Tamworth Rage Page
Helen is no longer updating this website
 
"Australian Country Poems"
2005-2006
Please send a poem to me by e-mail to ragepage@bigpond.com  half way through 2006 each poem will be judged and the winner will receive a small prize.
Scroll Down for Tamworth Ragepage 2005-2006 Competition
 
The 2005/2006 Poetry Competition is a Draw!!!!!  Scroll Down
 
Info for Poetry writers
TAMWORTH POETRY READING GROUP
PO BOX 3001 WEST TAMWORTH 2340
Organisers of The Blackened Billy Verse Competition and
The CountryEnergy Tamworth Bush Poetry Competition

As Tamworth once again starts to gird up its loins for the onset of Country
Music, the bush poets are again stirring. It is time for all the bush
poetry scribes to put pen to paper again for the Blackened Billy Verse
Competition.

The competition has been running for about 16 years and has gained the
reputation as one of the most prestigious competitions in Australia. The
Blackened Billy trophy has been much prized by previous winners and keenly
sought after and there are cash prizes as well.

Bush poetry is a traditional type of verse written with rhyme and rhythm
that reflects the Australian way of life, and themes for poems entered in
the past have ranged from the old droving days to the problems and
experiences of modern living, both in the city and the country.

The Tamworth Poetry Reading Group, which runs this competition, welcomes
entries from new and old writers. For an entry form and information, please
write to Jan Morris, PO Box 3001, West Tamworth 2340 or email
janmorris@northnet.com.au . Entry forms will be available from September 16
and entries close November 30. Winners are announced during the Tamworth
Country Music Festival in January.
Jan Morris
Organiser
Blackened Billy Verse Competition
 
Scroll Down for 2005- 2006 Poetry Competition
 
www.savethebilbyfund.com
www.easterbilby.com.au

 

Click here for info about Merv Webster TSA Lyrics Finalist plus Bush Laureate Finalist

 
Rae Donovan painted this cover
Scribblers on Sunday'. 
Venue - Carindale Library
Meeting Room in Brisbane, >
 Book is out now.!!  $15.00 plus postage.
 One of the poems is 'The Slim Dusty Way'.
yvonnegpick@optusnet.com.au
 
The members of Scribblers on Sunday are a varied and versatile group who meet monthly to
share their works and enjoy the company of other writers.  Ages range from teens to retirees. 
 
The 2005/2006 Poetry Competition is a Draw!!!!!
Award Winning Poet Lenny Knight (Competition Judge) could not decide between these two Poems.
Winners
Vivienne Ledlie - "MY BOOMERANG HOTEL" Poem 42
Merv Webster (The Goondiwindi Grey) "SOMETHING FOR OUR STEVIE "  Poem 15
Congratulations!!  Vivienne and Merv
2005 - 2006
Poetry Competition
Poem 55
COUNTRYSIDE
As I travel the countryside,
I am captivated by the wonders I see.
The beauty of the wildflowers
Growing freely in the fields.
 
The various mixture of colors
Of the leaves of many different trees.
Watching the wind dancing
Through the trees and wheat fields.

Watching the animals run through the forest
As if playing a game of tag.
Watching the feeling of freedom
Being displayed before my very own eyes.

As I walk through the forest,
I enjoy closing my eyes and breathing in the clean air.
The beauty of the slow moving streams of water
Are both captivating and soothing.

At night, the trees seem to be
A silhouette against the sky and the stars.
There is peace and solitude
In the dark of night.

William Lacewell, Jr.
5532 Bavarian Lane
Wilmington, N.C. 28405
williamlacewell@bellsouth.net

 
Poem 54
SPARKLING WATERS
Oh what a glorious place to be, sitting on the rocks and just looking out to sea,
For it's quite a wonderful and breathtaking sight for me.
The waves are bobbing too and fro, telling me of some place that I'm longing to go,
Your mind stands still as if resting for a while,
Then you spot the seagulls swooping and flying that makes you just want to smile.
The sun is shining on the water, making it all crystal and pure,
It makes you feel so serene and demour..
Just now and then a pelican will swoop in for a fish,
To catch and feed himself quite a salty sea dish.
Sail boats are gliding along the water top, going faster and faster and not wanting to stop.
Everything seems to stand still for a time, and I'm finding it hard to think of words that will rhymn,
I'll take a deep breath and let it out with a sigh, oh how I love seeing this sight with a glint in my eye.
So for a moment I will just sit here, catch my breath and say for now good-bye to the sun, the water and the sky.
By Lorraine Fahey

 
Poem 53
INNOCENT SOULS

We are the children sweet and pure
For pain and sorrow we can endure.
Our hearts are happy, our eyes are bright,
Sometimes we struggle against sleep at night.
But morning comes, and so does the sun,
We look forward to playing and going outside for some fun.
We laugh and giggle, we push and shove for just being children we just love.
Our toys are many but little do we care,
Because it's just wonderful to breathe in fresh air,
The birds are singing and there's sounds of bees in the trees, so we crouch down to crawl on our knees.
To crawl and to follow the ants on the ground, and to stop and listen to each and every sound.
For we are the children of yesterday and to-morrow, and know that our lives will go on without much pain or sorrow.
By Lorraine Fahey

 
Poem 52
THE ROCK
It was the wet season of 1987/88 and I had embarked on this journey a few months earlier from Jurien Western Australia.

Over the last three or four weeks I had hitch hiked down from Darwin via a stay in Alice springs and a couple of smaller towns and when I reached the Ayres Rock turn off, the sun was only a few hours from going down. As I sat there on the corner surrounded by what some would say was absolutely nothing? I began to make plans as to where I would sleep, and then continue on in the morning. However just as I had lost all faith in getting another ride that day, a green panel van pulled round the corner and stopped for me, "You beauty"! I thought this bloke is going my way. So after stowing my pack in the back I joined him in the front and I was surprised to find a Japanese fella sitting behind the wheel and smiling at me half drunk! With a wave of his hand he beckoned me in and explained in broken English that his name was Egar, followed with a big cheesy grin. In those days when I was nineteen I was pretty partial to a beer so, when Egar offered me a tin from his esky on that hot afternoon it came as sweet music to my ears. Although English was not exactly the language that Egar preferred, after four or five cans his Japanese accent could almost, by me, no longer be heard. So there we were, a likely crew and as we drank our grog and sung along to Simon and Garfunkle, I took a real liking to my new friend and he seemed to like me too. In spite of the party that we both now had going, the road had been long, I was tired and had really started slowing! So Egar pulled over, made gestures suggesting I could lye down in the back and so once I was settled we once more hit the track. Now it was as I lay blissfully sleeping in the back of the van, that we passed a big sign that read "NO CAMPING and NO FIRES $10,000 fine" But as I was asleep and my mate couldn't read the words, no he didn't understand, we arrived at the rock with totally opposite plans. Yes oblivious to the fact that at the rock no one, since the days of Lindy Chamberlain, was at all allowed to stay we drove round to the back of Ayres Rock, made our camp, cooked some food on the fire and it was there that we began our play. We soon ate the grub, had a good fire burning, were getting more drunk and I got out my harmonica at Egar's constant Urging. So that was where we were until later that night our beers ran out, when my friend said that we had past a resort and pub on the way about twenty K's from our camp. So with both of us pretty wobbly by now we drove back to the spot where Egar reckoned we could buy some more drinks, so after finding the place and buying a bottle of rum, we returned to our camp, both too blind to think, or see the sign that read, "NO CAMPING and NO FIRES $10,000 fine." Once we were back at our camp in the quite illegal spot, we drank the bottle of rum and as Egar who was now passed out pissed in the tent, in my own drunken haze, towards Ayres Rock I began to trot! The night we were there happened to be on a full moon so the silhouette of the rock stood out like a sore thumb and any sleepy frilled neck lizard watching me, as I ran across the desert with one thing in mind could be excused for thinking me dumb. For as the great monolith stood posing in the moonlight it lured me towards it like a mosquito towards a deadly electric light. So after running in my thongs for about half a kilometre I finally, puffed out and dizzy reached my destination and now I would climb through the night up the back of this magical, desert creation. Without a lot of thinking, well none to be exact, I began to clamber up the rock swaying in my thongs and armed with nothing more than my hat. At the start the climb was quite easy? But at about thirty feet up I got stuck and became instantly quite queasy. As I sat on the side of Ayres Rock I looked blearily around but nothing could I see in the dark nor could I hear even the slightest of sounds! So feeling pretty worried about my position and close to being too smashed, I carefully attempted to slide down on my bum and with about ten feet to go I slipped and into the ground I soon crashed. For a minute or two I lay there on the floor all covered in prickles and dazed, then when I thought of what had just happened and that I wasn't really hurt I was more than a little amazed! So with the moonlight to guide me I was soon back at the camp with my right foot all cut and a bit bloody, then I laid on the front bench seat of the van to sleep, with no chance of waking my drunk Japanese buddy. It was there that I must have just slept like a log with plenty of help I must say from the grog, for when I was woken I was not only shocked or was crook but hang on? Some bastard was pulling me out of the van by my foot! Although I tried, my head wouldn't clear then I heard the gruff voice shout, "What the bloody hell do you think you are doing camping here?" Now on the ground in the dirt where I was forced to be sitting, through my very serious hangover I began to wake up and get shitty. As I sat there on the ground absolutely confused I listened to the ranger as he ranted, raved, spat out threats of a $10,000fine and hurled at me a flurry of continuous abuse. At this point I couldn't care less though I thought that it would be silly for me to interrupt but still I had no idea what he was talking about, so I sat there a bit stunned and feeling quite ill until the ranger finally began to settle down. I followed my first instinct and told him to go and get stuffed then I explained the situation, but was surprised to hear him say that there was no Japanese guy followed by what he thought I was full of! Sure enough after we had both looked all around my Japanese friend Egar was absolutely nowhere to be found. Thus there I stood in the centre of Australia with a hangover from hell, feeling damn ill and with the puzzled expression he saw on my face the ranger must have thought me a bit of a dill! As we both stood talking about this current situation I spotted a bloody funny thing for, along the track around the base of the rock, in a white karate suit, Egar came running! After he had reached the camp and had jogged to where we were he explained that he was in training and the ranger who was now laughing, said that out of all of the things that he had seen around those parts, that was probably one of the most amazing! Back in those years a person could still climb up Ayres Rock so we payed our small fee but after trying and getting about half way I got a bit of a shock! You see I had drunk far too much rum that night and was way, way too sick to go any further for I felt that I was going to die, so down I came and once at the bottom I looked up at the rock and I said.

"I am nineteen now and would climb this rock if I could but in this state I cannot!" So I made a promise to myself that this vision of splendour I would never forget and that I would never look back on this time with regret!
Steven Adams.
Poem  51
A New Day
The day breaks in purity
The sun rises in excitement
The crows start to fly with a song
The bees bumble making honey
The flowers awake and smile
The puppy stretches and yawns wagging his tail
The moon retreats, her task is done.
....the rest is all in the hands of others and me
Copyright  Trudy Belle
Kind regards
Trudy Belle 
Chadstone Australia
Poem 50
OLD “BAR”
 
HE WAS WEAK AND HE WAS WEARY
WHEN I FOUND HIM ON THE GROUND;
HIS HEART WAS LOW, HIS BREATHING SLOW,
YET STILL HE LOOKED AROUND
TO SEE IF HE COULD FIND HER;
FOR DAYS HE’D SEARCHED AFAR…
SHE WAS HIS DOG, HIS FAITHFUL DOG,
THIS MUTT THAT HE CALLED “BAR”.
 
HE TRIED TO RISE BUT FELL BACK
IN THE DUST WHERE HE HAD LAIN;
SO I STEPPED DOWN ON THE GRASSLESS GROUND
LET HANG MY HORSE’S REIN.
I BRUSHED A FLY ABOVE HIM
THEN WET HIS CRACKED DRY LIPS,
“PLEASE HELP ME FIND THIS DOG OF MINE,”
HE WHISPERED TWIXT THE SIPS.

HE TOLD ME HOW HE’D GOT HER,
HOW HE’D WON HER IN A BAR
IN A POKER GAME, AND HENCE THE NAME
OF THE MUTT FROM COOLIBAH;
HOW SHE’D FALLEN FROM HIS CATTLE TRUCK
ON THE RUN TO WILLEROO;
HOW HE’D WALKED BACK THE DESOLATE TRACK
TO SEE WHAT HE COULD DO.

HE’D TRUDGED A MILE AND SOON A-WHILE
HE’D KNOWN THAT HE WAS LOST;
HE’D LEFT THE TRACK, COULD NOT GET BACK,
AND ALL HIS HOPES WERE TOSSED.
WHO KNEW HOW LONG HE’D BEEN THERE?
HE WAS GAUNT AND JUST ALIVE;
HIS MIND HAD GONE…HE RAMBLED ON…
THERE WAS NO WAY HE’D SURVIVE.

WITH FEEBLE SIGHS HE CLOSED HIS EYES…
I KNEW THAT HE WAS DEAD;
HE’D GONE TOO FAR TO FIND OLD “BAR”
WITH HIS HEART THAT WEIGHED LIKE LEAD;
BUT WHAT HE HADN’T KNOWN ABOUT
THE WHILE THAT HE’D BEEN THERE,
HER BODY RIPPED AND HEAD WIDE SPLIT…
SHE’D WATCHED HIM IN DESPAIR.

FOR SHE HAD HEARD HIS EVERY WORD,
AND THE TRUCKIE NEVER KNEW
SHE’D FOUND HIM THERE AND HAD TO BEAR
THE PAIN THE HELPLESS DO;
BUT NOW WITH VIGIL OVER
“BAR” GAVE A GENTLE HEAVE,
HER TONGUE LOLLED OUT, HER FIRE WENT OUT…
SHE KNEW SHE NOW COULD LEAVE.

WHAT DRIVES A MAN TO TREAD SUCH LAND
TO SEEK A TREASURED FRIEND?
WHAT DRIVES HIM ON WHEN ALL HOPE’S GONE
TO SUCH A FRIGHTFUL END?
TO ANSWER BOTH THESE QUESTIONS
YOU’D HAVE TO SEARCH AFAR….
IT’S SOMETHING FELT, FOR A HEART TO MELT,
THROUGH THE LOVE OF A DOG CALLED “BAR”.
© TERRY BROOKS
Poem 49
ME OL’ FISHIN’ PARTNER
------------------------------------
WENT FISHIN’ ONCE WITH A MATE I KNEW
WITH MOBS OF GROG AND A FLAGON OR TWO;
WITH 80LB LINE AND A BOTTLE OF RUM
GONNA CATCH ME A FISH…MY OATH…BY GUM!!

TOOK ME DOG AND AWAY WE WENT
TO A PLACE I KNEW WHICH WAS HEAVEN SENT;
“NO FISH ‘ERE..”, ME COBBER DID SAY,
“BEEN A STUFF FROM THE START….ALL BLOODY DAY.”

HE FOLDED HIS ROD AND BROUGHT IN HIS LINE,
SUCKED ON A CAN TO PASS SOME TIME;
“NO FISH ’ERE!” HE CONTINUED TO HARP,
“SHOULDA HIT THE FERGY…PROLIFIC AS CARP!”

WELL…STUFF HIM..I THOUGHT; I KNOW THEY’RE HERE..
(CAUGHT TWO MESELF LAST BLOODY YEAR;
I DON’T BRING MANY TO MY FISHING HOLE…
SIX FLAMIN’ HOURS!! STILL, THE WATER IS COLD.)

I KEPT ON TRYIN’ (JUST FOR STAMPS),
LURE KEPT TROLLING, ME WRISTS GOT CRFAMPS;
GOT A STRIKE…YOU BLOODY BEAUDY!!!!
SO POOR OL’ PARTNER THEN GETS MOODY.

I TOOK ME TIME AND PLAYED IT OUT…
I GOT IT NEAR …I WANTED TO SHOUT;
“LUCKY BASTARD,” I HEARD HIM SAY,
THEN IT THREW THE LURE AND SWAM AWAY!!?

“TOLD YOU SO,” WAS ALL HE SAID,
“NOT WORTH COMIN’….RATHER BE DEAD” ;
‘YOU HERE TO FIGHT OR CATCH A FISH??!’
HAD TO SAY THAT…I’D GIVE HIM HIS WISH.

HE CHUCKED HIS LURE AND TURNED AROUND,
CRACKED A CAN AND SIPPED SOME DOWN;
GOT A STRIKE…STRIKE A LIGHT!!!
“FISH OF FISH!” HE CRIED IN FRIGHT..

HE PLAYED IT IN…20LB OF FIGHT…
TIME WAS GETTING’ NEAR ON NIGHT;
“CAN’T YOU CATCH ‘EM?” WAS ALL HE SAID…
I FOLDED ME ROD… AND WENT TO BED.

© TERRY BROOKS

 
Poem 48
REMEMBER THESE DAYS
Here's to the men of World War one,
If they hadn't of fought, our lives would have never gone on.
These brave young soldiers went through trouble and strife,
And to save our country, many gave up their life.
So many great memories we have of these brave men,
Please try and remember how they fought for us now and then.
One brave soldier walked the Kokoda trail,
Dragging his mates through the rain and the hail.
Others ducked bullets and many ended up in camps,
And were treated so unhumanly, in their minds these memories were forever stamped.
Oh how brave these men all were to give up their lives and go to war,
May we always remember them.
Less we Forget.
By Lorraine Fahey  (c)
Poem 47
DESERT DOGS
My feelings are varied as I sit in the cool desert night.  I am, as always, alone except for the howling dingoes and the low pitched wind. My fire is a lonely protector in this vast expanse as the glow from the flickering flames keep the night away from me and in turn provide me with some company.
 
As I sit on the ground warning myself by the fire against the cool night air, I recall parts of my rambling life, so far   and my face suddenly breaks with a grin.
While I stir the fire I do not speak aloud of my thoughts, not because they are secret but because there is no one to listen.  Then the smile on my face slowly turns to a grimace as I recall some of the trouble that, over the last couple of years, I have brought to myself.
Those days are behind me now but in my mind they are like crystal.
 
I look up from the fire and gaze at the moon hanging silently in the clear, desert sky.  As I stare at it my mind wanders back through the passages of recent time and I think of a girl who loved me.  She, like the one or two who have thought that they loved me and the couple who I have considered loving, have since passed through the channels of my life and are just a memory now, though I'm not sure how sharp those memories are these days.
My attention is suddenly drawn to some movement beyond the fire, which I can almost make out in the moonlight.  I watch intently as I wait for my visitors to show themselves, then I see one.  I am grateful for the company of the dingoes as they come closer to my camp.  Their inquisitive minds searching for answers about the strange glow coming from the ground.  They try not to be detected but I see the reflection of their eyes as one sneakily peeps over a natural rock pile.
 
I take out my harmonica and play an out of tune ballad to my curious audience, but like everyone they do not like my playing and soon return from whence they came, once more blending with the night.
Again a smile crosses my face as I contemplate the retreating dingoes and I think them rude.
The place where I am sitting I later learned was not at all legal as camping is banned around this spot, which appears to be thousands of miles from anywhere.   Sometimes people who I talk to asked me about the loneliness and my reply is always the same.  That is that I like the freedom and my own company and as always they leave me.
 
People, I feel, are a strange bunch they are themselves until they break through the boundaries of their secure place, then they are different.  They become someone who they are not, putting on an act for the world as they yearn to be liked.  That is why I like my own company, for I am not a very good actor. Not all people are the yearning type but a good many are.
 It is a clear night and my gaze focuses on the stars, those mysterious celestial beings that sit in the night sky.  They give the impression that the universe has little holes in it and they are the light shining through the rips.
 The fire is dying slowly now so I roll out my swag and saying goodnight to no one at all I scramble into its gaping mouth and enjoying the silence and the silhouette of Ayres rock or Ularu in the moons glow I drift off to sleep, wondering where I will be when I roll out my swag tomorrow night. 
Steven Adams.
Poem 46
This is a self-explanatory poem of when I was stuck in Tunisia, a small country in-between Algeria and Libya. Tunis is the capital city of this country and that was where I spent two and a half months.
 
MAROONED IN TUNISIA!
 The North African city bustles with life as all the people go about their business in obscure speak
For English is not a language that is bothered with. To say that life there, to a stranger, is a culture shock would be to widely under state and to suggest that the inhabitants of this city welcome strangers, would be nothing but a myth.
For even though resources, to the stranded visitor, are scarce, white skin is seen as a symbol of wealth to these people who must live from day to day. Even with a face that is familiar to them, the badgering rarely slows
So on it goes, the swiping of some bread as it sits in the street waiting to be collected, the pilfering of some tissues to use differently, for their culture is not the same and what pleasure when the opportunity presents itself to sneak from an idle marketer the odd yummy date
This does not happen regularly though as he, the explorer, is in the city at the same time that the Ramadan has begun
Which is a time where the streets are mostly empty, as between sun up and sun down, the devoted do not drink or eat for exactly one month
And it all must be viewed by the player as a very serious game
 cowa halib and Sheesha minfudlik, shookraan
Is the type of language that must, for survival be learned, as almost two months have now passed by
The embassy where the English stay, to his story, say that they will not give any aid
And that to the part of town where the Canadians live, a visit should be paid
So a steady walk is taken through unfamiliar ground
And after a bit of wit and around four kilometers the Canadian Embassy is finally found
The Canadians appear to be more positive, however there had to be some changes to the traveler’s tale,
As this could be the final chance to get out of this country and it is not an option to fail
So following a meeting with an Arabic secretary a diplomat takes on the case
Then what follows is a lot of trips in the chauffeur driven Ambassador’s car
To places like the city’s police head quarters, the Ministry of interior, other key areas and then before heading back to the embassy, dropping the stranger at the unpleasant but familiar hovel where unwashed clothes and a dirty, thin mattress lay on the ground, it is not at all comfortable as the winter has set in, but none the less it is home
The city’s zoo is a likely place to sit during the day, as entry is free,
So, many hours are used up sitting at the lake thinking and watching the ducks
Then the Canadians who will see the traveler fly out of this place give a day
It is arranged that he will be escorted onto a plane on Sunday
But first comes an invitation to join an embassy party
So that Friday night at the coordinators mansion the gathering takes place, where etiquette must be practiced
Where the consummation of Alcohol, tasty food and a lot of conversation, in English! Are the go
Followed by a lift from a chauffeur back to the dirty sleeping bag and mattress
Then Sunday arrives and the chauffeur and two diplomats arrive at his place
A lift to the airport and the powers of the diplomats come into play
Pierre gives him fifty dinars, wishes him well and he is soon on his way to London
As the plane takes off he looks over the familiar temple roofs and thinks to himself that he will miss this place and I did!
 Steven Adams.
 “If horses were wishes then beggars would ride”
Poem 45
FOREVER TO BE REMEMBERED
There once was a jolly man who dressed
so old and baggy,
So they made a song about him and called
This man a swaggie.
 
He loved to camp by a coolabah tree,
And delighted in drinking his cup of
Billy tea.
Along came a jumbuck quite jolly and free,
So this old swaggie crept up and
Grabbed him with glee.
 
But as he was shoving him into his tucker
Bag he was surrounded by troopers all three
And as the troopers fired their rifles
At this swaggie with his prize,
He jumped up and dived into the Billabong
With his tucker bag twice the size,
And yelled to the troopers as he jumped
With glee,
You'll never catch me alive said he.
 
So they took the life of this dear ol' man
Called a swaggie, who loved the bush and
To dress so baggy.
So here's to this man whose tale will forever go on,
And we'll keep his memory alive by always
Singing his song.
So long Australians.
By Lorraine Fahey (c)
 
Poem 44
THE BRAVEST OF THE BRAVE

All those years of droving cattle
hell they surely were a battle
as my back hurts something woeful
and I’m up near half the night.
And I carry scars from busters
earnt in wild and wooly musters
in the back blocks of this country
where mad scrubbers take to flight.

And the years of bare back riding
where my frame it copt a hiding
and I gained the limp I live with
all those many years ago.
But my aches and pains all faded
and I sat there kind of jaded
when I heard our darling Sophie
had been dealt another blow.

You’re too young to have to suffer
and your pain is so much rougher,
but we see you as our hero
and the bravest of the brave.
So dear Sophie keep your spirit
and sweet angel please believe it
When we tell you little darling
you’re the bravest of the brave.

I recall how I was shattered
when I first saw how your battered
body fought to overcome the scars
of burns and loss of limbs.
In the outback I have ridden
with tough men I’ve known who’ve hidden
any sign of pain as weakness
and despite things looking grim.

But you’re tough as old boot leather
and I can’t say I have ever
seen such courage in a youngster
like you showed through that ordeal.
There are millions in this Nation
who hearts live in expectation
and we know your fighting spirit
will win out and help you heal.

You’re too young to have to suffer
and your pain is so much rougher,
but we see you as our hero
and the bravest of the brave.
So dear Sophie keep your spirit
and sweet angel please believe it
when we tell you little darling
you’re the bravest of the brave.

©Bush Poet and Ballad writer
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

 
Poem 43
Sympathy from the heart
I think about you every day
With every thought, in every way
I can't say that I know what you're going through
But my thoughts and heart lie deep with you
 
Throughout my life you believed in me
So whatever happens I'll still believe
Though things aren't the same anymore
Be yourself and nothing more

Things can change, in your mind
but in your heart they'll be there to find
I sent this poem in sympathy
Though nothing will change between you and me

You'll be alright, that I know
So be yourself and things will slowly grow
Better you'll be, as time goes by
I'll be here for you whenever you like

I hope you learn to put sad and unwanted things behind you
to remember the good things, and prepare for the new
Ashleigh Young (c)

 
Poem 42
MY BOOMERANG HOTEL
"Where is the Boomerang Hotel?" they asked with eyes awide,
"We've never seen it advertised in any tourist guide.

"We've travelled through this country, we've trekked from coast to coast
We've crossed the desert Sturt explored, we've seen McGinty's ghost.

"While camping near the Cawnpore Hills we saw the Min Min light -
So eerie and uncanny as it faded in the night.

"We've searched for gold and sieved for gems in ancient river beds,
Where Nature's fervid turbulence with fiery beauty weds.

"We've fished for barramundi in the Gulf and at the Cape,
We've seen the town of Cowra where the prisoners made escape.

"We've been to Uluru, the Olgas, sailed across Bass Strait
Where gruesome tales are told of how the convicts met their fate.

"We've crossed the plain called Nullabor, we've visited Lake Eyre
Where bird life after flooding rains leaves nothing to compare.

"We've seen the billabong of which The Banjo wrote the words
That waltzed Matilda round the Globe, by which our souls are stirred.

"Rain forests of North Queensland where the leeches sucked our blood,
To remote, western properties of brahman cattle stud.

"The gorges of the Kimberley, the pearling town of Broome
Whose azure waters cover depths where divers met their doom.

"But all throughout our travels 'neath Australia's Southern Cross
The Boomerang Hotel, my friend, we've never come across."

"The Boomerang Hotel," I said, "is easy to locate,
You'll find it just where'er you want in any Aussie State.

"My Boomerang Hotel is by a western waterhole
Whose beauty and serenity quite captivate my soul.

"Where river gums caress the land, where vibrant bird life teems,
Where each shade of the sunrise on the water softly gleams.

"Where I can pitch my tent and watch a pelican swim by,
Where I can boil my billy and catch fish with bait or fly.

"This fav'rite spot of mine with which I have a love affair
I call my Boomerang Hotel and keep returning there.

"It's where I'd like to end my days, from city stress afar,
To camp amongst the river gums and native coolibah.

"To ponder on this ancient land where Time has cast its spell –
Yes, here beside this waterhole's my Boomerang Hotel."
© Vivienne Ledlie 
http://rustacryst.net
 
Poem 41
Pride of Australia
The pride of Australia surges my veins
when I see the Outback awash after rains;
when droughts have been broken, the future is bright;
suspended life flourishes, seeking the light.

When I see the desert alive and in bloom -
bright tapestries woven on Nature's rich loom -
I'm proud to be part of this picturesque land
with high mountain ranges and white coastal sand.

The great inland rivers which flood and retreat,
the salt lakes which shimmer false hope and deceit;
stark pillars of limestone alluringly weird,
wild places the natives esteemed and revered.

I thrill as I tramp through deep gorges which hide
rare ferns in moist crevices where sunbeams glide;
where underground springs blithely bubble and squirt
their crystal clear waters in musical spurt.

The rugged escarpments and ironstone reefs -
a country cocooned in strange myths and beliefs;
the echoes of rumbling volcanoes I heed
to herald the legends which Dreamtime decreed.

The pride of Australia surges my veins
pulsating a chorus of earnest refrains:
this land 'neath the cross of the great Southern skies
to symbols of beauty and strength testifies.
© Vivienne Ledlie 
http://rustacryst.net
 
Poem 40
BLUE MOUNTAINS

The Blue Mountains, a wilderness landscape
Of deep canyons where bush creatures dwell;
Golden cliffs with vast water-worn caves where
Aboriginal myths weave their spell.

The Three Sisters who fled from the bunyip,
By the witch doctor turned into stone;
Now they stand overlooking the valley
From which ancestral tribesfolk have flown.

The blue haze from the eucalypts hovers,
The soft tinkling of bell birds pervades,
The galahs, cockatoos and rosellas
Screech a chorus in colourful shades.

The sharp crack of the whip bird resounding,
To be answered in turn by its mate,
While the lyre bird artfully mimics
The wild sounds of its forest estate.

The Blue Mountains, a place full of beauty
Where bush walks feature Nature’s display:
Bright cascades, waterfalls and fern grottos,
Mossy gardens where fairy folk play.
©Vivienne Ledlie
http://rustacryst.net
 
Poem 39
WHY I LOVE POETRY
The poets use a language,
Of words that help me see
The beauty of my world
They make it live for me.
 
Their poems tell of nature,
Of sunsets on the hills
Of forests, streams and rainbows,
And nodding daffodils.

They tell the tales of settlers,
The migrants to our land
The hardships many faced,
Their hopes and dreams and plans.

They speak to us of swaggies,
Of droughts and flooding rains,
Of ordinary people
Their courage and their pain.

And stories too of conflicts,
Of bravery under fire
And tell the tales of mateship,
Of which I never tire.

They've written of my country,
The beauty of this land,
The love that it inspires
Yes, a poet understands.
 
Some poets have a talent,
That sets them far apart
For they can speak to me
With words that touch my heart.
R. Donovan. (c)
"Scribblers on Sunday" poetry group based at Carindale, Brisbane. 
Poem 38
Love and the land
As I wake up in the morning
It's a quarter to five
Once again your in my arms
Your right there by my side
 
The alarm beeps once more
Its time, I gotta go
The big white line
Is all that I know

An hour and a half
And im home again
A shower and books
And a heart to mend

With the sun on my back
And the hay in my arm
The sheep have been fed
And the chooks in the barn

Its off to uni,
Theres lambs to weigh
Jobs to do
It's the country way
Felicity Stanley (c)
 
Poem 37
Head Of The Family

One man, a stubborn man
Strong as an ox
But as gentle as a butterfly,
A loving husband
And a loving father.

Who is this man?
For he is such a special man
From war to marriage and fatherhood
A grandfather and even a
Great grandfather
Who is this man?
For he is our
POP!
CopyrightC2005Amanda.L.Breitkopf
 
Poem 36
New Chum Prospector
I once lived in Ora Banda
In a house with a verandah
And a big pink Oleanda
 
Out the back
As they did in days of old
I went out in search of gold
In the way that I was told
 
Just down the track
But very soon I found
That in any other ground
Big nuggets could be found
 
That could be spent
I still live in Ora Banda
Near the house with the verandah
And the big pink Oleanda
In a tent!
 Graham Dasborough (c)

 
Poem 35
MY GAN GAN
I knew that she was special,
when I was just a boy.
That this warm and caring woman,
would bring to me such joy.
I tried to call her Grandma,
but "Gan Gan" I would say.
That name is etched upon my heart,
and still is there today.
Such a simple, loving, kind, wee gran,
I´d watch her, starry-eyed.
And when I shouted out her name,
"What is it sunbun?", she replied.
I used to watch her knitting,
in plain knit, or in purl.
And her "snorting" noise while giggling,
just like little girl.
She always loved her crosswords,
which I used to help her do.
But the cross words that she uttered,
were very, very few.
Though, when they were - you heard them,
they were usually aimed at Ross.
My Paps's reaction told me,
just really who was boss!
I have to say I'm fortunate,
but then... every grandchild can.
For the magic that you brought me,
from that small boy - to a man.
We all will have our memories,
of my "gan gan" - that I'm sure.
Mine spanned for over 30years,
all wonderful and pure.
"Gan Gan" - I will miss you,
more than you'll ever know.
But now I know that you are where,
you really ACHED to go.
And thats back with my Papa,
and together - you will be.
Smiling, happy, in his arms,
like 2 angels, watching me.
SJÖDIN MARIA-LOUISE  (c)
A poem, written and orated for my gran at her funeral.
Poem 34
G'day Mate, Here's cheers
We are a lucky country
Our land is girt by sea
With our beautiful outback
The home of our Wallaby
 
From the eucalyptus gum trees
To our coconuts in our palms
To our cuddly Koala bears
With there graceful little charms

And our beautiful creeks and rivers
To where our native Platypus roam
And our Australian cattle dog
Our outback he calls his home

We have 7 of the world most deadly snakes
From the Taipan to the King brown
And with our good old Aussie pubs
You'll find in nearly every town

Yes us Aussie's are true blue
With our special little lingo
We have a wild dog that steals ya baby's
That bugger's called the Dingo

And what about our Barramundi
An awesome fighting fish
Cooked up there on the barbie
Makes a delicious bloody dish

Home of the biggest Crocs
That world has ever seen
The monsters of our muddy creeks
Where the waters not so clean

We have 1 of the 7 wonders
They call it the Great Barrier Reef
The best place to scuba dive
But our Sharks may cause you grief

And around awesome coast line
There's many islands to explore
To our Aussie thunder box
With it's creaking wooden door

Then our man they call the Yowie
He's a scary looking beast
And of course our Aussie Meat pie
With tomato sauce makes a beaut feast

The fastest bird on earth
To run across the land
They call him the Emu
Try and catch him if you can

What about our spiky little fella
None as the Porcupine
Stand on this little critter
And you'll bloody whinge and whine

Oh and our cute little Wombat
With his cuddly brown fur
Ouch our nasty bindies
There a painful nasty bur

Then our most famous fella
Our mate Skippy the Kangaroo
He will box ya bloody ears off
With his mate the Cockatoo

You'll find our mate the Kookaburra
Somewhere laughing up in a tree
And our special treasure, Ayres rock
Something ya just gotta see

We have a big reptile lizard
Who love's to scratch and bite
Come face to face with this Goanna
Be prepared to fight

Yes we are a lucky country
With so many native creatures
A land so rough and rugged
With all it's Beautiful features

So mate I gotta tell ya
A sun burnt country we are
But this mighty land down under
Is the proudest country by far

But don't forget your insect repellant
Coz look out for our Mozzies
Were so proud to be Australian
But you can just call us Aussie's

So if ya wanna BBQ
Or 1 of our famous beers
Feel free to come and visit
So from me mate, Here's Cheers.

Shannon Rogers
Copyright ©2003 Shannon Leigh Rogers
Poem  33
That Beaut Damper That She Made
Grab me a tinnie will ya mate
And go and fetch the Ute
Ya gotta pick up granddad
He needs a lift the silly old coot

Awww you little ripper luv
That's a beaut damper
Where did ya get it
In the ruddy krisco hamper

I'll give you that bloody hamper
Fair suck of the sav
Ya cheeky little bugger
It's the best you'll ever have

Gawd who left the bloody door open
Look at all them fly's
Toss me the mortien love
I'll give-em there final good-byes

Then who should pop in the door
G'day there ya old fart
How are ya this beaut day
Don't you bloody start

Show respect to this old cobber
Or I'll kick ya in the acres
Well hav-a-go-yer-mug
There has been many takers

Just pull up a chair ya yobbo
And we will tell a good ol yarn
Someone got up ya nose son
Not me, I'm full of charm

Yeah tell another one son
Not until the other shoe drops
Holy-dooly which reminds me
Hey missus did ya get out them chops

So what ya been up to old timer
Flat out like a lizard drink'n
Oh come off the grass pop
Are you fair bloody dink-um

Well here's a good ol yarn to tell
And just call a spade a spade
And thank that lovely wife of yours
For this good tucker she has made

Yeah she's a beaut babaling-brook
She's been doing a roaring trade
Yeah she'll be apples mate
It's that beaut damper that she made
Shannon Rogers
Copyright ©2003 Shannon Leigh Rogers
Poem  32
On Redundancy
What beaming pride has fallen
Not shaved this week, unwell,
Same socks, shirt and undies; economizing!
Depressed, bemused, befuddled, at the end of my fuse.
 
I am just getting by
And this crisis annoys me
Motivations I manufacture, crumble at each step
I’m searching for what? (Oh yeah) A job on the internet !

I’m off the streets, and hiding,
Obscure n' insecure; inside n'souring,
“Withdrawn?”, mmm you might say so,
Like a prisoner in a cell, I’m hardly networking.

I’m sending ‘Age’ opinions,
Sick to death of meaningful Resumes,
I hope Marx and Socrates were right,
(that)Virtue will bring everything to a harmony

So I’m waiting for another chance,
Gee, it’s such a long time to wonder,
There’s nowhere to go, and nowhere to be,
Just marching on the spot. (going) Nowhere.

I’m am really trying hard,
Digging deep, and trying to find 'it',
There’s petrol in my tank, but it gives me no mileage,
They see my car as old – n' me, pushin it up the hill

G-o-d ! I’m living off my missus,
What a pathetic, shameful thing,
I find unearned food too, too hard to stomach
With insecurity rotting away from within

I’ve lost a little faith in mankind,
I suppose I’m scared.. no, chagrinned,
I need something to get by on,
And to lead the rescue on myself, from within.

I think, to Hell with it - I’ll go out with a bang,
Like some dashing Ned Kelly bandit,
But these wild thoughts bring me despair,
I’m folded up, n'can hardly bend, and money’s not the answer

On Redundancy, or Corporational culling,
These Company gods bring their new doomsday,
Where mercilessly, they'll dissolve you, to gurgle down their drain,
What ! Loyalty? It will never equal their 'Change'.
T.Grinsted  (c)
Poem 31
ENCOUNTER WITH ALIENS
While leaning on the gate post at the farm the other night,
I saw a space ship landing in the paddock to me right
I thought I'd ask me visitors if they had lost their way,
At least it would be neighbourly to go and say "g'day".

That space ship was a wonder, with its rows of flashing lights
And there were blokes in uniforms of shiny tops and tights
They didn't look too welcoming the closer that I got
And I could tell these aliens were not a friendly lot

They gathered all around me and the atmosphere was tense
And jabbered in some language, but it didn't make much sense,
They're staring at me clothes, I gave an apprehensive glance,
What seemed to hold their interest, was my old working pants

Just why they seemed to like 'em, now, I couldn't really say,
They're ordinary trousers that I wear from day to day
You never would believe it and you shouldn't smile or scoff
But next they indicated that I was to take 'em off

Now anyone will tell you, I'm an easy goin' bloke
Like any good Australian, I'll lend a hand to folk
But when some cheeky aliens, come landing here at night
And want to pinch me trousers, then they're 'gonna get a fight

The situation's ugly, but I knew just what to do,
I gave a piercing whistle, then I yelled "go get 'em "Blue"
My faithful old blue heeler came a-racing from the barn,
All ready to do battle, she could sense I was alarmed.

You should'a seen those aliens, "Blue" scattered them real quick,
They nearly tripped in panic gettin' back into that ship
They blasted off in seconds and they soon were out of sight,
My "Blue" gets pretty savage when she's spoiling for a fight

We wandered over to the gate, I smoked me pipe a while,
I had to settle down me nerves, I've never been so riled
So if you strike those "so and so's" I'll warn you in advance,
Forget the hand of friendship mate, and hang on to your pants.

R. Donovan. (c)
 

THE RIVER AND THE OCEAN

Bleeding mountains without pain
Carry blessing for your gain
Flowing like lava crick
Passing through a darker cave
Into the heart of unknown.

Secret passion of the earth
Flowing through the holes of hills
Falling into a golden lake.
Carry water for a bath
Put out a flame which eats up your vein
Sow it in your barren land
Which is longing rising sprout.

No more rain for your foiling strain
Flooding rain will wreck your hail
The river nailing a prey
Lets your heart bleed forever.

Put out your passion
In the loin of ocean
Fussy gale will raze your craze.

anish t  (c)
Poem 30
A u s t r a l i a
A is for Area
U
nder the Sun
S
urrounded by Sea
T
ourist come to have Fun
R
ich in Nature
A
nimals Run
L
oved by All
I
ndigenous to Some
A
ustralia is my Home
 
Poem  29
ODE TO THE COUNTRY MUSIC FESTIVAL

I think it was ‘round about 2025 when the festival stood on one leg.
It had that final-countdown feeling when you know something good’s going to end.
The musos had gathered and declined en masse to trudge the two-week grind.
Even for Tamworth that year was a scorcher – some said it hit 49.

One club spent a truckload on renovations for their guests, and
I remember lots of arguments as to whether they’d done their best.
All that didn’t matter much to any poor bastard waiting -
up next to sing and entertain from an open-air stage facing west.

Year after year the musos tried explaining how instruments play up in the sun,
But year after year the reply was always lame:
“No-one will notice if the sound’s a bit out; they’re just here to have fun. Thank Christ the rain’s held off, ‘eh mate…but you better move those amps back just the same.”

Rock, Pop and sundry heroes had just about disappeared that year -
all the stragglers were booed off by a shout, “That’s not what we came to hear!”
It was a disaster…dear oh dear.

The paper stopped some punters who were headed off down Peel Street
to ask why they were voting with their feet.
There were lots of different reasons but I remember someone said:
“It just costs too much to be here; we’re sick of feeling cheated.
We’ll listen from home on our stereo instead.”

You still hear people talk about how it could’ve met a better fate,
and for some still brings a tear to the eye.
To me it just got too damn un-Australian and lost its ‘fair go mate’.
Alas…by then, too late.

J P Hensby © 2047 Memoirs of a True Believer
Tamworth: Hospital Hill Pub.
 
Poem 28
Life in the fantasy
I look through my eyes; I see the libidos of the dream living free;
My imagination emphasizing all the abundances physiologic inside of me;
Making believe in the incarnation of the unconscious;
Drawing the makeup of my mind, with psychic energy;
Willingly, graciously from fairyland eternity;
Visions from edges of the earth, on the coastlines before my eye;
Sensing the perception condensing from beyond.

I look through my eyes; I see a mirror clairvoyantly;
Lyrical performances, intriguing paranormal forms;
Psychoanalytic secrets, transcending all the analytical sciences;
Empirical manifestation, receiving the reincarnations;
From forces of the senses, in the division of the mind;
Speculum of natural prelude, prompting physiognomies;
In micro, cellules, of colors, in micro seconds, of time.

Anonyms, vibration from extraterrestrial life;
Communiqué in silence, where I must be! what I must see!
Phantasms adopting the substances of my plasma;
Drawing metamorphoses of peoples in a virtual acknowledgement;
Physique, requiem: touched with magic, surrendered by synergic ethics;
Physique, enlighten the messages of the mediums, elucidating me;
Metropolis: with spiritual devices; divining illusions insoluble in the light.

A biogenetic intriguing inside, with all the dharma, with all the karma;
Invisible physiographic, becoming phenomenon of geography;
Experiences of living the course of existences underlining the coexistences;
Vigorous plane, where I am hypnotized by tangible evidence;
Evidence that the yesterdays will be today, today will be tomorrow;
Tomorrow will be you … steering my subconscious;
Ancient of my theosophy, thinking that I am living;
Life in the fantasy: mediums of my art awakening in your dream.
 
I appreciate any of your
Thoughts; I am an artist and poet and singer from Brazil; here is my website now-
www.adrianadecastro.com  – Adriana De Castro, thank you- also here is a poem-
 
Poem 27
Memory from the past
As I look into your deep blue eyes
I know in my heart there's no room for despise
because I really love you
and that love is really really true
 
but it seems like you feel no sorrow
its almost like your heart is hollow
you cheated on me with my best friend
and that's a scar that will never mend

and to me you were true
now were over now were through
to you I didn't mean a thing
our relationship was just a fling

I believed you from the very start
you told me we'd never part
I guess you played me like a fool
and you used me like a tool

and now my heart is in two
and its all because of you
but I'm not going to let you get to me
I guess we just weren't meant to be
and soon you will be a memory from the past
and I can forget you at long last
Lyndell Bates 13 yrs.(c)
 
Poem  26
A Moment in Time
From mountain heights I gazed,
On the valley far below,
Now lit by setting sun,
To a soft and golden glow.
 
Two eagles soared on thermals
I watched, and wished that I
Could soar with them in freedom,
Into the evening sky.
 
And in these realms of silence,
I felt the slow release,
Of all my worldly cares,
Found solace in the peace.
 
The shadows now were longer,
Grew deeper as they must,
The sky ablaze with colour,
Before the creeping dusk.
 
And when my life is over,
Perhaps my soul will fly
In freedom, with the eagles,
To a golden, sunset sky.
(
C) Rae Donovan 2006

 
Poem 25
My Australia
How can I describe it,
This lovely land of mine?
 
I see distances so vast,
They shimmer into haze
Great panoramas sleep,
In the long, hot summer days.

I feel a sense of wonder,
As I gaze at so much space
Feel the freshness of the breeze,
Clean and cool upon my face.

There's the beauty of outback,
Harsh,
primeval, colours bold,
The ghost gums showing stark
Against cliffs of red and gold.

I see the ancient mountains,
As they sweep down to the plains
And the farmlands are a patchwork
Of fields of golden grain.

There's the silence of the bush,
Where grey gums stand so tall,
But now and then its broken,
When a whip bird makes its call.

I've walked on golden beaches,
Deserted, but for me,
In tranquillity and peace,
Just the sound of gulls and sea.

And in the bustling cities,
Or the quiet country towns,
The people aren't pretentious,
And friendship's easily found

From the lushness of the tropics,
With their flooding monsoon rains,
To the snowy Southern highlands,
To the west across the plains.

I love the length and breadth of it,
But how can words impart?
The beauty of Australia,
Or the way she claims my heart.
 
(C) Rae Donovan 2004
Poem 24
WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO COWBOYS?
WHAT EVER HAPPENED TO COWBOYS
DON'T THEY EVER RIDE ANYMORE
EVERYONE WANTS TO WEAR THE HAT
BUT THERE AIN'T NO ONE DOING NO CHORES..
AND EVERYONE WEARIN WRANGLERS
AND EVERYONE'S RODE GILLIE'S BULL
I BET THERE ONE OUT OF A THOUSAND
EVER RODE AN OLE FENCE LINE BEFORE

SO WHO'S LEFT TO BOIL THE COFFEE
AND WHO'S GONNA SHARPEN THE PLOW
WHEN THERE LAYIN IN BARS
PLAYIN RODEO STARS
WHO'S GONNA TEND TO THE COWS???

YA KNOW ONCE WHEN A MAN WAS COWBOY
WELL, HE HAD TO EARN THAT BRAND
WORK TWO DAYS IN TO ONE
AND BUNK FOR THE NIGHT IN THE SAND
HE HAD TO LEARN THAT LONESOME FEELIN'
OF THE COLD AND THE WIND AND THE RAIN
HELL, I'M JUST GLAD THAT I'M PART OF A LEGEND
CAUSE COWBOY, THAT'S MY MIDDLE NAME

SO WHO'S LEFT TO BOIL THE COFFEE,
AND WHO'S GONNA SHARPEN THE PLOW
WHEN THERE LAYIN IN BARS
PLAYIN RODEO STARS
WHO'S GONNA TEND TO THE COWS???

WOODIE COCHRAN (c)

 
Poem  23
New Year's Eve
in Aussie

Auld Lang Syne and new beginnings
Memories and nostalgia too.
A time to reflect on what has been
And embrace our life anew.

The lucky country is full of hope
Cobbers and mates galore.
Cities, outback, beaches and rainforests,
So much to wonder at and more.

Another year has come to a close
It's time to herald in the new.
A fresh beginning full of promise,
That's my heart-felt wish for you.

Yvonne Pick
115 McIlwraith Ave.,
Norman Park. 4170.

 
Poem 22
GOT IT ALL!!!!!

The gods above did summoned us,
And we thrive where we long to be,
Rolling pastures so thick and lush,
Exhibits Australia’s beauty,
With koalas and kangaroos
And our relaxing billabongs,
The one thing we should always do
Is praise this land where we belong.

With the red rock standing regal
And the deserts so long and straight,
Above, the majestic eagle
Hunts prey, unaware of its fate.
Every story from the dream-time
Explains our care-free attitude,
Cause provided that the sun shines
Everything else depends on mode.

With our gorgeous golden shore breaks
Patrolled by dingoes and dolphins,
For rain, so long we seem to wait
A true-blue Aussie always wins,
When beaten down by drought or flood
When the live-stock falls to hard-ships,
We march on, through the pools of mud
Determined, and we’ll never quit!

The spirit of the Aussie man
Will never be squashed or broken,
Like the red gums throughout the land
Our strength is always awoken,
By difficulties before us
But we will always take the gold,
Cause if you are not in a rush.
Listen, Australia’s got it all!!!!
Adam Parker (C)
Poem 21
 
REVIVAL
The parched Earth groans from crevassed depths
in rasping, frail, tormented breath
where rotting carcasses effect
pervading stench of death.
 
The dry winds blow, dust storms are born
inflicting further pain;
small creatures burrow deeper, Earth
renews her plea for rain.

She fails to offer sustenance -
dried up her font of pelf;
she watches withered landforms -
she's drained of life herself.

No blade of grass, no sound bestirs
the air from birds in flight;
no creature calls its mate to play:
no comfort, no respite.

The Rain God hears Earth's plea for help,
his sleeping spirit shakes;
he calls storm clouds to congregate
and charts their rain-filled wakes.

Earth soaks this nourishment and soon
the landscape's born again;
small critters nudge their heads aove
the depths where they had lain.

Green shoots appear, the rivers run,
wild creatures stoop to drink;
the birds in chorus call acclaim
to rain's life-giving link.
© Vivienne Ledlie
Poem 20
BACK O' BOURKE
"It's all happening out the Back O' Bourke" -

The land where Sturt and Mitchell once explored:
It's where the Darling River flows,
It's where sheep graze, where cotton grows,
Where once the noble paddle steamers moored.

Historic buildings speak of former days:
The London Bank, the Court House grand;
The pubs and churches stately stand,
A tribute to our pioneering phase.

Here poets such as Ogilvie penned lines,
His friend Morant the Breaker too,
And Henry Lawson - they all knew
And loved this land of ever-changing climes.

The Shearers' Union born of strife and pain;
Here Thunderbolt and Starlight rode,
Demanding Cobb and Co's payload;
Here legacies of floods and droughts remain.

Bourke's spirit these disasters has defied:
Each cotton crop, each citrus tree,
Jojoba plant, the ginnery,
Resound the stories locals tell with pride -

"Yes, it's all happening out the Back O' Bourke"
© Vivienne Ledlie
 
Poem 19
ONE DAY FOR LIFE
the day you born
one special day
forever on...
my life to change
 
your glossy eyes
like sparkling stones
watch over me
day and at night
 
you learn my moves
in just a night
I read the spark
within your eyes
 
instructing me....
to love you tight
its my pleasure
my eyes replied
 
my confident
grow full and right
by not asking
if I'm a mum
 
who will buy you and
just give you all
instead you ask
only for love
 
you ain't just kid
who want just
rights.....

but give and take
all you required
four years pass on
you harvest love

its been return
over million
happiness on
the day you born.

mckernan.family (c)
Poem 18
MY LIFE START
DATE IS NOT RIGHT/ WHEN YOU ARRIVED
I AM TOO YOUNG/ TO MAKE THINGS RIGHT
 
MY LOVE FOR YOU / IS NOT YET RIPE
BUT ALL I KNEW/ THIS IS YOU RIGHT

YOU SAY HELLO /SATURDAY NIGHT
KNOCKING MY WOMB/ IS WHAT YOU SAY
WITH PERMISSION/ YOU SAID YOU MAY

INSTEAD OF ME/ ANSWERING BACK
I ASK MY MUM / MUM SHE WANT OUT
 
SHES UP AND JUMP / UTTERLY SAY
TO EVERYONE/ PREPARED PREPARE

I JUST WATCH HER /GET ALL MIX UP
WITH EXCITEMENT/ JUST WASN'T RIGHT

AND WHEN THE PAIN/ GIVE ME THE STRIKE
I FEEL SO SCARED / OH WILL I DIE

I'M WIDE AWAKE/ FOR ALL THIS TIME
EVERYONE SEE/YOU HAVE JUST COME
WITH ALL THEM SCREAMING /YOU ARE WELCOME
I JUST WATCH THERE/ SO HELPLESSLY
LOOKING AT YOU/ OPPOSITE ME

MY HEART MURMUR /SO IT WAS YOU
MAKING THAT KICKS / INSIDE OF ME

YOU GET ALL LOVE/ FROM EVERYONE
I DID NOT REALLY / GOT A CHANCE
I SWITCH MY HEART/INTO MY BRAIN

FOR ALL I KNOW/ AND I CAN CLAIM
START TODAY / WHEN U ARRIVED
I HAVE TO WORK / AND TO PROVIDE
I SWITCH TO STRENGTH/ ALL OF MY LIFE...

I AM RESPONSIBLE FOR YOU
 
ITS NOT YOUR FAULT/ TO SUPPER TOO
SO IT WAS YOU WHO GUIDE ME TRU
TO BE SO STRONG AND MOTHER TOO.
mckernan.family (c)
Poem 17
Surat
It's a quarter past two
Said the White Cockatoo
When it was realy only five past the hour
Pink, white and grey
Had nothing to say
The Galah on the water tower

Now a dog and a cat
Outback in Surat
They flicked at the flies in the sun
And a harvest contractor
Turned about on his tractor
And started a western run

So if you're out in the scrub
Where there's a horse and a pub
A Cockatoo, dog and a cat
A Galah on a tower
And it's five past the hour
You'll probably be in Surat!

David Spear (c)
Poem 16
Down the hills the river flows.
Crystal clear water once heavy fallen snows.
Leaving a path of destruction as it goes.
                           
The pitch black brumby stamps his feet.
The wallabies find a place to hide
through heavy falling sleet.
 
It rains like hell.
The crops are flooded.
The old man sighs.
Shakes his head and shudders.
What the hell will he do?
He needs the money.
To buy a header,
Real brand new
 
Then suddenly the rain just stops.
To hell he thought
I’ll have to replant all the crops
The pitch black brumby gallops around
While the wallabies look for grassy ground.
 
Winter’s over Spring is here
You can feel the change
It’s definitely near.
The sky is blue
Nice and clear
Now the sun starts to appear
 
These are the things of the Aussie outback.
So harsh and cruel, they turn their back.
It’s hard living here through the scorching heat.
Lift them quickly or burn your feet.
 
But the old man and his trusty work dog.
Wouldn’t trade this for the cities smog.
They love living here in the in the dusty outback.
When they travel to town on the old worn track
By Samantha Tozer
 Email: robert.tozer@bigpond.com
Poem 15
SOMETHING FOR OUR STEVIE
My name is Rowdy Rawlins and I run a Roadhouse, folks
and bias isn’t my concern when hiring girls or blokes.
But Stevie had Downs Syndrome and it played heaps on my mind
that serving in a Diner might be tough for that lad’s kind.

The lass from Social Services said, “Mr Rawlins, Sir,
young Stevie is reliable, to this I can concur.
He may have smooth face features and be thick tongued in his speech,
a little short and dumpy, but this job’s within his reach.”

The Truckers weren’t concern to me as most I must confess,
ignored who brought their tucker out: in fact could not care less.
So long as it was edible and plenty on their plate,
they’d chat and drink their coffee and would then head interstate.

It was the four-wheeled college kids and all the yuppie snobs,
as well as white-shirt workers with their fancy paying jobs,
who came in here quite regular that might put on a show:
so … hell … I’d have to watch him, for the first two weeks or so.

I didn’t need to worry as, within the first few days,
young Stevie had the staff wrapped ‘round his finger any-ways.
The truckies, who were regulars, adopted the young lad
and made him truck-stop mascot and that really made me glad.

He loved to laugh and please folk, but he fiercely did his job,
which helped me to stop worrying about the other mob.
The salt and pepper shakers were aligned and all in place
and not a breadcrumb, or a spill, was left that you could trace.

In fact I had to ask him if he might just slow things down
and let the folk first leave the place before he went to town.
He lingered in the background and his frame moved to and fro
and Stevie scanned the Diner for a table right to go.

In time we learnt our Stevie lived just down the road a-ways,
and shared the public housing with his widowed mum these days.
Disabled and on benefits from cancer surgery,
his mum used Stevie’s pay packet to keep them family.

Then Stevie never showed one day: the first time in three years.
Apparently his heart was crook, which left the staff in tears.
The road stop was a gloomy place without our Stevie there
and how we waited anxiously and slipped in the odd prayer.

A ripple of excitement then revived the place to life
when word came that our Stevie had survived the surgeon’s knife.
Old Frannie, the head waitress and a grandmother of five
let out a war-whoop when she heard and danced a little jive.

Joe Ringer and two truckie mates were somewhat mystified
and wondered what old Fran was on and watched-on goggled eyed.
Fran blushed and smoothed her apron and revealed young Stevie’s plight
and three big, rough necked truckies held back tears of sheer delight.

They wondered where the lad had been: they’d missed him sure enough
and guessed that Stevie’s mother would be doing things real tough.
The boys had just walked out the place when two more mates turned up
and asked Fran ‘bout the words upon the napkin ‘neath the cup.

Fran went to clear the table down and as she did she cried
Just ... something for our Stevie … said the words and wrapt inside
were three new twenty-dollar notes and both the men quizzed Fran
what did it mean … the words and notes? Fran’s story then began.

Those trucking men left napkins too, with notes and words inside
and three months later Stevie rang. The tears were hard to hide.
“I’m ready Mr Rawlins sir, to start my job again!”
He rang five times that day, I think, repeating that refrain.

When Stevie came to work next day, I took him and his mum
inside to shout them breakfast, but I gave young Steve the drum.
“You’ll have to clear the table first!” Which seemed a bit unkind,
but when he saw the napkins … well, it blew his little mind.

Beneath the plates and saucers were white napkins ev’rywhere
with ... something for our Stevie ... from us folk who really care.
Truck companies and drivers all donated in some way
and all the staff and Diner guests were moved to tears that day.

While everybody partied and expressed sincere delight,
none noticed Stevie’s absence - he had disappeared from sight.
But Stevie hadn’t ventured far - just down an aisle or two -
engaged in clearing tables … as our Stevie liked to do.
©Bush Poet
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey
 
Poem 14
THE VIGILANTE GRANNY
I’ll go to jail I reckon for my latest little deed
and though I’m pushing eighty-one I guess I must concede
that doing what I did was wrong, according to the law,
but first I’ll give you all the drum, so you folk know 'what for'.

My dearest, darling granddaughter, sweet eighteen years of age,
was car-jacked by two sleazy jerks, who in a fit of rage
both raped her in broad daylight with a knife held to her throat,
then cast her off like some rag doll and then went off to gloat.

Ex-cons released from prison with a lust to satisfy,
they took it out on Debbie, who just happened to walk by.
The trauma that was etched upon my angel’s ashen face
was more than I, her grandmother, could cope with or embrace.

I sensed that justice in this case would just be swept aside,
so deep within this ticked me off, I couldn’t let it ride.
I wasn’t scared of those two thugs, as I’d a gun you see
and knowing how to use the thing was now old-hat to me.

I didn’t hand the pistol in when guns laws changed way back,
as crime was rife and ascertained I’d need it down the track.
I used the artist’s sketch supplied and searched without delay
the wine infested neighbourhood where low lives spend their day.

For seven days I prowled about until I had a win:
I spied the two sick rapists and my luck had sure come in.
I took a photo of them and Deb picked the two men out
as those who were the rapists and she left me without doubt.

I went back to their flophouse and I knocked upon the door
and muttered, “You two heathens won’t rape young girls anymore.”
There standing in the doorway with his ugly looking frame
stood Davis as he sneered and said, “Hell, who’s this wrinkly dame?

The stupid smirk there on his dial came suddenly undone
and was replaced with abject fear when his eyes saw the gun.
I squeezed upon the trigger and I cried, “Punk, go to hell!
Your raping days are over, ‘bid your family jewels farewell!”

With one down there was one to go and did that Thomas squirm.
“You gave my Deb no quarter, so take this you grubby worm.”
His manhood, too, the target as the pistol barked a round
and how they cried and whimpered those two rapists on the ground.

I drove straight to the Boys in Blue and handed in the gun,
then calmly told them all about how justice had been done.
“I’m Ada Estelle, gentlemen, and where we go from here
I haven’t got a flamin’ clue, but let me make this clear:

“Those good-for-nothing wastes-of-space won’t rape no-one no more
‘cause they’ve got nothing left that works and that’s a fact for sure.”
You’re wondering what happened? Well don’t worry I’m O.K.
I’m being cloned and in demand in the old U.S.A
©Bush Poet
Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey
Poem 13
Down the Hills the River Flows.
Crystal clear water once heavy fallen snows.
Leaving a path of destruction as it goes.
The pitch black brumby stamps his feet.
The wallabies find a place to hide
through heavy falling sleet.
 
It rains like hell.
The crops are flooded.
The old man sighs.
Shakes his head and shudders.
 
What the hell will he do?
He needs the money.
To buy a header,
Real brand new
 
Then suddenly the rain just stops.
To hell he thought
I’ll have to replant all the crops
The pitch black brumby gallops around
While the wallabies look for grassy ground.
 
Winter’s over Spring is here
You can feel the change
It’s definitely near.
The sky is blue
Nice and clear
Now the sun starts to appear
 
These are the things of the Aussie outback.
So harsh and cruel, they turn their back.
It’s hard living here through the scorching heat.
Lift them quickly or burn your feet.

But the old man and his trusty work dog.
Wouldn’t trade this for the cities smog.
They love living here in the in the dusty outback.
When they travel to town on the old worn track
 
By Samantha Tozer
Email:
robert.tozer@bigpond.com

 
Poem 12
Bush Mechanic Ingenuity
The cursin’ and the swearin’ could be heard for miles around
As the bush mechanic worked and toiled with great gusto and great sound
There were problems with the thing-a-majig and the whatsit gismo failed
And he couldn’t fix the flamin’ thing no matter how he wailed

He attacked it with a hammer, chisel, heat and cold as well
He tried all manner of things he could and cursed them all to hell
Nothin’ he tried would budge it he was miffed beyond belief
So he threw the bloody thing away it was such a big relief

Never one to get beat, you see, he got his dander up, you bet
So he took his crayon from desk draw, he’d beat that damn thing yet
On dirty paper no less you’d expect, his formula and sum
He’d make the bloody thing work all-right, he’d make that damn thing hum

After drawing hard throughout the day and half the night as well
The scratchings on the paper were, as you’d guess, a little hard to tell
He rubbed out this and that you see as he thought of another way
It all just looked like one big mess but by golly he’d make it pay

He set to work to make that thing so it would last a long, long while
With lots of welds to this and that all the time he has a smile
‘Cause he knows it will look silly but i-t will surely work
And for many years to come they’ll say that that’s a real strange quirk

A success it was and it all worked fine “but boy” did it look weird
Things jutted here and jutted there and people they just leered
But there’s no denying what he’d done to improve upon the life
Of the thing-a-majig and gismo that gave him all that strife

His idea has now been stolen as no patent did he file
But the bush mechanic has no concerns as he knows that all the while
That it was he who has created it, the thing that’s gone world wide
As it’s all his in-gen-uity that fills him full of pride

Don Stratford © Roma Qld. 27 / 8 / 2005

 
Poem 11
Great Australian Wave
You can do it in the garden
You can do it in the bar
You can do it at the barbie
You can do it in the car
 
You can do it at the beach
And you can do it out the back
You can do it almost anywhere
Including on a hack
 
You can do it walking by
Or you can do it on the run
You can do it sitting by a lake
But let me tell you it’s no fun
 
It’s a pastime that you cannot dodge
To wave your arms and curse and cry
It’s called the great Australian wave
To shoo away that pesky fly

Don Stratford  ©  13 / 9 / 2005

Poem 10
Hi! This poem happened to me while living on Mt. Little station between Croyden
and Georgetown, up in the gulf. I sat in the car and waited for the musterers return!
The bore was set up with a trough and tank, so we could then transfer cattle out there.

Just another Delemma
A day of rejoicing, at last it was happening,
The heifers were travelling to 'Jeds',
The kids all rose early to embark on the journey,
A short time they'd had in their beds.

I rose early too. to fix up the breakfast,
And pack a nice lunch for the way,
Then fill up the troupie, and collect up the strainers,
And wire and pliers for the day.

Sarah and mum, they travelled along,
Watching the tracks in the dust,
At last the cattle, they came into view,
--and troupie stopped dead in disgust!

"The filter is blocked" I explained to Dave,
Who lifted the bonnet to check,
"What drum did you get the fuel out of?"
"The one in the back of the shed."

To my horror he cried, "That's petrol my dear!"
"It's not! I rubbed it and smelt it!"
But petrol it was, so we just sat there,
And waited their return...grinned and bared it!

Dogs puffing noisily..'puff puff puff.'
Kids complaining loudly, "this is enough."
A kangaroo hops by..'wuff wuff wuff.'
Mum saying quietly, "Well that's just tough!"
Meredith Brook. (c)
 
Poem 9
WONDERING ALBATROSS
(diomedia exulans)
by Jennifer Jandruwanda (c) 1999

Wondering albatross of the sea
lord of the waves and calm you be
am ocean bird humped back in flight
scans the waters a gracious sight
symbolic white cross chasing the cloud
esteem white plummage holds his head proud
a giant petrel cannot match your stride
dorsal surface stretches so wide
shapely pale bill ancient glory
a lonely sea man will tell the story
how lady luck has cherished your name
the sight of you cruising has brought you fame
the seven seas is your wondering home
bless the mariners who traverse your foam
jennifer Jandruwanda (c)
Http://members.optusnet.com.au/
 
Poem 8
Down the hills the river flows.
Down the hills the river flows.
Crystal clear water once heavy fallen snows.
Leaving a path of destruction as it goes.
 
The pitch black brumby stamps his feet.
The wallabies find a place to hide
through heavy falling sleet.
 
It rains like hell.
The crops are flooded.
The old man sighs.
Shakes his head and shudders.
What the hell will he do?
He needs the money.
To buy a header,
Real brand new
 
Then suddenly the rain just stops.
To hell he thought
I’ll have to replant all the crops
The pitch black brumby gallops around
While the wallabies look for grassy ground.
 
Winter’s over Spring is here
You can feel the change
It’s definitely near.
The sky is blue
Nice and clear
Now the sun starts to appear

These are the things of the Aussie outback.
So harsh and cruel, they turn their back.
It’s hard living here through the scorching heat.
Lift them quickly or burn your feet.

But the old man and his trusty work dog.
Wouldn’t trade this for the cities smog.
They love living here in the in the dusty outback.
When they travel to town on the old worn track
By Samantha Tozer
Poem 7
 
TRANQUILITY DOWN UNDER
     Out of the noise, pollution and confusion
     Bought in by helicopter to the solitude of peace.
     Soft streams flowing crystal clear blue....
     Blowing my harmonica at the blue birds cue.
    
Rainbows are apparent above
     The scent of fresh earth everywhere
     Tradewinds blowing very gently
     No rush, no stress, no cares.

     Lilac scents the valley above
     Someone playing soft melodies with their guitar.
     The bubbling of trout-filled streams
     fill the ever peaceful air
     Nightfall approaches quickly
      Lit up by many blue stars

      Off to sleep I fall
      In the mild country air.
      Angels surrounding my body
      Fireflies lighting up my hair.
Johnita R. Minnifield (c) America
 
Poem 6
ODE TO SNAKEBITE
How do you thank someone you’ve trusted with your life,
When you’ve travelled many miles together
From a child to a wife.
 
Through rough terrain and flooded plains
Watching progress rape the land
Together walking side by side
This one I call my man.

He’s listened to every word I’ve spoken
All my secrets in his head
He’s never said a word to me
Yet soaked the tears I’ve shed.

No longer is he as he was
A fine young steed with style
He’s a man with many years behind him
And a life of which I’m proud.

His eyes the window to his soul
See me everyday
They tell me how he’s feeling
how his life will end one day.

Though until this time befalls him
I’ll care for him each day
Give him everything he needs
And thank him everyday.

How do you thank someone you’ve trusted with your life?
You repay them with your gratitude
Until they say good-night!

SN A K E B I T E – Lynne Catherine Murray (c)
 
Poem 5
ONCE A JOLLY SWAGMAN
…………In loving memory of my man
 August 2004
SNAKEBITE sharing 27 years of love,
compassion, friendship – died – aged 35 years.
Once a jolly swagman camped by a billabong….
Apart from saying I love you , I think a dozen times
This is what I sung to him, To synchronise our minds.
Under the shade of a Coolabah tree…
He waited for me on this morn, he led me to the ground
I held him tightly in my arms, Not another sole around.

And he sang as he watched and waited til his billy boiled….
Tears falling from my eyes, Leaving streaks upon my face
I sung this song from no where, I knew what we must face.

Who’ll come a waltzing Matilda with me
Sitting there beside him, Rocking to and fro
Stroking his head so passionately, It was time to let him go !

Up came the jumbuck to drink at that billabong….
I can remember screaming ‘Oh my God’ In an uncontrollable cry..
As I felt his soul slip away and gallop to the sky.

Up came the squatter riding on his thorough bred….
I caressed his neck and stroked his head holding him firmly in my arms
He never spoke a word to me, Yet soaked the tears I shed!

Up jumped the Swagman and jumped into that billabong…..
I sat beside him, laid beside him for nearly half a day
I couldn’t let my man get cold - I couldn’t walk away.

And his ghost may be heard as you pass by that billabong….
Now Snakebite lies beneath the grounds of the house that we called home
No more hoof prints in the dirt - No more neighs – alone.

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda….
Snakebites ghost may be heard - Just listen to my heart
The memories of my fine old steed - with me til I part.
9th August, 2004
Lynne Catherine Murray
 
Poem 4
Crucified by Media.
A seamstress, mother and wife of a preacher man.
Crucified by media is how this all began.
Hang down your head Australia you deserve the blame.
Thoughtless jokes and gossip is where the verdict came.
 
Born in New Zealand, the island across the way.
At one become an Aussie and for a time did stay.
Worked hard to learn a trade, while mother and a wife.
Helped with church and members, sure was a busy life.
 
Camping near Ayers Rock, on a holiday one night.
A dingo took her baby, hunger was it’s plight.
“A dingo took my baby.” she cried in distress.
“A dingo took my baby.” fear she did express.
 
The media got the story and twisted round the facts.
Branded a murderer and gossip this attracts.
Held for this horrific crime, guilty was the cry.
People thought of motives and wanted her to die.
 
Locked up in the jail and fretting for her young.
Helped the other inmates, with many praises sung.
Pregnant with another one, no relief in sight.
So she preyed to God, not giving up the fight.
 
Gave birth while in custody, on one crucial day.
Didn’t have the bab for long, before it went away.
Fretting now, but doing good, somehow she held out.
Will was strong, thoughts so pure; of this there was no doubt.
 
Six years in jail, small hope of ever being free
Preyed to God for help and faith this was her plea.
Her innocence proven by a missing jacket.
Masses sneered and few kicked up a racket.
 
Finally a pardon, what did it really cost?
A home and family is what this lady lost.
Six years of her life in hell behind iron bars.
No experiences of life not viewing any stars.
 
Still the people snigger with some of them unsure.
How could they be amiss this they could not endure.
When will we have compassion for our fellow man?
When will we act humane it would be a decent plan.
 
Innocent til shown wrong is what the law does say.
Yet we banded her guilty and not the other way.
Are we a mob of sheep not fit to think or rule.
To kick a person while their down is oh so cruel.

Hang your head Australia, you have caused this woe.
Don’t turn in ignorance and say you did not know.
Hang your head Australia your guilt is there for sure.
Don’t look away and say, it don’t matter anymore.

A seamstress, mother and wife of a preacher man.
Crucified by media is how this all began.
Hang down your head Australia you deserve the blame.
Thoughtless jokes and gossip is where the verdict came.
 
(C) Manofoz aka Kenneth Hatcher 06/07/05
 
Poem 3
The Bus Trip.
It was the early morning, about two hours from daylight.
Edie searched through her bags and checked that all was right.
Four-thirty was the time they said, the bus would surely leave.
She must be there before that time, was easy to perceive.

Electric light was a boon, much better than a candle.
Everything was ready now, with a dunny stop to handle.
The night hour had a chill in it, the darkness thick and black.
But Edie had a torch to use, to go out there and back.

Charlie reversed the car out, a twenty-eight Chev. Four.
It had a canvas hood, but no curtains above each door.
He left the lights still burning, so Edie could see her way.
Then he put the suitcase in, so there would be no delay.

It took a while to drive to town, the car was not too fast.
If they knew what was on top, they’d both be so aghast.
They drove down the main street and saw the bus just up ahead.
The people started staring and some pointed over head.

When stopping adjacent to the bus, Charlie got a fright.
For as he looked four hens jump off, all of them in flight.
So Edie caught the bus alright, but Charlie had some fun.
Giving chase to them flaming chooks and all of them could run.
(C) Manofoz aka Kenneth Hatcher 05/07/05
Poem 2

THE LETTER

I got a letter from my Nan

Asking me to stay awhile

She said she lived in the country

And wrote it with a smile

 

And I’ve been thinking a fair bit

And I have made my choice

I am going to the country

The only loud noise will be my voice

 

I am traded in the speedy cars

For some time alone

I am looking for a friend or two

Instead of talking on the phone

 

I hear rock bands all the time

I would rather hear the birds signing

I would rather have some peace and quite

Then listening to the phone ringing

 

I am pretty sure I could handle

Anything I had to put up with out there

Sure there’s lots of spiders

But my aunty is more of a scare

 

The people here are so busy

In the country they are kind

I am pretty sure that

I have made up my mind

 

I am sure it is better there

Its is like a better side

I am not going to promise I will go

I have never lied

 

But one more question

Before I choose

How far will I have to travel?

To get to supre and cruise

 

My friends told me they weren’t out there

Only general stores you could find

On second thought I think

That I will have to change my mind

 

As great as the country sounds

I just don’t think I could leave

Hay there’s always next year

When Nan’s letter I am sure I will receive

 
Melanie Cambourn 13yrs  (c)
Poem 1
I wanna go home
I wanna go home
where the grass is greener
countryside
a country dreamer
always been a
things I've seen are
what I mean is
what is all this
could you tell me
why I'm asking
or what I'm thinking
why I'm drinking

 
Adam Cooper (c)

A Tribute to Helen
Helen's

   
    Tamworth Rage Page
Helen's Tamworth Rage Page,
A Country Music on-line site.

Australian and overseas news,
TRP is a Country Music fan's delight.

Current concerts, topical artists,
News, tributes, poetry, contests.
Anything you wish to know,
TRP is Simply the Best!

Australian as the gum trees,
Informal and down to earth.
Helen's Tamworth Rage Page
Assures Australians of their own self-worth.

Congratulations and thanks to Helen,
www.tamworthragepage.com

Yvonne Pick  - June, 2004.

Macleay River
New South Wales

Macleay, a gently winding river,
Her riverbanks serene,
Shady, sloping native gums,
Nature's vista supreme.
A snap shot of Australia
To reflect upon for hours,
Distant, dark-green covered hills,
Magnificent, small wildflowers.

Afternoon shadows soften the haze
On a blazing summer's day.
Picnickers seek her cooling shores,
While children run and play.
Ripples on the Macleay River,
Blackfish breeding ground,
Trevally and Blue Swimmer fish,
Mud crabs fresh and sound.

Historic Macleay River
Evokes many a scene long past,
Old timers recall the Punt Service,
The current running fast.
Echoes of 19th century cedar cutters
Are heard if you quietly listen,
Stuarts Point, a fisherman's paradise
Where the Bream and Whiting glisten.

Apex Historical Lookout
Affords a magical view,
Of the journeying Macleay River
To restore the soul anew.

Yvonne Pick,
Norman Park, Brisbane.
May, 2004. (c)

 
Scribblers on Sunday'.   Venue at Carindale Library
Meeting Room in Brisbane, >
 Book is out now!!  One of my poems is 'The Slim Dusty Way'.
yvonnegpick@optusnet.com.au
 
Scribblers on Sunday
Kindred spirits who love to write,
Express our hopes and dreams.
Poetry or prose to delight,
In Sunday Scribblers' schemes.

Friendship, a cuppa, and laughter
Unite the group each week.
Carindale Library's Meeting Room,
Quiet venue to seek.

Monthly topics challenge our minds
A love of words the way.
January to December,
Scribblers on Sunday.
     Yvonne Pick
 
The members of Scribblers on Sunday are a varied and versatile group who meet monthly to
share their works and enjoy the company of other writers.  Ages range from teens to retirees. 
Print out and have the memories