Poetmother In Rags At The Doors Of Ikea
My daughter lives in there.
There's no way I could stay:
Look at what I'm wearing,
Even though I gave my daughter.
You see all my sin.
No way could I fit in.
But still,
I have given daughter,
So stand aside!
I will not be denied
A little look inside
What I've given daughter.
poem by Douglas Scotney
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To A Fly Of The Land
a personal prayer, an excuse and a warning
On this the land
On which I swat
you steward of the land
On which I squat
Forgive me my trespasses.
I acknowledge my failings:
I swat flies on railings.
Keep out of my way
Don't lose your glasses
Don't give me cause
To go to swat classes.
poem by Douglas Scotney
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les Fleurs des Mots: Faire du Foin
Un beau soir
je me promene,
et sens
trop beaucoup de foin.
Il a de mauvais gout soupcon
quand je dis 'bonsoir'
et ris aux eclats.
A beautiful evening
for a walk.
I say 'good evening'
and burst out laughing.
There's a hint of bad taste about it,
but the smell of grass is much too strong.
poem by Douglas Scotney
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Mrs Robinson III-Eternality
Finely tuned
He topped his heights
With extra draughts of nectar.
He could see humour and sorrow in all.
Amusement in a mountain
Brought a tear
For friend not here
And never here again.
'Her song is soft as mine.
Now she's only song,
Sorry as I am she's gone,
Our songs are out of Time.'
poem by Douglas Scotney
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Tough Goin
As a Queenslander I'm told
I say fuel for fool
Go to skewel not school
'But hey' is a vocabulary tool.
When throating an alien
I'm not South Australian
I don't make flu of a cold.
I was fueled on hey but,
Skeweled to be tough,
To me the flu is a cold,
No more than three letters in 'fluff'.
poem by Douglas Scotney
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Dorothy's Response
There is an eminence amongst our hills.
There is a deep quiet in its height.
A man I love of lofty mind
Shares with that mount its quiet.
I admire the quiet.
I seem to require it,
Though it limpens his love for me.
If I wasn't so dotty
Instead of 'YOUR EMINENCE'
I'd have called it 'MOUNT DOROTHY'.
poem by Douglas Scotney
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Mrs Robinson
Finely tuned
He topped his heights
With extra draughts of nectar.
He could see humour and sorrow in all.
Amusement in a mountain
Brought a tear
For friend not here
And never here again.
The thought she's in a better place
Only doubled mourning.
The better place is here.
Why can't she still be here?
poem by Douglas Scotney
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Satire I
According to Keats
Thought order best expressed
Is clothed in dramatic form,
Next best in rhyme and song,
And least expressed in prose.
I'm the spokesman for the throng.
Prose is largely what we are.
There's room for a bit of fluff.
Dressed up or down we like our arts
With laughs and frilly stuff.
poem by Douglas Scotney
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Thought Order v The Senses
Out of nothing but a need
From sense unsatisfying
Thought arose
Found its order gratifying.
The need for satisfaction
Is what brought it all about.
Something about the senses
Thought order put to rout.
The degrees of satisfaction
Existing in the senses
Enable thought to overwhelm
Sensual pretences.
poem by Douglas Scotney
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B: XVIII: Writer's Recipe
Mix:
Selfishness
And foolish tricks,
Taking the wrong turn,
Envy, bitterness
And treating others badly.
However sad it tastes,
It cannot be too sad.
If it was you wouldn't make it.
The mix makes good
Of not-so-good
And not-so-good's not boring.
By measured dose of bad
You'll stop the reader snoring.
poem by Douglas Scotney
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