Alike the nightingale my words would rhyme,
beguile the heart, induce and charm the ear.
Enchanting rhymes, a nightingale would chime,
shall you to them, one day, those words endear?

Alike the nightingale my words upsoar;
inspire poets, stir, evoke the feels.
My words alike the nightingale abhor
the foul play that man for long now reels.

Yet like a night in gale my words are raped.
Unlike the mighty swords, they oddly rust.
Enchained in ignorance they now are scraped,
the pages calm, the words have lost their gust.

This day the Roman pigs have come to me
I feel the wind of fate has brought me ill.
They're thieves who strip all men of strength of will,
the slaves of sin of greed, they're known to be

For now, a storm has raged across the sea
My rights denied, they're coming set to kill
and add the stain of shame, my soul to chill
they whipped my back to break the heart that's free

“… for man’s society is at an end.”
Announcers can be rather dull at need,
especially when spewing such a feed.
“There’s naught much else to say than that, my friend”.

The last ‘lectronic voice went round the bend.
He too had friend and family to feed.
The all that now is left, a solemn creed,
is trust that God an Angel born will send.

In deepest jungles of the R. O. C.,
a dozen men and women labor long
to find that which Man’s certain can’t be found.

the rich get rich, the poor get poorer, true
as finance funds the power structure quest
affluent with authority are blest
while making rules that benefit the few

with ignorant and selfish aims they screw
just anyone they can, from east to west
not caring half a damn who’s life's a jest
for others’ pain and care, they have no clue

The robin sings it's song atop the tree.
A tuneful sound, resounding melody.

The ROB /in SINGS /it's SONG / a TOP / the TREE
a TUNE / ful SOUND, / re SOUND / ing MEL / o DY

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I haven't got the time, so says the clock,
my gears are failing, hence I've lost my tock.
My springs have gone all rusty with decay,
and so I can't recall the time of day.

(for Eric Christopher Crawford, R.I.P. my friend)

There is a breath to live; a breath to die.
Your last exhaled beneath a killing moon;
a drawn and gasped a hundred years too soon
as we invent a god to question why.

All dressed in paint and Sunday's best, you lie,
another victim to that cancer goon;
another saint amidst a bag pipe tune.
What reason is there, that I cannot cry?

I hope the day will never come to be
that trails no longer feel the booted tread
of aged men like me to nature bred
whose quest and goal are still to wander free.

Will days of summer green and autumn gold
become unseen by my children's eyes
likewise the flocks in cloudy skies
as both the fall and they become less bold?

the bushfire season blazes every year
as summer heat ignites the tinder frame
of old and dried out trees and shrub, to claim
Australia’s outback creatures’ greatest fear

it rages uncontrolled, to char and sear
and animals and people, kill and maim
with many homes at risk to smoke and flame
the nation comes to fight, from far and near

https://soundcloud.com/rula68/when-may-passed-by-1

Is spring in yet, or could the buds she eyed
have blushed the plains – that's where she often lies.
Is spring in yet, or could the scent in guise
perfumed ahead, before she'd deep, down stride.

Is spring in yet, why then do lilies hide?
They, shy, subside, but then they'd early rise;
she wakes, then they would show- those haunting eyes.
Is spring in yet, I see it broad and wide.