PoetryPlease

This Christmas I saw no angels Hanging in windows bright. No child in a crib, no sparkling stars But just a dark and freezing night. This Christmas I smelt no mince pies Coming out of the hot oven fresh. No roasted meat or sweet spiced gravy. Instead, just cold mud and rotting flesh. This Christmas I heard no sleighbells. The only noise was the sound of guns firing, The shrieks of shells, the shrieks of men, None of which showed signs of tiring. But lo! They all cease as if dead. It is silent the whole Front along. And suddenly, in the bitter air I hear The lonely notes of a German song. Wait, I know the tune! I know the song!

The Ballad of the Lone Prospector I met him up the Murchison, on digs just out of Trillbar A scrawny lad, with pan in hand and shoes that'd trodden far His dusty face grimaced, as he tipped the dirt again "For the all the luck that I've had, would have killed a better man" And as the last light faded, across the distant hills The youngster in his angst bit the bitter pills My inquires showed the young man hadn't eaten now for days His water bag was drying and his head was in a haze Well I'd been waltzing matilda, near a billabong for weeks So my supplies were quite sufficient, to offer to the meek With youthful surrender, he gladly

As I walk down a street Opaque by street light I see a man As translucent as glass He holds out his hand and whispers sadness And guilt I stand next to him as he whispers He tells me of a murder That was not his own But of a bird He told me of how happy he was of this bird A songbird Who sang delectable tunes of fortune and fame Whose feathers were green and blue He told me of how this song bird sang everyday In a cage of gold Singing of a freedom When it thought no one was listening He told me of how greed overtook him And how he hid the songbird Where no sunshine would reach it Where its songs became those of a prisone

“read please.” … “The swifts.” “No! with ease! Feel the beat Of fluttering birds Twittering on the tongue!” … “The swifts” … The boy looks up, Anxiously waiting if I will… *Cough* “The swifts” He stutters through the rest of the page. In his haste, forgetting half a stanza. *Sigh* “Please picture for your second try, a tiny bird… Buried in the bushes. WAITING… Waiting for the wind To LIFT him up, spreading his wings!...” *BANG* My hand hammers against the metal desk. Ending my own Frantic flying In a pitiful… clan