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Tag Archives: attempted 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.

*      *      *      *      *      *

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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Handicapped in America

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Handicapped in America

 ………..  by ………………

William Wordsworth GOF

 

 

It took me literally ages
Driving from New York to L.A.
Ten thousand infinitesimal stages
With hazards along the way.

Spent time in a Pueblo cop car
After drinking in Colorado.
Molested by Mormons in Utah
And freezing in Columbus Ohio.

Arms are numb and eyes so bleary.
Both shoulders locked and seized
From carrying the bag I feel so weary
And my feet have fungal disease.

Next year I’ll do it differently,
‘Cos this was such a failure.
My mind is now made up you see
To leave irons and putters in Australia.

Apology List

1. To readers who know nothing about golf and for whom the last sixty seconds were a complete waste of life.

2. To readers who DO understand golf and who probably didn’t fare much better.

3. To Mormons. I just made that bit up.

4. To poets.

5. To the cab driver on the Pasadena Freeway after I had closed down all inbound lanes whilst teeing-up.
No, I am not “one shrimp short of a barbecue” and I am sorry for what I did to your windscreen in response.

It just got up and went

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‘Tis a funny thing you know,
To look back o’er a shoulder
To where childhood once did grow
Into youth, then slightly older.
For suddenly it vanished,
Lost innocence to lament.
By Father Time ’twas banished.
It just got up and went.

And then there was agility.
Climbing mountains in the rain.
An unlimited ability
To jog without the pain.
A body trim to flex, contort
Was just as nature meant.
Today I’m feeling quite distraught,
‘Cos it just got up and went.

And accuity of vision.
Threading needles in the wink
Of an eye, with precision.
Gone forever one would think.
All the girls I ogled locally,
For ocular entertainment
Now indistinct bifocally,
Since sight got up and went.

Simple life got filled with stuff,
A tractor, house and car.
There never seemed to be enough
For life’s fiscal bazaar.
Reflecting now it’s time to laugh
At inept mismanagement.
When piggy bank got filled to half
It just got up and went.

Seems just last week on Monday,
That Inga was still a teen.
Then university on the Thursday.
Tennis lessons in between.
An Aussie Navratilova,
Alas, gifts not heaven sent.
We’d only started to know her.
She just got up and went.

My hourglass sand’s diminished.
Enough for just a while
Get a couple of projects finished.
And write, edit, compile.
Cherish friends, a sunny day,
But even more impor-tent,
Are memories stored, for they,
Have not got up and went.

.

.
YET!

 

Not just a mug

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                                                 Lustre lost, reflecting age,
                                                 Ne'er a contender for centre stage
                                                 At banquets for a Queen or King,
                                                 A pannikin, tin, a simple thing.
                                                 Handle's loose, chipped and worn,
                                                 Stained and looking all forlorn.
                                                 No painted gilded artistry,
                                                 Ye olde green mug's a lot like me.

(This is not an open invitation for any of my Aussie friends to post the comment;
"Yes GOF, you are a mug" or any variation upon that theme.
To do so might unearth that ugly Wrath of Gof once again.)

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