Poetry

Thank you, Sue.  It's always my endeavour to base my writings on how I perceive real life situations.  I believe it was the nineteenth century poet, Charles Baudeleire,who stated poetry, as with all art, should image real life. This is what I strive for in my writing.

Please note this in the two following poems.

Regards,  Harry

Old Man

Old man rocks beside his cabin door;
He slowly chews on a length of straw.
Overhead, the eagle soars high,
Old man sits and watches it fly.

Old man’s life is Australia’s outback,
No rivers, trees, or well worn track.
He draws his water from artesian bore -
Old man asks for nothing more.

Old man shades his watery eyes,
As the sun ascends, into cloudless skies.
He dabs at sweat upon his face,
Old man won’t dwell, any other place.

Old man calls his mangy hound,
As it sniffs at dry, and hardened ground.
On his trusty friend he relies.
Old man will live here ‘til he dies.

Old man is happy with his lot,
His bed of skins, his cast iron pot,
In which he cooks goanna flesh.
Old man needs not that which embellish.

Old man rises as the sun dims,
Downward, it falls, to Earth’s distant rims.
Now evening closes; time to retire;
Old man stirs his open fire.

Old man senses imminent danger
Suddenly  appears a total stranger.
From the desert he has come
Old man fears for his humble home.

Old man stares at barrel of steel.
A blinding flash - no pain did he feel,
As he clutched his chest, then fell to the floor.
Old man dies, lonely and poor.

Old man had prayed. He had no wealth;
The stranger had come to steal by stealth -
Instead, to the devil, his soul he'll pay,
Old man’s riches, with his God they'll stay.

********************************************************

Old Woman

Old woman walks the city streets
Her ragged skirts creased into pleats
Hair bedraggled, weathered face,
Old woman knows every corner of this place.

Old woman hobbles on worn out soles,
Her stockings are torn, and full of holes.
She catches her breath before moving along
Old woman hums an unknown song

Old woman searches amid the wattles
For empty cans and discarded bottles
She’ll return them to the recycling yard
Old woman’s life is lonely and hard

Old woman tires as she enters the park
As the day ends and all is dark
At the soup-kitchen bench she stands,
Old woman takes her food in arthritic hands

Old woman sips at the plastic beaker
Her aching joints becoming weaker
As she makes her way to the corner dumpster
Old woman sleeps; no-one disturbs her.

Old woman awakens as the sun rises
Her day will bring forth no surprises
She crooks her bag over her arm
Old woman hopes, she will come to no harm

Old woman roams, still bereft.
All modern comforts, she has left
She chooses not, life’s avaricious ways
Old woman's content with each of her days

Old woman climbs life’s ageing stairs
Her supplication in her prayers
Until it’s time to meet her Maker
Old woman waits for her God to take her

Lovely and poignant, Harry.  And yes, they unfortunately do image real life, especially the 2nd one.  I'm ashamed to say that we have 10 to 15 thousand homeless people sleeping on the streets of Phoenix on any given night.

 This  is a poem based on life in the sixteenth century ( which is of particular interest to me).  It may be worth making an analogy to social conditions of today...to my mind little has changed in many respects.

(I'll follow this with something more humorous)

Social Conditions - 16th. Century.


(1)
Mystery and magic and secretive potions
Were used many years ago to elicit emotions
By those that purported to stand
As men of the cloth, and lords, lofty and grand

(2)
Women of honour, who were their wives,
Swore they had visions that guided their lives
Were branded as witches and burned at the stake
By men that feared women, their status they’d take

(3)
Ordinary folk who chose to believe
In dreams and images they’d receive
Taken to task by those that accuse
And were slowly tortured with evil thumb-screws

(4)
Thieves and robbers were placed in the stocks
And pelted with eggs, vegetables, and rocks
Released only when they chose to repent
Others, more serious, to the dungeons were sent

(5)
Young unmarried lasses were expected to wait
At table, or clean, with a pittance for pay
Their male counterparts, born of similar date
Were treated in very much the same way

(6)
The aged suffered from crippling ills
Unable to afford such medical bills
Sent to their graves with no recognition
Bones, all that remains of their life’s expedition

Well done Harry, you are a truly prolific poet.

Ray. 

Harry my old mate,  you revive a long lost talent, have you ever thought of having a book published ?

I would rate you with the likes of Keats, Kippling, Shelly etc;