Lets hear some Aussie Bush Poetry

A rhythm induced, world spinning, high. Heavy rock rules, the mountains rumble. Shifting and rolling. Lightning flashes, the clouds part, the secrets of the heavens revealed. Visions flash. Beach fires. Sparks flying. The earth kneels to the Gods of energy.

The joining of minds, the simplicity of the beat. The beast grows from mere particles into one. One beat, one rhythm, one passion. Shit gets real. Fingers fly, chords explode, hips move, arms rise, the body moves without volition.

A gasp of breath after a shattering of the universe I thought was real. Life again? Regrets remain. Rhythm rules. The heart pumps.
Me

Mind dump, sorry people. Wrote that after my Dad passed away. I was on the piss with my memories and some cranking tunes. The words just fell onto the keyboard. No rhyme or reason. Just felt right to let it fly...

Never be sorry mate, it was powerful, thankyou!


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Goodnight Bob..R.I.P
Thanks for the poems you shared
Thinking of you mate,

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RIP Bob.
Here's one for when you get to heaven.

BRAWLING IN THE NAME OF GOD

I was at a church convention
sitting quietly on my seat
As I listened quite intently to the throng
For their words had firm conviction
and their argument had heat
as they discussed the different points of right & wrong

Said the Baptist, with a booming voice
The way to god is clear !
or the curse of fire & brimstone you will find
Woe betide the one amongst you
who fails to cringe in godly fear
for beneath the stones of hell your soul will grind.

Don’t be tense, said Krishna softly
in his bright & fluttering dress
You must first find peace & happiness within
Come with me and chant a mantra
It will help relieve your stress
Come give offering to Krishna and his kin

Away foul demon ! , spat the Catholic
at poor Krishna’s vacant stare
Shun your idols, and your gods, and chanting way
Ten Hail Marys to the mother
And give the saints your prayer
For there is but one, to who we all must pray

That is true !, we pray to Allah !
sang the Muslim bowing low
To Jehovah !, called the Witness standing near
Praise to Buddha, gushed the Buddhist
(and each man began to crow
their god’s name, so loud, that god could surely hear!)

They berated one another
and they poked each others chests
and fist-i-cuffs came very close to hand
So I thought I,d turn the lights out
Just to give them all a rest
and give myself some time to understand

So I slipped outside the building
where the air was fresh & cool
and I looked up to the stars that specked the sky
and I honestly considered
If that mob of squabbling fools
Had any greater grasp of god than I

Howard Izz.

One of my favourites was already posted on this thread "The Coachman's Yarn" by E.J. Brady
http://www.nissanpatrol.com.au/forum...l=1#post309202 -

this one is a similar style.

Jones's Selection

You hear a lot of new-chum talk
Of goin’ on the land.
An raisin’ record crops of wheat
On rocks and flamin’ sand.

I ‘ates exaggerated skite,
But if yer likes I can
Authenticate a case in which
The land went on the man.

Bill Jones ‘e ‘ad a mountain block
Up Kosciusko way,
He farmed it pretty night to death,
The neighbours used to say.

He scarified its surface
With his double-furrow ploughs,
An’ ate its blinded hearted right out
With sheep and milkin’ cows.

He filled its blamed intestines up
With agricultural pipes,
An’ lime an’ superphosphates – fit
To give the land the gripes

Until at length the tortured soil,
Worn out with Jones’s thrift,
Decided as the time was come
To up an’ make a shift.

One day the mountain shook itself
An’ give a sort of groan,
The neighbours they was a lot more scared
Than they was game to own.

Their jaws they dropped upon their chests,
Their eyes they opened wide,
They saw the whole of Jones’s farm
Upend itself and slide.

It slithered down the mountain spur,
Majestic-like an’ slow,
An’ landed in the river bed,
A thousand feet below.

Bill Jones was on the lower slopes
Of ‘is long-suffering farm,
a-testin’ some new-fangled plough
which acted like a charm.

He’d just been screwin’ up a nut
When somethin’ seemed to crack,
An’ fifty acres, more or less,
Come down on Jones’s back.

Twas sudden-like, a shake, a crack,
A slitherin’ slide, an’ Bill
Was buried fifty feet below
The soil he used to till.

One moment Bill was standin’ up
A-owning all that land,
The next ‘e’s in eternity –
A spanner in ‘is ‘and.

They never dug up no remains
Nor scraps of William Jones –
The superphosphates ate the lot,
Hide, buttons, boots and bones.

For this ‘ere land wot Jones abused
And harassed in the past
‘Ad turned an’ wiped ‘im out, an’ things
Got evened up at last.

From this untimely end o’ Bill
It would perhaps appear
That goin’ free-selectin’ ain’t
All skittles, no, nor beer.

So all you cocky city coves
Wot’s savin’ up yer screws
To get upon the land, look out
The land don’t get on youse.

G.H.Gibson.

This is a bloody beauty……

AUSSIE SPEAK
( this is a coded message that only Aussie’s will understand, see how your foreign mate goes with this)

Well I’ll go to buggery fair dinkum
I thought for sure you’d made a blue
You’re a bottler , a great little Sheila
I’m bloody stoked to be ‘going with’ you

The B and S was a little ball tearer
We was into the turps the whole night
Did some Ute circle work in the morning
‘Baldy’ and ‘Wakka’ had a bit of a yike

The show was held way out yonder
In Jack’s Woolshed, geez he’s a dag
He got knocked back by that bloody big heifer
He chucked a wobbly and was cracking’ the ‘sads’

We knocked off a slab in the arvo
Had a pie with ‘dead horse’ for a snack
Then some ringers had lit up the barby
So we lined up and gave that a crack

All together a pretty fair weekend,
All of us really do ‘hate a beer’
We pinned our ears back and went for the doctor
Now we’re all lookin worse for the wear

Now if you’re a ridgey didge Aussie
You’ll know what I’m yappin about
So pull ya head in, dive into the esky
Mate it’s your bloody shout!

Thanks to Poems by the Crazy Man in the Caravan

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Been brewing this one for a while, (pardon the pun).


The Two Sheet Phantom.

We’ve all been victim of the one, society has bred.
The one who won’t fill the car or sharpen the lead.

Nine tenths of the milk in the carton has been downed.
Only one or two biscuits can be ever be found.

The string on the spool has not enough length.
The toothpaste is near empty, Oh give me strength!

The bar of soap is nought, but a scrap.
The plastic left is a not enough to wrap.

Far worse awaits when nature calls,
Tinkle, tinkle plop, plop your business falls.

Only two sheets left and this isn’t random!
You’re the latest victim of the Two Sheet Phantom!

mudnut.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by mudnut

Been brewing this one for a while, (pardon the pun).


The Two Sheet Phantom.

We’ve all been victim of the one, society has bred.
The one who won’t fill the car or sharpen the lead.

Nine tenths of the milk in the carton has been downed.
Only one or two biscuits can be ever be found.

The string on the spool has not enough length.
The toothpaste is near empty, Oh give me strength!

The bar of soap is nought, but a scrap.
The plastic left is a not enough to wrap.

Far worse awaits when nature calls,
Tinkle, tinkle plop, plop your business falls.

Only two sheets left and this isn’t random!
You’re the latest victim of the Two Sheet Phantom!

mudnut.

---

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dKsFUiS8QPM