread,
there came a strangish rumbling sound from far above their heads.
And to a soul, both man and girl, they all looked way up high,
to where they saw that thunderheads were blackening the sky.

That's when the heavens opened and the rain began to pour;
in minutes they were flooded with two inches, maybe more.
Then everybody bolted from that open roofless shed,
except for Ted who wanted to make sure the pig had fled.

But still the rain kept falling and the creek soon burst its banks.
The dams were overflowing and so too the water tanks.
And when it all was over they were not surprised to see,
a shallow lake of water where the dance floor used to be.

So now down on the Coopers Creek, whenever it's too dry,
the locals throw a party and ask everyone nearby.
And if you are just passing, well they really aren't too proud,
just drop on in behind the sign that says 'NO PIGS ALLOWED!'

 June:2007