Poetry, wombats and other thoughts.
By Vicki Sweedman
I am - learning - about poetry.
About rhythm, and rhyme.
I’m learning things like consonants,
And keeping words in time.
With mono, and di, and tri, and tetra
Feet and metres around the clock.
Iambic, trochaic, anapaestic, and dactylic
Example, hickory dickory dock.
I’m learning about epistrophe,
Repetition of words like epistrophe
At the end of a sentence, epistrophe
Is called a technique, epistrophe.
Punctuation, in the middle of a line,
With a dash, comma, or full stop,
Is called caesura. To take a little break,
It accentuates the word, before the stop.
These stanzas are quatrains,
Four lines in a row.
Maybe a sestet with six lines,
Could make a better show.
For free verse I could rave on forever with no rhyme -
Talk about my feelings or the ways of the world.
And if I do that, I’m sure to use
enjambment as a tool
that’s what it’s called when no
punctuation is used as a rule
Epanalepsis is when the same words,
Are at the front and end of a line.
Like Kennedy said,
‘Mankind should end war,
Or war will end mankind’.
If I were to write, food, feed and fed,
Or drove and drive, hooting and hoot,
It is a polyptoton I’m writing with words,
That have a similar root.
There are dramatic poems like Canterbury Tales
Or Greek tragedies by Sophocles,
To give revelation or with preoccupation
I could talk to myself in a - soliloquy.
Poems might have simile,
‘He floated like a boat.’
‘My brother - is a goat.’
‘Lovely ladies legally legging it,’
Is called alliteration.
It’s very common in poetry
The first sound is repeated ad nauseum.
Within the words, repeated consonants,
‘Nor furious winterrages.’
Is called consonance repetition, with R.
Nice on the ear, or pages.
Opposed to assonance,
‘Either side the river lies,’
Which are vowel sounds,
Nice to the ear the vowel ‘I’.
Are words that sound like they are.
Boom, crash, fizz, achoo,
Tick-tock, bang, and baa.
Euphony, are pleasant sounds,
Cacophony, harsh, not pleasant.
pillar, or crescent.
A narrative poem, tells a story,
Has a resolution after being climatic.
It is the oldest form of poetry,
Could be folk, romance, ballad, or dramatic.
A sonnet (1)
is about (2)
a single (3)
It has a (5)
It has a turn of thought (8)
in the last two (9)
I’m learning about Poe and Dahl.
I like Emily Dickinson.
We talk about Browning, Carroll, and Angelou,
Still, my favourite is Banjo Patterson.
Bob Dylan an American singer
Has won a Nobel prize,
For his new poetic expression
In 2016, it was a lovely surprise.
Songs are said to be poems,
Poems can turn into song.
With rhythm and rhyme and a story line,
With a poem - it is hard to go wrong.
The Ballad of Yaminon
By Vicki Sweedman
Yaminon, the hairy nosed wombat, decided he had had enough.
The cattle and the new grasses were making life very tough.
From Epping Forest he walked, he wanted to help his friends.
He knew they had to find another place to bring his decline to an end.
The scientists had been catching all his friends for many years.
Each time they tried to breed them - it all ended in tears.
The wombats did not like it, being kept in a cage.
They did not like the forcefulness, it filled them with rage.
Also, a little fungus grew inside some of his friends,
It seemed just another thing to kill them in the end.
The scientists new they had to separate the wisdom.
Another fenced area with the same soil and plant system.
Yaminon travelled over roads, he survived cars and trucks,
He found plants to eat along the way and had a lot of luck.
He was lucky not to be eaten like his friends in the past.
Finally, he found a place with similar dirt and grass.
The scientists built a big fence, around Epping Forest.
This kept the wombats safe from dogs, allowed a little rest.
The cattle were kept out and the native grass planted again,
The hairy-nosed wombats thought their decline was at an end.
Yaminon ended up near St George and saw a farmer there.
The farmer rang the scientists and told them exactly where
This hairy-nosed wombat had decided this was home.
So, the scientists knew now, why Yaminon did roam.
They were given the land that Yaminon chose, built a fence around.
Took out all the cats and dogs, made copies of burrows very sound.
They caught several of Yaminon’s friends and quickly bought them there,
To stop the poor wombats, dying in despair.
It worked, and now we have two areas for wombats to run and play,
To eat the roots and grasses, dig holes and sunbake every day.
Yaminon showed them the way, to help his friends survive.
Yaminon, and his friends the scientists, are glad the species are alive.
The Hanging of Dundalli
By Vicki Sweedman
Dundalli was a Dalla warrior, and a very fair man.
All the south-eastern clans appointed him, Lawman of their land.
He attended all the Bora Councils, heard all many a gripe.
He followed what the council said, helped with much strife.
If there was a law breaker, he would hunt them to
Deal justice – it was his job, what he was appointed to do.
To Dundalli it did not matter if you were black or white,
You had to be accountable, sometimes with your life.
The whites did not understand this, they thought there was one law.
It had to be their way; the blacks had a say no more.
So, Dundalli was hunted - for eleven long years.
They caught him when a drunk gave him up for the cost of a beer.
He was put in a women’s convict cell that was really too small,
For Dundalli was, as the judge had said, the biggest man of all.
The trial went well with his guilt not proved, but still they chose a hanging.
He had tried to escape, and he was black. He must be guilty of … something.
It took 6 months in his small cell and the warders became his friends,
They found Dundalli a likeable chap, intelligent, and trustworthy to the end.
He gave his word not to try to escape even when he saw the gallows.
He walked bravely up and spoke to the crowd, his family, and other fellows.
The hangman stepped in to cut Dundalli’s speech short, by putting a bag on his head.
When the trapdoor opened his feet flung out and wedged in the coffin - his death bed.
The hangman rushed down and pulled the coffin out, Dundalli’s feet hit the ground.
Dundalli was 195 centimetres’ tall - the rope was too long he had found.
The inept hangman hogtied his legs, and his assistant whose name was Fred,
Helped pull - and they pulled - until Dundalli was dead -
The crowd looked away with regret. His people on the hill,
Set to wailing aloud - and the storyteller sang, of this ill.
The old man says, ‘Bring Back The Goats’.
By Vicki Sweedman
When the old man was young, his family had a large herd of goats.
They let them out every day to roam the streets with the other goats.
When the old man was young ‘Children behaved themselves.
They walked to school and back. If they were bullied, too bad.
Got whacked with the cane, did what they were told,
That was the way it was’.
The goats would return to the safety of their own paddocks at night,
To be milked and fed and kept safe with the family.
The old man says ‘Why save the endangered animals.
They are obviously badly designed, or they would last.
We’re finding more species every day.
We have enough.’
They always had plenty of milk from goats,
And plenty of meat - nice goat.
The old man says ‘Drug dealers should be shot.
Put them up against the wall and shoot them.
They kill innocent people.
All druggos’ should be shot’.
The goats keep the streets tidy - good goats.
No need to mow your foot paths because of goats.
The old man says ‘What’s the good of the greenies.
They don’t want dams; they don’t want progress.
They’re just a mob of troublemakers.
Kick the bastards out’.
The goats were taken away by the law,
The goat milk was not pasteurized.
The old man says ‘Gays and lesos are not natural.
They must have been dropped on their heads,
At birth, or abused, or something.
It’s not natural’.
The goats were claimed to be feral.
The old man says, ‘Bring back the goats.’
The old man says ‘Blacks should be like we are.
Why treat them any different?
They just need to go to school and learn the right ways.
Then they’ll be just like we are’.
The old man says a lot of things….
It does not mean his right.
Granny, why is your hair like that?
Why is your skin so brown?
Where did you come from Granny?
Which was your hometown?
Who is your dad Granny?
Why do you live like this?
Can I see some photographs?
What is it you miss?
Granny started crying.
A flood of tears came out.
I didn’t mean to upset her,
I didn’t know what it was about.
I’m so sorry Granny
I won’t do it again.
It’s okay darling child,
I’m happy in the end.
We have a loving family.
We have a lovely home.
I just wish I could find,
The land of my own.
I’m not sure who my dad was,
I’m not sure where was home.
I was taken to an orphanage
And never more did roam.
I’m quiet and shy and helpful,
I know how to wash and sew.
I can cook all the dinners
And keep the kids in tow.
I just wish I had some heritage,
A history of life.
I can feel the land pull me in,
It cuts me like a knife.
I mumble those few words in song
That I remember from a child.
That’s what you hear my doing
When I seem to be speaking wild.
Thankyou Granny I love you,
I really like your song.
Let’s look up some language,
Try and find where you belong.
The words are all spelt different
There’s been passing of years.
Looking has been difficult
And caused Granny some tears.
In the end we discovered
She was Wakka Wakka true,
And living next to her homeland,
She moved, and we all did too.
My mum has one million trillion orchids in her yard.
My mum has 2 million trillion pieces of material for sewing in her house.
My mum has 6 green houses and 53 million pots.
My mum has 9 billion books and paintings and sculptures coming out her ears.
My mum just did a Law Degree, at 74 she finished.
My mum looks after my dad and keeps the family together.
My mum is my mum.
She’s very special.
I went back to visit grandma’s house
The blue corrugated iron walls were still there.
The veranda where we slept
In the single iron beds, was closed in.
They lived above the great artesian basin.
Water coming into the house was boiling hot.
It smelt of sulphur, like rotten eggs,
And you cooled it down to use it.
Grandad had slept on the side of the house
Under the tree that was gone.
There was the 44 gallon drum full of water next to his bed
And the greenhouse which was always so cool.
You could see our legs when we went to the toilet
And pulled the chain to flush.
We tore up the daily paper to hang on the nail
And watched the spiders dance on the walls.
That was the new toilet.
The first one was way down the back
With a tin drum and saw dust,
And a man emptied it every few days.
The bathroom was large
The 44 next to the bath.
A tap to fill the 44, with hot water,
And a bucket to fill the bath.
The kitchen was large with the old wooden table in the centre
Covered with things in jars.
The stove in the alcove needed wood continuously
We chopped that and carried it in.
I loved to roll Granddads smokes
He always liked them thin.
‘A little tobacci, not to tight, strike the match
Now light me smoke.’
There was one room in the house
The locked room with the barn door,
That children couldn’t enter,
It contained shears, tools and a gun.
Grandad had been a shearer
A very rough sort of bloke.
When he married Grandma, he had too,
‘She was a good enough sort of sheila.’
There were chooks out the back
And goats that we ate.
Grapes behind the laundry leantoo,
With lovely bottle trees and flowers at the front.
Powdered milk and the smell of sulphur
Every holiday to Grandma’s house we went.
The back of Barcoo was where it was
The blue corrugation, emus and kangaroos are great memories.
In 1842 a land grab was happening from Moreton Bay.
Wealthy Scottish and English bought shiploads of cattle and sheep all the way.
The McKenzie’s rushed up the Brisbane River and carved their name into a tree.
They claimed 35 thousand acres as far as the eye could see.
They started chopping trees and making quite a din.
They had shepherds, drovers, and cooks, making fences and shelter to live in.
The original owners heard the ruckus and suddenly they knew,
Something bad was happening to the land from which they grew.
The mother land provided for life’s continuation,
So, they went to see these people with this insinuation.
Of course, McKenzie didn’t like being told what to do.
He would chop the trees and dam the creek and do what he wanted to.
The local custom was if you take, give something back,
So, they thought a good payment was some flour in a sack.
The McKenzie’s in their meanness used the arsenic for the sheep,
To mix in with the flour so the locals would ‘go to sleep’.
The locals took the flour home, and cooked up some bread.
When a preacher passed by the next day, they all, were dead.
The McKenzie’s where happy they didn’t have to share their land.
It’s a simple solution thought the government at hand.
‘This is a wild country, and we are wanting all the land.
Don’t worry if we kill the lot, they won’t take a stand.’
‘We’ve been taking over this country for the last 50 years
They haven’t tried waring with us, with their little spears.’
So, as time went on, more First Nations were gone.
The moral of this story is fight for what is wrong.
Don’t let someone take your land.
Just fight for it if you can.
Don’t be kind. Don’t be nice.
‘Cause in the end you’ll lose the fight.
I am a cassowary,
My First Nations name is Gunduy.
I have a tail and two little wings
But I’ve never been able to fly.
I can run really fast, I have two big feet,
With three toes and great big claws.
My wife lays the eggs, but I build the nest
Right on the forest floors.
She lays 4 eggs and I’ll sit on them then
‘Till the chicks have all hatched.
Then I’ll teach them to walk, to eat and to squawk,
And on the forest floor to scratch.
They come out all stripy, then grow up to brown,
Then start to look like me.
At 9 months of age, I have taught them enough,
And off they go to be free.
I have lovely black feathers, and a beautiful neck
All red and blue in colour.
My wife is bigger and much prettier too,
But she goes from one nest to another.
We eat lots of fruit off the forest floor.
I toss it up and swallow it down.
I don’t have a tongue, so it all goes as one,
And the seeds come out whole in a mound.
You can see me sometimes on the Cassowary Coast
At the top of Australia near Bingil Bay.
I’m endangered you know, but I want to stay here,
To regenerate the rainforest each and every day.
The Dingo and the Bilby
A dingo went dashing by,
Ducking dashing, dodging.
He met a bilby running by,
Dashing, dodging, ducking.
Said he to the bilby, come and play,
I want to have some fun today.’
‘No,’ said the bilby rushing by,
Dodging, ducking, dashing.
A Long Stretch of Road
There’s a long stretch of road where the emus run by
Its straight and its flat.
You can drive for hours and not see a sole.
Take water with you when you go on that long stretch of road.
Along the road there will be dead animals.
Kangaroos and the unfortunate emu.
They say their brain is very small.
I haven’t looked at a dead carcass that close, but I’m sure it is.
Occasionally you’ll find a kangaroo with a joey alive nearby.
The dilemma is what to do with the immature joey…
If you can catch it.
Flies are always present about any carcass.
The road trains travel the roads with 3 or 4 carriages
Loaded with cattle to be taken
Somewhere for fattening and sale.
They can blow you right off the road.
Rocks always fly up and may shatter a windscreen,
Have a spare tyre in case of a flat.
Road service can be a long way away
On the long stretch of road.
In the distance you will see water,
The mirage shimmers and beckons.
Don’t be fooled by the beauty,
Its signalling heat.
On the long stretch of road
There are camp sites and places to stop.
A sleeping stayover
A coffee for your head.
On the long stretch of road, you are going somewhere.
Better to be going somewhere than nowhere at all.
It’s a big country
And plenty to explore.
A - Aboriginal
B - Belonging
C - Corroboree
D - Dingo
E - Elanora
F - Food
G - Galah
H - Humpy
I - Indigenous
J - Jumbuck
K - Kangaroo
L - Loving
M - Mooloolaba
N - Nambucca
O - Orana
P - People
Q - Quandong
R - Red earth
S - Sun
T - Taipan
U - Uluru
V - Sharpen cutting things
W - Waratah
X - To mark a travel crossing
Y - Yabber
Z - Sleeping
G’day mate, ‘ow ya going?
Did ya ‘ave a good weekend?
Wha’ ya doin’ laydder?
Wanna catch the game wiff Ben?
Two blokes are talking lingo,
They understand the talk.
Who am I to say that’s not
Correct Ausie bloke squalk.
Throw a shrimp on the barbie.
Where’s the snags?
Give us a coldie love.
Going to the pub.
Having a beer.
Knocking the top off one.
‘Ave a go now mate.
Going to school.
Getting a job.
Buyin’ a house with the misses.
See the great outback.
Dust and dirt and grime.
Australian Culture at its best
We search everything online.
We wake up in the morning,
Breakfast and work then home.
Dinner is always a family occasion
We like to sit at the table and talk.
Television or reading
Facebook and homework.
Brush your teeth and off to bed
Ready to start another day.
The weekends we have sport
Markets and friends to visit.
Do the shopping and the washing.
Get ready for another week.
It’s great to have 2 weeks holidays
Paid for by the boss.
We can visit the relatives, travel the country,
Visit Uluru, Tasmania or the Reef.
We have health care, we have education,
Good roads and beaches and sun.
We have snow and rainforest and desert,
Plenty to do and explore.
Many people live in the country
Conditions are fairly similar.
Lots of fresh air
But a long way to travel sometimes.
I’m not bloody stupid.
No bloody way.
I’m not bloody going.
I’m not gunna bloody stay.
I can’t bloody do that.
I won’t bloody try.
I have to bloody see it,
And know bloody why.
Why can’t you bloody do it?
Why should I bloody too?
Why not do it to-bloody-gether?
Why use that bloody shoe?
It’s a bloody situation.
That’s bloody left me cold.
The rules are bloody stupid.
I’m too bloody old.
If you want to bloody go,
Then bloody go alone.
I bloody don’t want to do it.
I bloody want to stay home.
Butterfly went flying
Flitter flutter flying high.
He met a fly flying
Said he to the fly
Hello there, have you got
some time to spare?
No the fly flying by
Mean, Flitter flutter
Childcare - Early Learners Nurturing
As a childcare worker you smile and play
Worry that you’re not stepping on the parents’ toes
Hope you’re not going to drop a child or kick a child or jamb their fingers.
You care about their wellbeing and making a difference in their life.
A please, a thank you to learn manners and social skills,
Eat all kinds of food, go to the toilet,
Pick up your toys and tidy up.
As a childcare worker I smile and play
I worry that the parents are happy with the service and the care.
I hope no accidents happen and I can continue to do this for years to come,
Even though my back is sore from the continual picking up
To change nappies and place on toilet and change cloths.
Even though my feet ache from walking and carrying and chasing.
I love my job.
I walk into work and get smiles and hugs,
Not one or two, but many.
What other job can say that about.
I get hugs and smiles everyday by just turning up.
I’m not a childcare worker I’m a nurturer.
As a nurturer of early leaners, I’m there, they need me.
I love my job.
Children are a Pain in the Butt
Children are a pain in the butt.
They cry and they smell,
They wriggle and yell,
And can’t do a thing for them-selves.
Children are a pain in the butt.
They want to be carried all day,
My back is breaking when I put them down,
I decide to have it my way.
Children are a pain in the butt.
You’ve got your milk and clean nappy.
Next time I’d have a nanny,
To keep the children happy.
Children are a pain in the butt.
A baby may think I am soft.
I’ve fooled them before, I’ll fool them again,
Just a cuddle one cuddle I coughed.
Oh, that’s nice.
He played the digeridoo
Not because he knew
He played the digeridoo
Because his daddy taught him to.
He played the digeridoo
At festivals and shows
It was his people’s culture
The knowledge about it grows.
The men always play
They all love to dance
At corrobborees the sound creates
A beautiful romance.
It’s a sound of North Australia
A sound for all the earth.
A raw natural cadence
Old nations rebirth.
Throw out the line, catch the barra
Watch out for the croc, he’ll take our barra.
Take out the net to catch the prawns
Drag it through the water.
Pull in the net, the croc is coming
Pull in the net, here he comes.
We got the barra, and a grunter too
They’re good ones for dinner, for everyone.
We got some prawns, we got some fish
We cook them on the beach, a splendid feast.
There is something that is hard to talk about
It is domestic violence.
It has been around for ever
But most people live in silence.
It happens when the wife or man,
Can get very violent,
Or if they are insecure
They may nag a lot or get silent.
It’s not the way to live,
We have to stop it now.
Men and women must live together
Without a big row.
The trouble is accentuated
With drugs or alcohol,
Maybe the way that they were raised,
Has taken, a toll.
There often is a mental illness,
That has come to the fore.
There is so many people claiming
Mental illness than ever did before.
Depression and stress,
Mental health issue so common.
Just give it a rest.
If you are mean to someone,
You are the one at fault.
Doesn’t matter if you have an excuse.
Grow some balls and blame yourself.
I drove the miles to Kilcoy in the summer.
The land all around was dry and brown.
There were vacant shops everywhere I looked.
The post office I eventually found way out of the main business area up a huge hill opposite yet another vacant building.
I returned home to the big smoke.
And reported the prospects of moving to this one-horse town to my parents
Who were interested in buying that post office, on the hill, with the vacant building opposite,
To run the business that dad had always been in.
Dad had already booked his holiday
He and Mum were coming down at Easter
To inspect for himself the sad little dry, old town with the old post office with no ramp
Out of view, up the hill, opposite the vacant building, and past all the empty shops.
So, they came, and we came, and we gathered at my cousins who was keen for the move to this south-eastern town to take place.
Myself and my son, and my sister and two of her children, and Mum and Dad.
We gathered and we called, and we looked.
There was nobody who wanted to show the out of towners the post office.
We decided to go for a drive and see what else there was to see amongst this county of brown earth and empty shops.
We found a winery with interesting decor and scones and coffee that had always been a family favourite.
We loved it so much we returned in the afternoon with other relatives for them to peruse.
We loved it so much we returned that night to share venison, with barramundi from north Queensland.
Over the next few days, we looked at other ideas in Kilcoy
And socialize as you do at Easter and in small towns.
We still could not get into that post office up the hill away from the main business area.
Dad returned home disheartened from the old brown town and the owner who ignored us.
I however had found a spark in this old brown town with all the vacant shops
The post office that was up a hill away from the town, and the owner who ignored us,
I found a winery owner who didn’t ignore us.
And I stayed.
There is a homeless man sitting on the corner.
He has several full plastic bags and a shopping trolley.
He sits on a blanket that is his bed at night.
He’s sitting in the sun and has a hat out to anyone who may want to give him some money.
‘I’m very happy,’ he says when we start to talk.
‘I used to have a house but it’s easier to live where I want.’
I see him every day for years. He walks to the ablution block,
To the ATM, to the bottle shop.
He mumbles and talks to himself at times.
I took him another shirt and he said thanks,
But he looked a bit embarrassed
And I felt judgemental.
I’ve seen him sleeping in the bushes of the vacant allotment.
It’s right by the busy road but lots of low bushes for privacy.
There’s a food van for people like him he visits regularly.
I didn’t know there were more like him in my town.
My Darling Little Girl – Pawpaw Belly
I have a darling little girl who I took to Samoa on a holiday.
We had to do the regular touristy thing and travel the 2 islands all the way.
We saw a large sign that said, ‘Swim with 14 green sea turtles today’.
I thought ‘What a good thing for a country girl to do on her stay’.
I changed into togs while my darling little girl started to hop in the water.
She had with her, her grandparents, and our guide the native porter.
Well, the porter started feeding the turtles with pawpaw like he ought-ta
And my darling little girl started patting them on the back like this – sorta.
Now my darling little girl had quite a spare tire that was sitting amongst the pawpaw,
And a game sea turtle came in really close and took a chunk in his gums before he saw....
It was not the pawpaw he had started to gnaw,
But my darling little girls’ tummy - she was on 4.
I ran from the change room to the scene of the scream,
Where my darling little girl, had turned quite green.
‘I hate sea turtles’ she yelled as she cried, and the bruising came out at the scene
Of the bite on her belly, that was not so lean.
Now my darling little girl has grown some more,
She doesn’t like her nickname we gave her for
The trip to Samoa and the fun we saw
With 14 sea turtles, her belly, and pawpaw.
I am trying to sleep.
I am trying to sleep.
I don’t know why, I need my sleep,
It’s something I just do.
It has to be a rarity,
Or they’d be sleeping too.
The clock is ticking on the wall,
The thunder makes a sound.
A car goes past, rain falls fast,
I shouldn’t be lying down.
I am trying to sleep.
I am trying to sleep.
I want to rise, I really do,
With all this noise around.
It seems to be, telling me,
I shouldn’t be lying down.
So, I jump up, get out of bed,
Go outside to see the day.
Let the dog go free, have a cup of tea,
The kids are there to play.
I am now awake.
I am now awake.
I know why, I am awake,
With all this noise around.
It seems to be only thing,
That I could do now.
The Northern Hairy-nosed Wombat
In First Nations language he’s known as Yaminon.
He is larger than his cousins.
He lives in Queensland in the Epping Forrest
And now near St George.
His girls have a pouch that faces backwards,
She feeds the baby milk.
They live in a tunnel under the ground
And come out at night to eat grass.
His bottom is hard like concrete
His ears a little pointy.
His fur is soft, and his teeth will keep growing
His poo is the shape of a block.
(He is critically endangered.)
Out On the Road
Out on the road are plenty of people traveling around Australia.
They have motorhomes or caravans and setoff.
The roads are good, the facilities are great, there’s free camps along rivers and highways.
For a bit of luxury there are plenty of van parks with pools and laundries and cooking facilities.
Crocodiles up north, wombats down south, penguins, devils, quokka’s,
Kangaroos and emu everywhere, First Nations heritage exploring.
Cassowaries in the rainforest, tree kangaroos, march fly’s and pythons.
Have an adventure in a curtain fig tree with leeches to suck out your blood.
Watch cows being milked, and cheese being made.
Fly in a hot air balloon or a helicopter, have a surf in the waves, snorkel on the reef,
White water raft down the rapids, 4-wheel drive to the top of Australia,
Visit the rocks large, or with lines across their faces.
There’s so much to do when you travel, the variety is immense.
With your home on your back you can stop whenever and stay as long as you like.
It’s the way of life for many, adventure not being tied down.
When you have time and the facilities, out on the road is a great way of life.
Red, orange, yellow, a rainbow has come
Green and blue, beautiful to some.
Indigo and violet, these colours are there
The rainbow, up in the air.
Red, orange, yellow, follow the beam
Green and blue, it moves it seems.
Indigo and violet, the end we get to
The pot of gold is there, waiting for you.
Red, for the land fertile and strong.
Orange, for the dingo with his tail long.
Yellow, for the sun shining bright.
Green, for the grass and the trees of life.
Blue, is our sky when the days are fine.
Indigo, for the paint leaving our sign.
Violet, storm sky for the events that have passed.
All together in a rainbow, happiness at last.
Red Deer came to Australia in 1873.
They were a present to the Acclimatization Society,
From the Queens herds in London.
Released near Toogoolawah,
Their numbers grew very well.
12 years later began the first small hunt.
The venison was a delicacy, and several other species
Where bought in from overseas
To other locations.
As feral animals now, they can be hunted any time.
They compete with cattle for the grass
Spread ticks, and eat plants in gardens.
The male deer is bossy, he fights for all the girls.
If he has the bigger antler
He wins, and controls the herd.
About Easter time each year his antlers are set.
Which means he is ready to roar,
To call them in and fight.
After fighting all the males and mating with all the girls,
He loses his antler
Then slowly grows another pair.
They come out soft and furry,
He rubs on trees to get the fur off,
Then the process begins again.
The males have the antler and the females do not.
They jump over all the fences
And love the steep hills.
Visitors to the valleys pick up the roar of the deer
They may wonder what makes the sounds
It is beautiful to hear.
Someone Shot – Someone is Proud
Someone shot the wild horses it said in the news.
24 wild horses were found dead on a property.
Someone had shot the wild horses that ran on the land.
Someone had shot the wild horses that had been released and breed up.
Someone shot the wild horses that ate lots of grass.
Someone shot the wild horses that trample the land.
Someone shot the wild horses that nobody wanted until they were shot.
Someone was upset and called the news.
Donny Sparrow Hunting
When Donny Sparrow was a boy
He used to hunt with guns.
His mother didn’t like it,
But Donny had lots of fun.
His father took him hunting
Out by the old Barcoo.
He shot himself a rabbit
And a big red kangaroo.
He started hunting dear
And he thought I’ll save the heads.
He found a spot on his wall
For a thirteen-pointer red.
The deer began to multiply
And soon he had a herd.
He thought a trip to Africa
Would not be so absurd.
So, of he went to Africa
And met Charlie there.
Charlie was a big boy
Without a lot of hair.
Charlie took him hunting
And taught him many tricks.
Like, when dealing with African wildlife
You need a bigger stick (gun).
He taught him Kudu can be tricky,
And leopard very cunning,
But when it comes to rhino
You had better start running.
‘Cause you can’t shoot a rhino,
You have to let them be,
Therefore, Charlie and Sparrow
Were chased up a tree.
A tribe wanted a hippo
For a special feast.
Sparrow said he’d get one
And shoot a huge beast.
Sparrow found the hippo
And they took home the meat.
But when it came to the trophy
Somehow, he got beat.
While in Australia he waited
For his trophy to arrive,
When it did it was much smaller
Then when it was alive.
In the place of his
Good sized, big male,
Was a beautiful, long lashed,
They tracked a nasty elephant
While relatives did morn,
For a dozen people hand been stomped,
And also, lots of corn.
Charlie found the elephant
Grazing on a tree.
The elephant started to charge
And they fired 1 2 3.
Near a local village
A lion was on the prowl,
He was worrying the children,
And eating several cows.
Sparrow found the lion
He let out a roar.
He stopped him in his tracks.
Now he’s on his floor.
Sparrow hunted in Alaska
He shot a huge moose.
He found himself a grizzly bear
And a caribou (s).
In New Zealand they have
Plenty of deer big and fat.
Sparrow hunted there,
And really enjoyed that.
But now he has a family
A different road ahead.
His hunting has been stifled,
By a cot and a double bed.
The Big One
He went out there hunting, looking for that big one.
He knew it would be there, it had to be after all this time.
He went to that secluded spot.
That secret spot that only he knew, but there could be others there.
They don’t deserve it though.
He’s been doing all the work.
It was his big one.
Walking cautiously and listening carefully,
He moved into the thicket.
The grass was dry and noisy under foot.
It would be hard to sneak up on the big one.
He heard a noise off to the left.
It was far down in the gully or so it seemed.
Then another roar to the right, this time closer.
Which was bigger? Which was deeper?
The bushes started cracking to the left.
Something was coming fast through the dry undergrowth.
Cracking to the right.
Movement on both sides.
Two beasts came together with a thump and a grate.
Tromping, thrashing, bashing of heads.
Slowly he moved. Ever so carefully. Ever so quietly.
Crouched into the grass. Hiding behind a trunk.
He could see the big one, and the big one’s foe.
Like two gladiators fighting to the death.
Crash, clash, bang, scrape.
And he watched – he watched.
A noise to the left. He turned his head
And she barked.
And the big one, and the other big one ran far from their fighting field.
He gave a quiet cheer.
That was the big one.
Or his, two big ones.
They went over a fence further down the hill
And disappeared until another time.
He straightened, adjusted his pack, and wandered back to his car.
A happy man. A successful hunt.
He’ll be back again. Hear the roar.
Count the points. Claim the big one.
Tall mountain of cake and cream
Dripping with cherries and jam
Sitting on a plate in front of me
I’m trying to resist if I can.
It smells of chocolate and sweetness
It looks like birthdays and fun
I want to eat it quickly
But the calories will go to my bum.
I decide if I eat it quickly
I can work it off this afternoon
I can walk faster, run faster, do better
The calories will go real soon.
I’m reaching, I’m cutting, I’m eating
This is not really like me at all
The cake disappears in a moment
Don’t blame me I answered its call.
With something so delicious I want it
I love birthdays and fun
Life is too short to deny it
And the calories can stay on my bum.
He lifted his leg and jumped
In his red cloth and white paint.
He imitated the jabiru
Then the kangaroo and eagle.
The clap sticks clapped
The hum of the voices filled the space
Between the bush and the rocks
And the dust rose just a little.
More people joined
We saw the emu
We felt the hunting spirit
We felt the joy of the feast.
I hummed, I clapped
What a nice time we had.
The red cloth engraved in my mind
The white paint on my hands and in my heart.
The Life Question
He sat in his wheelchair
Feeling sorry for himself.
Why me was the same question
He asked a million times over.
He tried taking pills
He tried electrocution
He tried hanging himself
All to be revived.
He was rude to his carers
And angry with his wife.
He took it out on the children.
They lasted until it affected them too much.
Finally, a car accident
Took him out…..
It was sad for the other two people
That died that night.
The People from Snowy River
There was movement at the station
For the word had passed around
That the Aboriginals were moving
We were getting them out of town.
Move them to a compound
We don’t want them here,
Move them all in together
Doesn’t matter if families are near.
Don’t let them speak their language,
Shoot them if they run.
Put cloths on their bodies,
Use the girls for fun.
Of all the little half cast
We turn a blind eye.
The men need their passion
Doesn’t matter if they die.
They can work as nannies,
House cleaners and maids.
Stockmen are needed
They don’t need to get paid.
We’ll give them a certificate
If they want to branch out.
Exemption is available but,
Don’t dare take the family rout.
‘Stay away from your heritage’
‘Don’t talk like that.’
‘Try to be a white man.’
‘Wear a civilized hat.’
Where We Live
Most people live on the eastern side of Australia.
Its green and has good soil.
It’s not too hot and not too cold.
It’s close to the water for travel.
Some people live in the tropics.
That’s where the crocodiles live.
The stingers, march flies and leeches,
With hot sweaty bodies in the heat.
Some people live down south,
It’s cooler and has some snow.
There are some strange creatures about there,
And the world oldest structures too.
Some people live in the west,
It’s a long way across the bite.
There are the biggest trees out there
And mines and lots of desert.
Some people live in the deserts,
There is so much to see.
In the middle of Australia
You’d be surprised of the wildlife.
Once upon a time, while out droving sheep,
A Yowie was spotted, in Australian bushland thick and deep.
He was big and black and hairy, just like a man.
The drovers watched in terror, then off on their feet they ran.
They ran to the nearest policemen and told of what they saw.
The people combed the bushland but couldn’t find the Yowie anymore.
Later he was spotted by two boys on a sandy creek.
Their mother said it was the school kids, playing hide-and-seek.
The years went by and sometimes he’s been spotted here and there.
A website had been started, but pictures remain so very rare.
So, if you see the Yowie and a picture has been taken,
Make sure it’s a good one and you are not mistaken.
The Yowie is a smelly, hairy, noisy, bushland man.
He doesn’t wear his shoes and socks, and burps because he can.
He has a hairy family, or so I have been told,
They run around and make a noise, especially when it’s cold.
So, keep your cameras handy, when walking in the bushland,
Make sure it is the Yowie and not a wild rock band.
It could be all his family playing on the drums and things,
Timber logs and wooden posts and rocks to make a ding.
If you get a picture and put it on the website,
Keep the location secret and it will be alright.
The Yowie and his family will live happily ever after,
With a party to you every year with lots of fun and laughter.