ODE TO TATTIE
You turned up on my doorstep, such a sad and sorry mess;
‘Twas clear that you expected to reside at my address.
I told you that you could not stay,I wouldn't change my mind:
To have a cat like you around I did not feel inclined.
But what I hadn't bargained for was your persistence strong;
You really were determined this was where you should belong.
I took you in and cleaned you up,bathed every wound and sore,
Though ears and eye forever showed you’d been a cat-of-war.
You had some funny habits for which you became renowned,
Detesting Thursday mornings when the rubbish man came round.
You dwelt for years at my place, loved by all who wandered by,
Except that you and Frollie never did see eye to eye.
You were not very handsome, yet your nature was so kind;
Your loving ways and gentleness will be there on my mind.
I'll miss you, my old Tattie Cat,to this I can depose:
I'm pleased when you were down and out it was my house you chose.
A DOG AND HIS NANA
My Nana rubs behind my ears as we sit side by side;
She’s banished to the patio where smokers must reside.
She talks and shares her secrets which she knows are safe with me:
She knows I don't spray gossip on each lamp post, bush or tree.
She sometimes lets me chase the cat – makes Grandad fuss and fume;
She feeds me in-between-meal treats which swiftly I consume.
But all too soon these good days pass, my owners return home;
They take one look at me and say in quite an outraged tone:
“That dog is fat and ill-behaved, no discipline displays;
We’ll have to take him well in hand, make sure he mends his ways.”
So now I’m walked 5 ks a day, no special treats for me;
The cat with scornful gaze sits by, her green eyes full of glee.
But I'll be patient for I know that as the weeks unroll
My owners will take off again, leave Nana in control.
FROLLIE'S FAME
Frollie was a Loving Cat:
She'd snuggle in upon our laps
And purr a happy song;
Her little face so sweet and warm,
Eyes tender, loving, strong.
Frollie was a Haughty Cat:
Disdain, contempt and arrogance:
Aloof she'd sit and glare;
Her green eyes cold and distant:
"Just touch me if you dare!"
Frollie was a Vocal Cat:
She'd talk to guests and welcome them
In bright and friendly strain.
To vet and kennel keeper
She'd howl a sad refrain.
Frollie was a Demanding Cat:
She must be petted, brushed and fed
As soon as we'd awoken.
This early morning ritual
Never must be broken.
We loved her well whate'er her moods,
Regardless of degree;
We've never known a cat possess
Such personality.
We can't replace the void she's left;
Our family's not the same:
But eighteen years of memories
Add up to Frollie's Fame.
MY FURRY FRIEND
Relaxed in the fork of a gum tree he sat,
His forepaws encircling a limb:
A bundle of fur with intelligent eyes
Gazed down as I looked up at him.
This brown-eyed koala I'd see now and then
When paths near my home I'd explore;
I'd speak and he'd raise his head to my call -
His face held a smile I am sure.
Most days he'd spend sleeping protected from view –
A camouflaged bump in a tree;
He swayed to the tempo as played by the breeze,
This creature unique, wild and free.
One late afternoon in a small ghostgum tree
He sat, his eyes level with mine;
Unfazed by my presence, he munched on his food -
Unequalled in Nature's design.
I plucked some young leaves from the saplings nearby
And gingerly held out my hand
He stretched forth his paw to acknowledge my gift
As credence between us was spanned.
Each life knows rare moments when magic holds sway
When knowledge is born of the heart,
When worlds cease revolving and Time calls a halt:
As such, that affair stands apart.
RUSTY
My name is Rusty, though I’m black, I’m barely two years old;
I’ve been to school, I sit, I stay, do mostly as I’m told.
My breed? I’ve heard it oft discussed: Chihuahua-Dachshund cross;
Jack Russell, Aussie Terrier, with Corgi in the toss.
I go for walks, ride in the car, play Soccer, Fetch and Come.
I love to welcome visitors, I’ve no complaints, but one…
THAT CAT, aloof, imperious, with cold and scornful gaze,
So arrogant and haughty; how I hate her sneaky ways.
Like when she struts close by my bed and wills me to the chase;
She knows that if I take her on, then I’ll be in disgrace:
“You naughty dog, don’t chase the cat, now, listen here to me!”...
“Oh, Crystal dear, are you alright? Come, sit upon my knee.”
That Cat can walk all through the house, while I must keep my bounds.
I’m not allowed to go upstairs, and kitchens aren’t for hounds.
It’s out of doors I sleep each night while on their bed she’ll bide;
She eats her food inside the house while I am fed outside.
But sometimes I will take revenge and have my bit of fun;
Into the kitchen I will creep, scoff down her food, and run!
Another trick she really hates to which I oft succumb
Is when she least expects it I sneak up and sniff her bum!
EIGHT YEARS ON
Eight years have passed and I'm now ten, old age begins to smart:
Arthritis in my two front legs, a murmur in my heart.
I'm grey around the chin and snout, sometimes I'm short of breath;
But let some stranger wander by - my bark scares him to death.
The cat's now old, her mind is bound within dementia's knot;
She's lost her arrogant approach, she looks but sees me not.
But life's still good, I go for walks - not far from my back yard,
Just in the park to sniff around and leave my calling card.
I have a friend who lives next door, his name is Mickey Moo;
He's spoiled and pampered, of fine breed, and he is only two.
But he brings out the pup in me, and when he comes to play
We run around the yard and chase till I call it a day.
He always brings his Mum along - she has a drinking fad;
And while we play or rest a while, she boozes with my Dad.
My Mum, she is a wowser and disdains their company,
Preferring her computer screen while writing poetry.
When they go home my Dad and I - well, we're not worth a penny:
My joints are sore from running round and Dad's had one too many!
AFFINITY
(Sonnet)
Where're I walk around the room, his eyes
attend, a font of love which begs a glance
from me, a smile to ratify the ties
which bind since we met long ago by chance.
I pause to chat with him: sheer ecstasy,
as scarcely can his movements be controlled;
devotion all but lacking dignity;
like putty in my hand, his joys I hold.
But there's another presence in the room
whose haughty eyes reveal a careless calm;
whose cherished favours I must beg, to whom
I pander, pleading her attentive charm.
The dog whose tail with joyful outlook swings;
The cat who deftly works the puppet strings.
A TRIBUTE TO TISSIE
A mixture of luck, of good fortune and nous
Brought Tissie to live at a Wulguru house
With Fluffy the cat and with Dinah the dog,
Five kids and the blue tongue asleep in his log.
This Tenterfield Terrier soon settled in
Not fazed by the numbers, disorder or din;
Her first love was Robyn despite Andy's zeal
With cuddles and food her affection to steal.
She danced round in circles to show her delight
With stumpy tail wagging, with eyes clear and bright;
When Keith wasn't home on the bed she'd recline –
His sore throat a false claim of kennel cough sign.
Tiss welcomed all strays and each transient guest:
Goannas and frilled necks, birds cast from their nest,
From muscovy ducks to a red kangaroo,
Her circle of friends and acquaintances grew.
Small joeys too young to have grown any fur –
Their presence accorded no problem to her;
To turtles and goldfish she'd proffer a nudge,
Assertive but friendly and bearing no grudge.
She made friends with Florence the spaniel whose stay
Became quite extended with her folks away.
Each dog and each cat Tiss outlived and outshone,
Then Tina the kitten arrived thereupon.
Thus Tissie so spirited, loveable, bold
Spent many a year in the Barry household.
The back yard, her playground, she circled and skimmed
Though age brought arthritis and eyes which were dimmed.
Her ears grew quite deaf but she still could attune
To Keith cracking nuts in the late afternoon;
(Keith also cracked shits if in Tissie's he stepped –
At dodging her mishaps he was not adept.)
When Robyn prepared for a weekend away
Miss Tissie would huff, from her bed would not stray.
She quietly but firmly put her point of view
If only roast chicken or egg flips would do.
When Tissie's health failed so each heart felt a sigh
As loved ones discerned it was time for goodbye;
Though nought can replace that adorable flair,
Her spirit will always be wafting the air.
THE WINNING STREAK
So he has a winning greyhound; fleet of foot she takes the lead;
Quickly jumping from the boxes, she dons Atalanta’s speed.
She wins money for the owners whose account was in the red;
Each week they’re at the racetrack: “Come on, Astra, race ahead!”
Lionel scans the local form guide, magazines from interstate,
Or he sits in front of T.V. watching greyhounds race till late.
I am very pleased for Lionel, his co-owners and the fans,
As they talk between each other like a brotherhood of clans.
But we feel a bit neglected, my old cat, the dog and me;
Seems if we’re not talking greyhounds, he’s not with this family.
He postpones his household duties as the grass grows rather tall,
On his desk a pile of papers, but he sees these not at all.
I could cope with this dilemma, my anxieties allay,
If from time to time my husband’s share of winnings came my way!
BESIDE THE DUSTY ROAD
An old man bent and weary walked along the dusty road;
his clothes were frayed and threadbare,
his tattered shoes way past repair,
and in his rolled-up swag his few possessions stowed.
His small dog walked beside him, a faithful cattle cross;
they stopped beneath a gidyea tree
to boil the billy, make some tea
he hoped would clear his mind filled with dejection's dross.
He'd now been on the wallaby for six months past or more;
the winter fast was closing in
as winds whipped star grass in a spin,
and morning frost flashed white upon his sandy floor.
He'd stop at stations where he'd ask for work to pay his way,
but mostly heard, "No, sorry mate,
be on your way and close the gate;
no use just hanging round for there's no work today."
One wild mid-winter's morn revealed a jaded episode:
a faithful dog alert and bold
sat by a body stiff and cold,
and watched a stranger dig a grave beside the dusty road.
(From Woodcut by Lionel Lindsay)
LEADING LADY
Our Council laws decree
That dogs cannot roam free
But must when walking be on leads restrained.
For those who flout this law –
An act which I deplore –
I'd like to see some punishment ordained.
While walking out last week
Two folk of whom I speak -
Quite elderly and not with strength endowed -
Cared not, it seemed to me,
Their dog was roaming free
But of their misdemeanour seemed quite proud.
I asked my pooch to stay,
To sit and to obey -
I know he sensed the rising fear in me.
Although a friendly hound,
Base instincts still abound
If threatened by a dog that's running free.
The women laughed and talked
As down the road they walked,
To their dog's whereabouts they gave no heed;
So I called out, "Hello,
Excuse me, did you know
Your dog, my friends, should be kept on a lead?"
They fixed me with a stare,
One said, "How do you dare
Tell me that I should keep my dog in check;
Since I believe such rules
Are only made for fools,
The lead, I think, should be around your neck."
Though heavy with chagrin
I took it on the chin -
Discussion would be futile, that was clear.
But further shame I bore
When Lionel heard the score:
He smiled and said, "Well, what a good idea!"
JUNGLE ODYSSEY
White veils of mist still lingered o'er the river as it weaved
in ribbons through the forest, born when time was first conceived;
the giant trees rose skyward, and their branches were arrayed
where flowering creepers, orchids, ferns and mosses were displayed.
We cruised along the river and its many offshoot streams
as by degrees the mist dispersed when touched by sunshine's beams;
our eyes scanned from the lowlands to the tree tops passing by
and then our guide said softly, "An orang-utan nearby."
He pointed to a tree 50 metres from the edge
and eased the boat as close as it was possible to wedge;
and there despite the summer heat we watched as time stood still -
to see a wild orang-utan's a rare and special thrill.
The wild man stretched his body as he raised his hairy arm,
lay back against the branch and showed no hint of fear or qualm;
he'd eaten well that morning, it was time to take a rest
before embarking on the task to build his nightly nest.
We watched him from the river captivated by the scene
and marvelled that this creature shared so many human genes;
the sun enhanced the colour of his hair of reddish brown
which quivered in the breeze and clothed him like a shaggy gown.
We left him lazing in the tree and cruised downstream along,
the hushed electric motors blending with cicada song;
proboscis monkeys watched us glide amongst their habitat,
long tailed macaques with babies on the lower branches sat.
All these and other primates we were privileged to see
as gracefully they swung throughout the jungle canopy;
a monitor was camouflaged upon a highset branch,
while red leaf monkeys bickered like a squealing avalanche.
A hornbill with its hollow casque atop its massive beak
took flight with wings which whooshed the air, black feathers smooth and sleek;
the sunshine dried the snakebird's wings, its long neck to the sky,
the bank exposed a crocodile as deftly we passed by.
To cruise this jungle network where wild creatures still roam free
remains a treasured chapter in the book of life for me,
but yet it's tempered by a shroud of sorrow for I fear
man's greed ensures their habitat's declining year by year.
THE COWBELL PARADE
A flowered bonnet on each head,
hung round each neck a bell
as patiently they stand in line
the cows of Appenzell.
The farmers in embroidered vests
pants trimmed with bright brocade,
and children in their costumes wait
to start this grand parade.
As summer's dawn trades grey for pink
an alpenhorn resounds
to signal man and beast it's time
to head for higher grounds.
The cowbells clang and jangle,
they rattle, clink and jar;
in single file the climb begins
to meadow lands afar.
The track is rough, the incline sharp
and progress rather slow,
with streams to ford and rocky steeps –
each threat the herdsmen know.
It's summer in the valley where
the grass is kept for hay;
it's springtime in the alpine fields
with wildflower overlay.
The snowcapped peaks stand sentinel
above this charming scene,
quaint chalets dot the landscape where
the grass is lush and green.
Ten weeks or so the herds remain
to feast on this sweet grass
while echoes of their cowbells ring
throughout the alpine pass.
And then the long march down the slope
the cows bedecked again
as cheers of welcome mingle with
the cowbells' chink refrain.
A RUSTLE IN THE GRASS
A rustle in the grass as a snake slithers by
its scales the shade of ebony,
its movements sleek and sly.
So did this creature really cause man's downfall years ago,
exposing him to evil, put his nakedness on show?
Is this why mankind suffers and why nations are at war –
because the snake persuaded Eve to disregard God's law?
And is the snake to blame for all disasters which occur –
the floods, the droughts, the cyclones – forces man cannot deter?
If Eve had brushed aside the snake's endeavours to entice
and lingered in her innocence in Eden's paradise,
Would history's tale be poles apart from what we know today
and would the world enjoy the peace for which the Christians pray?
I think not, and to blame the snake's buck-passing at its best;
it's all about the right to choose and if we pass the test.
A rustle in the grass as a snake slithers by
unaware the kookaburra's
swooping from on high.
