Here is a picture of part of the Macleay River for inspiration to write a poem

2002-2003

Click on photo to read some of Robert Raftery poetry 

"Saddlesaw Productions"

 

Bush Poets Chris and The Grey 

www.bushpoets.go.to   

bushpoets@go.to  

Click here for the last two years - winning Poems

Click here for the 2001 Poems

Poem 29

Hi my name is Emma Griffith
I have a passion for writing
I feel most at home when I have a pen in my hand
I just want to create something beautiful
I dont know if this poem will appeal to you it is very sad
It is not a true story but there is so much of this sort of thing in the
world now I wanted to reach out and see if writing this could let me see how
terrible the ordeal of this particular event could be.
I want to understand how people feel.
People might think its strange that I wrote something so sad for no reason
but I dont know why I did it but I am proud of it
So i hope you enjoy this poem

GONE!
By Emma Griffith 14 years old
You seemed so far away,
Didn't know what I could say
What did you need to hear,
For you to still be near
Doctors have tried
To define suicide
I still don't get it though
Will I ever really know
What made you do it
I could have helped you get through it
If only.

You weren't so lonely
You'd be laughing with me
I wish I did see
Now I'm so mad
So very very sad
With what has been
And everything I have seen
Everything you ever knew and all you had been taught
Your last words and your last thought
All gone when I saw you lying on he floor
Your whole life shut forever behind that bedroom door
If only.

You weren't so damn lonely
I'd see you here,
You'd still be near
"I'm not insane I just can't go on
I've been confused for so very long "
That's all it said,
That note lying on your bed,
I don't get why you did it,
Who was it I still don't see it.
I thought you were fine
I was yours and you were mine
Things change I know they do
But what was it you couldn't work through

Is it just that teenage depression phase
Is that why you hear of suicide often these days
I don't need time and I don't need space
All I need is to see your face
Goodbye is what I have to say
Not another "Love you" or even a "G'day"

It's the end now and not the start
I have to help play my part
Look after your dad and your sister
I'll find your mum and tell her you missed her
I'm getting it now
Why, what and how

You're gone because of what she did
She left you when you were a little kid
I didn't realise it hurt you so much inside
Your eyes were dry, you never cried

I'll tell her all the things I know
I'm angry with her and rightly so
My heart is broken; yeah it's true
While it's mending I'll remember you

"Best wishes do I send
For the loved ones of my boyfriend"
That's the add I put in the paper
I'll keep it forever and read it later

Poem28

In Victor harbor, South Australia, a group of ageing hasbeens, shouldabeens and couldabeens, combined with some youthful wannabees and wouldn’tmindtobees put together a band of dubious ability.

Corella’s Revenge

There was a rumour at The Victor, 

It had even reached The Crown,

And at the Grosvenor they were discussing,

The newest, musical act in town.

 

Now if you take the western out of country,

And the rock right out of roll,

You come close to the new genre,

Some of the pundits would call droll.

 

It is this, the very essence,

Of this new and talented band,

That is about to unleash its repertoire,

Upon the Fleurieu of The Great Southland.

 

When you have a few good men,

And quality musicians to boot,

You can bet that the very first concert,

Is sure to be a hoot.

 

The only thing that may be lacking,

Apart from ability and style,

Is being able to hit the same note together,

Every once and awhile.

 

Now for some, music is a crusade,

With a cause and injustice to avenge.

But that is just not important,

For Corella’s Revenge.

 

If you have heard a wounded parakeet,

Or a crow seriously maimed,

That’s about the choralistic target,

That Corella’s Revenge has aimed.

 

Take the warble out of magpie,

Take the humming out of bird,

Take the nighting out of gale,

And that’s about what’ll be heard.

 

Corella’s Revenge came into being,

Because some men just have to do it,

They can even turn their able hands,

To mould a quartet into a duet.

 

Far be it for us to tell you all,

How to judge what you will hear.

But if you’re all as tone deaf as we are,

None of us has anything to fear.

There’s Terry “The Man” Lewitzka, 

The maestro, we think,

Whose ability and singing improves,

With each glass of red you drink.

 

Then there’s young Johnny “J.R.”,

A singer extraordinaire,

Who with the occasional use of two bricks,

Can get those high notes right up there.

 

There’s Murray the mighty Blatchford,

Whose voice deep and strong,

The dulcet tones keep reverberating,

While we do our best to sing along.

 

There’s John, the guitarist Freebairn,

Known as “Freebie” to one and all,

Whose desire for fame and fortune,

Has seen him answer the call.

 

There’s Colin our master musician,

Who is fondly referred to as C.W.

He plays with a desire to do his best,

Too bad we don’t all take the trouble too!

 

There’s Tyson the violinist,

Whose careful fingers and strings,

To this band of musical misfits,

A touch of refinement brings.

 

There’s Ian the lanky drummer,

Who armed with sticks and skins,

Brings the rhythm and consistency,

That country music’s akin.

 

There’s Luke the bass guitarist,

Who is all slap, pick and tickle,

There’s nothing about his bass playing,

That anyone would call fickle.

 

And I guess that leaves Geoffrey,

Who, although whispering, isn’t Jack,

He plays the digital, electrical washboard,

That is, until his Mum wants it back.

 

So sit right back and take it in,

We’ll say only this to you,

If you reckon it’s hard to listen to once,

We’ve had to rehearse, God knows 

how many times, through. 

G Sullivan (C) March 2003

Poem 27

Lewitzka’s Passion

 

Down the way at a harbour named Victor,

Where God Himself has painted a picture,

There lived a passionate, artistic man

With brush and pallet poised in hand.

 

To bluffs, valleys, cliffs and creeks,

Country tracks and every wave-washed beach,

Lewitzka pursued his quest and vision,

Attacking each subject as his personal mission.

 

Two days a week, he’d be transfixed,

Then return to his studio where he would mix,

With budding artists, buyers and browsers,

Mis-guided tourists and cultural wowsers.

 

The latter sapped his energy and passion,

While selling his art, to get the cash in.

Until one day it finally snapped,

The artistic flair was no longer trapped.

 

Out to the valleys, creeks and dams,

Stormed this now un-caged, paint-armed man.

No tree was safe, no horizon beyond reach,

No canvas could hold the style now unleashed.

 

Every branch, rock and hidden chasm,

Was painted upon with enthusiasm.

Kangaroos’ joeys and emu’s knees

Were captured and painted with admirable ease.

 

For seven long days, even into the night,

Lewitzka stroked and dabbed with might.

Until at last God could take no more,

He spoke to Terry, telling him what He had in store.

 

 “My son,” He said, “You’ve painted beyond your limit,

You're supposed to paint what your canvas can keep within it.

Instead you’ve chased my very own creatures,

Painted their habitat and even their features.”

 

Now God had decided, with great deliberation,

How to share Terry’s skill, with the rest of the nation.

“For your overkill,” He said, “There is a solution.

I’ll tell you what you’ll do for restitution.”

 

“Go back to your studio with insight and ability,

And teach all who enter, with the utmost civility.

Even those whom you once considered a pest,

They now shall be, the most to be blessed.”

 

And so today and forever more,

Terry is smiling, chatting is no chore.

School kids and groups through the door are filing,

Because Lewitzka now knows, that God too, is smiling! 

G Sullivan  23/02/2003 (c)

 Poem  26

A LOO [WD] CONVERSATION

The sound of country music rang down town in old Peel street,
While once again I set up camp, amid the throbbing beat
Of guitars, drums and didg'ridoos beside Frank Turton's chooks,
To share with folk my love of verse and sell my tapes and books.

Then strike me pink old nature called, so had to slip away,
And being air-conditioned like Grace Bros. saved the day.
The toilet there was unisex, but thought I was alone,
When to my right I heard a ring ... a flam'in mobile phone.

Some voice then answered, "Campware here.  Oh hello Miss McBride."
When stone the crows ... another ring ... but from my left hand side.
A woman's voice said, "Hosiery, Miss Makim, how'd you do,"
And there I was perched on the throne, caught right between the two.

It's really hard to concentrate with all that in your ear,
In fact I had to come to grips with why I'd come in here.
The conversations going on both had a diff'rent theme,
Which had my mind a wee bit tossed, confusion reigned supreme.

"Two padded bras," Miss Makim asked, "they both must be the same."
"But room for three," campware replied, "with self supporting frame."
"Your pref'rence is convertible and satin finish too."
"Though shade cloth inserts are a must, to let a breeze blow through."

"And do we have some knickers which would match the bras - in black?"
"Of course they've got the bottoms in and zip up front and back."
"You want some with elastic in, but something that will last.."
"We have a range that slip up quick and come down just as fast."

Then as I heard the cisterns flush, I thought ... hell what a pain;
Transacting business in the loo can really be a drain.
I reached out for some toilet roll to wrap up why I came,
When spare me days 'twas nothing there, but cardboard roll and frame.

What was a bloke to do I thought, I'm stuck here all alone,
When suddenly it crossed my mind ... I'd brought my mobile phone.
I dialled the information line to seek the number out,
Then figured I'd ring toiletry, they'd have some rolls no doubt.

But when I punched the numbers in I heard a ring near by.
That's strange, I thought, then heard a voice say, "Toiletry, it's Di."
"Oh Di," I said, "it's Mervyn here, I'm stuck here in your store,
I'm in your loo and out of rolls so could you bring some more."

There was a sudden silence for the phone went kind of dead,
But somewhere close I heard a scream as some sweet voice then said,
"Hey Merv I'd like to help you out, but sweetheart this is true,
You see I'm only two doors down and out of paper too."
Merv Webster (c)
The Goondiwindi Grey

Poem  25

THE RELUCTANT BOOT SCOOTER

I 'spose you've heard of Tamworth and the shindig there each year,

Where country music reigns supreme and all it's stars appear.

They're in the pubs and all the clubs and arcades 'round the town

And Peel Street is just full of pics all strumming up and down.

In years of late another breed of artists have appeared,

Bush Poets with their rhyming verse, who are now quite revered.

The Longyard and Imperial pubs and Leagues Club host a few,

While golf and bowls clubs house more mobs and Peel street has them too.

It happens that I'm one of them and have for six straight years

Performed to folk my style of verse;  the laughter and the tears.

You make them cry, you make them laugh, you keep your tales true blue;

For that is what the folk demand, be Aussie through and through.

Most folk they see us poets as the ocker type of bloke

And know we see line dancing as some kind of flamin' joke.

They come to Tamworth ev'ry year and verge on the main street.

These hordes of blokes and sheilas with their fancy prancin' feet.

They're simply ev'ry shape and size, no two frames look the same,

With fancy shirt's embroided with the place from whence they came.

They tuck their thumbs behind their belts then line up in a row,

And when the music kicks on in they boot scoot to and fro.

Each year they have this ritual, which really is a bore;

They try to break the record they procured the year before.

Like locusts they assemble and I watch them with disdain

'Cause surely they've got buckley's chance of doing it again.

But somehow they have done it and you can't help but admire,

The pluck of these boot scootin' folk ... they never seem to tire.

This year the faithful came again though couldn't help but doubt,

No matter how they wanted to, their run of luck was out.

The M.C. kept on calling out, "All register now please.

If we don't keep the record folks it could go overseas."

The comment cut just like a knife.  I thought, you man or mouse?

'Cause, what if they were just one short?   You'd really feel a louse.

The more the M.C. made his plea the more it gnawed at me,

Until I cracked and ran on up and paid the flamin' fee.

I stuck my ticket on my shirt and joined the middle row

And wished they'd kick the music off and get on with the show.

My biggest fear was if my mates were watching in the crowd.

They'd never let me live it down.  The M.C. cried out loud.

"It's time folks," and the music played.  I thought I'd take a punt

And pranced along by following the tall chick there in front.

Then when the music fin'lly stopped I made a quick retreat,

Relieved that I had not been seen boot scootin' in the street.

We broke the record once again and felt real good deep down,

But please don't tell me poet mates they'd run me out of town.

Bush Poets Chris and The Grey  (c)

FOOTNOTE: 

Each year as I've sat in front of Grace Bros. Store at the Tamworth Country

Music Festival, performing our show and selling our product, I have observed

the ritual of bootscooters gathering in Peel street to break the record for

the largest number of bootscooters gathered in one place. A record they have

broken annually for some years now in the Guinness Book of Records.  Each

year I have grappled with the thought - what if they were short by one? - so

I had to tell the story.

Poem   24 

:"The Piker from Pikers Creek".

Poem 23

CoUnTrY GiRl At HeArT

Although I live in the city

I’m a country girl at heart that’s for sure

I love those cowboys and rodeos

Hell I want more

 

Although I live in the city

You won’t find me at the beach

Or dancing at a club

You’ll find me at a rodeo

And soon to be at the local pub

 

 I listen to most country music

That sound goes right down into my soul

I can’t wait to get outta here

Right now that is my only goal

 

To live on the land

Thousands of acres, cattle, horses and I can’t forget my Ute

Yeah the life I wanna live

It sure will be beaute

 

But right now, that’s all just a dream I’m in

Some say I may live in a fantasy world

Although I live in the city

In my heart I know I’m just a lil country girl

Written by Megan Quintal 17yo,Sydney ©2002

Poem  22

The Road Outta Here

I have this dream; to one day leave the city

One day I hope it sure does come true

Cos that’s the only thing

Causing me so much blue

 

Poem 21

The River Road.

I call it the River Road, it's only one car wide

That's all it ever had to be in gold rush days gone bye

It winds along a valley floor out of Sofala town

it carried miners, thieves and lords, officials of the Crown.

 

I shan't dwell on its majesty, in those days it had none

more of what it is today, of what it has become.

A pathway back to hardest times that ever came this way

It's sitting here just as it was as we ride along today.

 

For every curve and feature there are stories to be told

how wretches in the camps survived to fossick for the gold.

When first you could just pick it up, no white folks here before

Then to the pits they dug and died, searching for the ore.

 

Yes, finding it was one thing, to keep it and to prosper

when every bend on this here road could be a spot for murder.

That canyon where it's dark and cold I shudder to imagine

the robbers and the evil  deeds but yes, these things did happen.

 

The law was far too thinly spread, you lived a life in fear.

I'm riding now along this road, all these things happened, here.

The making of a country once travelled on this road

they brought in simply everything on foot and wagon load.

 

And now, as is the history of gold and dashing deeds

tortured souls now howl away through she-oaks and the reeds.

Rubble and a water race some ruined miners shack

All help to tell the story but then, there is this track.

 

As we ride this River Road with the ghosts of Cobb & Co

and places that have names that no-one knows

in the gullies and the streams they were digging for their dreams

and I wonder if they ever made it home.

Copyright  Duncan Hill  December 2002

Poem 20

The Shining Star

From the very day that I was born,

I travelled wide and travelled far.

Though many times my heart was torn.

I was followed by this shining star.

 

I’ve searched the highways, and mountains high.

Along the valleys, peaceful still,

Rivers long and desert’s wide,

Lush green pastures, rocky hills.

 

Age shall not weary me,

Death shall not approach my door,

There’s many things I wish to see,

And things to be explored.

 

From city lights, to pitch black dark,

There are things I want to see,

Tall ghost gums, a work of art,

A travelling life for me.

  

The stockmen ride out in the dust,

It’s the work that they must do,

Scorching sun, they make no fuss,

Country bushies, through and through.

 

The cattle move through vast wide plains,

Through heat and dust they travel far,

On the faces of drovers you see the strain,

But in the night, you can see their star.

  

From the very day that I was born,

I travelled wide and travelled far.

Though many times my heart was torn.

I was followed by this shining star

 

Age shall not weary me,

Death shall not approach my door,

There’s many things I wish to see,

And things to be explored.

 

From city lights, to pitch black dark,

There are things I want to see,

Tall ghost gums, a work of art,

A travelling life for me.

 

Tall ghost gums, a work of art,

A travelling life for me.

 Copyright 2002. All rights reserved [Helen Hayden]

Poem 19

Life’s mysteries

So at least that I could see.

Well let’s see what happens then!

 Copy-Right 2002. All rights reserved [Helen Hayden].

Poem 18 

No Rain.

Not a cloud in sight, clear days again,

Rain may come don’t know where, don’t know when.

The stock find it tough, the farmers do it hard,

The ewes and their young ones are down in the long yard

 

Mother hangs out washing, only done here once a week,

There’s just no water anymore, left here in the creek.

The dams are getting low, but most are nearly dry,

The bank statement came in yesterday, the farmer has a cry.

 

The crops were sown a while ago, but most are all but dead,

What was the flaming use we cry, there’s nothing left to head.

The cost of feed to feed the stock, keeps us running at a loss.

The tractors need new tyres, boy that’s gunna cost.

 

“”Not a cloud in sight, clear days again,

Rain may come don’t know where, don’t know when.

The stock find it tough, the farmers do it hard,

The ewes and their young ones are down in the long yard.””

 

The kids were off at boarding school, they better come back home,

There’s just no way the banks will give another loan.

The creditors came here yesty, to reposes the car,

I suppose now with only 2 legs we wont be going far.

 

The fences need some mending; the lambs need to be marked,

The tractor hasn’t moved for weeks, its in the shed still parked.

The workmen here have all but gone, because there is no pay,

So I’ll sit on the porch and pray, for rain to come one day.

 

“”Not a cloud in sight, clear days again,

Rain may come don’t know where, don’t know when.

The stock find it tough, the farmers do it hard,

The ewes and their young ones are down in the long yard.””

Copy-right 2002. All rights reserved [Helen Hayden].

Poem   17

Before, Then, Now.

Before there were green branches

Spread out far

Before there were flowers

Sprinkled everywhere.

 

Before there were houses

Of mahogany wood

And tall iron fences

Proudly they stood.

 

Before there were families

Happily running along

Assured nothing could happen

They couldn't be more wrong.

 

Then there was orange

Flames burning high

Ashes and smoke

Littering the sky.

 

then there was black

No more sweet flowers

no more happy families

They're defenceless of power.

 

Now there are ruins

A blackened smoky mess

So many homeless people

No-one to confess.

 

Now there are charities

The Salvos and Red cross

So please donate something to them

To compensate their loss.

Jessica Howard

 (Copyright 2002)

15 years old. Newcastle  

Poem 16

The Bushman’s Horse

The Bushman's horse stood tall, and bold;

He had courage in the carriage of his head; not showing that he may be old.

Yet fire, and flooded waters, had he seen for more than twenty years;

And as the wiry bushman lead him in, his eyes were filled with tears.

 

His old mate had had his day, and the time had come to say farewell;

He'd brought him to the auction with a heavy heart, not really wanting to sell;

Y