A Tree Grows And Poetry

my poetry


Desktop computers with files that are bursting

Small voice recorders with tape that is fraying

Bundles of documents tied up with string

These are a few of Genies main things

                                           Family tree programs with hundreds of records

                                           Photos and papers and family mementoes

                                           Email and links are important to me

                                           If I hope to grow a great strong family tree

When I loose one

When I?m half done

When I?m feeling tired

Its then I remember the rellies I?ve found

Once more I am all inspired

Looking through sites for the marriage of Mary

Finding her registered Clarice O?Leary

Just as I see that she married a Brown

Now where on earth had I written that down

                                           Finding a headstone that?s worn down and ratty

                                           Note the inscription says Mary?s son Matty

                                           Taking a photo I hope will be clear

                                          Then as I wonder are more family near!!

When I see them

And record them

For posterity

Its then that I realize the great life they lived

And I add them to my tree

Getting frustrated with records that brickwall

Finding a site with a rellie or two more

Linking my family to one that you have

This is the joy no non Genie believe!

                                            Printing out drafts that I send to the family

                                           Watching their faces they say rather grandly

                                            Families are listed here right down to me!

                                            How did you find the time I just can?t see?


When I loose one

When I?m half done

When I?m feeling tired

Its then I remember the rellies I?ve found

Once more I am all inspired

                                     When I see them

                                    And record them

                                    For posterity

                                    And when I realize the great life they lived

                                    I add them all to my tree !!!!!!!


Heather Denholm © 2004

This was just a bit of fun can be sung to the tune of My Favourite things from Sound of Music




To everyone thank you for helping us find

an elusive great granddad a convict I'm told,

though no one would speak of him when I was young,

we don't talk of those things here anymore.

he came to the strange land in chains in the hull,

of the ship Sumersetshire arriving in May

in the drizzling rain with snow on the peak,

above Hobart town, Oh place cold and bleak,

They were told it was sunny in a place close to hand

so convicts disillusioned were herded to land

then all sent to places in deep and dense bush cold,

one wrong turn could loose them their life they were told.

so they slaved and they waited their time to be done

in the hope that to England they would one day return

to their wives and their children and to family

but in sadness they realised this was not to be

7 years was forever for ever for all ,

this land it would claim them hold them enthrall

names not whispered in Britain , sh to the young,

we don't mention them now to anyone

so now the descendants will gather again,

the generations so proudly and loudly proclaim,

we honour our ancestors, convicts and free,

they settled the southland for you and for me.

now we trace our tree and we publish it wide,

we don't whisper now we are proud we don't hide,

for ancestors now we ask your assistance,

and strangers come forth, brick walls give no resistance.

so thanks to the many who help in the search

who use their resources to make our trees work

they grow like an oak planted in the sunshine

because of your kindness and giving your time.

when you get to heaven and your ancestors meet,

if you volunteered there will be a seat,

for you to sit down on and the rest

they will wait on you you for a change!

and me I think that is great.




No Dances, no dreams only death lay ahead

for those at Port Arthur those who thought they lived dead

The Black space confinement the horror the hell

Our ancestors braved the elements well

But their keepers were terrified also of them

that they kept them in chains yes in chains all the time

For even on Sunday to church they all went in line

but were still locked in boxes and chained to the pew

while they sang hymns that praised their maker on high

 there hearts knew that the only release they would find

would be when their maker called them above

So some would quite gladly swim of the shore

To fish in the waters of Port Arthur there

The dangers they knew and with sharks took their chance

For to end on Maria seemed an advance

But now hell on earth has been altered and cleaned

For the tourist the space much bigger became

For they just cant admit now that man treated man

So badly, sadistic , inhuman. for so long..


In memory

of the men and women, young boys and girls left on Maria Island.


The Tombstone


I stood at the tombstone and wondered, just who would be buried beneath

A baby? a child? or a parent?    The epitaph was hard to read,

So I cleaned it off and removed the moss and studied the words of grief,

I lifted my camera and prepared to take a photograph for recording,

What sort of a person could evoke such words that spoke of love and loss

Who had carved the tombstone those years ago?

                                         it seemed there was no one left!

For in this small grave a family lay from Grandma to baby Johnny,

With mother and sisters were laid to rest, the victims of influenza.

And father was buried just beside; he drowned in the river while racing

For help for his family,   this never arrived but just in time for the burying!

The tombstone stands alone and forlorn, forgotten except for dead flowers,

With a hand written note still attached that says

"In memory of Great Great Grandma"

So who carved the words? One child lived to return

to place o'er his family the tombstone

For it ends with the words

"Carved by Bill, your boy,

With my love to the rest of my family

I know what you planned for my life from my birth,

I would proudly farm like my father,

But I was taken away in the city to stay,

The land it was taken from me

So a stonemason I became so I could

Carve this memorial for you"


Now if it wasn't for Carol and people like her

Who go out with their cameras recording.

Many stories like this would pass into the abyss of time

And be long forgotten,

So this verse is dedicated not only to those

Who go with camera and note book recording,

But the people who carved their history hard

On the headstones of granite and marble,

And on the sandstone soft and the wooden cross

And the markers that show of their passing,

We record with ease in our family trees,

Because of those who do this work for us.


Bleggy © May 2005


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