Thistledown

She danced thro' life as light as thistledown,
The grace of Columbine, charm of Pierette,
These, and that blithesome quality of thistledown,
With memory of her linger by us yet.
A fairy, slipping thro' a world material,
Shaming dull men made gross thro' mundance schemes,
She came to us, a being half ethereal,
To lure us into lands of strange, sweet dreams.

One hour she gave us of Elysian rapture,
A mood, a vision lamentably rare;
And now in vain our dark minds would recapture
The wholesome sweetness of her dancing there
Dancing, and ever dancing, gaily, smilingly,
Lending her genius in a hundred parts.
Leading us on to Fairyland beguilingly,
Dancing and dancing straight into our hearts.

And she has gone. What need is there to tell us
She was not ours who guessed not half her worth?

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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An Error in Creation

There was once a man who made a weird machine,
Employing dynamite and kerosene.
His subsequent destruction
Was a matter of deduction,
And a circumstance that might have been foreseen.

This gloomy incident I merely state
In case you have a yearning to create.
In which event, be wary,
Else, mayhap, a sad quan-dary
Will arise and face you when it's far too late.

Now, take the case of Toryphat, M.P.,
Created by the voters - you and me.
Then in matters legislative
He becomes, in turn, creative.
And creates a Deakook Fusion Ministree.

You will notice that this question, as a whole,
Is a matter over which we've some control;

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Omeo

Up and down the roads they go
Vale to hill, and hill to vale
Leading on to Omeo
Over many an olden trail
Dainty lady of the hills,
Rosy-cheecked amid her snows;
Beauty that her landscape fills
Tips the peak and downward spills,
Down to where old Tambo flows.

As Tambo winds, so winds the road;
Cascades sparkly by the way
Where o'er granite, waters flowed
Since some pre-historic day.
Limestone glints and marble gleams,
Beautiful and many-hued,
Bared by ever flowing streams
To recapture long-lost dreams
Of an age-old solitude.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Idle Son

Young Benjamin left school this year
And stepped right in a job;
And he starts in hope of a life career,
Like his eldest brother, Bob.
But Sam, the lad who came between,
Born in the fateful year 'thirteen,
Still vainly seeks a place;
And the mark of his fate, too plainly seen,
Dawns in his listless face.

For Sam was born in a black year,
In the year of the world's black rage
To rob his youth of childish mirth;
And another curse was on the earth
In the year he came of age.
War and depression, this grim twain,
Have clouded life for a bright young brain.

Life smiles for Benjamin and Bob,
Each lucky in his age;

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Country Pubs

We know those little country pubs,
By cross-road and by creek,
Where faithfully the landlord scrubs
His counter once a week,
And stands before his shining bar
To cater for man's thirst
With all the best; but where the meals are
He caters with the worst.

'Wottle you 'ave?' There's beer or brandy,
Rum or half-and-half or shandy.
Wine or whisky. Bottles wink
'Wottle you 'ave, boys? Name your drink' ...
But in the grimy dining room
A slattern lass of grease and gloom
Intones in accents charged with grief:
'Wottle you 'ave? There's corn-beef.'

In the bar the talk grows gay,
The landlord beams, for trade agog,

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Ignoramus

What crass, abysmal ignorance! Forlorn!
Despite his looks, the man must be half-witted!
They gasped for air; they gazed on him in scorn,
And tried to think of epithets that fitted.
Clown! Dolt! Unlettered oaf! And yet, some spark
Of clear intelligence seemed in his bearing.
Men called him clever! But his one remark
His only one - had left them gaping, staring!

Long had they argued: first this one, then that,
Sedately, quietly, gravely polemic.
No voice was raised; each had the subject pat
A weighty matter, almost academic.
But he had said no word; but sat and read
A book by Einstein, while the rest disputed,
A hand supporting his fine, massive head;
And seemed to be all that he was reputed.

And still they talked and talked; till some one stopped,
Searching for words, and so the thread was broken.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Musterin

Oh, I've ridden 'em rough an' I've ridden 'em kind,
Brumbies and prads well-bred.
Of every colour and every kind
(The old stock-rider said).
I've broken the wild Blanchwater colts
An' Walers from down Noo South,
An' every sort that bucks or bolts,
With every sort of mouth.

An' I thought I knew the musterin' game
Right thro' from A to Z.
An' every sort of nag you'd name
(The old stock-rider said).
I've wheeled 'em up in the Queensland scrub,
An' tailed 'em back o' Bourke,
To skite in many an old bush pub
I was master of all bush work.

But musterin' cattle be aeroplanes?
What profit does it bring?

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Old Brass Rail

Foot on the rail in the olden days,
For all the world to see,
A jolly old lot, they took their pot
All unashamed and free,
Passing their jest from lip to lip,
Puffing away the foam,
Till a small voice cried from the path outside:
'Ma says, you're to come on home.'

Foot on the rail they faced the world
And cared not who should know;
And many they went, thro' a life mis-spent
As man a man must go
Straight to the dogs from the old brass rail,
Lost and ruined and wrecked:
But he went to his fate with the game played straight:
And he went with his head erect.

Then came the camel, with his lip adroop,
Calling an end to fun.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Two Veterans

Side by side near the road they stand
Like grave old men grown wise with years,
Veterans twain in this forest land,
Marching together, hand to hand,
Sober as ancient seers.
Gnarled and bitten and scarred and bent,
Sap run sluggish and youth all spent,
They lift spare limbs to the heartening sky,
World-worn and weary, yet loth to die.

They had known the bite of the blunt stone axe
(Wounds like warrior's long healed scars)
When they hid the quarry of hunting blacks,
Ranging the forest with eyes on the tracks
That led to these lusty spare
Spars grown old ere the spoilers came
To give this forest to blade and flame;
Too old to profit that ruthless greed
Which their likelier kinsmen went to feed.

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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The Lure Of Spring

As I walked out one brave spring morn,
When earth was young and new,
I met a laughing mountain maid
As fresh as mountain dew.
Oh, blow you breezes; shine, you sun!
For this the world was well begun.
And spring's soft promise, lifted high,
Shone wattle gold against blue sky.

As I walked with her that spring morn
I sought her brave young eyes,
And to earth's olden mysteries
I straightway read replies.
Oh, yearn you, gum-tips to the sun!
For this the world was well begun.
And mysteries thronged about us now
As green buds swelled upon the bough.

I have walked out on many a Spring
Since that long-vanished day;

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poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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