Tuesday Poem: "Poem On My Father's Birthday" by Andrew M. Bell

Photographer Unknown (Lost in the mists of Time)

On the train to Haifa

I think about my father

in wartime Palestine,

a different time, a different name

but the same place.

His memories of oranges and beaches

and warm, Mediterranean swimming

are the times he chose to rescue

from the six years when the world

was drowning in its own blood.

The weather is blue and grey

but the sun shines

like my father’s medals

on his blue-grey air force uniform

that entranced me as a child.

As the helicopter gunships prowl over Mount Carmel,

speeding north to Lebanon,

I wonder what times I will choose to rescue

from a land built out of longing,

but paid for in blood.

Tuesday Poem: "No Time" by Andrew M. Bell

Photograph Copyright Andrew M. Bell

Daily, I seek social sustenance

in shops and supermarkets,

but they have no time for me,

shouting at my deafness,

impatient as I struggle

with my coins.

Returning home, frustrated,

having sought the waters of compassion

and come away thirsty.

My weatherboard house

where we laughed and loved

now echoes with loneliness

and the brick and tile

temples of Mammon

crowd it in as though

seeking to crush me

like a crab in my shell.

One day, bulldozers will bury me

because they have

no time.

Poem for the Australian General Election: "The Track Less Thrashed" by Alain Frost

Two tracks leading nowhere in the bush

Miles from anywhere, I rolled the window

Down and had a look up the first one, 

Considered the position briefly and 

Said I preferred the other one. My father

Looked up from his form guide and asked me why, 

I said because it's not this one. You talk

To him, mother, he said. I can't deal

With him, the boy's a bloody idiot.

There's no need for language said my mother. 

While the matter was discussed I climbed

A very large redgum out over the river

And in a sense I never quite came down. 

The great thing about being up a tree

Is that you're not going along a track. 

 by Alain Frost

Don't look for this poet on Wikipedia because I suspect it is one of the many parodic (is that a word? If not, I just coined it) aliases of the humourist, John Clarke, New Zealand-born, but resident in Australia for several decades now.

This poem was originally published in The Even More Complete Book of Australian Verse.