My Poetry
For farmers toiling fertile land
working hours with calloused hand
overcoming life’s adversity
providing for humanity
For you — I write my poetry.
For those who live in our small towns
surviving seasons, greens or browns
fire, floods or droughts existence
learning from your own persistence
For you — I write my poetry.
For city folk who like bright lights
the traffic, smog, historic sights
lanes that house poor and needy
the rich bankers fat and greedy
For you — I write my poetry.
Young soldiers fought and gave their lives
leave behind family and wives
why did many die so needlessly
our freedom from your bravery
For you — I write my poetry.

Those holding to their seats of power
playing politics hour after hour
forgetting people amongst bureaucracy
we’ll remember your accountability
For you — I write my poetry.
For learned scholars of highest reverence
teaching young literary ebullience
some forget the power of simplicity
in rhyming stories and all their beauty
For you — I write my poetry
With smiles or tears full of contentment 
feelings of unwavering commitment
the scribe pens lines so diligently
One, understands the written complexity
For me — I write my poetry.
David J Delaney
11/05/2009    ©


Male Dilemma

Approaching now with trepidation
Heart thumping anticipation
Brow soaked in perspiration
Throat tightening asphyxiation.

Echoed voices, feeling fearful
Clouded mind now in freefall
Transfixed eyes becoming tearful
How can she be quite so cheerful?

Just in there! She softly motions
Brain is racing with emotions
Scented whiff from bottled lotions
Perfumed aroma drifts from potions.

Trembling hands begin to reach
Wishing I was at the beach
Sacred law, I’m about to breach
Remembering, what Dad did preach

I can’t do it, collapsed in beanbag
Feeling like a rung out dishrag
To all you men, keep reading a mag
Never, delve into a woman’s handbag.

David J Delaney
31/01/2009     ©


Six Feet Tall

Sitting on those cold cement steps,
Waiting to be called, think I’m up next
Patiently doodling as life goes by,
Watching the twirling candy, I let out a sigh.
Homemade singlet, stubbie shorts and bare feet
Coming here, I always thought quite neat
Dad’s now finished, I’m called in
“Morning David!” says Mr. Gray as I grin.
Aromas in this shop, one can never forget
No lace, perfumes or girlie hairnets,
A real mans place. They’d laugh, smoke and swear
If a lady did “drop in” they were gentlemen beyond compare.
Walls dotted with photos of horses and footy greats
Dad said, “One could place a bet with Mr. Grays mate”
Huge red leather chairs made you feel like a king,
Collections of hair in the corner, ready for the bin.
Checkered sheet around me, paper towel tucked tight
Sitting like this, must have been a funny site
Mr. Gray says, “David you need a shave it seems”
Dad smiled, nods, to this he jokingly agrees.
Other men present seem to think this is true
Mr. Gray mixed some white, moist, fluffy goo,
With cup, brush and towel he’s moving at pace,
Now brushes the mixture all over my face.
Placing fingers firm tilts my head to one side
Down my face I feel the cutthroat blade slide,
Head leaning back, the blade moves up my chin
Mr. Gray looked in my eyes, gave a reassuring grin.
New electric clippers tickled the back of my neck
I asked, “Are you nearly finished?” he said “Not quite yet”
Dusting me off with that wide soft brush,
Now the men are clapping, this did make me blush.
To be a young man among men was a great feeling,
When all shook my hand, this left my mind reeling
Was one of those days a young man could never forget,
Men in a barber shop, laughing, talking or reading a gazette.
There’s a strut in my step as I moved across the floor
This kind of feeling, I’d never had before
Turning then waving goodbye to all,
An eight-year-old boy, feeling six feet tall.
David J Delaney
08/02/2008 ©

Black weekend 2009                                

Along the mountain side they grow                     
as their flames rage through th’small shires         
Then down the valleys and plains they blow          
do these wild unchallenged killer fires.
With red hot embers from above                         
no chance to out run its advance                           
Knows naught of compassion nor of love
as it taunts with its orange flame dance.               
Now leaves behind a landscape charred            
with debris choking many brooks                      
Survivors now forever are scarred                     
from the terror when hiding in nooks.                 

So many homes, razed to the ground                   
possessions are gone in a flash                            
there’s heartache and sadness all around          
now begins the sifting through the ash               

We watched horrific T.V. scenes                       
like Satan had returned with hell                          
he pushed destruction to extremes                  
now leaving a charred, pungent smell.               

They’re saved from blackened barren land      
our fauna subdued by their burns                      
Koala drinks from a fiery’s bare hand               
help’s needed till the bush re-turns.                    

To Fiery’s, their lasting dogged strength           
continued their fight till the end                          
Your selfless acts taken to any length                 
though losing many neighbours or friends.         

They will return, stand proud and tall                 
determined to stand the tide                               
they fought with their backs against the wall      
it’s that famous yet stubborn Aussie pride.        

David J Delaney
16/02/2009     ©


Loving the written word

I can’t believe all this absurdity
the arguing within our poetry,
yet, we are writers of the written word,
and as I said, this fighting is absurd.

A brilliant poet lives in all of us,
could be Jefferson and his cats anus,
might be Shakespeare, but, could be Mudrooroo,
Les Murray or Noonuccal Ooderoo.

We write about our land beneath the sun,
of childhood memories and having fun,
about the homeless in the laneways cold,
and stupid politicians must be told.

So, do you follow free verse or like rhyme?
this argument has been round for some time,
our educated scholars can’t agree,
when, it’s a choice that settles right with me.

Where do I stand in this poetic hall.
when, I admit I really love them all,
be it Haiku, Tanka, sonnets, free verse,
enjoying all the forms must be a curse.

I’ll let you argue all between yourselves,
while gradually I fill my book case shelves,
with poetry from anyone I like,
enjoy the written word, for it’s my right.

David J Delaney
12/11/2010   ©


Sleepless Night

Oh my! my sore and aching back,
feels like, I’ve been strung on a rack,
and all these bruises I can see?
are from a little girls stray knee.

And, of this lump upon my nose?
now let me try to diagnose,
for I remember it alright,
my injuries are from last night.

Kicked from my bed by those two girls,
who jump and yell and do their twirls
and bursting eardrums with their screams,
they push my body to extremes.

They’re now asleep in Nanna’s bed,
the spare room’s for my weary head,
I’m snuggled in behind closed door,
while in contented sleep I start to snore.

Now something that was unforseen,
I’m thinking, is it just a dream,
a soft voice whispers from the blue
‘hey Grandad, I’ll sleep here with you’.

So on this Queen size bed she crawls,
then, it’s not long before she sprawls,
and takes up almost all the room,
while I dread what will happen soon.

I’m drifting to a special place,
when there’s a ‘whack’ across my face,
her arms I’m trying to compose,
that’s when her elbow met my nose.

Blocked nose, tears running down my cheek,
my body’s tired, and feeling weak,
though one thing that I cant dispute
despite all this she still looks cute.

Reoccupying my small space
while facing her, my eyes now case,
and think how one so small and plain,
can, give a grown man so much pain.

I’m startled and again in fear,
her backhand crashes on my ear,
then, quickly she sits up a tad,
says, “where is my Koala dad?”

she lies back down just like before,
I’m thinking, I’ll sleep on the floor,
it might be safer if I did,
escaping this commando kid.

All night she kicked and tossed and turned,
while for some rest my body yearned,
it’s hard to sleep and keep an eye
on legs or arms that just might fly.

I know that in the morning light,
when everything will be alright,
we’ll all be squeezed in this old bed,
with books and stories to be read.

So what, I had a sleepless night,
but, it is always a delight,
and such a gift from up above,
to share your growing grandchild’s love.
David J Delaney
11/08/2010     ©



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