special Poems

Des Moore's Pigeon Domain

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Have you a good poem that you would like added to this page, if so let me know
 
 
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I said a prayer for you today and knew God must have heard.

I felt the answer in my heart although he spoke no word.

I didn't ask for wealth or fame I knew you wouldn't mind.

I asked him to send treasures of a far more lasting kind.

I asked that he'd be near to you at the start of each new day.

to grant you health and blessings and friends to share your way.

I asked for happiness for you in all things great and small.

But it was for his loving care I prayed for most of all.

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They were funny looking buildings, that were once a way of life,

If you couldn’t sprint the distance, then you really were in strife.

They were nailed, they were wired, but were mostly falling down,

There was one in every yard, in every house, in every town.

They were given many names, some were even funny,

But to most of us, we knew them as the outhouse or the dunny.

I’ve seen some of them all gussied up, with painted doors and all,

But it really made no difference, they were just a port of call.

Now my old man would take a bet, he’d lay an even pound,

That you wouldn’t make the dunny with them turkeys hangin’ round.

They had so many uses, these buildings out the back,

You could even hide from mother, so you wouldn’t get the strap.

That’s why we had good cricketers, or my name isn’t Crump,

We used the pathway for the wicket and the dunny door for stumps.

Now my old man would sit for hours, the smell would rot your socks,

He read the daily back to front in that good old thunderbox.

And if by chance that nature called sometime through the night,

You always sent the dog in first, for there was no flamin’ light.

And the dunny seemed to be the place where crawlies liked to hide,

But never ever showed themselves until you sat inside.

There was no such thing as Sorbent, no tissues there at all,

Just squares of well read newspaper, a hangin’ on the wall.

If you had some friendly neighbours, as neighbours sometimes are,

You could sit and chat to them, if you left the door ajar.

When suddenly you got the urge, and down the track you fled,

Then of course the magpies were there to pick you on your head.

Then the time there was a wet, the rain it never stopped,

If you had an urgent call, you ran between the drops.

The dunny man came once a week, to these buildings out the back,

And he would leave an extra can, if you left for him a zac.

For those of you who’ve no idea what I mean by a zac,

Then your too young to have ever had, a dunny out the back.

For it seems today they call them the bathroom, or the loo,

If you’ve never had one out the back, then I feel sorry for you.

For it used to be a way of life, to race along the track,

To answer natures call, at these buildings out the back.

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POOR BUT BLESSED IN THE OLD DAYS

We met and we married a long time ago

We worked for long hours when wages were low

No TV, no wireless, no bath – times were hard

Just a cold water tap and a walk in the yard.

No holiday abroad, no carpets on floors

We had coal in the fire, and we didn’t lock doors

Our children arrived – no pill in those days

And we bought them all up without any state aid.

They were safe going out to play in the park

And old folks could go for a walk in the dark

No Valium, no drugs, and no LSD

We cured most of our ills with a good cup of tea

No vandals, no muggings, there was nothing to rob

We felt we were rich with a couple of bob.

People were happy in those far away days

More kind and caring in so many ways

Milkman and paperboy would whistle and sing

A night at the pictures was our one mad fling

We all got our share of trouble and strife

We just had to face it – that’s the pattern of life

Now I’m alone, looking back through the years

I don’t think of the bad times, trouble and tears

I remember the blessings, our home and our love

And we shared them together

I thank God above

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A bloody good, old fashioned Poem- 'nuthin’ like ‘em
This is particularly for those who remember what it was like to have
a
DUNNY!

The Old Service Station

The service station trade was slow.
The owner sat around,
With sharpened knife and cedar stick.
Piled shavings on the ground.

No modern facilities had they, -the log across the rill
Led to a shack, marked His and Hers
That sat against the hill.

'Where is the 'Ladies Restroom', sir?'
-and the owner leaning back, Said not a word but whittled on-And nodded toward the shack.

With quickened step she entered there
But only stayed a minute,
Until she screamed, -just like a snake
or spider might be in it.

With startled look and beet red face
She bounded out the door, -and headed quickly for the car Just like three gals before.

She tripped and fell, -pulled up her pants
and then in obvious disgust-Ran to the car, stepped on the gas, And faded in the dust.

Of course we all desired to know
What made the gals all do-the things they did, -and then we found -the whittling owner knew.

A 'Speaking System' he'd devised To make the thing complete, He'd fixed a 'Speaker' in the hole
-just underneath the seat.

He'd wait until the gals got set and then the devilish -'Tike, would stop his whittling long enough, to speak into the mike.

And as she sat, a voice below struck- terror fright and fear, 'Will you please use the other hole? - we're painting -under here'.

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If I could catch a rainbow
I would do it just for you
And share with you its beauty
On the days you're feeling blue.

If I could build a mountain
You could call your very own;
A place to find serenity,
A place to be alone.

If I could take your troubles
I would toss them in the sea,
But all these things I'm finding
Are impossible for me.

I cannot build a mountain
Or catch a rainbow fair,
But let me be what I know best,
A friend who's always there.

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Crabby Old Woman

When an old lady died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital near Dundee, Scotland, it was believed that she had nothing left of any value. Later, when the nurses were going through her meagre possessions, they found this poem. Its quality and content so impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every nurse in the hospital. One nurse took her copy to Ireland. The old lady's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the North Ireland Assn. for Mental Health. A slide presentation has also been made based on her simple, but eloquent, poem. And this little old Scottish lady, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the author of this "anonymous" poem winging across the Internet:

Crabby Old Woman

What do you see, nurses? What do you see?
What are you thinking, when you're looking at me?
A crabby old woman, not very wise,
Uncertain of habit, with faraway eye.
Who dribbles her food, and makes no reply,
When you say in a loud voice, "I do wish you'd try!"
Who seems not to notice, the things that you do,
And forever is losing, a stocking or shoe?
Who, resisting or not, lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding, the long day to fill?
Is that what you're thinking? Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse, you're not looking at me.
I'll tell you who I am, as I sit here so still, As I do at your bidding, as I eat at your will.
I'm a small child of ten, with a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters, who love one another.
A young girl of sixteen, with wings on her feet,
Dreaming that soon now, a lover she'll meet.
A bride soon at twenty, my heart gives a leap,
Remembering the vows, that I promised to keep.
At twenty-five now, I have young of my own,
Who need me to guide, and a secure happy home.
A woman of thirty, my young now grown fast,
Bound to each other, with ties that should last.
At forty, my young sons, have grown and are gone,
But my man's beside me, to see I don't mourn.
At fifty once more, babies play round my knee,
Again we know children, my loved one and me.
Dark days are upon me, my husband is dead,
I look at the future, I shudder with dread. For my young are all rearing, young of their own,
And I think of the years, and the love that I've known.
I'm now an old woman, and nature is cruel,
'Tis jest to make old age, look like a fool. The body, it crumbles, grace and vigor depart,
There is now a stone, where I once had a heart.
But inside this old carcass, a young girl still dwells,
And now and again, my battered heart swells.
I remember the joys, I remember the pain,
And I'm loving and living, life over again. I think of the years, all too few, gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact, that nothing can last.
So open your eyes, people, open and see,
Not a crabby old woman; look closer... see ME!!

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A Nurse's reply "To the 'Crabbit Old Woman"

What do we see, you ask, what do we see?
Yes, we are thinking when looking at thee!
We may seem to be hard when we hurry and fuss,
But there's many of you, and too few of us.
We would like far more time to sit by you and talk,
To bath you and feed you and help you to walk.
To hear of your lives and the things you have done;
Your childhood, your husband, your daughter, your son.
But time is against us, there's too much to do -
Patients too many, and nurses too few.
We grieve when we see you so sad and alone,
With nobody near you, no friends of your own.
We feel all your pain, and know of your fear
That nobody cares now your end is so near.
But nurses are people with feelings as well,
And when we're together you'll often hear tell
Of the dearest old Gran in the very end bed,
And the lovely old Dad, and the things that he said,
We speak with compassion and love, and feel sad
When we think of your lives and the joy that you've had,
When the time has arrived for you to depart,
You leave us behind with an ache in our heart.
When you sleep the long sleep, no more worry or care,
There are other old people, and we must be there.
So please understand if we hurry and fuss -
There are many of you,
And so few of us.

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A Nurse's reply "To the 'Crabbit Old Woman"

A nurses reply
Dear little old lady, it's easy to see,
you know about you but not about me.
You think I am here for the profit and gain,
surrounded by aging and sickness and pain.
For you see here a woman, efficient and terse
with a neat little pin that proclaims she's a nurse.
And you look in my eyes to find out what I see,
but you too are neglecting to learn about me.
I know you are lonely and frightened and ill,
but you don't understand when I offer my skill.
And you don't realize that I want you to live
and I'm willing to help and to work and to give...
You wouldn't believe that each patient I see
is a projected picture of what I will be...
And you don't understand when I have to say "no"
that it isn't so easy although it won't show.
Or when pain is a part of the things I must do,
that pain is for me as well as for you.
I, too, am a woman--a maiden or wife,
with my even share of the burdens of life.
If I'm able to comfort or bring you a smile,
my day is complete and my job is worthwhile.
I bring you my hands and my head and my heart,
the gift of my nursing, my skill and my art.
Don't turn me away and don't hold back your trust,
for your faith in my love is an absolute must.
I will look at you always and ever will see,
not a crabbit old lady...just an extension of me.

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Why live with pigeons? There's danger you know,
Can't adopt just one, the craving will grow.
There's no doubt they're addictive, wherein lies the danger,
While living with lots, you'll grow poorer (and stranger?). One pigeon is so funny, and two are no trouble,
The more, the merrier, they're all so delightful.
The third is a honey, the fourth one's a breeze,
You can live in a house full, with the greatest of ease. So how 'bout another -- or two if you must?
They're really quite easy, but oh Lord, the dust.
With pigeons on furniture, and pigeons in bed,
And their toys and things, "It's no bother," you've said. So, invite some more pigeons, you can always find room,
And a little more time, for the dust cloth and broom.
There's hardly a limit, to the pigeons you add,
The thought of a cutback, sure makes you sad. Each one is so special, so unique and so funny,
Food and care bills grow larger, you spend much more money.
Your folks never visit, few friends come to stay,
Except other bird folks, who live the same way. Is it worth it you wonder? Are you caught in a trap?
Then your pigeon pals fly over, and into your lap.
Their coos say your special, and you know that you will,
Keep your feathered friends, in spite of the bill.

Author unknown

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FLYING TO WIN

The sun is setting in the west

my wings are weary and I need a rest

I have flown 400 miles or more

My body is tired, my mussels are sore

I'll go on and on to my loft

to where I will drop

I cannot stop I need to fly!

flying like the wind

flying to win

To be the best and beat the rest

I may arrive home a little thinner

but for my owner

I'be the winner

THE START OF LIFE FOR A YOUNG RACING PIGEON IT'S IN NEST WHERE MY LIFE BEGINS SQUEAKING AND SQUAWKING AS I LEARN THE ART OF WALKING OH! WHAT JOY I HOPE TO BRING AS I GROW MY WINGS I GROW VERY FAST, LEARNING TO FLY BEING SO RESILIENT, HOW I FEEL SO BRILLIENT SOON I'M IN THE BASKET FLYING THROUGH WIND SUN AND RAIN AS I START TO TRAIN NOW I'VE BEEN PUT THROUGH MY PACES IT'S NOT LONG BEFORE I FIND MYSELF IN THE YOUNG BIRD RACES MY OWNER IS SO EMBARACING HE'S LIKE A LITTLE BOY JUMPING FOR JOY I'VE WON THE RACE IT'S ON MY PERCH I REST, I WILL SLEEP TONIGHT KNOWING I'VE BEATEN THE BEST MY LIFE STARTED WITH A SQUEAK AND A SQUAWK IN THE NEST WHAT AN ACHIEVEMENT I HAVE GROWN MY FEATHERS LERNT TO WALK AND FLY HOW HAPPY I FEEL! I'M A YOUNG BIRD A TRUE MASTER OF THE SKY

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THE HILLBILLY LOVE POEM

SUSIE LEE DONE FELL IN LOVE;
SHE PLANNED TO MARRY JOE.
SHE WAS SO HAPPY 'BOUT IT ALL
SHE TOLD HER PAPPY SO.

PAPPY TOLD HER, SUSIE GAL,
YOU'LL HAVE TO FIND ANOTHER.
I'D JUST AS SOON YO' MA DON'T KNOW,
BUT JOE IS YO' HALF BROTHER.

SO SUSIE PUT ASIDE HER JOE
AND PLANNED TO MARRY WILL,
BUT AFTER TELLING PAPPY THIS,

HE SAID, THERE'S TROUBLE STILL.
YOU CAN'T MARRY WILL, MY GAL,
AND PLEASE DON'T TELL YOU' MOTHER,
BUT WILL AND JOE, AND SEVERAL MO'
I KNOW IS YO' HALF BROTHER.

BUT MAMA KNEW AND SAID, MY CHILD,
JUST DO WHAT MAKES YO' HAPPY
MARRY WILL OR MARRY JOE.
YOU AIN'T NO KIN TO PAPPY.

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My forgetter's getting better,
But my rememberer is broke
To you that may seem funny
But, to me, that is no joke

For when I'm 'here' I'm wondering
If I really should be 'there'
And, when I try to think it through,
I haven't got a prayer!

Oft times I walk into a room,
Say 'what am I here for?'
I wrack my brain, but all in vain!
A zero, is my score.

At times I put something away
Where it is safe, but, Gee!
The person it is safest from
Is, generally, me!

When shopping I may see someone,
Say 'Hi' and have a chat,
Then, when the person walks away
I ask myself, 'who the hell was that?'

Yes, my forgetter's getting better
While my rememberer is broke,
And it's driving me plumb crazy
And that isn't any joke.