Meantime she rides the wave
of "Meet Robyn, she's the Poet"
That's MY title dearest honey
I mumble to myself
please support my jealous rave
screw her poetry up, and throw it
me? I'd like to be real funny
hide it on a tall, tall shelf

O so funny, meo (sob)
O heck good onya Rob

Oh, I didn't say : The 2005 UTS Writers'Anthology,
I'm sure Robyn-the-poet has details

Dave alcoholically confused
And me? Too drunk to know or care.
Stumbling downhill
Because ships are never up
Sailor logic
Not that we're lost

Night ashore in Naples
Backstreets beyond seedy
We trip on unlit cobble stones
And smell yesterday's meals
Laced with blocked drains and armpits

Identical black Mercedes stand in perfect line
Signpost for a Family business?
Light limps from an open door
Beckoning the foolish

Furtive figures watch through smokey gloom
Dave sees two distant blondes and offers drinks
Champaign pre-opened for convenience arrives
Two paces before the crowsfeet
Just like my mum, says pissed off Dave, unkindly

They smile with gappy teeth : No spik Ingles
To check Dave calls them ugly and they grin
He speaks of impossible sexual acts and genitalia
They reply politely in Italiano
Slurping down the weak warm booze

Dave reads the bill makes choking sounds
Throws all his money barward
Swears profusely, all in Engish
As we head back to the street

Demented Dave disappears behind a merc
To take a piss? If only that was true
Bang-BANG and Dave is standing on the trunk
Bang-BANG he's on the roof
Then he leaps , a single BANG, both feet
Together bend the hood

A shouted Stop! dies on my lips
Our only chance not being seen
He and his heavy leather boots
Are up and over two more cars
Still darkness hides his deeds

Four cars before I catch him
Drag him like a suitcase
From an airport carousel,
Then bump and wheel him in a downhill rush
Away from danger

Hilarious Dave heehaws endlessly
As we reach the ship
And entertain the duty watch
With hugging rolling exuberance
Dave jubilant. Me? Relieved!

Notes:

1. All absolutely true except the name 'Dave', from HMAS MELBOURNE's voyage to UK for the Queen's 25th Anniversary, 1977.

2. I believe all narratives are best writteb with strict rhyme and rhythm, and one day I'll do it here

some with medals attached
wander up
one at a time
deposited three hours early
- by daughters in Japanese cars -
to avoid traffic jams
each man vowing to be ready by 2pm
one light beer only no two-up and
no mates invited home
but as they drive off each car receives
a hip flask salute

most come by bus or train
medals in pockets - an unwritten rule-
to meet old mates at 'their regular boozer'
recall deeds done long ago
and comrades-in-arms, now gone
and share the pinning-on
of honour recognised

the remainder stumble from RSL minibuses
arm-locked agglomerations of men
their smoke-weary eyes pealed for portaloos and mates
in that order
the true survivors of
the dawn parade and gunfire breakfasts
bacon sarnies beer and rum.

as the hour approaches
sad words are whispered:
No ANZACs on parade

Notes for foreigners/farang/howlee/gaigin/poms etc:

ANZAC: Australia and New Zealand Army Corps, The original ANZACs fought at Gallipoli Turkey, in WW1, where the brave ANZACs were massacred

Anzac Day: Australian public holiday, 25th April every year, to remember/commemorate those who died in the Service of their country (not just Australia and NZ), and those who survived. Most Australian cities have dawn services. Major cities have marches (Sydney has 250 000 odd). Some 20000 attend in Gallipoli. In New Zealand, less attend, because they had conscription, while Australia had an all volunteer force.

TAKEN BY MANY AS MARKING OUR INDEPENDENCE FROM 'MOTHER ENGLAND'

Z Force: A supposedly secret strike force
Two-up: A gambling game

Medals in pockets: the custom of not wearing uniform/parts thereof in public transport

RSL: Returned Servicemen's League (or one of their the licensed clubs)

Sarnie: Sandwich

If everyone was forced to eat Big Max
Each day with chocolate shake and salty fries
A billion men would have to buy new slacks
Their old ones wouldn't fit around their thighs

As sev'ral billion chunky women stare
In full length mirrors that reveal their plight
The anthem 'I've got nothing left to wear'
Would frustrate many families day and night

The kids line up for salt and sugar hits
To basic fare we add desserts and pies
Condemn them to an unfit life,with zits
And A D D appears, what a surprise

All hail the ten foot Max with silly shoes
Who welcomes you to dine, what's there to lose?

Epitasis when they thicken the plot
Epitrite one stressed then three not
Epithalamion a song, but
Epesiotomy's a cut
Epiploce – scansion options you've got

Epimythiuma summarized moral
Epinicion an ode, maybe choral
Epiphonema's terse
An epic 'long verse'
You can write an epistle to Laurel

Epiglottis will help you speak
An Epigon's new thought is weak
Epiplexis will shame
Epistrophe's all end the same
Epitome's short and sleak

Epigraphs? Dedication
Epicentre: the quakes location
Epidural's been done
Epizeuxis? Come come!
Epiphany is celebration

"Thank you for the comments
you've been kind enough to write
I am thrilled by every new one that comes through
but I've been a total slacko
and extremely impolite
by not responding similarly to you

A 'selfish bloody ingrate'
is perhaps a little tough
and words such as 'self-centred' wouldn't fit
but all of these apply to me
accurately enough
the best, perhaps, a 'thankless little shit'

'Take, take, take' has been my creed
with nothing in return,
I won't bore you with excuses, they're too lame
I will flagellate my buttocks
With a cane, until they burn
And bow my head toward the ground in shame

Wait on, you say, that last bit,
Is a little tongue-in cheekish
Is that some of your facetiousness we hear?
Well, um, yeah, would you believe me
If I started acting sheepish?
(But the apology is totally sincere)"

Alan Smith © 30 March 2005

Today I thought
A general mind sort
Was what I needed most urgent.
Can I really focus?
No. Hocus pocus!!
Magically off on a tangent

Maybe I can pretend
Til up nearer the end
That life can go on as we knew
But wait on a minute
There's already a limit
On what I can and cannot do

But my blinkers hold firm
For most of the time
Their efficiency does them much credit
It's the cramps you see
That terrify me
Well there, take a look, now I've said it

No that's absolute pap
Some mindless crap
My horrors are all clearly known
The greatest of fears
Is that in a few years
I'll be nursing home bound ... all alone

A vegetable sprout
Nothing in nothing out
'cept hospital food and shite
With someone to read me
A book, or to feed me,
And a bed bath, once every night

I'm pretty unsmitten
By what I have written
It shows my depressive streak
A mile or so wide
Go on! Put it aside
Make the most of each day of each week

Let's face it.. I'm dumb
I'm more lucky than some
Who see nothing to harm them ahead
When their time comes
To get off their bums
They're divorced, or they're broke, or they're dead

So I'll plan trips to Old Blighty
Try to grab my wife's nightie
And pour out my feelings in rhyme
Shout for Swannies and Kings
Do a myriad of things
And maximise use of my time

Alan Smith Oct 2003

he parts her legs, takes the prize
tells her it purifies
gets worse, sodomise - horrifies
her period dries, belly swells in size
loose clothes to disguise
newborn thrown into trash, dies
all day long she cries
til her uncle's demise
shot by her aunt

(C) Alan Smith 16 Feb 05

In Sydney, Australia
we're real used to failure
the Sydney Kings frequently flop
but it sure would appear
to be different this year
and we might finish up near the top

A bloody big throng
had come from the 'gong
with bugles and whistles and drums
not a sound had they made
while the Panthers played
they hung about scratching their bums

They were salivating
anticipating
their moment was almost at hand
they mustered their zeal
to heckle Shane Heal
Sydney's finest, the best in the land

And at last! Shane was coming
they started their drumming
and blew all their bugles out loud
shouting Heal is a wanker
to incur his rancour
and that of the Sydney crowd

The moment was nearing
many boos, much more cheering
a wild unbelievable clamour
as Rodney O's voice
endorsed Sydney's choice
23 Shane Heal, the hammer

In total control
the spotlight he stole
acknowledged his fans with a bow
then the champion chose
to offer his foes
a smile that said 'just watch me now'

The game now began
through thick traffic he ran
and plonked the ball in for a two
the Sydney fans screamed
for the Hawks to be creamed
(a thing their team sure could do)

I saw the champ linger
to give them the finger
that the refs ignored by a mile
Hawks fans were incensed
their chant recommenced
but Shane just continued to smile

Down the court again
to the wanker refrain
three points where the last two had gone
The more that they roared
the more Shane Heal scored
it clearly turned him on

The fans could smell blood
and expected a flood
of points; and that's what they got
near half-time they'd find
the Hawks 40 behind
with all their chances shot

But still the drums blazed
and their voices were raised
'Heal's a wanker' they cried and they cried
but with every roar
Shane scored even more
the scoreboard was where he replied

Heal hogged the ball
he did it all
layups, fade-aways, hooks
a matter of pride
now he shot from outside
beaucoup treys for the league record books

To the Hawks fans… our thanks
for shouting 'Heal wanks'
it brought out his very best play
they should look at the board
fifty one points he scored
(and Sydney won the day)

As our family drove home
from the Kings' Superdome
still dazed from the point scoring spree
we knew just how lucky
we'd been to see plucky
Shane heal, number 23

Alan Smith 2002

An occupation sadly much maligned
With words like stupid, deaf and dumb and blind
They hide out in the suburbs have no doubt
The weather men who put our forecasts out
These 'nongs of wrong' may even live next door
Well here's some clues, so you can tell for sure.
A Morris Minor, garaged every day
Except when storms with hail are on the way
He washes it? The rain will come for sure
Snow skis on top? The temp'rature will soar
On hottest days he dons his thickest cloak
At first you'll think that it's his little joke
At your expense, but when the skies are clear
You'll see him wearing all his rain-proof gear
Umbrella, hat, and raincoat without doubt
A pair of waders in the midst of drought
Dark glasses when thick clouds hide all the sky
On wintry days, a short sleeve shirt and tie
But wait! Please note before this ditty ends
They make long term, but most confusing, friends

Alan Smith July 2004
Published (Commended) in Yellow Moon No 15 August 2004

dad stumbles into
his son's sand castle
topless sun bather

asleep in the sun
dreaming of food
lobster thermidor

outdoor showers
he digs inside his speedos
sand excavation

lime ice cream
melts down her arm
my Lady Green Sleeves

two boys race
through the crowded beach
sand flies ev'rywhere

from the water's edge
squeals of delight
splashing games

incoming tide
she digs a moat around
her sandcastle

broadcast of carols
transports her from the heat
Good King Wenceslas

walking between
bikini clad girls
his board feels lighter

a Christmas present
from his surfboat crew
wedgie for Santa

he reads in her direction
his book upside down

Alan Smith August 2004
Published (Commended) in Yellow moon No 16 December 2004

I saw the troops of satan in our country
I heard their voices vilifying, cruel
I smelt their filth when they defiled our daughters
I tasted widows' tears, and orphans' gruel

I have too many faces to remember,
bin Laden, Baader-Meinhof, IRA
Saddam Hussein, Amrozi, Black September
Qadhafi, Bush, Sharon, and Tim McVeigh

I spit upon the verdicts of your juries
I had no other option but to fight
I stand before my maker for his judgment
I know that everything I did was right

Alan Smith, July 2004
Published in Quadrant No 413 (Jan/Feb 2005)