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Thank you FireandIce! :p Your most welcome to contribute too..if your so inclined. :Y:
 
Haha....well....That's fine as well...It will be a pleasure to have you on-board! :Y: :p :cool: Standby for my latest contribution! :p ..Although the 'subject matter' isn't exactly a pleasant one...It's as much a part of life as a sunny autumn day.
 
They are All Gone Now.

I went to a funeral recently
We all stood there and mourned decently
Our dear Aunty Kathy the last of her Generation
My mother among them each served their nation.

Born in a time which was much more elementary
No need for higher learning or complex technology
Just the simplest of skills and a willingness to work
As a maid or a labourer or even a clerk.

Instilled with the principles of honesty and fair play
Something bereft of many today
Tutored by example in love and respect
Something these days that is hard to detect.

My Aunt was the last, they are all gone now
Would that I could bring them all back somehow
The laughter the songs the merriment and joy
Made so much of an impression on this little boy

They are all gone now, those times are no more
It beggars the question, what was it all for
Where once there were many,today there are few
And I and my siblings will depart this life too.

They are all gone now, those old ones I loved
Lost to the world but ...still here in my heart
I held a rose in my hand,warmly gloved.
And left it with her,my Aunt whom I loved
They are all gone now... copyright.Ross.L.Langlands.2018.
 
Thanks Rosco for that poem. It shows just how much you loved your Aunt. I am sorry to hear this news in poetry form. My condolences to you and the family.
 
I found some more of the stuff I wrote during some hard times last year.

I sit in silence, but the noise is unbearable.
A once meticulous environment, now but an uncontrolled expanse, sterile and rampant with thought.
The smoke hinders a barrage of echos only temporarily.
Oh to find an eternal wall, to be at peace and free of these demons.

-----------------

As I stare into my reflection I see two men, different in so many ways yet visible as one.
I see my former self, who has bared witness to the atrocities and violence inflicted,
yet somehow seems oblivious or unaffected.
I refocus to uncover something I wish I hadn't. A dark tormented soul, eyes blood red and empty, a void once filled with hope, patience and energy, reduced to an uncontrollable presence.
I wake from my trance like stare and immediately try to find my reflection again,
but my worst fears are confirmed.
Staring back at me is my true self.
Decades of building an external shell, infinitely impenetrable, shattered before me.
Broken and unleashed into unknown territory

What have I become?
 
And one more

It follows me, like a never-ending plague of Locusts in search of their next meal, hungry to feed on the torment and bitter agony the crave
Like a beacon of light I shine the way, there is no hiding
Stigma, hatred and recreance encompasses me like a foul odour, unable to be suppressed
What have I done to deserve this persecution?
 
TIEZTO....I had all these thoughts...and you bring it all back to life with your uniquely descriptive use of words.
'What Have I done' ...was a constant question I asked myself and the world. And the truth is...we did nothing wrong..we just got caught up in the race...and our wheels got damaged and unbalanced.
I think like me, you were in a very, very dark place. And however you have done it, you are in a much better place now...I hope. It can be a long road to recovery...if we ever 'recover' at all....Might I suggest... :/ if you were to put that fine mind of yours to telling us how you feel now...how you sit with the world now that you are able to look back in retrospect of those crushing moments in your life.What you plan to do in your life from this day forward..or how what has happened to you, influences who you are now. :cool:
What are your hopes for the future and how you see yourself. going forward. For me, every moment of the day is a revelation of sorts.Every friendship I make is a healing experience and every simple thing , like the varying calls of the birds that visit me daily. :p each with a song to sing for me and gladden my soul..all simple, yet wonderfully powerful healing agents.
In this 'modern world' of instantaneous gratifications,pressures to 'measure up', technological advancement and procurement pressures,instant this and latest that...redlight,greenlight, GO BACK YOU ARE GOING THE WRONG WAY!...It is no wonder that some fall by the wayside and need a helping hand.
Despite all that and despite the general decline in the health of the earth and the prospects for lasting peace and goodwill among all men and women...there is still much to be gained, if we open our eyes to the beauty of our wonderful natural world.I wish you peace my friend....Rossco.
 
Thanks Rossco, i have been thinking about trying to write again now I am feeling more positive, if i do, ill post here.

I love what you write and I can tell you are a great man. Thank you.
 
The Doctors Waiting Room.
The sick, the injured
Old and Young
Awaiting to be seen
The air is fresh and cool
The carpeted timber floor gives echoes
of footsteps, thumps, and bumps
The colours are all neutral
leaving body and soul relaxed
draped easily in comfy chairs reminiscent
of days of old.
Sick children frolic and gambol,
oblivious to their sicknesses
Patient numbers are reducing
and a relaxed quietness fills the air
as the imminence of our visit
draws ever near
The hustle and the bustle at the counter as
people pay their bills and leave
Just us waiting now in the quitness and solitude
with only the rustle of paper and the whirr of fax machines
competing with the quiet constantness of the airconditioning
I only hope one thing really
That we don't get sick while we are here.
 
When I was young I remember each December
I used to roam far and wide on the foothills of Mt.Kembla
It's gullies were lush with Lianas and growth
As only the rain-forest's produce and on my oath

Those lands not taken and cleared for a Dairy
Were covered in trees so tall it was scary
And Bandicoots and Bush Turkey were there by the thousands
All scurrying round' building nests for their houses

And I would explore a new patch each day
No matter how difficult I'd soon find away
To discover new ground that I'd not seen before
Then to sit and to listen to the cicada's all roar

And I'd often observe in the clear gully pools
The antics of Playtpus acting like fools
One eye out for Red Bellies the other for Brown
But I'd rather be there then with the kids in the town

They lived by the rules of the street and the crowds
Where I lived by the laws of the Sun and the clouds
Nobody up there to say sit and be still
No hard-nosed old teacher to obey at his will

And I'd 'rock their roofs and paint there mailboxes yella'
Except Mr Bourke's for he was a good fella'
And those sent to find me were on my very own Terra'
No wonder they called me the 'Terror from Unanderra'....Copyright R.L.Langlands 2018.
 
This is great and you may have seen it elsewhere -- Author not known

We pensioned off the old blue dog
when old age got him down.
We sent him in, for company
to Grandma, in the town.

But, while Granny was elated,
he still craved the great out doors,
and would roam the town exploring,
while old granny did the chores.

So it was this Sunday morning
Blue was fossicking about
through the paddocks near the township
on his normal daily scout.

When a canine 'gourmet odour'
overpowered his sense of smell.
Though his eyesight had diminished,
his old sniffer still worked well.

And the source of his excitement
was reposed down by the creek,
where a sheep had met his maker,
for the best part of a week.

For its woolly corpse was spreading,
and the air was far from fresh
from this rancid flyblown carcass,
with its seething greenish flesh.

It was a dogs idea of heaven,
and old Blue, he rubbed and rolled,
till he ponged just like the sheep did,
and with ecstasy extolled.

Then an idea formed within him
as he gave a gentle tug,
and he found the carcass followed
like a matted lumpy rug.

He would take it home for later!
it should last a week or two
if he stored it in his kennel,
he could keep his prize from view!

So he gripped the carcass firmly.
Bravely into town he went,
but his load proved fairly heavy,
and Blue's energy soon spent.

And the only shade on offer
was the building with the bell,
and he dragged his prize towards it
with its flies and feral smell.

Then dog and sheep both rested
in the front porch of the church.
Old Blue looked up the gangway
at the parson on his perch.

He was revving up the faithful
to repent to save their worth,
and said: "Satan is the culprit
for the rotten things on earth."

And he roared of fire and brimstone
and redemption for the throng!
Up the aisle came 'Satan's presence',
in this godforsaken pong.

And they all cried Hallelujah
and they fell as one to pray,
but by now old Blue was rested
and he hadnt time to stay.

He proceeded up the roadway
with the woolly corpse in tow,
with a shortcut through the Nursing Home
the quickest way to go!

Where the matron, in a panic
counted heads in mortal fright,
with a smell like that theyd surely lost
a patient through the night!

And the members at the bowls club
lowered all their flags half mast,
doffed hats in reverend silence,
for the 'funeral' going past.
Blue lugged his prize on homewards
traveling past the bowling club,
till he took a breather under
the verandah of the pub.

There, old boozing Bill was resting,
sleeping off the night before,
to await the Sunday session,
when they opened up the door.

When the stench that woke his slumber
was so highly on the nose,
that he thought his pickled body
had begun to decompose.

So he missed the Sunday session,
and ran straight home to his wife,
to proclaim the shock announcement
"he was off the booze for life!"

Meanwhile Blue could see Grans gateway
at the far end of the street,
so he started up the pavement
with his ripe and tasty treat.

But there was movement in the backstreets
as the town dogs sniffed in deep.
They broke chains and climbed high fences
for a piece of Blues dead sheep.

And Blue felt the road vibrating
from the stamp of canine feet,
as this pack of thirty mongrels
came advancing up the street.

But he wasnt into sharing,
so he sought a quick escape,
and he spied a nearby building
with a door that stood agape.

Through this door he sought asylum
but his presence caused a shriek,
for he chose the local Deli
that was run by Nick the Greek.

Then Blue shot beneath a table
where the sheep and he could hide,
but the dog pack was relentless
and they followed him inside.

Now the table Blue had chosen
was indeed a big mistake,
with the law enforcement sergeant
sipping coffee on his break.

And the sergeant sat bolt upright
with a dog between his feet
and his eyes began to water
from the stench of rotting meat.

Then the Sarge leapt up in horror
but in his haste he slipped and fell,
falling down amongst Blues mutton
with its all embracing smell.

While he lay somewhat bewildered
in the gore, flat on his back,
then the mongrel pack descended,
in a frenzied dog attack.

With thoughts self-protection
from the rows of teeth he faced,
the Sarge fumbled for his pistol,
in its holster at his waist.

There were muffled bangs and yelping,
as random shots rang out,
and the whine of bouncing bullets
off the brickwork all about.

As he blasted in a panic
from beneath the blood and gore,
a front window and the drink fridge
were both added to the score.

And the cappuccino maker
copped a mortal wound and died.
Hissing steam, it levitated,
falling frothing on its side.

And Nick the Greek, the owner,
grabbed a shotgun in his fright,
blasting into the confusion
of the frantic canine fight.

At short range it wasnt pretty.
Dogs were plastered on the wall.
There was Laminex in splinters,
clouds of dog hair covered all.

Then the smoke detector whistled
with the gun-smoke in the air,
which tripped the sprinkler system,
and a siren gave a blare.

And the echoes still were ringing
when beneath the dying heap
there emerged old Blue, still dragging
at the remnants of his sheep.

Its head was gone, and several legs
but still retained its smell.
In the armistice that followed,
Blue decided not to dwell.

He leapt the fence at Grandmas,
for his feet had sprouted wings.
Pure adrenaline propelled him,
fleeing dogs and guns and things.

Now, Gran had influenza,
and had lost her sense of smell.
With Blues sheep out in the garden,
that was prob'ly just as well!

And she looked out from her front fence
at the town in disarray.
At the ambulance, police cars
and the R.S.P.C.A.

Then the fire brigade rushed past her,
flashing lights of rosy hue,
and she hugged the old dog tightly.
Hed protect her, would old Blue!

"You just stay here like a good dog!"
Grandma told him with a frown,
cause youve no idea the trouble
you can get in, in the town!


Rob P.
 
Beware the Hour of Midnight.

Beware the hour of Midnight
When the day is at it's end
And you struggle for an incite
As to why you have no friends.

Is it so because of something
That you said or you have done
Either way you should be sleeping
But that mercy's never won.

So you take a shot of courage
And you load your glass with more
Another bottle's empty
And your dreams flown out the door.

And you think about tomorrow
Through your misty whiskey haze
But the fog of life and loneliness
Brings back your yesterdays.

Beware the hour of midnight
When you're at your vulnerable worst
Where your Demons and your Goblins
Ensure your lonely thirst.

Beware the hour of Midnight
When the hour seems cold as ice
And the fragments of your memories
Come back to haunt the night.
Copyright.Ross.L.Langlands. 2018.
 
Beware the bottles runnin dry
the hours early
And I wonder why
I think now if I ever knew
the ones I bought would be too few
I'm yet to hit that midnight hour
that liquid red my time devoured
A liquid high that now is soured
but guess I'm blessed with no request
to venture forward half undressed
my licence value there to test
for merry mirth the drinkers zest.
 
The years have Slipped Away

And so I get to ponder On the world in which I was born
When the world was less complicated As I awoke each glorious morn
When the air was clear as crystal and the sea and land were clean
Twas like, you had to be there to know just what I mean.

There was no rampart progress of Urban sprawl and roads
There was no Burger King or McDonalds or trucks filled with their loads
On Mega dual Highways and two million cars no less
In which there sits the driver suffering anxiety and stress

When the road through town was oft cluttered with the cattle driven in
To the holding pens by the rail-side and the 'God Almighty din
When the bread and milk were delivered by a bloke on a horse and cart
And us kids would laugh our heads off when ere the horse would fart.

And on Saturdays you'd find us lined up there one and all
To attend the picture matinee at the Unanderra Hall
And for sixpence you'd get two movies with a break there in between
And you'd buy a packet of Smiths chips and a chocolate Ice Cream

Then on would come 'Smoky Dawson' on his Palomino 'Flash'
Who with his pal old 'Jingles' They'd give the bad-guys the lash
It all seems so long ago and yet I recall it as just yesterday
Those days when I was young and thought there was no price to pay

For the boy I was back then is now In the twilight of his life
And the world that I was born in is now filled with pain and strife
There is no Smoky Dawson and there is no Matinee
There is no horse and cart and oh!...The years have slipped away.
Copyright ROSS.L.LANGLANDS.2018.
 
UMDULA UM GALLY LEE
sounds that come in back of me
ripping their way from deep down in some trench
slipping forth like a knot come undone on a shoe
unawares they abound only some coming through
language unlearnt only they ever knew
like a sound coming forth only slightly askew
like a question that's posed round a corner to you
sometimes so loud you could look for them too
yet they're their when they're not only you never knew
but no hair stands on end at the nape of your neck
and no sleep here is lost though so close do they creep
on the verge thereof they call loudest to you
yet no faces at all ever fall into view
so where must one turn if it happens so true
that the words manifest so loud there for you
yet the language that's spoke is one far from some past
Matters not let it be for what could you do
just embrace yet beware lest they talk straight to you.
Silver
 
I'm Not Jok'in
The days are alright but they're getting quite short
And the nights are really quite cold
The TV is on and i feel a touch wan
And my thoughts wander to winter gold.

Those brisk winter nights by the campfire's light
And the stars up above are ablaze
As the misty morning haze gives way to the dawn
And the hunt for the gold goes on.

With gloved hands and warm boots
I couldn't give you two hoots for how cold the wind's blowi'n
I just do up me 'coat and pick up the things I must tote
And don't care if it's looki'n like snowi'n.

And I find a rock bar 'cross the river not far
From the camp where I pitch's me lodgi'n
And I find me a crevice with a nugget therein
And it gleams in the sun,all golden.

Then I wake up in hell, on the floor where I fell
And my dream is in tatters and broken
And my kidneys are froze and so are my toes
Call a hearse, I swear I'm not joki'n...
Copyright ROSS.L.LANGLANDS.2018. :cool:
 
From Heavi'n to Hell n cutti'n out the middle men reefer... what a poem mate, makes me worry for your liver too :Y:
 

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