A Fathers Words To His Child.
Children are the gentle breezes for which parents plea.
They come they play around us then they flee.
We would hold them to our breast,
Protecting against all of life's dreadful tests.
You teach and doggedly hold.
But the day must come when they break from the mold.
With resounding break of a parental heart.
They step away, a life of their own to start.
I watched a beautiful young woman as she stepped the isle.
With maids surrounding she flashes her parents a comforting smile.
Where is the tomboy, who bowled the boys out?
And where is our back yards loudest shout.
God gives such gifts to unworthy types like me,
Here is my wealth, this is my treasury.
Even though she resides within another man's walls,
There's a part of me that remembers the mischievous calls.
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poem by R.K. Hart
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River Girl
I was walking by the river one day,
When I saw a young girl throw something away.
She removed it from her hand,
Then with her foot stamped it into snow white sand.
I stood little chance curiosity got the best me,
And I was driven to go see.
What was it she removed from her hand?
A little sifting found a beautiful golden band.
She had left the river and headed toward the bridge,
Walking with fury and tears along path and ridge.
It struck me that broken hearted the lass may take her life.
She wanted nothing but to be some man's wife.
I removed myself at pace, and with shrubbery collide.
It mattered little I was desperate to get to her side.
Rushing toward her what would I say?
As I struggled toward her, felt as though I had feet of clay.
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poem by R.K. Hart
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The Cast Iron Kettle
My old dad had many stories he loved to tell.
As a child these stories held me in their spell.
Mostly they contained a corrugated shearing shed,
Or a boxing contest with shots to the head.
My favorite story I share with you
Now I cannot say it will all be true.
But where facts fail I will not cry.
I'll simply exaggerate or straight out lie.
One very dark and stormy night when lighting flashed,
My dad the shearers cook heard angry voices next door so in he dashed.
In the room were husband and wife.
They were going toe to toe till she was in strife.
Valiantly Dad told them the error of their way
Something he was going to regret that day.
He pulled the man away from the woman with a mighty yank.
And laid a hook on him that sent him temporarily blank.
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poem by R.K. Hart
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Cradled In His Love
When the world throws at me it's wretched darts,
And the world tears at the soft under belly of my heart.
And all communication seems rendered from above,
I'm reminded of the saying, Cradled in his love.
For you see in deed tis true,
Cling tightly fellow traveler, this phrase will see you through.
When each day is as darkest night,
This phrase will remind of the Saviors loving light.
Cradled in His love, wonderful place to be,
My body maybe racked with illness yet I am free.
Bars may hold me in my place; my only light comes from God above.
Waves may be hurling me about, still I'm cradled in His love.
Much I have done as I have trod this earth,
Much of some value, some of little worth.
As I would mourn the "little worth", I see a sweet white dove,
That reminds the, "Son you are cradled in my love".
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poem by R.K. Hart
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Blacken History
Blackened bark striping from the silver tree,
Leaves that are green glisten with dew in the canopy.
Shadows creep across the grey dusty track,
Multiple hues of green frame it from front to back.
A blue grey fence secluded amongst the protective saplings,
A gate hangs precariously by hinges with screws that have lost their cling.
Over grown paths lead around the block,
About the two bed home, broken panes by rock.
Olden photos strewn about a dank lounge room,
Ladies in dresses fancy and men in suits standing with their groom.
Parasols dotted here and there,
Neck to knee bathers sitting in deck chairs.
All of this a picture of times gone by and people of greater grace,
When all knew what was accepted and their place.
Men worked long hours in deep mine or clerking place,
Creating home for spouse and children with cherubim face.
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poem by R.K. Hart
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Memories
She dressed and made herself up,
She had drunk her tea from a favorite cup.
It was a gentle Victorian day a day of ease.
A gentle breeze blew through winter trees.
She waited on the platform for the red rattler train,
Wondering if she might require an umbrella if it rains.
Her thoughts strayed to her old school days,
When they got up to some mischief ways.
She arrived and joined city the rush hour crowd,
Paperboy's calls, cars rushing, all covered in a misty shroud.
Quick coffee compliments of work; clock on and begin.
Her day would not be ordinary it fact you might say amazing.
He lived just out side the city central with his parents,
By tram, he enters Melbourne town with its wonderful scents.
He too hears paperboys, walks among the rushing cars,
Its coffee aroma; misty atmospheres and bars.
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poem by R.K. Hart
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The Old Man Sat Shaking
The old man sat shaking faintly in his chair,
Thinking of his past and a lady fair.
Of past victories and frequent defeats,
Of the winners, the losers and some cheats.
Through tinted windows watches the gums grey,
As they pitch with the breeze and sway.
Leafy greens on boughs that move and conduct,
He thought this is something only God could construct.
The music of the day was delightfully operatical,
Moreover, that his life, he thought was poetical.
He delighted in the music that was his life,
Some of this wondrous, other sounds of strife.
In his day he entered the ring fight for a pound or two,
Kid Galahad fought to go for more than a round or two.
Depression called for men to find work in differing ways,
So over night he learnt to cook bread and drive a dray.
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The Gun
He'd been on the grog the night before,
He woke with this morning needing a score.
His numbers had been down of late,
Today he needed a number great.
His alarm rang with the shriek of a banshee,
His fist hammered down on it like a falling gum tree.
The alarm sounded against the corrugated wall,
He jerked awake and sat on the side of the bed tall.
Stumbling toward the water-tank his braces hung low,
He broke the ice with his hand splashed his hair of snow.
The chilled water was minimally applied to his face,
Braces up and just about all was in place
A quick breakfast of toast, porridge, eggs and bacon,
The usual 6 sugars and tea were taken.
Hands cupped his mug as the team walked the rutted soil.
The shed awaited and yarded sheep for a day of toil.
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poem by R.K. Hart
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Soldier Grey
The young soldier boy stood rain soaked,
In a battle torn, well-worn grey coat.
The coat was drawn at the waist,
With big buckled belt in place.
His coat slashed opened by an enemy's sword,
The result of an attack by the enemy hord.
His boots worn from days of marching to the flute,
They were once a blue coats boot.
He had few treasures the soldier boy,
A small cracked photograph his greatest joy.
He looked at his mother and father with muffled sighs,
And remembered warm pies, and Virginia skies.
His soaked hat and long hair hid a battle worn fear,
As he searched for sight of blue his eye had a tear.
And his thoughts switched from this time of war,
To his hometown girl and farming chores.
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poem by R.K. Hart
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Little Tip Girl
My horses hooves clashed against cobble stone,
As we stepped out each pace, there was a musical tone.
Headed toward the country I pushed my dray,
Rain spat down through a darkened clouded day.
Our load little more than wealthy household wastes.
From people wearing expensive wigs, powdered faces.
As we leave the city at large,
We come to roman bridges, gentle canals and a horse drawn barge.
We are forgiven if we believe that evil does not persist,
Nevertheless, evil is hidden just below surface and does exist.
We move on passed the coal burner's hut where the smoke does choke,
However, on our return we'll take to the city bags of warming coke.
Hours go by and with them landscapes of wooden forests and golden farms,
This picturesque scenery with the greatest of ease disarms.
And lulls the unsuspecting into its pleasures always to expect,
When there lays an ugliness the goodness in man rejects.
You see when a corner is turned these joys will be yearned,
The acrid smells of London town as refuse burns.
Here lays the almost bearable until we see among the dross,
What really causes the stomach churn, which is the true city cast off.
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poem by R.K. Hart
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