About

BOOK TITLE: The Australia Times - Poetry magazine. Volume 3, issue 15
COMPANY NAME: THE AUSTRALIA TIMES
COMPANY URL: HTTP://WWW.THEAUSTRALIATIMES.COM
EMAIL: INFO@THEAUSTRALIATIMES.COM

THE
AUSTRALIA
TIMES
®
POETRY
Vol. 3 No. 15 July 17, 2015
POETRY
Feature
44
67
77
63
If I Can Stop One
from Breaking
Planning
Tanka Poems
Teddy, Teddy!
POETRY
WHAT’S INSIDE?
MAUREEN CLIFFORD, aka The Scribbly Bark
Poet, and as the editor for The Australia Times Poetry
Magazine. I am really looking forward to sharing
with you some Poetry from talented Australian and
overseas poets. Some write Australian Bush Poetry,
some Haiku and others write free verse. Rhymed
or unrhymed, you will nd it here.
Born in Margate UK this ‘Pommie’ came to
Australia over 50 years ago. By choice I am
Australian and proud of it, and bless every day. I
currently live in Ipswich in Queensland in a home
a mere hop, skip and a jump from the Bremer River
where I have managed to avoid being ooded
out albeit in 2011 by the skin of my teeth.
Bush Poetry is my passion, along with animals
and since retiring and moving back to the smoke
there has been more time to concentrate on them.
I have written poetry for many years and recently
ventured out into writing prose and yarns. When
boredom strikes, which is not often, doing photo
restorations takes centre stage. This is a lot easier
on the body than home and furniture restorations
or wrangling sheep, but plays havoc with the
eyesight. Everything in life has a price.
the
EDITOR
G’DAY FROM THE EDITOR 05
TAT CALL OUTS 72
EVENTS
Verse-for-Vinnies 11
EXTRA! EXTRA!
Read all about it 54
ARTICLE
Australia’s Poet Laureate 46
EXPLORING POETRY
Lanturn Poetry 52
POETRY
‘Ma’ from Snowy River 08
For Jake 13
Throw down your hat mate 16
Big Country – Mail v Male 18
Postman Pat 24
Niggers Leap, New England 29
What is a Farmer? 32
The Wonga Pigeon 35
Song of the Swagman 37
The Wet 39
Lindenow 40
Dawn before Anzac 42
If I can stop one from breaking 44
Song 46
Where the dead men lie 49
Twenty things worth knowing 57
Peru Guru 60
The Most Beautiful Lady 62
Planning 63
Sergeant Haslett 64
Teddy Teddy! 68
The Shy Guy 74
Tanka x 2 77
CONTRIBUTORS:
Glenny Palmer
Perrie Massouras
Wendy Emerson
The Scribbly Bark Poet
Judith Wright
Janine Haig
C J Dennis
Garry Harding
Colin Hope
Frank (Gunner) Westbrook
Emily Dickinson
Michael M Robinson
Barcroft H Boake
Barnaby Wilde
Clive Sanders
Shelley Hansen
Peter Gray
Mary Franklin
COVER IMAGE:
A solitary Ironbark
We offer both veteran and undiscovered writers the opportunity to get published.
Have something to
COMMUNICATE, or an OPINION to state, we are your voice!
Want to
jOIN a like-minded community in a great project
G’day from
the Editor
Well here we are two years on from our very first edition
and what a dierence those two years have made.
We have all been on a steep learning curve, which
has thrown up new challenges on many editions,
but we have overcome them and moved forward
going from strength to strength to produce what
you are reading today. I hope you will all agree
that it is a pretty slick schmick magazine. I know
that I am certainly proud of it and I hope everyone
who has contributed to it is as well.
All of you poets who have contributed please pat
yourselves on the back – you made it what it is and what
it is, is pretty special. We are an international publication
that is finally being recognized in poetic circles.
Well done us and Happy Birthday TAT Poetry.
Maureen Clifford
Cheers
TAT POETRY Magazine
Editor
That blasted colt from old Regret has broken out again,
its got to be the seventh time this year.
I reckon it’s that fancy filly from the wild bush mob,
that they should catch, to keep the blighter here.
But all the blokes are cracks they say, and this excusell do
for them to get together for the fray.
There’s twenty of the sods requiring feeding and a bed,
and only me to do it in one day.
I’m Ma from Snowy River, and I’m getting sick and tired
of cooking for these blokes at every bid,
like Harrison the gambling man, who made his pile alright
on Pardon, but he still owes me a quid.
And then that flamin’ Clancy fairly overflows with joy
from scoring decent tucker for a change.
His missus, she won’t feed him ‘cause he’s hardly ever home;
he lives on beans while droving ‘cross the range.
And blow me down, this skinny bloke with bum fluff on his chin,
turns up and says he wants to have a go.
I try to pack him off back to his Mum, where he belongs,
but that know-all Clancy makes a flamin’ show.
“We ought to let him come,” he says; (hell need a damn good feed,
his horse and him between them weigh two stone),
I water down the stew some more to make it go around,
and just for fun in goes the old dog’s bone.
And twenty horses need a feed and watering as well;
the only sober lackie left? ---- That’s me.
I’m fairly tuckered out while Mrs Harrison, I’ll bet,
is sitting with her feet up, happily.
© 2010 Glenny Palmer
‘MA’ From Snowy River
ABPA NSW State Championship - Best Humorous, Dunedoo, NSW.
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I do the washing up and get to bed at 3 a.m.,
at 4 the camp’s alive as they all sing;
by 5 I’m feeling quite de-ranged, I’m desperate for sleep…
impossible, when twenty stock whips ring.
Then eighty hooves strike firelight from the flint stones as they leave,
I’m glad they’re gone, but strike me flamin’ pink,
they’ve started up a bushfire and there’s only me left here,
poor Ma from Snowy River, on the brink.
So I saddle up the plough horse, scream “Enough’s e-bloody-nough!”
and spur the poor old Clydesdale to a trot.
I’ve never owned a whip, so take my rolling pin along,
to settle up this flamin’ tommy rot.
The gorges deep and black all echo with my banshee wail,
“Let’s get ‘em boy.” I yodel through the pines.
Down that terrible descent, and on his bum the Clydesdale slides,
with his front legs digging tracks like railway lines.
A wombat sticks his head out, just to see what’s going on;
we step on him, I’m airborne, up away…
I land back in the saddle which has shifted to the right,
but the Clydesdale’s leaning left, so that’s okay.
Like drunken co-joined twins we weave and wobble through the gorge;
the horse regains his geriatric pace.
Down the next slope he slides backwards on his bum, to close his wounds,
there we meet them, but I can’t say “face to face”.
With feet stuck in the bridle and my apron on his eyes,
we skid into a heap of crumpled pride,
the old horse struggles to his feet, and beetles overhead,
as I lay there cursing, on his underside.
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POETRY
“It’s Ma from Snowy River!” screams out Harrison in fear,
the rolling pin lays waste to ten or more,
the weedy one has bolted, but then Clancy takes a pull,
when I grab his ear and bellow it red raw.
“You get and put that bushfire out, and cook me up some tea!”
The watchers on the mountain yell “Hooray”;
a dozen cranky wives who want these silly blighters home,
and back to work, not chasing up some stray.
The poor old Clydesdale’s sitting with his backside in a stream,
and clearly he’s the best horse in the pack.
The cracks are cowed and beaten; with my rolling pin held high,
my horse, with some assistance, takes us back.
So now The Country Women’s call me their new President,
and ‘round the scones and pikelets cooked with pride,
old Ma from Snowy River is their household name today,
but the stockmen never tell about that ride.
© Glenny Palmer
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ONE FOR THE DIARY
Verse-for-Vinnies is a concert that raises funds for the battlers
of our community through the performance of our Australian
Poetry by professional poets
Glenny Palmer – one of Australia’s best female Bush Poets will
be the guest poet at Verse for Vinnies on Sunday 26th of July at
the Mary Mackillop Centre, 67 Dawson Parade, Grovely. Kicking
of at 1.30pm the cost is only $15 and that includes afternoon tea.
Organized by Noel Stallard another of Queensland’s top Bush
Poets 'Verse for Vinnies.' gives all profits from the day to the St
Vincent appeal – so if you want to have an afternoon of fun and
laughter and be regaled with some great Bush Poetry, why not
go along and help a great charity at the same time.
© Glenny Palmer
Independent Media Inspiring Minds
11
POETRY
Perrie Massouras: Melbournian, passionate
feline advocate, freelance writer and student naturopath.
Writing since she could hold a pen, Perrie uses her
explosive imagination to provoke thought, emotion and
respect for the generation Y perspective. After spending
years dissatisfied and moving between meaningless
jobs she bit the bullet, enrolled in university and started
devoting her time to doing what she loves most – writing.
Currently contributing to The Australia Times Health and
Poetry magazines, Perrie is a self-confessed caffeine addict
and one eyed Collingwood supporter with a thirst for
knowledge, who will not disappoint.
Perrie is also the Editor of the TAT Health Magazine.
© P Massouras
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For Jake
God sat me down today
and taught me a thing or two.
He said “Don’t believe what they say
their spirit lives in you.
Even though our bodies break
our driving force remains
and even though our hearts may ache,
we make it through the pain.
© Perrie Massouras
Independent Media Inspiring Minds
13
POETRY
Driving through parts of southern Queensland and NSW you
might notice more than a few properties with yellow ‘Lock the
Gate’ signs displayed – not to remind people to keep the stock
in but more to remind people that they are trying to keep the
coal seam gas frackers out.
Many communities have voted over 80% against the coal seam
gas drilling, which threatens the aquifer, the drinking water
supplies, their property values, and the way of life in small
Australian rural communities.
For more info about the project Lock the Gate:
http://www.lockthegate.org.au/
Wendy Emerson wrote this poem as she relates
strongly to the fight of these people and especially the
people in the Kerry Valley a beautiful rural locality between
Beaudesert and the Lamington National Park known to locals
as the Gem of Beaudesert.
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POETRY
Throw Down
Your Ha Mate
©Wendy E. Emerson 2012
Throw down your hat mate, before it’s too late mate greed and destruction is pending,
stand up and be counted, and don’t be discounted strong is the message you’re sending;
for the man on the land, needs a helping hand to stop all the roughshod and plunder,
THEY say it’s essential, to our residential while livelihoods all go asunder.
So come join the fight, stand by them in their plight for we all stand to lose on the day,
while the government’s wielding, the blue boys stand shielding power play sent to the fray;
The land that we love, has been given the shove by the pollies and big business so crude,
I’ll not pardon my language, you might think it slanguage but that lot are just plain bloody rude.
© mkc
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These good people are pleading, hands sweating and bleeding their voices are stifled from speaking,
it’s quite plain as well, that the ungodly smell is the stench that your bulldust is wreaking.
Except for young Rod’s plea, for some justice you see as he throws his hat down on the ground,
and that moment so silent, spoke volumes defiant as more hats joined with his from all round.
With emotion he spoke –found it hard not to choke on despair and disgust of this fight,
“forced like dogs here to bark” he was heard to remark and old Bluey barked back he was right;
on our land they are hacking coal seam gas, they’re fracking clean fuel for the future they say,
but where is the testing that we are suggesting? Might just prove it’s not worth it one day.
There are others like me too frightened you see to be seen stirring trouble and strife,
but I put it to you just what would you do to protect all you’ve worked for in life?
All might seem quite lost, but what had it cost to stand up and be counted and heard?
With great courage and might, he spoke up for the right to finally have the last word.
Then the order rang out from the blue boy with clout to stand back from the gateway, keep clear,
their engines ignite, gears grind with a bite rolling forward without care nor fear.
The gates they defended, are now open ended, big trucks drove hats into the soil,
a message it sends that they can’t make amends when they discard their lives and their toil.
But this is not over. While THEY roll in the clover the numbers are growing each day.
Hearts and voices are blending, determined on mending the wrongs of the blighters today;
our Diggers are reeling, from their graves they are feeling the pain and injustice they tally.
In vain they have fought, brings no comfort of thought to the good people of Kerry Valley.
For Rod Anderson and the people of Kerry Valley I salute you.
Independent Media Inspiring Minds
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POETRY
MAIL v MALE
BIG
COUNTRY
Maureen Cliord © The Scribbly Bark Poet
© mkc
THE
AUSTRALIA
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Country mailboxes are as different from their city cousin mailboxes as chalk
and cheese. There is no place out in the country for prissy, pretty painted post
receptacles – in the country the big, ballsy butch type of box is what you
need. Something along the lines of a 44 gallon drum nailed to a sturdy post or
an old fridge usually fit the bill.
tough country
positions available for male -
post application
© mkc
Independent Media Inspiring Minds
19
POETRY
After all it has to be big enough to take a whole week’s worth of papers at one
hit, house a carton of beer out of the heat, shelter a carton of fruit a neighbour
has dropped by from his orchard. Not to mention keeping tractor and dozer
parts out of the weather, and the 10 litre bottles of drench for the sheep. The
actual mail and bills are an incidental part of its life.
thinking beyond the square
miscellaneous mail –
all shapes and sizes
Sometimes those country mail boxes sport a jaunty faded flag that flutters
gaily in the breeze or hangs limply in the rain, indicating to those in the know
that there is mail or things to be taken to town – or things there to pick up
that the posty has delivered or a neighbour has dropped off. The absence of
that tattered dusty rag bravely putting up a front on even the hottest of days
is cause for despondency. Not even junk mail makes it out here, but Blue’s
magazine is eagerly anticipated in over 41,000 roadside mailboxes. This free
rural magazine is more than just another farm magazine. For more than 25
years farmers across Queensland and northern NSW have relied on it as a
key source of rural industry and community news, information on events and
entertainment, and the latest product news and reviews. Blue’s is a connection
to the outside world.
The land can promise everything
deliver nothing –
then there’s Blues
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When your mail box is a couple of kilometres from home you aren’t running
backwards and forwards checking for mail all the time. Depending on
where the mail box is situated you tend to stand on the top of a hill with the
binoculars and see what the state of play is via the flags.
covert operation –
survey the territory
check for mail
On really hot days if you have got a bit of time on your hands and fancy a bit
of conversation you might take down a thermos of tea or an esky with cold
drinks and hang around the gate until the postie comes through. He’s always
on for a yarn for his life is a lonely one travelling thousands of kilometres each
week and often seeing no one.
roadside revival meeting
a friendly cuppa shared –
mail comfort stop
© mkc
Independent Media Inspiring Minds
21
POETRY
You can see he has had a rough trip this time round, and his 4WD has taken a
flogging. Outback roads play havoc with the tyres and there are 2 shredded
tyres already tied on the roof rack. He carries 6 spares all the time and
once went through all six limping home on rims. His normal breakdown kit
includes chains and winches, spare fan belts and numerous bits and bobs he
might need to get him out of trouble. No RACQ to call on where he goes. He is
literally postman Pat on his Pat Malone.
burning rubber,
chains, racks, belts, flogging, rough play
mail bondage
Whilst having a yarn you can find out whose doing what with whom and
why. Discover how much the next property down the road (that's 20 klms
down the road in our case - in the true outback it could equally well be 2000
klm ) sold for, and ask if on the next run he could pick up two tractor tyres for
you. Country posties are so much more than just posties they are lifelines, and
real true blue country males.
gab fest at the gate
information and gossip shared –
male delivered
© mkc
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
Ȉ 
Ȉ 
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Ȉ 
Ȉ 
Ȉ 
Ȉ 


Ȉ 
Ȉ 
Ȉ 
Ȉ 





To book an appointment visit our website
or call Caitlin on:
0433 319 609
www.inbalancesportstherapy.com
Mobile Service
We come to you!
Postman Pat
Maureen Cliord © The Scribbly Bark Poet
A plume of red dust in the air – it’s noticed from atop the hill
it drifts high in the summer air – gathers momentum then is still,
then moves again and onward comes – it leads the breeze a merry chase
sometimes it thickens like red smoke or bushfire haze right in your face.
Then sound of tyres crossing the grid, gravel rattling as he skids
avoiding livestock on the road, two feral goats and three small kids.
Down the road comes Postman Pat, he’s slowing up his dusty Ute,
stops at the Fridge to place inside, papers and mail and Blue’s.* That’s beaut.
A shot rings out, not from our place, it must be neighbours giving chase
to pigs or maybe that darn fox that’s always hanging round the race.
Our dogs begin to bark and whine as thoughts of hunting crossed their brains
but when they realize they are not - they flop to ground with rattling chains.
Pale faced rosellas scratch the ground, beneath the Pepperina trees,
Startled they take to air on pale blue wings. They fly with fluid ease.
Demented chooks with plumage red, ballerinas late for curtain call,
run helter skelter through the yard all chasing one male feather ball.
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© mkc
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POETRY
I see the sheep tracks snaking through the long dry paddocks brown and bare,
where Prickly Pear with blossoms red is suckering up everywhere.
Small lambs are calling; crows are cawing, westerly winds blow and moan,
green Pepperinas sway and dance around the place that I call home.
Clear water trickling through the creek, across the craggy granite rocks.
Chooks cackling as grubs they seek, the muffled bark of working dogs.
The chainsaws cutting posts somewhere with its incessant roar and whine.
Dozers are clearing firebreaks while there is a little idle time.
But whilst all this activity is noted somewhere in my brain
I floor the Ute along the track out to the road and see again
the red flag flutter on its post – our indication there is mail
our postman Pat always delivers, he is not a bloke to fail.
No matter what the weather brings, though creeks are flooded, roads washed out
his trusty 4wd gets through, in its reliance there’s no doubt.
He brings the bills, papers and mail, will pick up tyres and parts from town
He’s more than just a mailman here – he’s king of posties, minus crown.
Footnote - * Blue's magazine is the largest-circulating monthly rural
magazine in Queensland, distributed direct to over 41,000 registered roadside
mailboxes every month, its more than just a magazine Blue’s Country Magazine
delivers a unique mix of rural industry and community news, profiles of country
characters, community leaders and innovative farmers, information on events and
entertainment, and the latest product news and reviews.
Creek crossing
© mkc
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Judith Arundel Wright was a prolific Australian poet, critic,
and short-story writer, who published more than 50 books. Judith Wright was
a Queensland resident for over thirty years. She was born in New England, in
regional New South Wales, and came to Brisbane as a young woman. She lived
for a time at 100 Sydney Street, New Farm, Most of Wright's poetry was written
in the mountains of southern Queensland. She was also an uncompromising
environmentalist and social activist campaigning for Aboriginal land rights. She
believed that the poet should be concerned with national and social problems.
At the age of 85, just before her death, she attended in Canberra at a march for
reconciliation with Aboriginal people.
Judith Wright died of a heart attack in Canberra on June 26, 2000 at the age of 85.
Her ashes were scattered around the mountain Cemetery of Tamborine Mountain.
Wright had owned a strip of rainforest nearby, which she donated to the state so it
could be preserved as a national park.
Wright describes her father as one of the few people who knew something of the
unwritten history of the eastern side of the New England tableland. He told her how
Darkie Point, just across from Point Lookout, got its name:
Long ago, he said, the white settlers of that region of the tableland had driven
the Aborigines over its cliffs as reprisal for the spearing of their cattle.
Judith said: That sank as deeply into my mind as did the splendour of the cliffs and
forests into which that Aboriginal band had fallen. Long afterwards, I wrote a poem
about it, titled 'Nigger's Leap, New England'-another local name, disused for obvious
reasons. There is another cliff face, Bluff Rock near Tenterfield in Boonoo Boonoo
National Park on the northern highway, where in 1844 the same summary method
of disposing of the 'rural pests' had been used ... Maybe my father's oral testimony to
what happened at Darkie Point is the only record of that other day of murder.
TAT Poetry makes no apology for using the title exactly as the Author intended.
There was never any intention to offend – it was the terminology of the time.
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Nigger’s Leap,
New England
J. A. Wright ©
The eastward spurs tip backward from the sun.
Nights runs an obscure tide round cape and bay
and beats with boats of cloud up from the sea
against this sheer and limelit granite head.
Swallow the spine of range; be dark. O lonely air.
Make a cold quilt across the bone and skull
that screamed falling in flesh from the lipped cliff
and then were silent, waiting for the flies.
Here is the symbol, and climbing dark
a time for synthesis. Night buoys no warning
over the rocks that wait our keels; no bells
sound for the mariners. Now must we measure
our days by nights, our tropics by their poles,
love by its end and all our speech by silence.
See in the gulfs, how small the light of home.
Did we not know their blood channelled our rivers,
and the black dust our crops ate was their dust?
O all men are one man at last. We should have known
the night that tidied up the cliffs and hid them
had the same question on its tongue for us.
And there they lie that were ourselves writ strange.
Never from earth again the coolamon
or thin black children dancing like the shadows
of saplings in the wind. Night lips the harsh
scarp of the tableland and cools its granite.
Night floods us suddenly as history
that has sunk many islands in its good time.
Footnote - A similar incidence to the one mentioned in Judith's poem happened
outside of Tenterfield NSW when the manager of Bolivia Station rounded up the
local tribe who were accused of stealing some sheep and with the help of some of
his workers, drove them up onto Bluff Rock where they were either shot or forced
to jump off the cliff face.
Blu Rock near Tentereld NSW
© mkc
Independent Media Inspiring Minds
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POETRY
Janine Haig lives in her retirement years on her
property near Chinchilla. She is an Australian Bush Poet
who performs at many functions around the state. Her
often humorous poetry tells stories about Australia and
its people and about country life, and believe me, there is
many a laugh in that.
Janine is an award winning poet and has two books of Bush
Poetry: "I Hope Yer Sheep Get Flyblown" and "Always Wear
Clean Knickers". Janine has her own Facebook page -
https://www.facebook.com/JanineHaigBushPoetry/timeline
© J Haig
Independent Media Inspiring Minds
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POETRY
A farmer is a fellow who can spot a fly-blown sheep
Amid a thousand others - at a rapid distant sweep,
Yet he cannot see a pot-plant as it withers and it dies,
Through callous disregard from his unobservant eyes.
He can find a single weed in a fifty acre crop,
Or a half-inch screw he’s seeking in a messy old tool-shop,
But hell never see his dirty socks left on the bathroom floor,
Or the fact his wife is in a dress she never wore before.
And while he can remember without any written clues
The hour and the day he put the rams in with the ewes
(The day his ratbag neighbour got a fortune for his wool),
But to think he’d know your birthday would be very fanciful.
He can tell you with precision, twenty years of rain,
Losses in each drought, such knowledge hell retain;
Hell tell you every joke he’s heard and every smutty tale
But he never will remember he was asked to post the mail.
Mention buy on credit and you’re sure to hear him say,
“No! You cannot have it if at once you cannot pay!”
And flowers in the garden? Only there for show?
If it can’t be eaten... why slave to make it grow?
What is a
Farmer ?
©Janine Haig
THE
AUSTRALIA
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®
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The garden needs some pruning and you really need a hand,
You ask and beg and plead, then finally demand
That he come and help you, for you find you’re really stuck,
He turns up in the gateway with a chainsaw and a truck.
He can put in eighteen hour days while a crop is sown,
Or sit up late at night talking “business” on the phone,
But don’t expect his company once the sun’s in bed,
If it’s only him and you, all conversation’s dead.
A farmer proudly tells you that he WILL eat anything,
Chops or mince or steak, with salt for seasoning,
So you create a gourmet meal where nothing goes amiss
Except, of course, his screwed-up nose and: “What the hell is this?”
Call him any name you like at any time you choose,
Insults won’t upset him; instead they just amuse,
But don’t malign his cattle, his wool, his breeding hogs,
And never, if you want to live, vilify his dogs.
What a farmer IS defies the longest search for words,
Analysing farmers’ minds’ is strictly for the birds,
Don’t bother wasting pity on these fellows and their lives,
Just donate all your sympathy to their patient wives.
© mkc
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POETRY
© cjd
THE
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The
Wonga Pigeon
by C J Dennis (1876-1938)
MEN knew and loved my calling in old days--
Days ere a bitter wisdom taught me fear.
Trusting and unafraid, I went my ways
By many a crude hut of the pioneer;
Calling by paths where lonely axemen strode,
By new-cleared farmland yet to know the plough;
Calling by deep sled track and bullock road . . .
But where to-day man builds his last abode
Few hear my calling now.
Too trusting. When they found my flesh was sweet--
Was sweet and white and succulent withal--
What mattered beauty? I was good to eat!
Then trust was my undoing; and my call
A summons to men's hunger and the chase--
A tame, ignoble chase with me the prey--
Till far into some secret forest place
I fled, with that poor remnant of my race
In hiding here to-day.
And only by lost paths o'ergrown with fern--
By old, abandoned tracks in scrubs remote--
You may, by chance, around a sudden turn,
Win some brief, fleeting glimpse of my grey coat.
Then, with a swift wing clapping, I am hence;
Or, crouching down, ingenuously seek
To merge my colours with the brushwood dense
And trick the spoiler, with the vain defence
Of all earth's harried meek.
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POETRY
© Gary Harding
THE
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Of the
© by Garry Harding
I do not crave the gold of other men.
Nor do I envy anyone I meet.
I shun the motor car and omnibus,
And find my way relying on my feet.
A happy, cheerful, carefree vagabond
Whose restless spirit needs no woman's hand.
I tramp with Mother Nature as a guide,
And owe my sole allegiance to the land.
The sunrise and the sunset are my clock.
I never want for friendship or a feed.
I only take what nature can replace.
The bush is all the restaurant I need!
My best companions are the kurrajongs
That sigh and whisper by the river bend.
Who knows tomorrow where my path may lead
Or where I'll camp when purple shades descend.
Song
Swagman
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POETRY
The sky is cloudless blue and I am rich.
Rejoicing in the kookaburras' mirth.
I smell the grasses wet with summer dew
And plant my boots with joy on solid earth.
At waterholes and billabongs I camp.
My faithful dog is resting on my knee.
He always wins the arguments we have,
And barks to let me know it's time for tea.
The creatures of the bush emerge at dusk,
To warm themselves and cadge a bit of bread.
And though our conversation isn't much,
We share a bond of comradeship instead.
Some people like to live a life of ease,
And choose to laze their time away and shirk.
− I'll shear 'n clear 'n plough 'n mend a fence.
A man finds pride and dignity in work.
No book of rules to govern what I do.
A swagman has his own unwritten creed.
− "Be kind to fellow pilgrims on the track
And do your best to help a mate in need."
I judge not others; nor do they judge me.
I can bequeath the world no grand estate.
At night I see the wondrous Southern Cross,
And sleep to dream the dreams that I create.
I do not scorn the dwellers of the town.
Their duty too − they do it as they must.
When time decrees that everything should end,
Together we will finish, dust to dust.
What need have I of family or wealth.
I mortgage not my soul to pay the rent.
And so I do what little good I can.
Beholden to myself − I am content.
THE
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© Colin Hope 1991.
A long grey line
Crossed the horizon
As the wind swirled
Toying with the dust
A smell of moisture taints the air
Rolling in from the west
The earth waits in expectation
As the frogs give up their rest
The plants quiver to the first drops
The birds begin to bathe in appreciation
A rattle of raindrops caresses the soil
As the desert trees bow down in supplication
Rain has come to the desert again
Relieving a long dry thirst
As the life comes springing back
With an urgent burst
Now there is water
As the gulley’s run again
As spinifex sheds it bloody dust
The trees stretch their roots
The rain, the rain
The rain says they must
Rain
The
© mkc
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POETRY
Most of the poetry of Frank Westbrook
appear to have been written whilst he was on active
military service with the AIF. A lover of the Australian
bush he worked as a shearer and a farm labourer, but
enlisted in 1914 caught up in the fervour of fighting for
‘King and Country.’ He had the honour of being one of the
men whose battery took the first gun ashore at Gallipoli on
Anzac Beach in 1915.
The following lines of Lindenow were written at Anzac
by Gunner Westbrook, who, until he enlisted, had never
written a line of verse – they appeared in the Heyfield
Herald, Victoria on the 7th December 1916.
© Veronique Moseley
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© Gunner Westbrook
When night is full of the red death's screaming
maddened by slaughter - a fiend accurst,
his altar fires in the shell-burst's gleaming,
paeans of lust in the shrapnel-burst.
Above the roar and the smoke of battle
I can see the Mitchell, and sweet and low
I can hear the call of the roaming cattle
in the homestead paddocks by Lindenow.
See the smoke from the homestead lifting,
the blinking eyes of the lamps a shine,
hear the rune of the horse-bells drifting,
the low soft call of the browsing kine.
If the clinging folds of the Ancient Reaper
cover me close to the Earth's warm breast,
then shall honour be my soul's keeper,
duly contented will bless my rest.
If freedom of flight to my soul be given,
I know of surety I must go
to the nearest approach that I know to Heaven,
home, Australia and Lindenow.
Lindenow
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POETRY
By Frank E. Westbrook 1889 - 1976
The splash of the salt waves awash phosphorescent,
the outlines of hills grim and mystic and grey,
the hush of the dawn ere the night curtain vanish,
and morn brings the light of this fame-laden day.
The wave-bitten stretch of the grey sandy beaches;
the beaches of Anzac the foreshores of death,
the blood of a thousand of braves soon to bleach them,
the foretaste of hell in the shell's fiery breath.
Dark looming hills whether death lurks behind them,
or whether life waits me with garlands of fame.
How can I banish the scenes of remembrance?
The dear tender thoughts of a much-cherished name.
Duty and danger call me from the darkness,
the hour of my baptism fiery draws nigh;
I wonder and dream whether destiny waits me
with kisses of welcome or one brief good-bye.
Memory sings softy and croons of Australia,
songs of my home in the Southern seas set,
home and remembrance, the land of my fathers,
scenes loved and lost to me - Can I forget?
Dawn
A NZAC
Before
ANZAC COVE GALLIPOLLI
© Australian War Museum - ACT
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Flame of the wattle, the fire of the forest,
the scent of the woodbine and songs of the birds,
incense of blossom from trees all a-flower,
the tinkle of bells from the wandering herds.
Carols of magpies when dawn is a-quiver.
The outlines of trees gaunt and ring-barked and dead,
flash of the waratah blooming in glory,
Tte click of the parakeets' flight overhead.
Glimpse of the waterfowl feeding and playing
over the face of the sleeping lagoon,
glint of the beams opalescent and gleaming.
Silver shafts hurled from the young crescent moon.
One little home in the midst of the fallow,
the grass springing green to the wooing of spring,
the green of the lucerne, the fruit trees in blossom.
My home way down under, how memories cling.
Ah! Whether I perish or whether I follow
the scenes of the chapter of blood to the last,
my soul will dwell eager for time without ending
on dearly loved days that are banished and past.
And now I make ready for death or his master,
this thought as the moments in flight hurry by…
If I live 'tis my privilege - all for my country,
for Australia to live, for Australia to die.
ANZAC COVE GALLIPOLLI
© Australian War Museum - ACT
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POETRY
If I Can Stop One
from Breaking
by Emily Dickinson
If I can stop one heart from breaking,
I shall not live in vain;
if I can ease one life the aching,
or cool one pain,
or help one fainting robin
unto his nest again,
I shall not live in vain.
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Shout.
JUST DO-NATE.
ShoutForGood.com
WHAT DO
YOU THINK?
Maureen Cliord © The Scribbly Bark Poet
To quote Robert Graves:
There’s no money in poetry, but there’s
no poetry in money, either.
Australia’s first and last poet laureate was Michael Massey Robinson an
Oxford-educated gentleman convicted of extortion and transported to NSW
in 1798 and then to Norfolk Island. Upon his eventual release he returned to
Sydney and in 1810 was appointed by Governor Macquarie as Australia’s first
poet laureate, an unpaid position. Over the next ten years he wrote poems
for state occasions and royal birthdays, wordy and flowery compositions for
which he was given two cows.
Governor Macquarie’s successor it seems was not a poetry lover. Thomas
Brisbane appointed Governor of NSW in 1821 was not impressed with
Michael’s poetry and one of his first official acts was to give him the sack. The
position has never been refilled.
A song, by Michael Massey Robinson, was written for the
anniversary of the founding of the colony of New South Wales and
presented with great effect by the Author on the last Anniversary of the
Commemoration of the Establishment of this Colony, held at Hankinson’s
Rooms in George Street on 26
th
January
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Song… Presented by Mr. Michael M Robinson.
For the commemoration dinner, January 26, 1820.
Alive to the strain that gay fancy inspires,
We cherish its impulse, and glow with its fires;
Whilst wit, mirth, and harmony, blended together,
Resound with the toast, Boys — “OLD ENGLAND FOR EVER!”
AUSTRALIA! In tracing thy triumph of years,
The source of this festival brighter appears, —
Where the harvest of mercy has blessed the endeavour,
Let gratitude echo, “OUR KING, BOYS, FOR EVER!”
To the Scions of Brunswick’s illustrious Line,
Let the goblets, surcharg’d, flow with rivers of wine;
Whilst the toast we select still enhances its flavour,
And hallows the cup, “THE PRINCE REGENT FOR EVER”
To sanction our birth-rights — a Briton’s first boast,
May the sun-shine of loyalty brighten our coast ;
And health, peace, and plenty, in union together,
High swell the full chorus — “AUSTRALIA FOR EVER!”
To her CHIEF, whose paternal and patriot hand
Diffuses prosperity’s smile thro’ the land,
Let this toast be reserv’d, which no party will sever,
For it springs from one feeling — “MACQUARIE FOR EVER!”
Source: The Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser (Sydney, NSW), Saturday 5
February 1820, page 3
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POETRY
Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake (1866-1892),
was a surveyor, stockman, drover and poet, born in 1866 at
Waterview Bay, Balmain, New South Wales. He was an active
child who liked sport but suffered from early signs of depression,
which was to impact him for much of his life and eventually
cause his death.
He received a private education in Sydney and Noumea with two
terms spent at Sydney Grammar School and then 5 years at a
Private School in Hunter Street.
He spent most of his adult life as a surveyor, stockman and
drover. He hated office work and working on the land gave him
a great deal of satisfaction. For a time he was employed at Mullah
station, near Trangie in the Narromine district and Burrenbilla,
near Cunnamulla, but in 1890 after a period spent visiting
with his family an expected job fell through and he returned to
surveying. Things took a downward turn from 1891 with family
issues and he became sunk in the grips of melancholia. A few
attempts to find work in the city proved futile and he sank into
brooding inactivity. On 2 May 1892 he left the house. Eight days
later his body was discovered in the scrub at Long Bay, Middle
Harbour, hanging by his stockwhip from a tree.
From May 1890 until December 1891 all but a few of his poems
were published in the Bulletin.
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POETRY
Dead Men Lie
Barcroft Henry Boake 1866 – 1892
Out on the wastes of the "Never Never,"
That's where the dead men lie,
There where the heat-waves dance forever,
That's where the dead men lie;
That's where the Earth's lov'd sons are keeping
endless tryst - not the west wind sweeping
feverish pinions, can wake their sleeping -
Out where the dead men lie!
Where brown Summer and Death have mated,
That's where the dead men lie,
Loving with fiery lust unsated,
That's where the dead men lie;
Out where the grinning skulls bleach whitely,
Under the saltbush sparkling brightly,
Out where the wild dogs chorus nightly,
That's where the dead men lie.
Deep in the yellow, flowing river,
That's where the dead men lie,
Under the banks where the shadows quiver,
That's where the dead men lie;
Where the platypus twists and doubles,
leaving a trail of tiny bubbles;
Rid at last of their earthly troubles,
That's where the dead men lie.
East and backward pale faces turning,
That's how the dead men lie;
Gaunt arms stretched with a voiceless yearning,
Where The
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That's how the dead men lie;
Oft in the fragrant hush of nooning,
Hearing again their mother's crooning,
Wrapt for aye in a dreadful swooning,
That's how the dead men lie.
Nought but the hand of Night can free them;
That's when the dead men fly;
Only the frightened cattle see them -
See the dead men go by;
Cloven hoofs beating out one measure,
Bidding the stockman know no leisure,
That's when the dead men take their pleasure,
That's when the dead men fly.
Ask, too, the never-sleeping drover,
He sees the dead pass by,
Hearing them call to their friends - the plover,
Hearing the dead men cry.
Seeing their faces stealing, stealing,
Hearing their laughter pealing, pealing,
Watching their grey forms wheeling, wheeling
Round where the cattle lie.
Strangled by thirst and fierce privation -
That's how the dead men die
Out on "Moneygrub's" furthest station,
That's how the dead men die;
Hardfaced greybeards, youngsters callow,
Some mounds cared for, some left fallow,
Some deep down, yet others shallow,
Some having but the sky.
"Moneygrub" as he sips his claret
Looks with complacent eye
Down at his watch-chain, eighteen-carat,
There in his club hard by:
Recks not that every link is stamped with
Names of the men whose limbs are cramped with
Too long lying in grave-mould, camped with
Death where the dead men lie.
© MKC
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POETRY
poetry
ExploringExploring
Nerima Gardens Queens Park Ipswich Qld.
© mkc
ExploringExploring
A lanturne is a ve lined Japanese form of poetry with
a syllabic pattern of one, two, three, four, one.
It was named lanturne (lantern) for the shape that the
words made when centred on the page, a shape that
resembles a Japanese Lantern
Lanturne Poetry
Poets please ensure that you register initially
through our main page and get yourself
added into our list of contributors and submit
your work either through the preferred
option of
e Australia Times
http://www.theaustraliatimes.com.au
or direct to me at my TAT Poetry email
address
maureen.cliord@theaustraliatimes.com.au
EXTRA! EXTRA!
– READ ALL ABOUT IT!
54
Inspiring MindsIndependent Media
Have you checked out our Facebook Page yet?
If you are on Facebook why not come on over and say Gday
and ‘like’ our page as well – wed love to have you come visit
and your support would be appreciated.
Sharing our links will help spread our poetry around the world.
https://www.facebook.com/pages/e-Australia-Times-Poetry-Magazine/386461994820768
It is updated every day and events of interest that miss the magazine
will be on our FB page – along with some shared poetry.
I have noticed that there are not many of our
poets showing up on our Contributors page and
this is why. If you wish to show on that page
and your picture/name is not on this list please
go and register now. And just an extra bit of info
because that page is dual usage and not just for
Poetry It asks for a CV. In relation to Poetry all
we need there is just a brief biography to put with
your poetry when we use it - doesn't have to be
personal - just what you are happy to share.
http://www.theaustraliatimes.com/contributors/
55
Inspiring MindsIndependent Media
Barnaby Wilde is the pen name of Tim Fisher.
Tim was born in 1947 in Hertfordshire, United Kingdom,
but grew up and was educated in the West Country. He
graduated with a Physics degree in 1969 and worked in
manufacturing and Quality Control for a multinational
photographic company for 30 years before taking an early
retirement to pursue other interests. He is the published
author of seven volumes of Quirky Verse, five volumes of
Short Stories, and a series of Detective Stories. He has two
grown up children and currently lives happily in Devon.
Tim shares some verse with us from his book The Blind
Philosopher and the God of Small Things … a collection of
verse by Barnaby Wilde. For more information visit
www.barnaby-wilde.co.uk
© Tim Fisher
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POETRY
Twenty* things
worth knowing
© Barnaby Wilde aka Tim Fisher
Said my friend the blind philosopher, whilst chewing on a plant,
“Here’s twenty things worth knowing, including some that aren’t.
I didn’t really have the time, but wished not to seem rude,
So I settled gently at his feet and waited while he chewed.
He stroked his wispy beard until the words began to stream,
Saying, “Generally life’s not much fun, except of course ice-cream.
And “Light is made of many hues; a lot of them are blue.
Adding, “Snakes are mostly harmless, unless they bite at you.
His sightless eyes glazed over. It was minutes ‘til he spoke.
When he did he said that “Hair was merely nature’s little joke.
That “Mathematics was invented to make wrong sums come righter.
And that “Gravity was heavy stuff, but levity was lighter.
“Space goes on ad infinitum until you reach the edge.
“Manslaughter’s not as funny as some people would allege.
He said “Mostly children were invented to keep parents occupied.
And that “Amoebas lived forever, apart from those that died.
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“Mostly history is behind us in this modern day and age.
And “Typically, books tend to end right after the last page.
“Sex is often better with at least two people present.
I pondered on this latter thought, the concept not unpleasant.
“Grass grows from the bottom up, which is mostly a good thing.
And “Candles were invented to use up odd lengths of string.
“Oceans have evolved to reach exactly to sea level.
He spoke in generalities. It’s detail that’s the devil.
I wondered how much longer he’d continue to expound.
He said “The biggest part of mountains lies entirely underground.
And that “Deserts are devoid of life since camels mostly choose
to divide themselves up equally in circuses and zoos.
His attention seemed to wander as his energy was spent.
He drew his cloak around him and he muttered as he went.
“Mostly memory consists of things you didn’t want to know.
I thought that this at least was true and time for me to go.
* The twentieth thing worth knowing is, when it's time to stop
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POETRY
Peru Guru
© Barnaby Wilde aka Tim Fisher
My friend, the blind philosopher, once told me of a sage,
He’d met when he was travelling, (at a much younger age).
He’d gone to seek enlightenment from wise men in Peru,
And heard whilst he was staying there of this nomad guru.
It took a while to find him on the winding mountain ways,
For he was always moving on, near twenty miles a day.
He carried no possessions, not even one small pack.
No worldly goods to slow him down, and wearing just a sack.
His head was bare, his beard was long, and he was old and scrawny.
He wore no shoes. His feet were gnarled, with skin both cracked and horny.
Indeed, he had such calluses upon each bony sole,
No shoe would ever fit him now, as he maintained patrol.
He slept each night beside the road, wherever he was found,
Even on the coldest days, uncovered, on the ground.
Searching for enlightenment was this man’s holy grail,
But years of austere living left him feeble, weak and frail.
“How did he live,” I asked my friend, “what did he eat or drink,
And did he ever wash himself, or did he simply stink?”
“Beans,” said the blind philosopher, “beans were all he ate,
The locals left him piles of beans by every wayside gate.
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He had to eat them raw of course. No means for him to cook.
He simply washed them down with water from the local brook.
Of course the side effects of this were really quite ferocious,
Constant breaking wind and belch, and breath that smelled atrocious.
(He didn’t sound so wise to me), I asked, “What did you learn?”
His sightless eyes gazed distantly, and then he slowly turned,
“He taught me that enlightenment is but a single word.
I think I’ve told you all need. Just ponder what you’ve heard.
With that, he turned and walked away I thought I saw him smirk,
I reflected on the tale he’d told and put my brain to work.
The clues were in there somewhere, but I wondered what I’d missed.
I considered for a moment, then began to make a list.
It took some time to dawn on me whilst struggling with his test,
That this was yet another of the blind man’s little jests,
You might solve the puzzle for yourself if you’d have a go,
(For those of you that can’t be arsed. The answer’s down below.)
Enlightenment may well be summed up in a single word,
Even though the sound of it is something quite absurd.
If you say it loud enough you’ll always sound precocious
Super callused, fragile mystic, hexed by halitosis.
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POETRY
Beautiful Lady
by Clive Sanders ©
The most beautiful lady he had ever seen,
Held his head and just stared in his eyes.
Her hair was so soft and so wonderfully clean,
At long last he had won the first prize.
His uniform lay on the floor by the bed,
His socks were tucked into his boots.
He couldn’t believe that he’d finally wed,
As he looked at the full champagne flutes.
She snuggled up close and held him so tight,
He could feel her warmth through her dress.
Then Tony shouted, “Wake up! It’s a fight.
And his eyes opened to take in the mess.
The mortars were crashing around the base,
The shells whistled through with a scream.
He felt something hot burn the side of his face,
And immediately forgot his sweet dream.
He’d just fallen asleep for a minute or two,
And his mind had forgotten the war.
But now totally focused with a military view,
It was scarred by the things that he saw.
The Most
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Planning
by Clive Sanders ©
If you’re standing by a soldier and you’re feeling somewhat bored,
As he tells you tales of daring-does and girls he’s known abroad.
Ask him what a General does and he’ll say “He makes up plans.
Then hell get bored, and go away and soon be off your hands.
For soldiers don’t like Generals and their plans that never work.
They’re the pawns he moves around to stumble through the murk.
The only plan that ever works is the quick pre-emptive strike.
And soldiers know that General’s plans, they generally dislike.
For no matter what a General plans, he can’t predict the fight,
The enemy may stand his ground or simply take to flight.
And if the foe takes up the fight, he can’t plan what they’ll do,
To counter what the General’s planned, or what he thought he knew.
So when a General plans a war or some military campaign,
The soldier rarely gets back home without some wound or pain.
The only plan a soldier has is to keep his head well down,
And hope the General forgets he’s there, or in another town.
But if you like the soldier and you want to keep him near,
You can tap him on the shoulder and gently whisper in his ear,
“I think this pub is crowded, have you got a cunning plan,
That will get us to another pub as quickly as you can?”
The soldier then will smile and say, “I’ve know another pub,
That serves a lovely pint of beer and also does good grub.
Just trust me and I’ll get you there, it’s less than half a mile,
As I am good at planning.” Which always makes me smile.
For every soldier is a General, who hasn’t made it yet,
But thinks his plans are wonderful and can conquer any threat.
He factors in the challenges and figures out the land,
Then always has excuses when things don’t go as planned.
© C Sanders
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POETRY
Sergeant Haslett
by Clive Sanders ©
When I joined the Royal Signals as a soldier young and brave,
I was sent on basic training long before I’d learned to shave.
Corporal Hunter was our instructor and we went where’re he led,
Sergeant Haslett was the person that we quickly learned to dread.
Corporal Hunter was our saviour and he kept us safe from harm.
He was naturally quite handsome and he simply oodled charm.
He often stood between our troop and Sergeant Haslett’s rage,
And we admired him every day and would have paid his wage.
But we hated Sergeant Haslett and we quickly learned to loathe,
Every syllable he uttered and every single breath he brothe.
He personified the devil and he frightened us to death,
We prayed he’d have a heart-attack or simply breathe his final breath.
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Each day was constant battle between the Corporal and the Sarge.
We learned to hide or disappear if Sergeant Haslett was at large.
But as the training weeks went past, a change became quite plain,
Sergeant Haslett was seen to smile, without inflicting any pain.
When we practised Army marching, Sergeant Haslett gave a nod.
His foul swearing grew less fearsome, he just called out “Silly sod.
Then just before our last parade, he gave us all some subtle winks,
And after we’d paraded he bought us youngsters a round of drinks.
Then he stood before his soldiers and told us in his booming voice,
“If I had to go to battle you lot would be my firstest choice.
I’d be proud to lead you anywhere and fight against the fiercest foe,
Confident that you’re the men, who’re always willing to have a go.
Next we all swore that we loved him and we shouted loud his praise.
We would not forget our Sergeant ‘til the lastest of our days.
So if you ever meet a Sergeant, who has Haslett as his name,
Please tell him that you know a soldier, who still loudly sings his fame.
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Shelley Hansen with her award
for winning rst place in the
Bundaberg Bush Lantern Poetry
Compeon 2015
© S Hansen
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Shelley said of her poem Teddy, Teddy! -
This poem is uncharacteristically dark for me - but I feel
very strongly about domestic violence. It has elements of
personal stories told to me by dear friends who have faced
this terrible problem.
Her poem is written from a child's perspective, it is
disturbing and hard hitting but sadly oh so true and
domestic violence is one of the leading causes of death
and injury of women across Australia today - it is
estimated the number is as high as one in three.
Domestic violence is the biggest cause of homelessness for
Australian women, with almost half of the women with
children staying in homeless assistance services escaping
domestic violence. Women are four times more likely to
experience sexual assault by someone they know, rather
than a stranger.
So good on Shelley for raising the issue in her medium of
poetry. It is not an easy issue but it is not one that can be
ignored either.
Congratulations from TAT Poetry Shelley on winning this competition
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Teddy, Teddy! Daddy’s shouting, now he’s come home from his outing –
and he’s smacking all the windows with a chair!
And I know that he’s been drinking, but I don’t know what he’s thinking
to have given me and Mummy such a scare.
Teddy, Teddy! I’m so frightened! Now my bedroom door has lightened
and I know that Daddy’s standing right outside.
He is muttering and talking, but I hope he’ll keep on walking
if I lie here very still and try to hide.
Teddy, Teddy! Mummy’s crying and I think she might be dying
’cos I heard him hit her really really hard!
And I know I should be sleeping, but I’m standing here and peeping
through the curtains, where she’s lying in the yard.
Teddy, Teddy! Hold me tightly! Mummy’s face is so unsightly –
purple bruises from her mouth right to her hair!
Look! Her eyes are dark and haunted, and her spirit seems so daunted
and she doesn’t even notice I am there.
Teddy, Teddy! Grandma’s here now. Daddy’s all polite and cheer now.
When he’s sober he can be quite nice, you know.
Mummy thinks that he is changing, so she’s started rearranging
all the furniture – to make it look “just so”!
Teddy, Teddy!
Shelley Hansen ©
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Teddy, Teddy! We were hoping that at last he might be coping
and not wanting to be drinking day and night.
But he had a bottle hidden, and when Mummy came unbidden
she discovered it – so now they’ve had a fight.
Teddy, Teddy! They are calling a policeman! Mummy’s falling
with her arm all cut and bleeding from a knife!
Daddy stabbed her in the kitchen – said he couldn’t stand her “bitchin’”
and a mongrel dog would make a better wife!
Teddy, Teddy! Grandma’s praying but I can’t hear what she’s saying –
now she’s shooing me to bed while it’s still day,
’cos she doesn’t want me knowing all the coming and the going –
but she doesn’t know I know it anyway.
Teddy, Teddy! Daddy’s leaving and I know that Mummy’s grieving
and she wants to rush right out and bring him back.
Though he pushes us and shoves us, she believes that he still loves us
and it’s only drink that causes each attack.
Teddy, Teddy! Mummy’s lonely and I think that she is only
waiting day by day for Daddy to return.
Though she thinks the best about him, it’s so peaceful here without him!
But she doesn’t want to listen or to learn.
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Teddy, Teddy! He’s returning, and now Mummy’s fondly yearning
for the days she tells herself were happy – then.
So it must be right to treat her like a whipping post, and beat her!
If it wasn’t, why submit to it again?
Teddy, Teddy! There’s no glories like they tell us in the stories
of a happy-ever-after fairytale.
There’s just violence and weeping, and a midnight footstep creeping
to my bedroom – where I watch, and wait – and quail.
Teddy! Teddy! That’s not caring! Shouting, fighting, beating, swearing!
They don’t love me. They don’t want me anymore.
There’s just you and me. Together we must find a way to weather
out the storm until we reach the sunlit shore.
Teddy, Teddy! It’s confusing! Will I too, one day, be choosing
to be married to a man who loves like this?
Will I bear his sudden rages – just another of life’s pages
smudged with staleness of his alcoholic kiss?
Teddy, Teddy! I will never marry anyone! Not ever!
For it isn’t right that love should hurt this way.
Teddy, come to me and cuddle, pull the covers up and huddle
while you listen carefully to what I say
Teddy, Teddy! When we’re older and we’ve grown to be much bolder
we will run away to make a brand new start!
Then well fill our days with laughter and be happy ever after
and I’ll love you from the bottom of my heart!
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Kenneth Rexroth
I’ve had it with these cheap sons
of bitches who claim they love
poetry but never buy a book.
© unsplash.com
Shy Guy
By Peter Gray
Every week he sits right in the front row
Getting the information we all need to know
He’s often there with his wife and their son
But on Saturday morning, it wasn’t much fun
Two excellent trainers had been on before
And now the most eminent took to the floor
Our friend in the front row is a little shy
Taking notes from the trainers, to read by and by
The eminent trainer walked to the stage
And onto our friend he aimed his gaze
“We have a brand new trainer for you to hear”.
“The shy guy in the front, please come- on up here”.
Looking mortified by what had just been said
He rose to his feet, his face turned bright red
Looking very anxious and shaking at the knees
Would the stage open up and swallow him, please
The audience clapped and cheered a lot
What could he do, being put on the spot?
Would this be the worst training ever done?
Then the eminent trainer said, “I was just having fun”.
A look of relief spread over his face
The situation ended with no loss of grace
A victory salute with his arms in the air
And thankfully he returned to his chair
The
Part 1Part 1
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Shy Guy
What a difference in only a week
A week ago he couldn’t speak
Now asked to comment on the last event
He sprang to his feet and off he went
He spoke with eloquence for a minute or two
Then everybody clapped as they thought he was through
But finished he was not, as he continued and then
Took another breath and started again
His information was right on the ball
As more and more flowed to inform us all
After five minutes we were sure that’s a rap
And once again we began to clap
But he was just beginning to get into his stride
He was getting revved up, and speaking with pride
Then the convener approached to stem the tide
He wouldn’t be stopped, no matter how hard he tried
Speaking faster and louder his face turning red
Arms flailing all around and above his head
The convener moved closer but he failed to engage
Still talking and waving he was carried off the stage
The
© mkc
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POETRY
Mary Franklin AKA EC from WritersDock was
raised in Calgary, Alberta. Her adult life has been divided
between London and Birmingham in UK and Calgary and
Vancouver in Canada, where she currently lives. She has had
poems published in iota and in poetry anthologies in the UK.
She has also had tanka published in journals in Australia,
Canada, UK and USA and been featured in Take Five, Volume
4, Best Contemporary Tanka of 2011. In 2011 and 2012, she
received Sakura Awards for her haiku in the Vancouver
Cherry Blossom Festival Haiku Invitational Competition.
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© mkc
© mkc
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Independent Media Inspiring Minds
Dont Forget to say
you have seen it in
We hope you have enjoyed reading the selection of poetry
in this issue both from Australian and overseas poets.
Please bear in mind we are a family friendly magazine
and poetry of an overtly explicit sexual nature
or containing profanity will not be used.
Poetry written by our children is always welcome.
The Australia Times looks forward to receiving submissions from our readers.
Please submit with a brief bio and any links you want included –
e.g. blog/web/book page.
This address should see it head o in the right direction –
http://www.theaustraliatimes.com/contact/
or email The Editor at
Maureen.Cliord@theaustraliatimes.com.au