Scrub Turkeys

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian traditional poetry, Bush Poetry, Megapode, Mound builder, poem, poetry, Scrub Turkey

Of all bush structures, none can best
The grandeur of the turkey’s nest –
A mighty tower of twigs and leaves,
With claw and beak, each turkey weaves;
An oven, where the cock’s strong feet,
About the eggs, adjust the heat,
Until the chicks with chirp and cheep
Burst skywards from the rotting heap.

Ash

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Hervey bay, Moreton Bay Ash, poem, poetry

I spied a grand old ash,
Close by the shore, where crash
The waves on shining sand.
I asked it: “Here you stand,
And have for many years.
What laughter and what tears
Can you recall, old tree?
Your secrets tell to me.”

Sprang up a brisk sea-breeze
To rustle its grey leaves;
Its branches swayed and groaned,
And then to me it moaned:
“So long ago I saw
Upon this shining shore,
The campfires in the night,
And by their flickering light,
The dance of painted men;
I was a sapling then;
Now fully grown am I;
My trunk is thick, and high
And mighty do I stand,
But on the shining sand
I see no signs of men –
The ones I knew back then.
Their fires have long gone cold –
To ash – and I am old.”

Then quiet – the sea-breeze died,
And soft the giant sighed;
The waves crashed on the shore;
The old ash said no more.

Gettin’ a bit Dry

Tags

Australian bush poetry, australian formal poetry, Australian poet, Australian understatement, drought, laconic humour, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, poem, poetry, Red-bellied black snake

The lizards are dyin’ of thirst,
And the red-bellied blacks – that’s a first.
All the cattle are dead
And the roos have all fled;
What we need is a flamin’ cloudburst.

Old Red

Tags

Australian bush poetry, australian formal poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Bush Poetry, Farming in Australia, poem, poetry

He stumbled down the dusty track,
His rifle slung across his back.
She lay amid the trampled grass,
No miracle had come to pass.

He laid her head upon his knee.
Her eyes rolled back till she could see
His face, the one she knew so well,
His voice, his touch, his sweat, his smell.

“Old girl” he said, “I’ve known awhile,
Your stubbornness, your craft, your guile,
For you and I were sometimes foes
And there were times we came to blows.

You’ve knocked me down when in the yard
And I recall you kicked me hard.
I bested you – upon my word,
Old Red – the boss cow of the herd.

But now you lie here on this slope.
I’ve tried my best but there’s no hope.
You’re down old girl and you won’t rise;
You know you’re done – it’s in your eyes.

Old Red, there’s but the truth to face:
This is your final resting place.
I’ll give you one last pat old friend,
Then quick – your suffering will end.”

Bagging a Shag

Tags

Australian bush poetry, australian formal poetry, Australian traditional poetry, bush poet, Bush Poetry, bush poets, Cormorant, poem, poetry, shag, snake bird

A shag (cormorant) has been eating the fish in my dam (lake)

Come land, you mongrel, on that jutting snag,
By your disgusting droppings washed with white.
It’s twilight, but before the fall of night,
My rifle says I’ll have me one dead shag.

You feathered terrorist of perch and cod.
You serpent of the waters and the sky.
Before the day is spent, here you will die.
Prepare, you thieving bird, to meet your god.

Extinction of the Megafauna

Tags

Aboriginal migration into Australia, Aboriginals wipe out megafauna, Australian bush poetry, australian formal poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, bush poet, Bush Poetry, poem, poetry, sonnet

Now gone, the moat of ocean wide and deep,
As in the north appears a bridge of land
And on the beaches, footprints in the sand.
The spreading hordes through virgin forests creep.
With club and spear, a harvest rich they reap,
As fire-sticks strike and high the flames are fanned
As winds of change sweep through this ancient land
To wake it from its long primeval sleep.

Now clear are seen and heard portents of doom:
The plumes of smoke, and too, the warning sound
Of feet that stamp upon the blackened ground.
Thus giants the land had nurtured in her womb
Will but in dreaming legends soon be found –
Invaders will consign them to the tomb.

The Native

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian poet, Australian traditional poetry, Native Australians, poem, poetry

His land is worn and wearied;
Its colours drab and pale,
With hills that once were mountains
Reduced to sand and shale.

Where trees grey-green and twisted,
With black and furrowed bark,
Against the hazy skyline
Stand desolate and stark.

Sun beating without mercy,
Dry year upon dry year,
With frost in winter burning
What summer doesn’t sear.

So does he yearn for softer scenes
Of pine and snow-capped peaks?
Of misty fells and vales of green
And cold clear-running creeks?

No, he would not forsake it;
Be from this brown land torn.
His spirit lies within it,
For he is native born.

Baby Badgering

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian traditional poetry, Baby on board badge, Formal poetry, limerick, Limerick poem, Limerick poetry, poem, poetry

That bump – that’s a baby on board.
So you don’t need a badge you dumb broad.
Though dead on my feet
I will give up my seat,
But your medal, my dear, I’ve ignored.

Baby on board badge debate

Edmond Kennedy

Tags

Australian bush poetry, Australian explorers, bush poet, Bush Poetry, Cape York, Edmond Kennedy, Escape River, Formal poetry, Kennedy expedition, poem, poetry

‘a fine noble fellow poor Kennedy was’ – Thomas Huxley

Through the swell and the spray on the twentieth day
Sailed the barque “Tam O’Shanter” that May,
And behind in her wake, the corvette “Rattlesnake”,
As they swept into Rockingham Bay.

Thirteen men the boats bore, and the stroke of each oar
Brought them on to that forbidding shore,
Where they set out to walk to the tip of Cape York –
All that lay in between to explore.

They were bushmen and tough and would brook no rebuff
As they conquered the rugged and rough
Ridges ragged and green, steep and split with ravine,
And descended each perilous bluff.

But soon rations grew short, with their strength the miles bought,
And with peril the enterprise fraught.
With their goal growing dim, faces hopeless and grim,
Dreams of glory were coming to naught.

Over hellish terrain, all done in, wracked with pain,
Struggling on with but honour to gain,
Ever northward they trekked, bodies starving and wrecked;
Now their struggle was clearly in vain.

From the swamps and the heat there would be no retreat,
And but two left to witness defeat.
One now close to his end – Jackey Jackey, his friend,
And the tragedy almost complete.

After such a cruel test where he gave of his best,
From a wild black, a spear pierced his breast.
Twenty miles from the cape, by the river – “Escape”,
Edmond Kennedy went to his rest.

To Sydney Town

Tags

australia, Australian bush poetry, Australian traditional poetry, Formal poetry, poem, poetry, Sydney

I’m off this day to Sydney Town,
Where very few folk wear a frown,
And where, the natives (so I’m told)
Drink sapphire wine from cups of gold.
Where all men live in harmony
And husbands with their wives agree.
Where people from disparate lands
Sing cheerful tunes whilst holding hands,
And crime (hence punishment) is rare.
Where every face is fine and fair,
And never spoken a cruel word;
Just compliments and praises heard.
To this fine burg, I’m going down;
To paradise – old Sydney Town.