Imagine over Sydney: photo by Kate Asmussen via ABC website

Imagine there’s no News Corp
It’s easy if you try
No Times to screw us
No lousy Sun or Sky
Imagine all the media
Caring for the truth

Imagine there’s no Fox News
It isn’t hard to do
Nothing to kill or die for
And no Australian too
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace

You may say that I’m a dreamer
But I’m not the only one
I hope someday you’ll join us
And the world will be as one

_____

___

-

A politician is an arse upon which everybody has sat except a woman

(With honourable exceptions)

Gentile Revolt

JEWS GET THE HELL OUT OF PALESTINE

(Or stay if you’re willing to be kind)

The only way to live is gentleness

So be free of chains in your mind

——–

Try falling in love with Palestine

Special part of this most precious earth

Whose people resist cruelest terror

And whose courage will lead to re-birth

——–

One day soon sun will rise over Palestine

A land beaming with unity and love

When hated apartheid is finished

We can reach for the stars high above

I dedicate this hateful poem to all who read this blog out of dubious motives

The Mostly-Unlamented Crabbaloon

Whose Rotten Attitude left him vulnerable to the flapping of a butterfly’s wings

Moral: Don’t be crabby!

Blue Meanie*

A Crabbaloon sat on a log near the coast
Grumpy and greedy and quite prone to boast
He wished all his ‘enemies’ soon become toast
That crabby old crabbaloon!

The Crabbaloon thought it was time to have fun
He tired of the peace and the sea and the sun
He wished he’d remembered to pack a shotgun
That vicious old crabbaloon!

Then Crabbaloon noticed a butterfy flutter
In front of his face and before he could utter
A cry or a sneer or a tut or a mutter
The flutterbye flittered away

The Crabbaloon lunged at the slender blue fly
But he tripped on a rock and the shock made him cry
Then he rolled on his back and he swore at the sky
In a terrible, violent rage

The Crabbaloon cursed, then he swore once again
Only vaguely aware of the cause of his pain
(Another free spirit had escaped him again!)
It made him most horribly crabby…

The Crabbaloon managed to curse all day through
He cursed and he swore ’til his whole face went blue
Then he cussed once again and collapsed on the dew
And expired that very same night

July 2009: record death toll for invading troops in an eight year war... who's counting Afghan casualties?

And the end of the fight is a tombstone white
With the name of the late deceased,
And the epitaph drear:
“A fool lies here
Who tried to hustle the East”

- Excerpt from ‘Songs from Books‘
Joseph Rudyard Kipling (1865-1936)

Jim Morrison

Like everyone else around the world who left their satellite/cable TV on over the last 24+ hours, I’ve just absorbed over a day’s worth of wall-to-wall Michael Jackson mass media hysteria.

Much of it has been presented by lying shysters such as Larry King, who on my observation revelled in this tortured artist’s troubles while the poor man was still alive.

I think it’s time to post about something completely different.

This is about another ‘star’ that I miss – although I was barely aware of his existence during his lifetime.

Larry King: loves Michael Jackson, especially now he's dead

This is about Jim Morrison, who in my opinion was THE outstanding rock and roll poet of his generation.

Jim Morrison died before he was 30.

The video below conveys the power of a revolutionary music. It’s mysteriously, yet powerfully motivating. ‘The Doors’ was named after Aldous Huxley’s ‘The Doors of Perception‘.

When I travelled from country to country in the 1970s, shared familiarity with this haunting music was a passport to friendship with so many people from very different cultures, whether Hindu or Buddhist, Muslim or something else.

I believe Riders on the Storm is the warning we’ve so far failed to heed  - and no, this is not a claim to superior insight into the ‘real meaning’ of the words of an artist I didn’t know.

A kindly beast, my fly is black
He rarely lies upon his back
And when he does, I note he’s dead
(Stuck in the butter on my bread)

'Flies'

Beware the fly with purple legs!
His buddies are the very dregs
They like to sit around and fart
Because they think it’s cool and smart

The fly who has bright orange wings
Is lots of fun and rarely stings
He likes to jest and wears a vest
(His mother told him, she knows best)

So please don’t crush a fly for fun
And put away that sticky bun
A fly that’s free is full of glee
And buzzes off soon after tea.

_________________

Cartoon by Ian Baker

A beetle needs to own six boots
Or go barefoot instead
Some beetles gnaw away at roots
While others munch on bread.

Lophostemon grandifloris: a local beneficial beetle (Source: Ken Walker, Museum Victoria)

Though beetles ride on lizards’ backs
If given half the chance
They do resent surprise attacks
Preferring sweet romance.

In many ways, you’ll find your life
Is like the life of beetle
So if you ever take a wife
Don’t lose her in the treacle.

Different folk have different coping strategies. One of mine is writing nonsense poetry.

Hilaire Belloc's 'Matilda': should be compulsory reading for all journalists

I had a burst of zany creativity around the middle of last year, when I penned the following ditty, part of a short series inspired by the incomparable Cautionary Tales of Hillare Belloc.

In early February this year, devastating bush-fires hit Victoria. Suddenly, the notion of deriving even a droplet of mirth from the subject of fire-bugs seemed a very bad idea.

But time heals. The public inquiry into the tragic Victorian bushfires is now underway. The cynical hunt for easy targets to brand as ‘culprits’ for the bushfires, whipped up by irresponsible journalists in the immediate aftermath of the fires, has subsided to some degree.

I think it may be time to take the wraps off on The Fire Bug, which tells the tale of an imaginary bushfire that, while annoying, caused less immediate devastation…

The Fire Bug

The shocking tale of Luton, a boy who started fires and lost his innocence

Moral: Don’t be a fire-bug!

A cheerful young boy was Luton de Ploritts
His father worked quite near the zoo
When animals called at their home for short visits
Luton generally guessed what to do

He consoled aging birds, too grumpy to fly
While amusing green frogs with his whistle
And the minutes and hours passed happily by
As he groomed local goats with a bristle

A happy puggle

“In the most ancient layers of Greek mythology, Echidna… was called the ‘Mother of All Monsters‘”
(Source: Wikipedia)

_________

Because they wear a spikey coat
And rarely show their face
Echidnas have a monstrous name
(A source of some disgrace).

Not fair, because these monotremes
Cause neither strife nor tears.
The juniors, once they have hatched
Have quite delightful ears.

A wary puggle

When little, they’re called puggles
(That’s when they’re not too prickly).
The males have most unusual tools
Which make their wives feel tickly!

You’ll seldom find another beast
So pleasing, yet so spiny
Forget about the fearsome name
It’s cute and fun and tiny!