Donald Bruce Dawe

(15 February 1930 - / Melbourne / Australia)

Donald Bruce Dawe Poems

1. Enter Without So Much As Knocking 5/28/2012
2. Homecoming 5/28/2012
3. Homo Suburbiensis 5/28/2012
4. Weapons Training 5/28/2012

Comments about Donald Bruce Dawe

  • Nigguh (10/16/2018 6:13:00 PM)

    dis doo dooooo

    1 person liked.
    1 person did not like.
  • tiddy (10/14/2018 10:08:00 PM)


  • name jeff (7/18/2018 8:46:00 AM)

    a titty i see, HahAhAHAhahAHH! ! How about you repeat after me
    my dixie wrecked

  • cool jeff (7/18/2018 8:44:00 AM)

    oH, hOw HiLaRiOuS! ! ! ! ! Look down at you shirt and spell ATTIC outloud.

  • nam jeff (7/18/2018 8:43:00 AM)

    nothin much, just relaxing.

  • cool jeff (7/18/2018 8:42:00 AM)

    im curious, whats updog?

  • nam jeff (7/17/2018 8:39:00 PM)

    have you ever had updog

  • Mr Sandman (7/4/2018 8:00:00 PM)

    Bring me a dream

  • Jennifer Ann (2/27/2018 7:59:00 PM)

    I have taught Dawe's poetry in schools many times over the years and I always find something new in their message. I am now involved in an poetry group and we are about to once again look at Dawe's poetry. I wholeheartedly agree with Eliza Jane's comments and only hope that when these babies grow up they can understand how small they look now.

  • Eliza Jane (2/21/2018 5:55:00 PM)

    What a wonderful man Dawes is to devote such heartfelt words to the things that he feels passion for and that have touched his heart.
    As for the other illiterates leaving comments; You people disgust me & are everything that is wrong with the world. Learn how to spell you brats! It's clear that you people will amount to nothing & I feel sorry for you. I wish someone cared enough about you to actually feel disappointed in you!

Best Poem of Donald Bruce Dawe


All day, day after day, they’re bringing them home,
they’re picking them up, those they can find, and bringing them home,
they’re bringing them in, piled on the hulls of Grants, in trucks, in convoys,
they’re zipping them up in green plastic bags,
they’re tagging them now in Saigon, in the mortuary coolness
they’re giving them names, they’re rolling them out of
the deep-freeze lockers — on the tarmac at Tan Son Nhut
the noble jets are whining like hounds,
they are bringing them home
– curly heads, kinky-hairs, crew-cuts, balding non-coms
– they’re high, now, high ...

Read the full of Homecoming
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