•June 7, 2017 • Leave a Comment

His little feet moved with the grace of a dancer
His nose tweaking in sheer delight
No need to wait for command or an answer
As he’d catch a stray ball still in flight.

He would run through the waves as they broke near the shore
The foam matching his snowy fur,
His quivering body demanding much more
So his dive for the ball was blur.

He was loyal to his family. Year after year,
Vince was a wonderful friend.
Now, as we shed each sad, wishful tear
At the fact that his life had to end

We can think of his time in some doggie heaven,
Past and fond memories recall.
For we know that forever, each week one to seven
He’ll be up there chasing his ball.



•May 6, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Lulu, how well named, the erdgeist of Mulwaree.
The fidelity of a Labrador, with a poodle’s light of heart,
Came together in a creature, stalwart as a tree
Devoted to her loved ones from whom she’s loath to part.

And Motherhood she represents better than another.
She met her partner Ollie, true till he had to go,
Tended to ten children, including Milly and her brother
Then relished in her caring for baby Ella, baby Joe.

The pleasure she gave to others via her lively pups
Who learnt capacity to love from their adoring dam,
Gave zeitgiest to many. Raise life’s flowing cups
And toast with love. “Because of her I am.”

She lived in great harmony with animals around her,
Be they family cats, the humans, visitors abounding.
The birds and creatures of the earth she rarely did deter
From sharing in the beauty of the land of her surrounding.

Full of the spirit of the earth when young. Drinking deep
Of all that life did offer as Lulu’s are wont to do,
She ran, bounded and explored. She’d leap
Into excitement, into adventure, into all things new.

She ‘s found a new tranquillity as age has come to her
A lesson for those round her as they face the future too.
Acceptance is part of erdgeist, part of skin and part of fur
Live life as we can, love and model our Lulu.

It’s Not A Pillow But It Will Do

•April 30, 2017 • Leave a Comment



It’s not a pillow but it will do,
Hard or fluffy. And just for you
He’ll lie upon it and pretend,
His love and yours will never end.

A noble head, with eyes so deep
The secrets of this world could keep.
A younger self ran, almost flew,
Now gait is wobbly, but it will do.

His world was great, he ran, he swam
On his four legs, across the dam,
A trail of cream o’er water blue.
Now just puddles, but that will do.

An injury, dog’s teeth so sharp
They pierced his thigh but missed his heart
And stoicism that daily grew,
“Don’t fuss yourself, my leg will do.”

More love for him from day to day,
Two baby boys who learned to play.
“Come Charlie” was a cry he knew.
This life is good and it will do.

Now those babies have grown tall
They help when Charlie has a fall
A life of tolerance earns its due
They try their best and that will do.

Every hole is now too deep.
Every stair is much too steep.
Those legs of his are far from true
“I’ll get down there, a slide will do.”

Time passes, the old does not renew.
Real pillows grace him, every hue.
Resignation. “No hullabaloo
Just stroke my head and it will do.”


•April 7, 2017 • Leave a Comment

Crusades have proved a rather fruitless fight
To find the answer, but that’s not in truth.
The prayers of each can never show all light

For those who hold to certain wrong and right
And seek a truth that is an absolute,
Crusades have proved a rather fruitless fight.

Crusades were history ere I’d seek what might
Be truth in Jesus, Naomi and her Ruth.     .
The prayers of each can never show all light.

And to those other faiths a doubter might
To Mohammad’s words bring forth a sad “forsooth”.
Crusades have proved a rather fruitless fight.

To those who hold a childhood fancy tight,
Who tolerate nay sayers if they’re mute                                                                                The prayers of each can never show all light

But for those who welcome doubt, hold tight
The power that  truth is not an absolute.
Crusades have proved a rather fruitless fight
The prayers of each can never show all light.

Memories and Life

•April 4, 2017 • Leave a Comment

As life moves on and one counts future years
Not in tens and twenties but in ones ,
Memories, both sweet and sour are redolent,
But they are not as I expected in my prime.

My thoughts then turned to verse of grander kind
To philosophies of life and death and love,
To urns, stones, histories and noble deeds,
Of those whose lives we sometime closely shared.

We indulged at times in ceremonies and pomp,
Of weddings, births and celebrations grand.
Admired great deeds and very clever thoughts
And thought our memories would be all of these.

We drank in times of tenderness and love,
Of confidences whispered in one’s ear.
Admired the deeds of kindness to the weak,
And thought memories would include all these.

But it’s the feel of clothing, old and thin,
A special hanger with a football theme,
A crooked nail I still could not get straight
That bring a gust of memory in their wake.

And it’s an eager look upon a puppy’s face,
A word that a stranger says one sunny day,
A wind that gently blows across the sands
That rouse memories that never drift away.

It’s not the grand we dwell upon just now
To remember those gone from our lives.
We do it, in love, from all the simple acts,
As we spend time on living day by day.


Listen to the Songs’

•November 27, 2016 • Leave a Comment



Listen to the songs all peoples sing,
The ones learnt at a mother’s knee,
Hark the solemn messages they bring.

Listen, though heralding bells don’t ring
For songs that mean all people can be free.
Listen to the songs all peoples sing.

Though sometime in dismay our hands we wring,
Listen for nuances oft hard to see.
Hark the solemn messages they bring.

It’s unwise to our old notions firmly cling
Against strong words that make another plea.
Listen to the songs all peoples sing.

And when strangers reach our land by wing
Or sailing o’er a wide and treacherous sea,
Hark the solemn messages they bring.

It can be a great and beauteous thing
Harmonising tunes him, me and thee.
Hark the solemn messages they bring,
Listen to the songs all peoples sing.

Wattle Day

•August 5, 2016 • Leave a Comment

As a schoolgirl, I wore joyfully
Wattle on wattle day.
Pinned on tunics with great pride
In lessons or at play.

It made us sneeze and sniffle
But we stalwartly complied
A bout of bad hay fever
Never stilled our wattle pride.

The first day of the ninth month
Was the day that this occurred
And “Song of Australia”
Cross the nation could be heard.

When the Queen came to Australia
They planted wattle trees
A memorial road from Canberra
Waving in our Aussie breeze.

What’s happened? Is it climate change?
Or just wattle getting older?
The weather’s getting warmer
September isn’t colder?

Decree! The wattle’s quickly finished
So let’s change our Wattle Day!
The first day of each August
Our wattle still is bright and gay.

But what happened then to wattle?
Almost gone by August One.
No more sprigs on the school uniforms.
I think our wattle’s done.

Like the Song of Australia
Into our memory box.
We don’t need national symbols
While we have our TV Fox.

It’s great to be multinational
And to learn how others play
But I don’t like our Aussie wattle
Bowing to the USA.