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Tag Archives: inept poetry

The Port of Life

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Queenslanders, unlike most other Australians refer to suitcases as “ports”, possibly derived from the French “portmanteau” (cloak carrier)

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The Port of Life……..a little poem by GOF

The young boy’s port of life
Was light, with just a few
Things like a pocket knife
To carve, as boys will do.

Some dreams and hope for what
In future lay unknown.
They didn’t weigh a lot,
But grew like acorns sown.

It also held some things
From fairy tales he’d heard
Rapunzel’s hair and Kings
Back then didn’t sound absurd.

God filled his port with weight
Of guilt and heavenly scorn
For sins added since the date
That little boy was born.

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The young man’s port o’erflowed
With confidence and knowledge
Deceptive seeds he’d sowed
Illusions gained from college.

Life with too much fiction,
A juvenile facade,
So with silent benediction
He dumped them… wasn’t hard.

The fairy tales went first.
No “happy ever after’
Unless you seek and thirst
Compromise and laughter.

God was the next to go.
With all His threats as well.
The world he came to know
Didn’t need a place called Hell.

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The old man’s port is worn.
Tattered from all the years.
‘Tis not something to mourn
Or shed too many tears.

The contents not to show
The public, or display.
It protects the things I know.
Wisdom gained along the way.

In secret pockets hide
Memories, some regret,
Of loved ones who have died.
Kept lest he should forget.

Old mans port overflows
With gifts from life he led.
Only he ever knows.
With his eyes only read.

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The old dead tree

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                                          Life has gone from the old dead tree
                                          Lights extinguished, curtains drawn.
                                          Who cares, or feels, or wants to see
                                          The reason for me to mourn
                                           Its passing, an ordinary tree, just one
                                           Of thousands in the cast.
                                           Part of nature's plan begun
                                           In mists and clouds of aeons past.

                                           Feathered friends remember now.
                                           A bough where songs were sung
                                           In winter warmth and sunshine glow,
                                           And home to fledge their young.
                                           For death provides a space to grow.
                                           Where life will start anew.
                                           Eternal cycles ebb and flow
                                           Where the old dead tree once grew.

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