Aunt Prudence wasn't ugly, but she certainly was plain,

And beaux had never lined up for her hand.

She lived her life in fantasy that some dark handsome swain

Would someday take her to her promised land.

She'd have a crystal castle high above a turquoise sea

On a verdant land beneath a gentle sky.

And she'd listen to soft music while she sipped her morning tea

While soft breezes through the frangipanis sigh.

She often-times confided in Sir Lancelot; her cat,

How her prince would someday wander by her side...

And carry her; compliant; to her cosy castle flat,

And there she would become his blushing bride.

The small beach was deserted where she strolled with her black cat

And he looked around with baleful yellow eyes.

In the surf was a small bottle, very close to where she sat,

And she picked it it up amid the seagulls' cries..

It was old, and stoppered tightly shut, and badly battered too,

And had floated in the sea for many years.

She struggled with the stopper that seemed held in place by glue,

When released the giant filled her heart with fears...

It was, of course, a Genie, as is known around the world

That appeared within a cloud of crimson smoke.

"Three wishes ma'am, is all you get, for getting me unfurled,

So make it quick, this isn't any joke!"

She told him shyly of her dream of love and wealth and lust,

On an island floating in a limpid sea,

And of the handsome prince in whom she could place all her trust,

"And he will worship no one else but me!"

The Genie looked for objects to complete the task at hand,

..A nearby rock became the verdant isle.

Some driftwood formed the castle, high above the golden sand,

The cat became a prince in regal style.

..And so they came to keep their tryst above the azure sea,

He gazed into her eyes and held her near..

Her loving eyes said "take me now", a soft unspoken plea..

But glinting in his eye; a single tear...

He gazed upon her slender form, with tender love undying,

"I'll do my best", he said, "but I'm afraid...

That life would be so happy, and a lot more satisfying

If just last year, you hadn't had me spayed...

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Courage

by Frank Halliwell
Jimboomba, Australia

I heard the cries of torment from

the bottom of the stair!

The fateful time approaching

as I came to join them there!

There was no joy, no happiness,

the place was filled with gloom.

Resigned to fate, with haunted eyes,

we all await our doom!

It comes at last to everyone,

at early time or late,

Not fame, nor wealth, nor regal rank

shall save them from their fate!

The grown men sigh, the children cry,

their countenances pale...

They sob and beg and stamp their feet,

but all to no avail.

Seen clearly through the half-closed door;

bathed in an eerie glow...

The instruments of torture wait,

compounding victims' woe!

The summons comes: I stand and smile,

and bravely heed the call!

No faint heart, I ! The chamber waits,

my grit will show them all!

No moan or groan shall pass my lips,

no tears form in my eye!

I shall not shirk or hesitate

nor ask the reason why!

A friendly and disarming smile

belies his chilling trade.

It takes but a few moments now

until the mould is made

With the impression finished then,

I rise and leave the room,

And I'll pick up my brand new teeth

on friday afternoon."

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The Soil Expert

by Frank Halliwell
Jimboomba, Australia

She strides across the paddock,
steely purpose in her eyes,
Surveying likely spots
with the detachment of the wise.
The coming decision will surely be
the most vital of the day,
No mundane things will be allowed
to stand in nature's way.

She approaches her task as one possessed
with total dedication,
Aware of responsibility
for the future of the nation.
There can be nothing casual
In this meticulous inspection,
To gather relevant data
for the soil content correction.

"This seems the correct size and shape,
and texture, scent and feel.
I'll give this bit a little nudge,
to make sure that it's real.
I'd say it needs a trifle more,
just up there to the right,
And maybe to the east a bit,
but I'll do that to-night".

The barren soil awaits renewal,
quiet, unafraid.
At last, she takes three steps ahead
with the decision made,
And with her tail held high and straight,
in somber salutation,
she makes todays deposit
to the rebirth of the nation.

And then, and only then,
her patriotic duty done.
She returns to join the other donkeys,
grazing in the sun.

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LUKE

by Frank Halliwell
Jimboomba, Australia

It seems a year or two at most that Luke has been around,

But nine have passed since first I spied him at the Brisbane pound.
He stood in dogdom's big house, all ears and tongue and smile,

The model of a friendly dog, without a trace of guile.

"Please, that one in the second cage, with the german shepherd look!"

The attendant riffled pages, and he found him in his book.
"It says that he's half kelpie and he called Carina home,

And that his name is Luke, and that he sometimes likes to roam."

"Here, boy!" I called, and here he came, and without hesitation

His tail a hairy question mark; would he improve his station ?
I hope I did, in our short time, improve his life as he has mine.

I've seldom known so loyal a friend, nor dreamed of how soon it would end.

He's sure done all those doggy things that dogs are famous for.

He's barked at all & sundry and shed hair on every floor.
He's barked at trucks with flapping tarps and kids on minibikes.

and howled in unison with Spook to tell of their dislikes...

Of the sirens of the ambulance or wailing police cars

In hot pursuit of motorists caught in covert radars.
Now suddenly I come aware that he's well past his prime.

The years have all been stolen by the furtive thief of time.

At first it's hardly noticed, no real drama at first sight,

Just a restless movement in the dark, a whimper in the night...
He thinks that I'm all knowing, he believes that I'm all wise,

And he thinks that I can fix it; I can see it in his eyes.

But now it looks like it's the end, it seems no cure is known.

A defect in the hip socket to which his breed is prone.
The computer screen is shimmering, like looking through a fog,

As I write to tell the story of my lovely long-eared dog.

I lift him up into the car, his leap has long since gone,

Would he be quite so happy, if he knew the road we're on?
I'm waiting for the vet to open, crying like a child.

"Would you come this way to see the vet?" The lady in white smiled.

The leg is shaved and sterilized, one might well wonder why!

The syringe at last is empty, and I bid my friend goodbye.
I hold him tight and talk to him, "sleep now, my dear old friend".

And cradled in my arms he sleeps; and we have reached the end.

And still, down by the fence he sleeps, beneath the shady trees.

Where the wild birds chatter from the branches, swaying in the breeze.
And high above him, after dark, the southern cross burns bright,

And there'll be no more pain or hurt... No whimper in the night.

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Vital Signs

by Frank Halliwell
Jimboomba, Australia

The climb is long and tortuous, the path with boulders strewn...
The morning covers half of life before we come to noon.
The sun reaches its zenith long before we've reached our prime,
And falters not, after its long and logarithmic climb...

But flashes swiftly overhead; its energy now spent,
And races west, horizon bound, where all its fellows went.
The morning now is memories of dim and hazy days,
As afternoon is waning in the parabolic phase.

The piercing rays have vanished as the sun is getting low,
But vision is much clearer in the golden afterglow.
The things we value in our youth and pursue with a lust,
Are seen to be as meaningful as drifting motes of dust.

If we could but see, early on, what is apparent now,
The wisdom that is gained with age, might us in youth endow:
That morning passes slowly, but the evening rushes by,
And while we well may learn the how, we'll never know the why!

The drapes at last are drawn aside, the waiting sun leaps through,
The lawn's a sheen of silver, with the early morning dew,
And in the wings, the spectre waits, don't view him with dismay...
You never know how few are left, reach out... and seize today!

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THE LIFER

by Frank Halliwell
Jimboomba, Australia

The accused stands, impassive,
just staring past the bars,
at dark blue sky, and fluffy clouds,
and the first faint evening stars.

Kookaburras chuckle softly,
from an old and gnarled ghost gum,
tuning up, in preparation
for the bedlam, soon to come !

Swift shadows in the deepening dusk
as flying foxes fill the air,
a squabble or two and they're off again,
they come from whence, and go to where ?

The turnkey sweeps into the room
and snuffs out the last light.
The bars dissolve into the gloom
of an arbitrary night.

A raucous screeching high above.
Flashes of rose in the morning sun,
as a hundred galahs dive and wheel
and start off on a long days fun !

The prisoner stares out through the bars.
The sentence, in full measure:
"Life in solitary, with no parole!"
At grandma and grandpa's pleasure.

The lifer contemplates his sins
and his most heinous crime,
He paused to rest in the wrong place,
and stayed too long a time!

The other crime was being
a pleasure to the eyes,
of wearing a fine coloured coat
with luminescent dyes.

The lifer stares out through the bars,
he may not go where we go.
A loss of kith, and kin, and kind,
to satisfy an ego.

The lifer stands, impassive,
just staring past the bars.
At dark blue sky and fluffy clouds,
and the first faint evening stars.

The jailer swept into the room,
covered the cage and said,
"Now, cocky..,pretty cockatoo...
It's time to go to bed!

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Windsong

by Frank Halliwell
Jimboomba, Australia

The rigging sings the north wind's song,

Through all the sheets it's sighing.
The pirate crew atoning now

In time that flight is buying.
The holds are filled with plundered store:

The sheets can not be coaxed for more:
We'll all hang high, the captain swore.

For our sins, we'll be dying.

The frigate flies before the wind..

Her every fibre straining.
The quarry can't escape them now,

In what sea room's remaining.
"Put one round close across her bow!

The boarding party ready now!..
She'll strike her colours soon, I vow!

Or blood, her decks be staining!"

To starboard: land, and land ahead...

To port, the frigate: gaining!
They curse the hand of destiny,

And know their fortunes waning.
The waters shift from blue to green

As heaven lights the depths unseen.
The surf roars out its endless paean

To join the north wind's keening.

A shadow sweeps beneath her keel,

The coral pink and bright,
And rips apart her stout oak heart

And chills her crew with fright.
The waves rush in to seal their fate.

The women and the children wait...
The lamps burn and the slow bell tolls,

Long into the night.

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The Kookaburra

by Frank Halliwell
Jimboomba, Australia

They congregate at break of day,
when night is almost done,
for a joyous benediction
to the rising of the sun.

And once again come evening,
when the western sky so bright,
surrenders all it's duties
to the velvet cloak of night.

I'd like someone to explain to me,
before I turn to clay,
'cause I've never heard that cackle
in the middle of the day.

Why they sometimes start at 4 AM
and wake me with a fright,
to join with them, to celebrate
the middle of the night!

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Words

by Frank Halliwell
Jimboomba, Australia

I've drifted for these sixty years,
And never really known,
Where life would lead eventually,
Ere the bird of time had flown.

I've always envied those around,
Who've found some means to sway.
The thoughts and views of others,
To change the world some way.

For there's no doubt it needs changing,
It's apparent everywhere,
That half the world is hungry,
And the other half don't care.

But what to do, to make one's mark,
This emptiness to fill,
Inspired things on canvas
May require certain skill.

And so I'll take the easy path,
And be a poet choose...
For the poet's work is said to be
Inspired by the Muse....

The artist and the poet
Are really much the same
They work and struggle for the heart,
And not for wealth or fame.

They use their art to illustrate
Those things they've seen and heard.
One toils with strokes of coloured paint,
The other paints with words.

In just a week or two at most,
It's all come very plain,
That poetry and I are one,
As flowers need the rain.

It seems the Muse has been nearby,
As life has moved along.
For I have oft been deeply moved
By the poet's siren song.

To take a quivering, naked thought,
When it has but been born,
To nurse it, clothe it, flesh it out,
To give it shape and form.

To polish, and to change it,
Into something it was not,
To transmute the ordinary,
To the pinnacle of thought !

It's funny now to contemplate
What one incident has wrought.
A disagreement with a vendor
Wherein I justice sought.

So when, in desperation,
One brought verse into the fray.
The Muse appeared, unbidden,
And changed, without delay....

A lover of the natural world
And friend of wild, free birds,
To the stumbling composer
Of a symphony of words.

Mad, rhyming words that ebb and surge,
Like flotsam in my head.
Frustrating sleep and causing me
To rise up from my bed...

To write them down, lest I forget,
And cause them to go free...
For in their restless ebb and flow,
The words, they nurture me.

An amalgam of well chosen words,
To make the spirit soar.
From the miracle of childbirth,
To heroic deeds in war.

Sad words that speak of tragedy
Bring moisture to the eye,
And wonder, at the faith some have
In guidance from on high.

The tap, tap, on the podium,
Calls for quiet in the hall.
With baton raised, the poet
Plays his symphony, for all.

A vagrant breeze just stirs the leaves,
In pianissimo.
A crescendo builds up, layer on layer,
To shake the earth below.

The Muse intrudes into my dream,
Though I've not been long abed,
I wipe the sand from weary eyes,
"The time is nigh", she said.

" For you must rise and start anew,
Your night's sleep surely ends !
For the words have all come back again,
And brought along their friends !"

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The Tree

by Frank Halliwell
Jimboomba, Australia

This ancient leafy giant
that's endured three hundred years
Seems to tremble as the chainsaw..
through it's heartwood rips and tears.

It stood tall when the "Endeavour"
plied these golden coasts of old,
And gazed down as Bourke and Wills passed by
on expeditions bold.

But now it lies, a shattered thing,
among the forest litter.
A sacrifice to ancient lust for
things that gleam and glitter.

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Wonder

by Frank Halliwell
Jimboomba, Australia

If the world should lose its savour
And I cease to feel a thrill
At the lorikeet's bold beauty
Or the magpie's liquid trill...

And I stand no more in awe to watch
The lightning's blinding light
As the fury of the elements
Illuminate the night...

And I ponder not the universe
Beyond the track of Mars
To the wonder of the endless
Empty void between the stars...

Then draw the green sod o'er me
And perhaps shed one small tear,
For if I've ceased to wonder,
There's no point in being here!

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Resolution

by Frank Halliwell
Jimboomba, Australia

I've reached realization that without some perspiration,
My public veneration is unlikely to transpire,
And in my consternation at my lack of motivation
Came a sudden revelation that I needed to aquire...

A sense of dedication and a little stimulation,
And a bit less hesitation when I face the job at hand...
And I'll win the admiration of the folks around the nation
And I'll be by acclamation, foremost poet in the land!

So there's been a revolution and I've made a resolution
that I'm going to write a little something every single day,
Because fame, in my conclusion will remain just an illusion
Unless I get my finger out and start without delay.

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The Visitor

by Frank Halliwell
Jimboomba, Australia

I don't know what it was that woke me, just a vague feeling of movement
In the early pre-dawn darkness at the bottom of the bed.
I could just make out the curtains blowing idly round the window
And the frame of lighter darkness round the old machinery shed.

The night was dark and moonless, and my vision dim and hazy
In the weak illumination of the cold and distant stars.
And I fancied as I squinted to resolve the dim horizon
That the bright one in the corner was the reddish planet, Mars.

There it was again,... the movement: gentle pressure on my ankle.
It must be the cat, I told myself and relaxed with a sigh.
Then it moved again.. along my calf, so gently, like a lover
And it touched at last now clammy flesh along my inner thigh!

I groped to reach the light switch on the wall beside the bed-post
To ease my consternation at my uninvited guest.
But the wanted switch eluded ; its position seemed secluded
As I tried to back away from mounting pressure on my chest!

The light was bright and blinding and my guest was now rewinding
His long and slender body on its new and quaking spot.
He was big and he was handsome: his black eyes peered into mine,
Every muscle in my body bunched up tightly in a knot!

If I moved, the game was over; nothing was to me more certain...
His head was slowly weaving only inches from my face.
Though I tried to will it silent lest it vex my brown intruder,
My thumping heart insisted on a unremitting race!

The house was fast asleep and would remain so for an hour,
There seemed no way to signal that I'd fallen into strife
And it seemed a time eternal that we spent in close communion,
While I gained appreciation of our transitory life.

And then my slender savage turned, and silently and swiftly
He retraced his path to grassy fields in less time than it takes...
To tell my breathless story, and he vanished in the darkness,
And returned to tend his business in his leafy glades and brakes.

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Blossom

by Frank Halliwell
Jimboomba, Australia

Just grab a seat on that stump lad, and I'll take centre stage,
With a yarn about a small brown donk, and a lad about your age.
And thanks much for the offer, but I'll give the beer a miss,
I've got half a cup of coffee here, and I'll be drinking this.

One afternoon, just as the sun was starting to go down,
Dad chased him on an errand, to the little shop in town.
Now this young fella blazed along, the old ute fairly flew,
About as close to the speed o' light as the four wheel drive would do.

And as he roared up a small hill, just standing past the top,
Was a jenny donk with a half grown foal, and the young lad couldn't stop.
The jenny was the closest and she took the deadly blow,
But her body saved her little one, although she'd never know.

The young lad checked the jenny out, but she'd begun the flow,
To that great green meadow in the sky, where all the donkeys go.
The foal was badly bashed up, with her hide all torn and slashed,
But her eyes were bright and she might be right...stitched up where she was gashed.

So he huffed and puffed and heaved and swore, and he got her in the back,
And he set out for the vet that lived a bit further down the track.
And the vet, he laboured mightily to save that battered foal,
And by dawn's first light after that long night, he finally reached his goal.

So young lad took the small donk home, and in the course of time,
They left the territory, for Queensland's sunny clime.
He finished up in barracks, for the company took him in,
And gave him work, down in the mine, scratchin' round for tin.

He'd seen the poincianas bloom, their crimson flowers aflame,
And so he called her "Blossom", and that became her name.
Now the Isa's not the most thrilling place there is along the track,
So he taught young Blossom a trick or two, to help take up the slack.

To stand with forelegs on his shoulders, (gawd,that lad was game!)
And to stretch out on an empty bunk, a trick that brought her fame.
For the common ass is pretty smart, her funny looks aside,
And she soon preferred the soft-sprung bed to the cold hard dirt outside.

And though the blokes would chase her out when time had come for rest.
She'd soon sneak back through the open door to the bed she liked the best
And most of the guys didn't really mind, and felt a little quiet pride,
In this funny donk who made them laugh, but left her souvenirs outside.

Ah yes, and she had one more quirk, that I'll add to this log,
On a hot day, she'd walk up to you, and lick you, like a dog.
I guess it was a need for salt, that's found in many forms
To fill her need she found a source on miners sweaty arms.

Now the office took a new man on, and assigned him to his shift,
To start on monday morning, at the number seven lift.
And this was friday, fairly late, so with the weekend free,
He took his wad and went to town, to celebrate, you see.

So several hours later, and much the worse for wear.
This fella staggered back again, without a single care.
He managed to remove his clothes, with a lot of crashing sound,
Then held on tight with knuckles white, as the room went round and round

Eventually he fell asleep as the booze turned out his light,
And Blossom, at the same time, gave up grazing for the night.
She came on tiptoe down the room, as only donkeys can.
And gazed in silent disbelief at this new, intruding man.

Who'd taken without sanction, her comfy little bed.
And left our donk with no good place to rest her weary head.
She put her head down close to his and snuffled in his ear
Well then, perhaps a slurp or two, might bring him past the beer.

At last in desperation, she put her lips up to his ear
And loosed a mighty donkey's bray, that those in town could hear,
And followed with a lot of slurps to help her win the toss,
And ensure that he would stay alert 'till she got her point across.

Yes lad, I woke in terror, and much dismay at those
Two big brown eyes like dinner plates, and enormous roman nose.
And ears like radar dishes and a voice like a cannon's roar.
So I up, and out, and down the road, and I run for a mile or more.

So that was when I took the pledge and swore right off the grog.
And vowed that I'd spend no more nights in alcoholic fog.
And when I feel that stirring urge, I'll go out and get some grub,
And never, never, ever, chat up sheilas in a pub.

I've spent lots of nights, out on the grog, when we had got our pay,
And woke beside some dreadful dogs, come the cold gray light of day.
But let me tell you matey, no one's ever seen a sight,
Like her that woke me with a kiss, that awful friday night.

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Lunch

by Frank Halliwell
Jimboomba, Australia

The fish pokes at the coral where some small crustacean's stuck.
He's preoccupied, and unaware, he's just run out of luck..
For you have him squarely in your sights, and can't suppress a shout,.
As the spear strikes home; impaled on it, a good sized coral trout.

A violent struggle to go free, but the cruel barb holds him fast..
You picture him in butter, fried... for his struggles cannot last..
And far away, a great lateral line determines the struggle's source,.
And carcharodon carcharias swiftly changes course.

You stuff the nice trout in your float, you only need one more..
There might be something else worthwhile in that cave near the sandy floor..
You notice that you've drifted quite a long way from the bunch,.
and it looks like they're all headed in, it must be time for lunch.

The bottom shoals up rapidly, as he emerges from the deep..
And ahead,..near the sun-dappled reef, an appointment he must keep..
For the great white death is hungry, and you've proffered him a meal,.
With struggling, bleeding fish nearby, you've fired up his zeal.

He's pictured as an evil thing; a killer without peer,.
And his armament's formidable... but there's no malice here...
He's just a hungry animal, but one that knows full well,.
You've turned up in his kitchen, and rung his dinner bell.

You poke among the coral heads, for a fish to complete your task,.
When a massive tug on the safety line, separates you from your mask..
You head up to the surface, and push the mask back on....
The float, the flag, the net, the fish... The whole damn lot is gone.

And there, two hundred feet away, through sea foam, vaguely seen,.
Are a dorsal,.. and a caudal fin, and a full ten feet between..
Sheer panic as you shout and flail, and maybe even pray,.
But there's little hope, for the diving boat, is a mile or more away.

And you're out of your element, an intruder in the foam..
But he's the undisputed lord, to him this world is home..
There's nothing here but water, and an omnipotent foe..
The sun shines brightly overhead, but you've nowhere to go.

He lifts his huge head from the sea, to gain a better view..
That big black eye looks lifeless, but you know it's watching you..
The mighty homo sapiens; the master of his fate..
And suddenly he's half a meal, on a hungry fish's plate.

To him, you're so much protein,...just grist to run his mill..
You suddenly remember that you've never made a will..
He turns,..you watch the fins converge, and line up fore and aft..
He dives,.. and now you realize, that fishing here was daft.

Unlike the hapless coral trout, that didn't have a clue..
Now you know,. absolutely, that there'll be no lunch,.. for you