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Frank Halliwell Poems
I've drifted for these sixty years, And never really known, Where life would lead eventually, Ere the bird of time had flown.
The Poet's Toast
Hail, poets! Raise your glasses For I'd like to make a toast To thoughts that dissipated With the sunrise, like a ghost.
Not For Me
No, not for me; the plastic verse, The lines of fractured prose. Give me instead the singing rhyme That each true poet knows.
HELP WANTED by Frank Halliwell Jimboomba, Australia Public Domain.
If the world should lose its savour And I cease to feel a thrill At the lorikeet's bold beauty Or the magpie's liquid trill...
Far down below the sunlit waves Stresses accumulate, And thousands up above shall know The fickle hand of fate!
It seems a year or two at most that Luke has been around, But nine have passed since first I spied him at the Brisbane pound. He stood in dogdom's big house, all ears and tongue and smile, The model of a friendly dog, without a trace of guile.
The Spirit Of The Lake
The herald of the dawn glows faintly in the eastern sky A lonely Loon is softly calling me. From far out on the sleeping lake, I hear the haunting cry, And hear the echoes race from tree to tree.
My cat has gone where all cats go When mice get fast and cats get slow. For sixteen years she ruled the place As terror of the rodent race.
At dawn you hear the crackle As the sap in frozen trees Splits the tree trunks like a gunshot Down below fifty degrees.
So Dolly has become a mum! The sheep world's celebrating No Petrie dish or vials in sight It was a normal mating.
Dorry's Ridge Frank Halliwell In the fading days of summer; in the early afternoon,
Young Bill was pretty typical of young folks of today And life was lived at breakneck pace; no time to take it slow. No matter whether right in town or on the broad highway, His speed was always faster than the frenzied traffic flow!
The rigging sings the north wind's song, Through all the sheets it's sighing. The pirate crew atoning now In time that flight is buying.
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(31 October 1795 – 23 February 1821)
I've drifted for these sixty years,
And never really known,
Where life would lead eventually,
Ere the bird of time had flown.
I've always envied those around,
Who've found some means to sway.
The thoughts and views of others,
To change the world some way.
For there's no doubt it needs changing,
It's apparent everywhere,
That half the world is hungry,
And the other half don't care.
But what to do, to make one's mark,
This emptiness to fill,
Inspired things on canvas