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Best Poems Written by Dennis Webster

Below are the all-time best Dennis Webster poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Dennis Webster Poem

Bin Chicken

oddly they swim where only yesterday
grass laid down and withered
having been subjected to the slasher’s blade

“Them be bin chickens” me mate once said
as we walked past them at the airport
not far from Tweed Heads

“bin chickens? I think not
as they plunge their long beaks 
into the impromptu swamp on the Church’s plot

not a bin in sight
but probably a few tadpoles in their now –
those frogs don’t waste the night!

circling gloom and moist faces
look with wonder at the summer rains
that have arrived once again from northern plains

zombie and anti, the cyclones come and go
and traffic whizzes by as people try to finish
finish the toil and trouble as the rain flows

all the time the ibis pecks on
with the odd ‘roo and joey looking from beneath the tree
wondering when the rain will end

summer comes and summer goes
soon the fire threat will grow and grow
and emergency plans will need to be so

lifting gloom and now wet faces
are also on the frowns in offshore places
a great shame they can’t be here

bin chickens, yes, that they be
but provided for as promised for eternity
by the One whose birth we celebrate

a gift, a gift, all wrapped up in rags
that will change us and change the world
and the ibis, well, it doesn’t care: 
just as long as there are frogs.

© tastigr 2018

Details | Dennis Webster Poem

Generation Stolen

how hard to see the border
when surrounded by water
a land that is girt by sea

in fear they come
avoiding a gun
that says to here you can’t flee

this land abounds in nature’s gift
in beauty rich and rare
but for you, we will not share

plenteous plains
with great refrains
leave Australia’s care

island home in paradise lost
Nauru, Manus, to name a few
out of sight if you don’t mind

you risked it all to start again
a promise of new life better yet
to a hell hole you must remain

the people cry out to bring you here
but the hardest of right men politicians fear
lest they lose their vote

hard-line left and hard-line right
no matter which way you go
the circle of fear remains tight

what good can come of a refugee
in a land where opportunity is to be found
Christ was one: let’s not forget the nativity

Advance Australia’s shame
that is our new refrain
– a new generation is stolen

© tastigr 2018

Details | Dennis Webster Poem

Sleep, Please

It’s both red and crimson 

Same you say? But different. 

It looks smaller than anything else you’ve prescribed
but in the end
it’s all just another cocktail -
   a cocktail of substances trying to keep me alive 
   or sane
   or both. 

Sane

Lack of sleep is woeful 
as a life of permanent jet lag 
confuses the mind
like a heavy London smog
before they cleaned up their act

or for those unable to recall
Singapore enveloped in Indonesia’s haste
to burn all before them 
satisfying the greed that the essence of palm
may  grease the hands
of those whom welfare has forgotten. 

Sane?

I fear not. 

250: get off the street!
Red welts and leg pains increase
as clots and other pulmonary concerns 
caused by pollutents
send me deep into the intensive care of
expensive foreign concerns

This one is red and crimson. 

Same you say, but different 
trying to keep me sane. 

Compounded, you assure 
Confounded, I demure. 

Will it give me rest
or merely knock me out
sending me to restless slumber 
full of dungeons and dragons
and sick puppies all needing me to help?

Two-toned red. 

Trust me, I’m your doctor. 

Trust me, I have to take the infernal thing. 

Sleep, o sleep, why hast thou abandoned me?

Shades of red and land of Nod
beckons...

I hope

Details | Dennis Webster Poem

Gentle Sway By the Centre

Gentle sway by the centre

The bell tolls for thee
Most Gracious servant 
bearing thou to thy deserved rest
And as thou art earthly borne by men of the sea
our prayers that flights of angels 
have now carrieth thee to the merciful throne 
of our heavenly Father,
through him who hast shown 
the Way, the Truth and the Life 
Where we commend thy eternal soul –
forgiven, pardoned and received –
to the tabernacle of light prepared for thee
Wither thou goest
may we attain the same gracious gift
when we are callest to lie upon the catafalque
and are escorted to our place of rest.

Details | Dennis Webster Poem

Trinity

Trinity

If we can be certain that we know that God is one, God is Creator
yet fail to see the joy of forgiveness, reconciliation and growth in the human spirit:
then we are standing firmly in one place
and unable to move to where we need to be

If we revel in the reality of forgiveness and owning our past
–    that world where we were created to be
without a mind to the future and the potential of what could be
then we are standing firmly in one place
and unable to move where we need to be

If we dismiss the potential that both change and decay can bring
and the reality of newness of life coming from inspired resurrection
of life from the experience of yore 
entering into a spring of infinite budding
then we are standing firmly in one place
and unable to move to where we need to be

We could move from one to another and see the possibility of other
or we could dare to move to where the creative, redeeming and growth 
intersect in a small place called potential:
a promised land of new growth, 
a promised life of everlasting consequence
and a promised embodiment of spiritual fortitude for others to reap and sow

Trinity moves us from our solid ground
to stand barefoot on the sacred and fertile place
that is to be in the fullness of God
and dares us, 
broken, sinful, unworthy as we are
to make a difference singularly and communally
for a better world,
glimpsing the hidden abeyant capacity 
within a fuller understanding of divine providence

But dare I remove my sandals and move to where I need to be;
to allow the intimacy of being in the presence
of the enigmatic divine
permeate the very sole of my soul,
as my skin embodies holy ground
and then to include me in a movement 
that will always be what it will be?

dmw:vi.10/19

Details | Dennis Webster Poem

Season Over

I cannot see it, yet I believe it as fact:
Death has swallowed me, it’s no victory
but the sting of it impales my soul with grief  

Doubt, we are told
is an instrumental part of faith
we can suspend it
or embrace it
as it knocks on the door our souls
seeking, no demanding
entry into our lives

That which is unseen 
invades my sense of life
as the unseen pandemic of the time
squeezes the very life out of the one
who gave to me
life
and unconditional love

I cannot see it, yet I know it as a fact
Death is consuming my mother
and this victory is so hollow  

How can a life of great strength plus six
be taken by the ignorance of others
celebrating their lives at sea
returning with an evil load 
Does that defy our understanding?

Have you no shame?
Do you not care?

From one ward to another 
in the place of healing
the unseen spread
taking from the most vulnerable 
each breath of joy that was left to share

Death is swallowed up in victory
Where, O death, is your sting?  

The leaves of autumn fall around 
in golden hues that remind me of my mother’s hair
gracefully lining the ground with a carpet of mulch
that will, in time, 
bring new life in the coming spring

The hope of life to come
is dormant now but will soon be seen
as a mad monk from a different time of plague once observed:
there is resurrection written on every new leaf of spring

Death, you may claim a victory
but the sting of what is to be is still to come
I cannot see it, but I know it is there  

That I believe
and in faith, hope and love
Together with my doubt
I long for the first bud to be on my tree

A tree of life, not death
A tree of rest, nor torment
A tree of folly
that causes many to stumble
and few to believe

Death may claim its victory
but this season is cancelled 
no points to be given
Season over

Details | Dennis Webster Poem

Mystery

God is met not as an object to be understood, 
but as a mystery to be loved  -attributed to Gregory of Nyssa
d. 19 July, 394

Crisp and white underfoot
crunching whilst I take out the bins:
It’s going to be a cold one tonight!

A look at the news of Ol’ Blimey and the Spaniards
and the mystery of the excessive heat baffles
whilst antipodean lands freeze over

The fires around London and in Spain 
permeate the air with acrid smoke and fear
whilst fires of red gum on the ranges provide much warmth

A social media post laments the climate change
happening up in the north
exciting experts and sceptics
to pronounce their understanding on 
truth, reality, and fiction

It is cold down under
Yet London’s burning,
yes, London’s burning

There is a kangaroo in my carport

‘tis Mystery all
wrote Wesley before his chains fell off
and I could allow the next line of his hymn
to set the heart of the macropod free
although I suspect it would rather remain in the warmer indoors

Mystery!
Just maybe Gregory of Nyssa nailed it
Some things are meant to remain a mystery
rather than being a burden to achieve the impossible quest
to understand or even comprehend, 
so that you could hold a smug position of pontificating
on whether the change is real
or the climate is one big hoax?

All is quiet now
in the stillness and the cold
except for the sound of a kangaroo 
bounding across the ice