Remember It

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Remember It

 

We will remember them, we say,

on each and every Anzac Day.

The brave, the scared, the young, the old;

the ones who’ve had their stories told.

Momentum gathers every year;

some bow to pray, some shed a tear.

 

The people in our vast free land,

know freedom’s price was blood on sand

when boys all landed on a beach,

to die with cover out of reach.

So April twenty-five is when,

we honour those who fought back then.

 

Some wear the medals on their chest,

of family members laid to rest

in fields where markers stand in rows,

receiving tears as sadness flows

from pilgrims who respect the waste

of young men all shipped off in haste.

 

Then other people read the tales

of bombs made up from tins and nails.

The bookshops give us all a chance

to understand the circumstance

of hell on earth that was the trench,

awash with maggots, mud and stench.

Our flag is waved by children who

don’t really know what war can do

to wives and mothers left alone,

to live with fear of what’s unknown.

But waving flags shows they are proud,

to stand in a revering crowd.

 

Australians all:  we mustn’t dare

stop showing that we deeply care

about the soldiers, all of whom

were brave in war’s destructive doom.

Gallipoli and all its pain:

Remember it.  Again.  Again.

Caroline Tuohey

Poem of the Day

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Wish List

I wish I were a dinosaur that lived amongst the plants.

I wish I were as tiny as those microscopic ants.

I wish I were a blossom tree – a pretty sight of pink.

I wish I were a roller blade that skated round a rink.

I wish I were a raindrop falling from a stormy cloud.

I wish I were an eagle soaring high above a crowd.

I wish I were a spider – having eight legs would be neat.

I wish I were a centipede – with all those extra feet.

I wish I were a peacock with majestic, fan-like tail.

I wish I were a postage stamp, secure on someone’s mail.

I wish that wishing wishes makes that wish come true for me,

as all my wishes are exciting things I’d like to be.

Caroline Tuohey
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #35

Poem of the Day

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The Night The Kids Cooked Dinner

 

The children in the rural town Lower Upper Dresher,

had joined the craze of cooking shows where cooks cooked under pressure.

They all sat glued three nights a week to television screens

and if they missed an episode, were prone to nasty scenes.

 

They’d taken up the challenge to improve their daily diet,

but grocery shopping with their mums was heading for a riot.

Their parents all seemed quite content to stick to same old styles;

they very rarely wandered down the continental aisles.

 

The kids had all decided that the cooking shows were right –

that food should be exciting and artistically ‘a sight’.

And things became hysterical the night Sam’s mum cooked pasta,

with sauce that came in bottles, as Sam’s mum said ‘it was faster’.

 

But Sam no longer wished to eat spaghetti bolognaise.

Instead he wanted new spring lamb infused with minted glaze.

He told his mum potatoes were no longer smooth and mashed;

they should be served unpeeled with lumps – potatoes now are smashed.

 

And Michael and Robina were appalled with KFC

that their Dad brought home as takeaway for Friday’s casual tea.

“It wouldn’t be,” they said perturbed, “too hard to buy a chop;

they sell them marinated down in Finley’s butcher shop.”

 

While down at Harrigan’s Hotel the chef was going blotto,

when Master Joe suggested cooking salmon roe risotto.

Chef Willy wasn’t too impressed – Joe questioning his grub.

“My chicken parmigiana is a staple in this pub.”

 

But Joe was fairly adamant and asked his mum to change

the chicken to a salmon (and it needs to be free-range).

His mum explained the menu was decided by Chef Willy

and to stop this fancy cooking rot – “the whole thing’s getting silly.”

 

So Joe and all the other kids decided they would score

their parents’ meals all out of ten – most getting three or four.

They figured that some comments would assist their folks to see,

no longer were they tolerating mediocrity.

 

The parents were appalled of course, when meals were given zeros,

while all those darn contestants on the show were hailed as heroes.

The children sensed their parents were all close to nearly breaking –

that they understood they needed to improve what that were making;

 

until a parent phoned around and called a secret meeting,

to try and sort the bedlam over what their kids were eating.

And Mary-Jane convinced them that she had a sure-fire winner.

“We’ll all give in,” she said quite calm, “just let the kids cook dinner.”

 

The parents at the table sat in silence for a while,

then one by one were nodding and a few began to smile.

They started to imagine they’d have time to read a book,

instead of being busy in the role of family cook.

 

And so that night the parents gave their kids the welcome news:

“You’re all the chefs tomorrow night – it’s up to you to choose.”

The kids all gave a mighty shout – “We’ll show you how it’s done,”

then raced towards their kitchens, looking forward to lots of fun.

 

The next day was a Saturday – they measured, mixed and stirred

at stove tops and the benches where much muttering was heard.

By six o’clock they’d finished and their meals had all been plated,

but each and every one of them was tired and not elated.

 

In Sam’s house, both the Willis’ were wondering what to do

with little Sammy’s cheeses that were mouldy, old and blue.

Insisting Sam should try it first, they waited while he ate

a cracker smeared with rancid cheese, some pate and a date.

 

But Sam’s young taste buds didn’t like his gourmet nibbly platter.

“I think,” he said, “I’d rather have a saveloy in batter.”

Sam’s parents kindly got their kid a sausage fried in oil,

both knowing that his craze for fancy food was off the boil.

 

While down the road, Robina had some doubts about her pudd –

it wasn’t looking like a trifle usually would.

She hadn’t missed a step at all – she’d done as they’d instructed.

But some desserts just don’t taste right when they are deconstructed.

 

Robina knew her trifle would be judged ‘not good enough,’

when served on several silly plates, in little piles of stuff.

Her Mum and Dad suggested that she plop it in a bowl –

that a tasty, messy, mixed-up pudd was trifle’s only goal.

 

And down at Harrigan’s Hotel young Joe was in a pickle,

as his salmon-roe risotto dish was proving rather fickle.

To stir a pan of fishy rice for nearly forty minutes,

was really rather boring and was giving Joe the irrits.

 

Eventually Chef Willy – who could stand the smell no more,

suggested Joe should help him make a dish he’d like for sure.

And that night all the customers said Joe’s meal was a charmer,

as Joe served up his special dish – Chef Willy’s parmigiana.

 

And Mary-Jane was lauded as the parent of the year –

their children viewed those cooking shows with something close to fear.

The kids were now content with being decent, simple cooks,

as cooking fancy food is not as easy as it looks.

Caroline Tuohey
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #20

Poem of the Day

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Winter Ablutions

 

Spider walks with shivery legs

to the edge of his dew-laden home, then waits –

perched on the bottom thread.

His white web of winter droplets

absorbs the morning sun.

Crouch

spring up

balance back on thread

hold tight.

Dew drops fall and spider

enjoys his morning shower.

Clean.

 

Caroline Tuohey
  • Submitted in response to Poetry Prompt #11

Poem of the Day

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The Christmas Garden

 

Right across from my house is a garden sublime,

where it looks like it’s Christmas there all of the time.

There are several old pine trees all bushy and green,

with the largest brown pine cones that you’ve ever seen.

There’s a seat on the lawn that just looks like a sleigh,

simply waiting for reindeer to pull it away.

There are statues of angels turned up to the sky,

sculptured wings all out ready to fly, oh so high.

And then peeking round flowers quite pleased with themselves

are some colourful gnomes that could pass for the elves.

Now this garden belongs to a fellow called Dawes,

who looks very much like, the real Santa Claus.

He is jolly and round, with a beard snowy white

and he works in his workshop late into the night.

Each December he puts on a Christmas display,

that brings people to visit from far and away.

On the pine trees are baubles and lights that all shine.

There is tinsel, and snowflakes and gold stars divine.

Harnessed up to the sleigh stands a proud reindeer team,

with big Rudolph out front – his red nose all a-gleam.

All the angels now stand singing carols and hymns,

while the elves wear red hats each with festive white trims.

Now lean over close and I’ll whisper to you

a secret that’s known but to only a few.

A tale so amazing you may not believe

that magic takes place there on each Christmas Eve.

When darkness has fallen and shadows are deep,

the elves and the reindeer awake from their sleep.

All the angels fly over the sleigh sprinkling gold

and transform the old seat to a sight to behold.

A sack is now filled to the brim with bright toys,

for kind little girls and good little boys.

Mister Dawes dressed in red, then strides out to his sleigh,

quickly takes up the reins and flies quietly away.

It is just as the sun starts to rise Christmas morn,

that the reindeer fly quietly back onto the lawn.

In the instant they land things are back how they were,

All except for old Dawes, who is still dressed in fur.

As he’s done every year for a very long while,

He now looks to my window and gives me a smile.

I then nod and I wave as I sit there relieved,

again pleased that in magic, I’ve always believed.

Caroline Tuohey
  • Submitted in response to poetry prompt #49

poetry-prompt-48

Caroline said: This poem was inspired by the garden of my mum’s friend Sue – she loves Christmas and each year, when I was a child, we’d visit her in the lead up to Christmas Day.  Her house and garden were always full of beautiful decorations and it seemed a totally magical place – as close to the real Santa’s house and garden as you could get.