Lets hear some Aussie Bush Poetry

Another by me

Another also of a farmer and his pup
The bloody things four and still hasn't grown up
He would come home at night all sodden and spent
And tell his dear wife how his day went
From his work wrinkled face,a hint of a grin
You wouldn't believe what a good day it's been

While watching the dog doing his usual tricks
I had quite enough and knew just the fix
With the cattle prodder I gave him a zap on the arse
A yelp and a howl and scurring fast
He swung around to have the last lunge
When I zapped the bugger right on his tongue
As his jaws clamped down his eyes lit up
And that was the day he stopped being a pup

Thanks for those wa489

Quite impressive

Thanks Bob,thats all I got for now,have about 3 books on bush poetry written by a bloke from down this way i'll try and dig them out to put a few up...

The Wattle Tree



Winter is not yet gone - but now

The birds are carolling from the bough.

And the mist has rolled away

Leaving more beautiful the day.

The sun is out - O come with me

To look upon the wattle tree!



Let misers hoard and hide their gold;

Here there is treasure-trove untold,

In yellow blossom, mass on mass

Spread out for wayfarers who pass

With hearts to feel, and eyes to see

How lovely is the wattle tree.



O strange, O magical! to forget

For a moment care and fret,

Whilst the next spirit, like a cup

Drained of delight, again fills up

And overflows with ecstasy

Before the miracle of the tree.



And rich and poor, who pause to bless

The shining tree in thankfulness,

Are bound in fellowship indeed.

What matter politics or creed,

Or class or colour? surely he

Loves mankind who loves a Tree!



Towards illimitable skies

From the earth the trees arise:

Givers of Joy, their gold and green

Against the blue of Heaven is seen.

A symbol of man's destiny

Is the blossoming the wattle tree.



Winter is not yet gone - but now

The birds are carolling from the bough.

And the mist has rolled away

Leaving more beautiful the day.

The sun is out - O come with me

To look upon the wattle tree!



Dora Wilcox

The Dying Stockman



A strapping young stockman lay dying,

His saddle supporting his head;

His two mates around him were crying,

As he rose on his elbow and said:



Chorus: 'Wrap me up with my stockwhip and blanket,

And bury me deep down below,

Where the dingoes and crows can't molest me,

In the shade where the coolibahs grow.



'Oh! had I the flight of the bronzewing,

Far o'er the plains would I fly,

Straight to the land of my childhood,

And there I would lay down and die.



'Then cut down a couple of saplings,

Place one at my head and my toe,

Carve on them cross, stockwhip, and saddle,

To show there's a stockman below.



'Hark! there's the wail of a dingo,

Watchful and weird - I must go,

For it tolls the death-knell of the stockman

From the gloom of the scrub down below.



'There's tea in the battered old billy;

Place the pannikins out in a row,

And we'll drink to the next merry meeting,

In the place where all good fellows go.



'And oft in the shades of the twilight,

When the soft winds are whispering low,

And the darkening shadows are falling,

Sometimes think of the stockman below.'



Anonymous

He was getting old and paunchy

And his hair was falling fast,

And he sat around the Legion,

Telling stories of the past.



Of a war that he once fought in

And the deeds that he had done,

In his exploits with his buddies;

They were heroes, every one.



And 'tho sometimes to his neighbors

His tales became a joke,

All his buddies listened quietly

For they knew where of he spoke.



But we'll hear his tales no longer,

For ol' Joe has passed away,

And the world's a little poorer

For a Soldier died today.



He won't be mourned by many,

Just his children and his wife.

For he lived an ordinary,

Very quiet sort of life.



He held a job and raised a family,

Going quietly on his way;

And the world won't note his passing,

'Tho a Soldier died today.



When politicians leave this earth,

Their bodies lie in state,

While thousands note their passing,

And proclaim that they were great.



Papers tell of their life stories

From the time that they were young

But the passing of a Soldier

Goes unnoticed, and unsung.



Is the greatest contribution

To the welfare of our land,

Some jerk who breaks his promise

And cons his fellow man?



Or the ordinary fellow

Who in times of war and strife,

Goes off to serve his country

And offers up his life?



The politician's stipend

And the style in which he lives,

Are often disproportionate,

To the service that he gives.



While the ordinary Soldier,

Who offered up his all,

Is paid off with a medal

And perhaps a pension, small.



It is not the politicians

With their compromise and ploys,

Who won for us the freedom

That our country now enjoys.



Should you find yourself in danger,

With your enemies at hand,

Would you really want some cop-out,

With his ever waffling stand?



Or would you want a Soldier

His home, his country, his kin,

Just a common Soldier,

Who would fight until the end.



He was just a common Soldier,

And his ranks are growing thin,

But his presence should remind us

We may need his likes again.



For when countries are in conflict,

We find the Soldier's part

Is to clean up all the troubles

That the politicians start.



If we cannot do him honor

While he's here to hear the praise,

Then at least let's give him homage

At the ending of his days.



Perhaps just a simple headline

In the paper that might say:

"OUR COUNTRY IS IN MOURNING,

A SOLDIER DIED TODAY."

THE COLOURS OF LIGHT



This is not easy to understand
For you that come from a distant land
Where all the COLOURS are low in pitch -
Deep purples, emeralds deep and rich,
Where autumn's flaming and summer's green -
Here is a beauty you have not seen.



All is pitched in a higher key,
Lilac, topaz, and ivory,
Palest jade-green and pale clear blue
Like aquamarines that the sun shines through,
Golds and silvers, we have at will -
Silver and gold on each plain and hill,
Silver-green of the myall leaves,
Tawny gold of the garnered sheaves,
Silver rivers that silent slide,
Golden sands by the water-side,



Golden wattle, and golden broom,
Silver stars of the rosewood bloom;
Amber sunshine, and smoke-blue shade:
Opal colours that glow and fade;
On the gold of the upland grass
Blue cloud-shadows that swiftly pass;
Wood-smoke blown in an azure mist;
Hills of tenuous amethyst. . .



Oft the colours are pitched so high
The deepest note is the cobalt sky;
We have to wait till the sunset comes
For shades that feel like the beat of drums -
Or like organ notes in their rise and fall -
Purple and orange and cardinal,
Or the peacock-green that turns soft and slow
To peacock-blue as the great stars show . . .



Sugar-gum boles flushed to peach-blow pink;
Blue-gums, tall at the clearing's brink;
Ivory pillars, their smooth fine slope
Dappled with delicate heliotrope;
Grey of the twisted mulga-roots;
Golden-bronze of the budding shoots;
Tints of the lichens that cling and spread,
Nile-green, primrose, and palest red . . .



Sheen of the bronze-wing; blue of the crane;
Fawn and pearl of the lyrebird's train;
Cream of the plover; grey of the dove -
These are the hues of the land I love.

Dorothea MacKellar

Plastic Stacker Chair.


Trevor’s on a mission to Consumer Affairs,

trying to get a ban on plastic stacker chairs

He reckons that they’re dangerous, a serious threat to life

Cos it was through a plastic chair that he got into strife.



It was at the Tamworth Festival, a concert in the park,

Trev and Ken were there, with gear to last them until dark.

An esky full of coldies, Trev was without a care-

Stubbies, thongs and t-shirt, on his plastic stacker chair.





But as he stretched his legs out, his left crown jewel rolled free,

and dropped through the chair seat, a real catastrophe.

But Trev remained unaware of his dire situation,

Until they gave the singer a standing ovation.



As Trev rose to his feet he gave a fearsome yell,

Cos tethered to his testicle,

The chair came up as well.





He grabbed the chair with both hands as he crashed back to the ground,

But the errant family jewel was well and truly stuck he quickly found

He tried to extract the enclosed cod but he began to curse

Cos nothing he did seemed to work, it only made things worse.





Trev’s mate Ken was laughing fit to go right off his brain,

Ken’s tears were from laughter but Trev’s were from real pain.

Ken produced a Stanley knife and Trev’s mouth went dry,

He said “I’ll only cut the chair” but Trev wouldn’t let him try.



Well Ken climbed underneath the chair and tried to poke things through,

It’s times like these when you find out what your mates will really do.



They pulled and poked and prodded but all efforts were in vain

Trevor’s nut was red and raw and giving heaps of pain

All this unwanted attention was no good you realise,

Trevor’s tortured testicle swelled to twice its size.



Well the word spread quickly througT the Park,

And people tried to get a glimpse of trev’s threatened castration.

Mums and Dads and kids and dogs of every age-

Trev got more attention than the singer on the stage.



Little kids were pointing, dogs were trying to have a smell,

And Trevor, trying to cover up, said “Go to Bloody Hell”!

“Poor bloke needs an ice pack” was the only good advice,

So they sat Trevor over his esky, with his agate in the ice!



Someone called an ambulance, and they drove through the crowd,

Trev was drinking Bundy rum, and swearing very loud.

When the ambos stopped laughing they carted Trev away,

to the hospital where he was the highlight of the day.



Well Trevor’s now recovered, with both crown jewels in place,

But don’t offer him a plastic chair if you truly value your face.

And next year at the Festival Trevor will be there,

wearing tight undies and long trousers, on his canvas fold-out chair.

That's bloody funny, Tony.

X 2 really needed that thanks pml