Easy Merve

I wrote this poem about my Dad way back… about 1980 I think.

Dad passed away Jan. 20 2002, but will live in our hearts forever.

Easy Merv

The story I’m going to tell you
Might come with a bit of a jolt,
The tale of one mans good fortune
The story of one, Mervyn Holt.

Whether through luck or good judgement
No matter through thick or thin
Didn’t matter much what he tried next
The cash just kept rolling in.

When everyone else had a battle
To keep their old bombs on the track,
Merv just bought them and sold them
In a little used car yard out back.

Then if it’s spare parts you’re after
Easy Merv won’t see you go wrong
After he has all your money
He’ll sell you the parts for a song.

Years back he moved up to Queensland
Even there he made lots of dough,
Now he says its god’s country
But we know it belongs to Joh.

Of all of the things he has tried
Things to which he’s turned his hand
I reckon he’d have to rate best
A coalmine upon his land.

Sit back and tally the royalties
Without having to chance his luck
The more that goes out the richer he gets
The dollars roll in with each truck.

There’s a bloody big hole in the paddock
Where heavy equipment digs deep
But Merv sits back and enjoys it
Says it helps him to get restful sleep.

He still has a few slow racehorses
Doesn’t bother with training today
Leases them out to another
Lets somebody else buy the hay.

But if perchance one should get up
And win a cup for the shelf
The thrill of a win still excites him
You’d reckon he rode it himself.

After years as a bit of a battler
He reckons that he’s found the lurk
Now he sits back in style
And drives to the track in his Merc.

Now if you should chance to visit
And on the pool table you dare
To lay a challenge before him
He’ll wipe the floor with you there.

Must be a sign of the times
A miss-spent youth you might say
While sleeping at night under bridges
Somewhere he learnt how to play.

He’s had a couple of close calls
And fought his way back to health
He says when you think you are dying
What’s the good of all of your wealth?

All he needs now for contentment
The very last thing he would seek
Is for Hawkey to agree to send him
A pension cheque every week.

Peter Holt

Time for a little update
As the years keep flying past
As Merv approaches ninety
He’s sold the farm at last.

It’s fair to say he’s slowing down
There’s no Merc. to drive today
But it really doesn’t matter
He’s not driving anyway.

Now living in retirement
In a unit at the coast
Watching boats and playing pokies
Are the things he likes the most.

Peter Holt 2000

Mery Christmas to all who visit.

Christmas 2006

This is my Christmas wish for all my Blogging friends.

As Christmas now draws nearer
Once more for Christmas time
I try to crystallize my thoughts
And try to make them rhyme.

This poem is for my buddies
Who live in cyberspace
I feel I know you all so well
Though we’ve not met face to face.

We share the things that happen
Through the year, both bad and good
Sometimes I feel we’re closer
Than the folks in our neighborhood.

This year I can’t include in rhyme
My friends who come to call
‘Cos my blog roll’s more than seventy
So at the side I’ll name y’all.

‘Cos each of you are special
You all brighten up my day
No matter what we’re sharing
Be it laughter or dismay.

For I feel your joy and sorrow
As though they were my own
It’s often said by others too
So I know I’m not alone.

Some changes happen each year
As some folk just quit slogging
We have to change our blog rolls
Take off those who have stopped blogging.

It saddens us to lose them
But of course we understand
That life is full of other things
The blog got bigger than we’d planned.

And so my friends to you I wish
From deep within my soul
The very best of seasons greeting
Merry Christmas one and all.

Peter Holt

Impossible (but rhyming) Poetry

I’m not sure I should shout from the rooftops that I wrote this one,

might have been wiser to give the credit to anonymous, but never

mind it’s one of mine.

Impossible (but rhyming) Poetry

I was born with a huge preoccupation

To understand the moons interlunation

(period of moons invisibility)

This led to an information escalation

Almost causing a nuclear spallation

(nuclear physics reaction)

So I really must apologize

For my tendency to neologize

(invent new words)

It’s something I’ve started to optimize

Ever since I learned to euphemize

(use euphemisms)

The last thing we need is a panic

About someone a bit homorganic

(linguistics term)

Since I’ve gone electronic

It’s easier to write macaronic

(type of verse)

So it’s all in your head, cerebral

With a wink of the palpebral

(relating to the eyelid)

Let this poem become a memorial

A sartorial, tutorial, factorial, auctorial

(relating to the author)

Peter Holt

Happy New Year for 2006

Happy New Year May 2006

be the best year yet for all my friends

By the time my overseas friends read this I will be in my

bed sleeping off a hangover, by the time you are doing

the same I will probably be back to my normal bleary,

morose, introverted ... happy and sober self.

I hope you all partied well enough to enjoy the arrival

of 2006, but not so well that your memory is blurred

or fuzzy.

My Son "Da Bum"

I wrote this poem many years ago, all the sentiments
expressed were true then, most of them have
since been changed as the prodigal son has matured.

Da Bum

The moment his school days were over

The thought of a job left him numb,

The itchy foot bug had bit him

So it’s off round Australia, by thumb

He became an expert hitchhiker

Criss crossing the land at will,

Without buying a litre of petrol

And only his belly to fill.

I’m going to England he told us

He’d had that ambition while growing up

I’m going to England he told us

To see “Spurs” win the F.A. cup.

It’s a long way to go to see football

And the wrong bloody code we thought

But true to his word, two weeks later

A plane bound for England he caught.

The first thing he did on arrival

Was to visit Whitehall, that’s Spurs patch

And there a friendly policeman

Produced tickets to see the match.

Spurs won the Cup that season

His world had a rosy hue,

He followed them round all next season

And they hadn’t a bloody clue.

He landed a job in America

“Counselor” at a youth camp,

Then off for a look round the U.S.

On the cheap, a bit like a tramp.

He must have done well as a counselor,

‘Cos next year they invited him back;

Another look round the U.S.

Out comes the faithful backpack.

I’m coming home he told us

After two years of roaming around

I’ll be home for Christmas he told us

Home for Christmas, oh what a sound.

I’ve got a new job, he told us

Doing youth-work at the “Y”

We always knew he could do it

If only he’d give it a try.

I’m getting married, he told us

Now that came as a real surprise,

I’m going to get married, he told us

Without even a blink of his eyes.

He brought Carolyn to meet us

They’d met at the YMCA

I’m getting married, he told us

April the 5th is the day.

Before that day comes, he told us

I’m off for a trip overseas.

He’s not taking Carolyn with him

She’s staying home, if you please.

Our habit of not going to weddings

Seems set for an end to the run.

They’re getting married in Geelong

So we’re going to get to this one.

To Marcus and Carolyn, the best

Of all the good things in life.

Is a wish that comes from the heart

When they settle down, man and wife.

Peter Holt

Life on the Land

In answer to a query as to whether I wrote poetry,
I thought the best way to answer was to post a
sample and let you judge.

Life on the land.

You’d reckon he would have known better

Than to settle for “life on the land”

With all of the cautions and warnings,

But he just had to try his hand.

Where to settle’s the question

That starts uppermost in his mind

Australia’s a bloody big country

But most of the climate’s unkind.

Victoria’s rainfall is steady

No thought of droughts down there,

But with two or three real dry seasons

The threat of his ruin is near.

His sheep just fall by the wayside

They simply don’t get enough feeds

The bit of rain that he’s getting

Won’t promote any growth but the weeds.

In the evenings the dark clouds gather

As though the heavens will burst,

But each morning’s light shows

His land is still dying of thirst.

The hay that was stacked in the hayshed

Is nearly all used up now,

There are only the scraps that the mice left

To show for the sweat from his brow.

The frosts have settled in earnest,

The white landscape can look very nice

But it burns of any new grass shoots

Well at least it kills of the mice.

In between there have been times of plenty,

Plenty of locusts and plenty of mites,

To chew off the pasture he’s put in

And cause him more sleepless nights.

For all the setbacks and heartaches

He says, “The life’s not that bad”

But despite the brave front he puts on

He ain’t got the cash that he had.

Right now the farms looking pretty

There’s a tinge of green showing through,

But it’s short, and now it’s stopped growing

And there’s not a dammed thing he can do.

The garden looks neat and tidy,

The sheds all look straight and true,

The fences are in good condition,

There’s a crop in the ground, growing too.

Sounds like everything’s rosy,

It’s just there’s no rain, or cash flow

To meet the bills as they come in

That’s dealing the crippling blow.

Who’s helped him through all of his hardships?

Was it Dalgety’s? Or Elder’s? The Bank?

No, the girl that he married

Is the one he really must thank.

These are the trials of farming

To be weathered and beaten in time

Have enough patience to hang on

And everything works out just fine.

Written by Peter Holt