An Ageing Gipsy Woman
An ageing woman of no fixed abode
She has travelled down many a road
The lines of life etched on her face
And she is one who ages with grace.
Born into the wandering way of life
And is she a mother and to an ageing Rom a wife
And does her children play music and sing
And dance around the camp-fire in a ring.
All she asks is a small help from you
A gold or silver coin maybe two
Towards her ticket to her next destiny
How far distant from Paris or to where that might be.
The darkness of her eyes and her hair
And the colourful scarf that she wear
A beautiful though ageing Gipsy Rose
She strikes such a classical pose.
One can detect the pride of her race
And the wisdom in her beautiful face
The wisdom the years only bring
To one who should be a Queen for a King.
Discrimination against her she surely has known
But any thoughts of inferiority she has outgrown
So elegant, graceful and proud
She would stand out in any crowd.
The camera of course never lies
It has captured the wisdom in her brown Romany eyes
The great book of life by her read
And of her what more can be said.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Former Rose Of Casterton
From Casterton in Victoria she lives far away
With hair dyes and hair tints does she hide her gray?
With shoulder length dark hair and lovely eyes of brown
She was a former Rose of Casterton Town.
In her prime she was one lovely to behold
But now in her late fifties she is getting old
Did she marry, mother children or lead a single life
For some lucky fellow she would have been a beautiful wife.
The wanderlust in her and when she was nineteen
She left and in Casterton was never more seen
The Rose of Glenelg and Casterton's Pride
She was missed from the Town in the brown countryside.
With anti ageing creams and hair dyes does she cloak time's decay
For she surely has known a far better day
Good memories of her with those who knew her to this day remain
Though in Casterton she never may be seen again.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Saga Of The Ageing Orphan
Father and I waved goodbye
As we went to look
Uncle peter was writing a book
And his mama was starting to cook and shes ageing
We had come in search of one
Who evades us all
Never heeds the call
If only someone could stall this ageing
So Ill go and hope and know
That my time is near
Laughing through the years
Having only fears of ageing
song performed by by Thin Lizzy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Saga Of The Ageing Orphan
Father and I waved goodbye
As we went to look
Uncle peter was writing a book
And his mama was starting to cook and shes ageing
We had come in search of one
Who evades us all
Never heeds the call
If only someone could stall this ageing
So Ill go and hope and know
That my time is near
Laughing through the years
Having only fears of ageing
song performed by by Thin Lizzy
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An Ageing Nature Lover
She is such a likeable person in her there is not any guile
And where she goes joy always follows she has such a beautiful smile
She loves the wild birds in her garden each day she fills her bird feeders with seed
A woman who loves Mother Nature and friends like her Nature does need
A woman in her mid to late seventies her husband for years in his grave
It was cancer that did take him from her right till his end he was quite brave
Their only child a middle aged woman now has two teenage daughters they live in a big Town far away
They did visit her last December with her a weekend they did stay
She has a friendly jack russell terrier a little white and brown dog with a waggly tail
With him in the park she's seen often she walks him each day without fail
She is one who is ageing with grace her hair is a natural gray
She is always so friendly and cheerful and to everyone she says good day
She is an ageing Nature lover and a beautiful person indeed
And Nature is lucky to have her since all of her friends Nature does need.
poem by Francis Duggan
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We Live In An Ageist Society
We live in an ageist society where ageing people are treated as second class
Where the ageing man and ageing woman are seen as inferior to the young man and the young lass
And the older you get life gets harder the future belong to the young
And so many on retirement pensions are lonely, forgotten and unsung.
They worked hard for to raise their children but they will end their days in a retirement home
And their children don't visit them often 'twould seem that their usefulness they have outgrown,
One might say they've had a good innings though nothing easy came their way
And I do not find it consoling to think their lot will be my lot one day.
I fear growing old more than I fear death their last few years so few enjoy
But I suppose that there is consolation to know that the wealthy too grow old and die
And life too will go on without them their money will not keep them alive
The Reaper one day he will claim them though to an old age they survive.
We live in an ageist society and ageism is on the increase
One can feel happy for the dear departed at least they can now rest in peace
Rejected in their old age and lonely with only their good memories left to recall
And only the Reaper awaits them the Reaper who waits for us all.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Young Woman From Paris In France
The one with brown eyes and brown hair her Hometown is Paris in France
She has such a sweet singing voice and to music she loves to dance
She is in her twenty fourth year and happy in her single life
For some very lucky young man she will make a beautiful wife.
Her accent is easy to love like the lilt to a beautiful song
Of her voice one never could tire I'd listen to her all day long
To this Town she's like a breath of fresh air not many French people live here
Except for the rare tourist who stop for a break from travel I meet one perhaps once a year.
She has such an old World charm and she has such a beautiful face
And she doesn't find it hard for to smile a woman of charm and grace
'Twould be nice if here she did settle but in our Town I know she won't stay
The young woman from Paris in France from home she is so far away.
She says she will go home next year in beautiful May of the Spring
In the green parks of Paris in France she will hear the birds whistle and sing
And on the verandah of her old home with family and friends out of the glare of the sunshine
She will sing along in the sing song as she enjoys a glass of good French made wine.
poem by Francis Duggan
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I Wish That I Could Have Stayed In My Twenties
Life seemed so good when I was in my twenties
Before time left me looking old and gray
I used to play Soccer and Gaelic football
And I could run and chase the ball all day.
I was never much good at soccer or Gaelic football
Though like many others I too dreamt of fame
But I did not play for esteem and honours
I only played because I loved the game
I wish that I could have stayed in my twenties
Life is much better for those in their prime
But on looking back three decades passed so quickly
And one can't turn back the hands of time.
It has been said that with gray hairs there's wisdom
But as often is the case it isn't so
Some people as they age they grow less tolerant
And they seemed to have more wisdom years ago.
The best years of my life were in my twenties
When I could run and chase the ball all day
And don't tell me that in gray hairs there is wisdom
When it is more of a sign of ageing and decay.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Along The War Avenue Of honour
Along the war Avenue of Honour a plaque to a dead soldier nailed to every tree
Brave young men who died in battle their reward for their bravery
They died in the war said to end all wars in the killing fields of World war one
But many wars since and far too many bloody battles and peace in the World not yet won.
Wars started by silly ageing men who send the young for them to die
Ageing men who themselves will die of old age and their twilight years they will enjoy,
ageing males heroes of their people we honour cowards as heroes one might say
The young men will go to war for them and the young men with their young lives pay.
The war supposed to end all wars long over almost nine decades since have gone by
But many wars have been fought since then and war pilots dropp their big bombs from the night sky
But suppose that's what will always happen when we give all of our power away
To silly and ageing male war men who with hair dyes cover their gray.
Along the war avenue of honour long dead soldiers names on every tree
Young noble men who died in battle far from homeland and family
In what was to be the war to end all wars yet we don't have much wisdom to show
For the loss of so many fine young men well over eight decades ago.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Gypsy Vans
Unless you come of the gipsy stock
That steals by night and day,
Lock your heart with a double lock
And throw the key away.
Bury it under the blackest stone
Beneath your father's hearth,
And keep your eyes on your lawful own
And your feet to the proper path.
Then you can stand at your door and mock
When the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't right that the Gorgio stock
Should live as the Romany do.
Unless you come of the gipsy blood
That takes and never spares,
Bide content with your given good
And follow your own affairs.
Plough and harrow and roll your land,
And sow what ought to be sowed;
But never let loose your heart from your hand,
Nor flitter it down the road!
Then you can thrive on your boughten food
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't nature the Gorgio blood
Should love as the Romany do.
Unless you carry the gipsy eyes
That see but seldom weep,
Keep your head from the naked skies
Or the stars'll trouble your sleep.
Watch your moon through your window-pane
And take what weather she brews;
But don't run out in the midnight rain
Nor home in the morning dews.
Then you can buddle and shut your eyes
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't fitting the Gorgio ryes
Should walk as the Romany do.
Unless you come of the gipsy race
That counts all time the same,
Be you careful of Time and Place
And Judgment and Good Name:
Lose your life for to live your life
The way that you ought to do;
And when you are finished, your God and your wife
And the Gipsies'll laugh at you!
Then you can rot in your burying place
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't reason the Gorgio race
Should die as the Romany do.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Gipsy Vans
Unless you come of the gipsy stock
That steals by night and day,
Lock your heart with a double lock
And throw the key away.
Bury it under the blackest stone
Beneath your father's hearth,
And keep your eyes on your lawful own
And your feet to the proper path.
Then you can stand at your door and mock
When the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't right that the Gorgio stock
Should live as the Romany do.
Unless you come of the gipsy blood
That takes and never spares,
Bide content with your given good
And follow your own affairs.
Plough and harrow and roll your land,
And sow what ought to be sowed;
But never let loose your heart from your hand,
Nor flitter it down the road!
Then you can thrive on your boughten food
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't nature the Gorgio blood
Should love as the Romany do.
Unless you carry the gipsy eyes
That see but seldom weep,
Keep your head from the naked skies
Or the stars'll trouble your sleep.
Watch your moon through your window-pane
And take what weather she brews;
But don't run out in the midnight rain
Nor home in the morning dews.
Then you can buddle and shut your eyes
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't fitting the Gorgio ryes
Should walk as the Romany do.
Unless you come of the gipsy race
That counts all time the same,
Be you careful of Time and Place
And Judgment and Good Name:
Lose your life for to live your life
The way that you ought to do;
And when you are finished, your God and your wife
And the Gipsies'll laugh at you!
Then you can rot in your burying place
As the gipsy vans come through...
For it isn't reason the Gorgio race
Should die as the Romany do.
poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Gipsy Too
If they missed my face in Farmers’ Arms
When the landlord lit the lamp,
They would grin and say in their country way,
‘Oh! he’s down at the Gipsy camp!’
But they’d read of things in the Daily Mail
That the wild Australians do,
And I cared no day what the world might say,
For I came of the Gipsies too.
‘Oh! the Gipsy crowd are a mongrel lot,
‘And a thieving lot and sly!’
But I’d dined on fowls in the far-off south,
And a mongrel lot was I.
‘Oh! the Gipsy crowd are a roving gang,
‘And a sulky, silent crew!’
But they managed a smile and a word for me,
For I came of the Gipsies too.
And the old queen looked in my palm one day—
And a shrewd old dame was she:
‘My pretty young gent, you may say your say,
‘You may laugh your laugh at me;
‘But I’ll tell you the tale of your dead, dead past!’
And she told me all too true;
And she said that I’d die in a camp at last,
For I came of the Gipsies too.
And the young queen looked in my eyes that night,
In a nook where the hedge grew tall,
And the sky was swept and the stars were bright,
But her eyes had the sheen of all.
The spring was there, and the fields were fair,
And the world to my heart seemed new.
’Twas ‘A Romany lass to a Romany lad!’
But I came of the Gipsies too.
Now a Summer and Winter have gone between
And wide, wild oceans flow;
And they camp again by the sad old Thames,
Where the blackberry hedges grow.
’Twas a roving star on a land afar
That proved to a maid untrue,
But we’ll meet when they gather the Gipsy souls,
For I came of the Gipsies too.
poem by Henry Lawson
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I Have Seen Continents Written On Faces
I have seen continents written on faces
with eyes full of pain, postures in a weathered mien
and at a number of places
images went to my brain, of some people keen
with their loving embraces
while others living in a world that had been,
of which only memories remain.
It is as life changes from its summer form,
changes with ageing
while people from youth through adulthood transform
and if daily some have a struggle that is waging,
a kind of brewing silent storm,
that lashes against the remainders of summer and spring
while daily they have duties and a myriad of tasks to perform.
When through ageing and destiny
people have to live alone,
or it may be by their iniquity
that a loved one is forever gone,
then there is sadness that I sometimes see
while they struggle to live on and on
and from life and living some wish to be free.
Yet others age well
as if they are totally exempt
from life’s spell,
while younger women still do them tempt,
it’s if they did not experience the same kind of hell
and to ageing, illness and death have contempt
while they still in their mansions do dwell.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Fond And Happy Memories
In the middle of February they always came to Annagloor
And parked their horse drawn vans by the by road the travelling Irish poor
They came for the March horse fair in Millstreet Town horses they bought and sold
And a beautiful Pinto to them was a horse worth more than gold.
The coldest part of the Winter is in mid February
And a cold wind blew across the sky in temperatures low as minus 3
Their horses they did not tether on the by road they ranged free
And though that was close to fity years ago those memories remain with me.
And though many Seasons have come and gone since then the memories remain evergreen
Around their camp fire they drunk their illicit booze the stuff known as poteen
And the accordionist played the old tunes and with him they sang along
And they were bound through their cultural links to music dance and song.
Their ancestors were the dispossessed that Cromwells's army had put on the road
That led them to the wandering life of the 'no fixed abode'
Their mothers gave them life in their horse drawn vans and in their horse drawn vans they died
And from birth till death they roamed around the Irish countryside
Outcasts in their own country and homeless and downtrod
But through their music dance and song linked to a greater God
And though they too had their human frailties so too don't we one and all
And fond and happy memories of them I can recall.
Their children and grand children don't live in a horse drawn van
For the late fifties brought great changes to the lives of the wandering clan
Yet by the by road at Annagloor around their camp fire in the moonlight
I still can hear them singing on a cold and frosty night.
poem by Francis Duggan
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ASK...You Will Receive
Evasive Wisdom is never known
When Man relies on his conclusions
For human wisdom on its own
Is full of shallow, vague assumptions.
Man, with Pride, will never ask
Content to sum up philisophies.
For Humanity will completely mask
The Truth with empty vagaries.
For truly the Man who asks, receives
As those unlearned fishermen revealed-
Unschooled, but Wisdom God did give
Their Life, in writing, Spirit sealed.
For God does not play hide and seek
His Word is a lamp unto our feet,
He gives grace to the humble and the meek
And the Seeking, He will surely meet.
Like Paul, I was a learned thinker,
Too proud to see the scales in my eyes,
Spiritually mute to know any better
Until I met the God Who does not lie.
For truly IF you do seek Him
With all your heart and all your soul -
I guarantee this Truth is not dim
He'll find you... and will make you whole.
'For the Lord gives Wisdom, and from His mouth come Knowledge
and Understanding.'
PROVERBS 2: 6
-
Copyright Cynthia Buhain-Baello
February 18,2010
Philippines
poem by Cynthia Buhain-Baello
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She Does Deserve Great Sympathy
Ageing Bella in the house at the corner outdoors she is not often seen
She was a potential swimming Olympian till a motoring accident she had at eighteen
Brought an end to her swimming career back in ninteen seventy three
And condemned her to life in a wheelchair she does deserve great sympathy.
She could not compete in the Olympics and swim her way into renown
And become the toast of the Nation and the heroine of her Hometown
It robbed her of her chance of having children she has never been any man's wife
one might say she was quite unlucky that accident ruined her life.
She is quite an attractive woman her brown hair flecked with strands of gray
She had spent years of her life in a wheelchair seven to ten years before her prime day
when I meet her she smiles and says hello but sometimes she looks rather sad
I can only empathize with her a terrible life she has had.
Thirty six of her fifty four years in a wheelchair since her widowed mum died five years ago she has lived on her own
Lady luck is surely against her a terrible life she has known
Confined to a wheelchair due to a car crash on the highway which robbed her of her chance of fame
In swimming she was a young champion and for herself making a name.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Wisdom From Above
The Word of God is so very clear, yet, so many men have no fear,
Within their hearts, of The Lord, and so God’s Word goes ignored;
A fear that begins wisdom for all, men everywhere great and small,
Wisdom which opens eyes to see, Truths from the Lord of Eternity.
The Lord revealed Himself to Israel, revealing His Purpose and Will,
And today the Lord’s Revelation, is available to every single nation,
For God spoke through His Son, not just to Israel, but to everyone,
God’s Son was revealed to all men, in a world that was condemned.
My friend, this day as in ages past, only Heavenly Wisdom will last,
A wisdom, which you will receive, when God’s Truth you do believe,
The Wisdom from The Lord above, greater than what men speak of,
Far surpassing the wisdom of men, that, Christ Jesus will condemn.
With this Wisdom, you will heed, the words of Truth which you read,
And as the Spirit opens your eyes, worldly wisdom you will despise,
Embracing Truths of God’s Word, over empty wisdom you’ve heard,
As The Spirit of God does impart, Truth and Wisdom into your heart.
Man’s worldly wisdom my friend, God makes foolishness in the end,
As God frustrates their empty ways, for The Lord’s Glory and Praise;
This all begins through Godly fear, of The Lord, Who is so very near,
And God’s Wisdom, you will see, leads a heart to New Life, Eternally.
(Copyright ©05/2010)
Paris and the Golden Apple
The best of possessions
I am holding in my hand-
The Golden Apple on which is written-
'For the most fairest'.
Strange is the way Fate works,
And I, a mortal, is chosen to select
Who among Hera, Athene and Venus
is the most fairest!
Hera said-
'Power is the ultimate goal of life,
every head must bow down before power-
with love or with fear-
The world stands before you trembling,
And you will govern it with iron rod.
Give me the apple and see
what I have to offer.'
Athene Said -
Knowledge is Power, and
Power is but the shadow of Wisdom-
always following like a faithful servent;
I will bless you with the light of wisdom
And elighten your soul from within
So that you can judge the past, present and future.
Venus smiled and said -
What drink can quench the thirst of the soul?
And can remove the hundred fevers of heart?
Can Wisdom or Power do this?
no, they don't.
Only Beauty can touch the soul softly
and can revive its vitality.
Then give me the apple and in return
Take the best of gifts the world can offer-
The most beautiful woman as your wife.
What a real dellima I am in!
Which on to chose, which one to avoid-
between Power, Wisdom and Beauty?
Power is a weapon,
But, Wisdom is the mind's eye,
Yet Beauty is the only pleasure
of the eye and soul.
So, Beauty I prefer to Power and Wisdom;
I will offer the apple to Venus
and will have the most beautiful woman as my wife.
Did Paris make a mistake
In chosing Beauty over Power and Wisdom?
Well, History holds proof of this-
Look at the burning Troy
and take lesson therefrom;
Let not one more Troy burn,
Let not one more Paris is born.
poem by Nazmul Haque
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Her Beautiful Face
' HER BEAUTIFUL FACE'
The first time that he saw her it was her beautiful face,
He fell in love at first glance though he was very young
He spoke to her and found out that she was beautiful within,
A friend he had made for life with that beautiful face,
So slim and innocent the girl with the beautiful face,
She gave him three wonderful children the girl with the beautiful face,
As years went on she became the sole love of his life,
A wonderful Mother was the girl with the beautiful face,
Grandchildren were so deserved for the girl with the beautiful face,
As he took his last few breaths in life, the last thing he saw was her oh so beautiful face.
Dave Bennett
poem by David Bennett
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The Old Sugar Daddy's Woman
It isn't for love she is with him the ageing and bald headed Stan
But to his money she is surely attracted and money in her eyes makes the man
A blond in her late twenties and quite attractive and he has turned seventy four
But money to her is what matters and he is worth fifty million or more,
Young enough to be his grand daughter his eldest grandchild is her age
Her sugar daddy he is ageing a very wealthy man but not a sage
To him she is heavily pregnant to his vast fortune another heir
Her first child a son or a daughter will be born as a millionaire,
She is known as the sugar daddy's woman her man may have known a better day
But money to her is what matters and for herself she is doing okay
He may not look a young muscular sex symbol with hair dye he covers his gray
But money does speak every language and of you says more than words can ever say
Her lover is forty five years older than her but he is a wealthy old guy
And he has got plenty of money and few things that money cannot buy.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Farewell To The Travelling People
Farewell to the travelling people their fame it was known far and wide
Their horse drawn vans are no longer to be seen on the by roads of the green countryside
Their descendants live a different sort of a lifestyle with the passing of the decades few things stay the same
And so it is for the children of the wanderlust people who too are often called out of name.
Farewell to the travelling musicians on their culture they too took great pride
They used to play beautiful old tunes but sad to say their old tunes with them died
A thing of beauty is lost forever and the Seasons they come and they go
And across the countryside they travelled in the winds of change ever does blow.
They knew about discrimination the under class of their Homeland
But they had their own ways and cultures that others could not understand
Their love of their coloured pinto horses their great love of music and song
Lost to the winds of change forever their culture to history now belong.
Farewell to the travelling people fond memories of them do remain
They travelled the by roads of Ireland their likes we will not see again
They played their music by their camp fire and sung in the glow of the fire light
And their romany vans drawn by their pinto horses made for such a beautiful sight.
poem by Francis Duggan
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