Joe Dolce: Four Poems

Jean la Pucelle

I was just thirteen,

When the voices came to me,

I was tending father’s sheep,

Down by the village stream.

I saw a mighty vision,

My head held to the ground.

I heard the sound of angels,

Some were winged, and some were crowned.

My mind received impressions,

As angels spoke to me:

Daughter of God, now you must go,

By your side, I shall be.

Raise a Holy Army,

Fight a Holy War.

The angels, thus, commanded me,

And led me to the sword.

The light within the spirit of man,

Is equal to the light,

Within the spirit of woman,

Both equal, in God’s sight.

I neither acted a woman,

Nor talked as women talked,

I wore the clothes of soldiers,

And walked as soldiers walked.

I rode the strongest horses,

I had knowledge of the Amazon,

I was wounded in the breast, by arrows,

But continued to fight on.

My picture was put in churches,

When I freed my native land,

Medals were struck in my image,

Followers kissed my hand.

I was then sorely accused,

Of magic, they dictated,

Bound and tried, at a trial of faith,

And excommunicated.

They said I invoked demons,

Of a relapsed heretic,

But I was caught up in the lime,

Of church politics.

They shaved my head and burned me,

My loyal soldiers wept,

It’s said they saw, with dying breaths,

A dove rise from my breast.

Joe Dolce

Bonyi                                                                         

Bidwillii.

Jurassic cousin of the Monkey Puzzle.

They live five hundred years.

Watermelon-sized 10 kg spiked

green cones, four to a tree.

 

Known, unaffectionately,

as conck-ya-pines,

a couple was hospitalized by a cone

in Nelson Queen’s Gardens.

Another killed a cockatoo in Parramatta.

A big one, nicknamed Titanic,

fell sixty feet and flattened a horse.

Windscreens, roofs and bonnets

are regularly entertained.

 

Maton has been carving guitar headboards

from Bunya pine for twenty years.

 

Aboriginals eat the shoots,

peel the bark for kindling.

Nuts are consumed raw,

boiled, bbq’d or roasted,

(in the latter, a drilled hole avoids explosions),

flavor of starchy potato and chestnut,

gluten-free, makes a red tea.

 

Ideal for Bonsai.

Joe Dolce

A Charming Bath
after Elizabeth Smither

After work has grown sour,

and sun’s a drooping flower,

        with mauve clouds in its path,

don’t look up at that shower—

        just run a charming bath.

Now, showers get you started,

when sleep leaves you fainthearted,

        to face a workday’s wrath,

but mystic calm uncharted,

        flows from a charming bath.

As end of day befuddles,

and mind gets wired and muddled,

        the soul is stuffed with math,

climb in the steaming puddle

        of a charming salted bath.

Spellbound, immersed in water,

receive the imprimatur

        of that holiest of paths,

just make it slightly hotter,

        sink in a charming bath.

When family seems so dour,

stay in an extra hour,

        read poems by Sylvia Plath.

Your thoughts will be empowered,

        within a charming bath.

Don’t buy Latin prescriptions,

throw wobblies or conniptions,

        pay psychics, telepaths.

Repose, like some Egyptian,

        in a claw-foot charming bath.

Joe Dolce

Natte Yallock Jump Rope

 

Milkbar’s gone, pub is shut,

older kids now catch the bus,

half an hour away they go,

the bigger school in Maryborough.

 

Ring-a-round the rosie,

the local school is closing,

Natte Yallock, what a shame—

Big Water Little Plain.

 

Sing a song in gibberish rhyme,

turn the rope in perfect time,

one each end, one jumps between,

children growing in their green.

 

Budget cut, teachers go,

three small children in a row,

the last ones in the dying town,

no new families coming now.

 

School, school, Golden Rule,

spell your name and go to school,

mister minister, please tell me,

what our future’s going to be?

 

Ring-a-round the rosie,

the local school is closing,

Natte Yallock, what a shame—

Big Water Little Plain.

Joe Dolce