Mum was born May 6, to Tom & Edith Goodland in Ayelsbury in England. Places and dates are not the story. Mum wasn’t good with some dates, including the year of her birth. Those who try to document her life will have their own challenges.
As I pass through my incarnations in every age and race,
I make my proper prostrations to the Gods of the Market Place.
Peering through reverent fingers I watch them flourish and fall,
And the Gods of the Copybook Headings, I notice, outlast them all.
Continue reading “The God’s of the Copybook Headings”
If ever I am rich enough to make
Generous gestures let me hide my hand.
Let me give freely lest my giving take
With it freedom, Not the frailest strand
Of obligation must go with my gift,
Nor must the comfort glow of being kind
Be used to lend a foolish head a lift.
Continue reading “Let Me Hide My Hand”
After the sorrowing mourning of Good Friday,
Dark sombre and full of awesome dread,
The wild bells of Easter morn ring with joy
For He is risen and we have eternal life.
What about the children for whom Easter Day
Is yet another day in the long catalogue of days,
Who look forward to nothing more beautiful
Than, hopefully clean water, food and full belly.
Easter is when the great and awesome majesty of Azrael
The all powerful and all merciful Angel of Death
Occupies our thoughts as we prepare on sad Good Friday
For the glorious dawning of Easter Day and the Risen Lord.
If it was your child who had so little time on earth
Would you not yearn for a longer life and a good one?
You would want fun and love filled days of laughter-
Not sorrow, tragedy, hunger and the Four Horsemen.
‘Where have all the children gone?’ they cried –
Those citizens of fourteenth century Hamelin town,
For the children disappeared without a trace –
Because men were dishonest and denied their word.
Surely we do not want to visit once fair Africa
And cry out ‘where have all the children gone?’
To see no more those laughing, friendly brown faces
Split wide with ear to ear happy grins.
Oh weary is the burden that I carry o’er the fields –
Fields is a useless word for an empty dry desert.
I need fertile places for life and to be a shield
Against the ravages of hunger, starvation and horrid death.
Do you wonder that I look at you with envy and scorn?
You have too much for your needs and those of family –
Into misery, despair, degradation my offspring is born
Because to you I am a ‘no account’ sort of human being.
(he might even endorse it)
I have seen the silos at Stockinbingal –
A name to remember in my dreaming.
Out on the western plains far from the city,
I saw the real Australia – I saw Stockinbingal.
They of the S.C.F. took me here and they took me there,
From Sydney’s sprawling west to Kempsey on Macleay,
To Purfleet on the Manning, Gosford by Brisbane Water,
I met a people warm and kind who all cared about children.