Poetry

Thank you to all who have given honest feedback to my poetry.  Only recently did I become interested in the art.

I have written a novel (100,000 words) based loosely on the life of Bothwell, third husband of Mary, Queen of Scots, in a modern-day context. For over a quarter of a centuryI have researched the life of this queen. I have also written a number of short stories.

(Thanks for your efforts to trace the connection with Sywell Hall, Ray ) 

I am currently writing a novel - something completely different - set in Dorset, the County of my youth.  18,000 words thus far.

 Regards,

Harry

Hello, Harry:  Hope this finds you well today.  I'll be praying for your recovery from your illness.  Your writing is absolutely wonderful!  Some people just have a gift for painting with words.  I see you're in Australia, but I gathered from your poetry that you must have spent time in England.  What's the name of your novel about Bothwell?  It sounds intriguing.  When we were in England last fall we visited Castle Bolton in North Yorkshire and I believe that was one of the places where Mary Queen of Scots was imprisoned.

You take care of yourself, Harry.  BFN, RG

Thank you Lorraine.

You (and other's, of course) may enjoy some Assie humour

 Regards, Harry.

Aussie-bar Gossip


I leans me elbow on the old oak bar
In the best pub in town, by far
I cups me ear to the Bush telephone
And listens to the angry mob bemoan
The gov'ment aims to put the prices up
(Wait a tick while I ‘ave a quick sup,)
Six cents there and five cents here
Soon won’t be able to pay for me beer
“And then there’s them increased taxes”
Old feller standin’ beside me waxes
And wot about the price of fuel
Our treasurer can be real cruel
He says it’s all for the common good
I reckon ‘e thinks ‘e’s Robin Hood
Sort a’role reversal in a way
He robs the poor, the rich to pay!
How can we survive, workin’ on the land?
There’s no relief for a poor farm-hand
I hear missus Kelly’s expectin’ another
She reckons it‘ll be a little brother
For her youngest daughter Kate
Her old bloke was me real best mate
‘Til he laid up, followin’ a stroke
A right real gent, a bonzer bloke
All he can do now is sit and stare
Looks right through you, like yer not there
(‘Ang on a minute, while I wipes me nose)
We all gotta shed a tear now an’ again I s’pose
I hope Him upstairs will let me know
When it’s my turn to go
And He’ll make it quick – not too much pain
I’ve had a good life; I can’t complain
I know that when I’m in His hand
Whatever comes next will be just grand
So, if yer don’t mind Lord, I’ll finish me drink
Before you pulls the plug in me sink!

Brilliant Harry,

This poem is quite fitting as I was at my brother-in-law's funeral yesterday and he had his "plug pulled" very suddenly and long before his time....so as people  say, "It's a good job we don't know what's round the corner!"-----now Harry,   enough doom & gloom ----let's have a cheery poem please------------have a good evening(hope I've got the time right!)

Hi Ruth,

Thank you for your encouraging words - I feel fine physically - tiredness consumes me unexpectedly from time to time, but does it not with us all

I still do the many chores involved in running an acre of land, vegetable garden, poultry to tend and so on.
I have a biopsy procedure on Monday. My Haemotologist was concerned that my wife and I will be travelling overseas for six weeks from August 1, but I am determined to make the most of it.
Yes, I was born in London, but spent my youth in Dorset. The memories remain...
The working title of the Bothwell book is "Yesterday's Man"- The current one, "Cataclysm"

Kind regards,
Harry

Here is a sad poem with a modicum of humour, Lorraine...

Thank you Lynn...destination Royal Adelaide Hospital...it can be Googled

Regards,

Harry

An Ode to a Drinker

Liam Darcy stood by the bar
His land of birth a distant far
It was by choice that he decided
To follow his dream that fate had guided
This Irish laddy donned new regalia
To start a life in far off Australia.
He related to an unknown toper
A down and out no-hoper
What it was like to emigrate.
Leave sister Mary and Patrick Nate,
His younger brother and best mate
To care for Dad and their sick Mother
To mind the farm with the older brother
He had no intention to return
(He would however, sometimes yearn)
To sweat and toil and turn more sod
And every Sunday pray to God
Instead, he’d make a living here
And make more money to buy more beer.
The fellow drinker raised his glass
To indicate that he would pass
Aside the offer of another drink
That Liam generously proffered
(To which he secretly concurred)
And to the barmaid gave a wink.
Liam counted out his change;
No way could he afford a Grange
Instead, he settled for another ale.
‘I often wonder what they are doing,’
His conversation once more returned,
Regarding his decision to leave Eire,
The land of lasses sweet and fairer.
He guessed that they’d be forgiving
Of his need to make a living
Carting bricks to build new homes,
Then spend his regular weekly earnings
On smokes and women and other yearnings.
I sometimes wish that they were near
So that I could also buy them beer,
He reminisced on life in Ireland.
But then again, if they were here
They’d stop me drinking Aussie beer
Alas, poor Liam didn’t reckon
Fate’s pointing finger, he, would beckon
And so it was that whilst his drinking
Served to clarify his thinking
He didn’t expect to be called this day
In such an inappropriate way
He continued with his task
Of drinking beer from oaken cask
Until finally it occurred -
He would not be deterred,
He left the pub and crossed the road
And was hit for six by his best mate’s car

That suddenly arrived from afar
When they buried poor old Liam
His family couldn’t come and see ‘im
He lay alone in his cold grave
His life, the doctors couldn’t save
To all you boozers, if you have to drink
Before you cross the road just stop and think
You’re not immune to speeding cars
So don’t stay too long in hotel bars.

PS.  A Grange is the most expensive of Oz wines (I have a bottle of 1971 vitage)

But then, this one may be more appropriate in my case!

Aussie Bar-Room Gossip 2



I sits in the bar on me three legged stool
Watching young studs play snooker and pool
Young blokes braggin’ in wide open shirts
Their sheilas a’wearing the shortest skirts
Usin’ swear words that’d make me Missus turn
In ‘er ashes restin’ peaceful, in the urn
We was married for sixty years

(‘Ang on a minute while I wipes me tears)

Poor old gal passed away five years ago

I miss ‘er terrible, but that’s how things go
She’s in good hands now, I don’t doubt

I ‘spose that’s wot life’s all about
I placed ‘er above the tavern’s bar
She used to act like every one’s Ma
Tellin’ ‘em when they’d supped enough-
Some reckoned she was a mite too tough
(They’d dare not look ‘er in the face)
I bet she watches from ‘er secret place
No-one would answer back when she spoke
Always called me her ‘Fancy Bloke’

She’d not call me fancy if she could see me now

The years are tellin’ on me wrinkled brow

But I still ‘ave a twinkle in me eye

When a pretty young thing passes me by
Me joints are playin’ up now winter’s here
And with knobby knuckles, I can't hold me beer
And if the Lord don’t take me when I fall ill
I ‘spose I have to face the fact, the Devil will.