Ron Pike’s (Pikey) Poems

POETRY

When your emotions flow in verse,

With vivid image to converse.

Your thoughts take on eternal scope,

To raise in others thoughts and hope.

To be of influence though you die.

The breath of life will cast a sigh.

THE STREAM OF HIS LIFE

A gangling teenager, self-conscious and shy;

Wanting to please but emotions awry.

Distorted by screaming and strident abuse,

Mother with whom there was never a truce.

Days full of darkness, nights full of tears.

Muffling sadness with fingers in ears.

Then one day in class a beacon of light;

The warmth of a smile that seemed to ignite,

A warm inner feeling of joy, contentment;

Bolstered his spirits, offered attachment.

A mischievous sparkle that said I do dare,

You smile back at me, show that you care.

Such joy, confusion, insecurity rife,

For the first time he felt real warmth in his life.

But how to react, fondness he knew not?

Each time that they met, simple words he forgot.

Then she went away for a music career,

He unsure, pondering just how to endear.

But her letters arrived, so warm and sincere.

Each giving him pride and allaying his fear.

Perfectly penned and signed, “fondly yours.”

Nurturing confidence that slowly restores,

A belief in himself, that he had some worth.

Now self-esteem that before had been dearth.

But time goes by and time can do so much;

They drifted apart, no more kept in touch.

An unchained melody of memories warm,

Bolstered his soul and blunted life’s storm.

Unseen, unheard, warm feelings rife;

She remained an eddy in the stream of his life. R

Old Man Murray

From the dream time to the hype time, from the mountains to the sea,

I’ve carried all the run-off, when heavens tears flow free.

My veins eroded mountains, arteries built the fertile plains.

I know the pain of drought, the cure of flooding rains.

I’ve watched the black man hunt and fish and burn my banks with fire.

The pain of floods that changed my course, then dying in droughts ire.

Drought left my body bloodless, topsoil skin in dust storms scattered.

This is the state in which I lived; life ephemeral, hope shattered.

Men of vision changed my life, with transfusions at old Barren Jack,

Bonegilla, Eildon and Wyangala; gave me strength, put me on track,

With new heart at Eucumbene, to blossom in old age.

But politicians say I’m dying and must let my blood flow to assuage,

A sacrificial offering to the insatiable Green God. He who would

See my body drained of the very lifeblood that could,

Keep it virile, productive. Oh; what short-sighted fools are they.

Truth where is thy victory? Where did wisdom go astray?

Old man Murray he know sometin,’ Politicians they need thumpin.’