I Sometimes Think Of Henry
Posted: Mon Nov 18, 2013 10:53 am
I Sometimes Think of Henry.
I sometimes think of Henry as I surf the city blocks
through waves of vacant faces over reefs of rabid clocks
and wonder when he warned us of those faces in the street,
might he have thought it likely that those faces we would meet?
For now we work a twelve hour day, but celebrate the eight,
and must take care lest we offend and call a stranger, ‘mate’.
I sometimes think of Henry in his revolutions zeal
to change a world he thought unjust, to build a world surreal,
but where the light upon the hill once shone without a doubt,
that light is but a candle stub and long ago gone out.
The workers party’s delving now in Mammon’s secret sin
creating second class once more where want and care were thin.
I sometimes think of Henry as he headed for the bush,
a swag up on his shoulder as he leaves the city push
with five pounds in his pocket and a ticket off to Bourke
to comb the bush for copy and perhaps a chance to work.
His eyes were rudely opened as he tramped the troubled track.
His mind was likewise stricken of romantic tales outback.
I sometimes think of Henry in his battered later days
and thank whatever God there is I changed my drinking ways.
I see the homeless gather by the dozens on their beat
too far from hands of mercy as they beg for aught to eat,
their faces and their clothing burnished weary by the street.
Would Henry be past carin’ if he saw the fate they meet?
I sometimes think of Henry when I muse on bygone things,
of roaring days and courting days and wheels of shining rings.
The call of new republics and the mountains mellow song,
of loaded dogs and old bark schools when days were ever long.
I’d like to thank you Henry for your grim and brilliant life,
the laughter and the sorrow, the compassion and the strife.
I sometimes think of Henry. Is he watching from above?
Does he regret a single drink or chance to fall in love?
Does he regale the Angels while his ghostly billy boils?
Does he reflect with sainthood on his former earthly toils?
Ah, Henry you were wrong I think about those bards of doom.
It’s clear, old chap, that you outlived the poets of the tomb.
(C) M M(Mal) Beveridge 2013
I sometimes think of Henry as I surf the city blocks
through waves of vacant faces over reefs of rabid clocks
and wonder when he warned us of those faces in the street,
might he have thought it likely that those faces we would meet?
For now we work a twelve hour day, but celebrate the eight,
and must take care lest we offend and call a stranger, ‘mate’.
I sometimes think of Henry in his revolutions zeal
to change a world he thought unjust, to build a world surreal,
but where the light upon the hill once shone without a doubt,
that light is but a candle stub and long ago gone out.
The workers party’s delving now in Mammon’s secret sin
creating second class once more where want and care were thin.
I sometimes think of Henry as he headed for the bush,
a swag up on his shoulder as he leaves the city push
with five pounds in his pocket and a ticket off to Bourke
to comb the bush for copy and perhaps a chance to work.
His eyes were rudely opened as he tramped the troubled track.
His mind was likewise stricken of romantic tales outback.
I sometimes think of Henry in his battered later days
and thank whatever God there is I changed my drinking ways.
I see the homeless gather by the dozens on their beat
too far from hands of mercy as they beg for aught to eat,
their faces and their clothing burnished weary by the street.
Would Henry be past carin’ if he saw the fate they meet?
I sometimes think of Henry when I muse on bygone things,
of roaring days and courting days and wheels of shining rings.
The call of new republics and the mountains mellow song,
of loaded dogs and old bark schools when days were ever long.
I’d like to thank you Henry for your grim and brilliant life,
the laughter and the sorrow, the compassion and the strife.
I sometimes think of Henry. Is he watching from above?
Does he regret a single drink or chance to fall in love?
Does he regale the Angels while his ghostly billy boils?
Does he reflect with sainthood on his former earthly toils?
Ah, Henry you were wrong I think about those bards of doom.
It’s clear, old chap, that you outlived the poets of the tomb.
(C) M M(Mal) Beveridge 2013
I don't think he could look at it from a female perspective. Perhaps I should just publish it here on the forum. (in the forum?)
(Great minds think alike, eh Heather?....or under the circumstances, maybe dumb ones.) 
xx
....xx