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Best Australian Poems

Below are the all-time best Australian poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of Australian poems written by PoetrySoup members

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Goodbye Australian Cat by Radcliffe, Lily
Australian Mysteries -Haiku- by Jones, Cynthia
Australian Ancient Depths Of Time by Schumacker, Earl
Australian opal by van Akkeren, Huberta
The Australian Swagman by Cosgrove, Brian
Australian Teddy Bear by Pettit, Robert
The Australian Outback by Flach, Joe
Australian Stallion by McCrary, Glenn
Nature's Single Dad - The Australian Emu 2 THE DAYS CONTINUE by JAMES, J Eliza

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The Best Australian Poems

Details | Australian Poem | |

I Think Of You - Ground Zero - 1

I Think Of You - Ground Zero (Part 1)

Leaving under a blood moon
                in a jet plane rising
  los angeles falls behind me
and I...


                              Clouds dance
            to the song of the spiders.
Latent sun rays fall on me like rain...I 

...They say third time's the charm.
On planes again.
A sky...endless... and then finally 
from the other end of the world to here.
A continent, an island,
an australian flower drunk on wine.
Her...uniqueness lends to her beauty.
...and I

A fourth night.
A church spire at sunset.
At a distance bats fill the sky,
resemble a smoke plume.

I plead the fifth.
It's all these moons.
Tonight a hunter's moon.
She's unable to hide 
even with her bowl of clouds.
It's no help.
She has no spoon.
                     Her luminous rays give her up.
Moonshine in the moonlight over the sea.

I count...five, 
six...on the beach.
A purple nightshade,
a sand flower,
Irish eyes speak uniquely to me.

I, you...
you can't roll a seven with one die.

Back on a plane.
A snow fog blinding.
From my window seat a one of a kind view.

 I eight...ate...need to eat.

Africa...a Safari.
A plant chloroform green
has holes like cheese.
A large swiss leaf.
I laugh and I...I distract myself.

A stitch in time beats nine.
 Back in North America.
A dilapidated fortress stares down 
an overwhelming thunderhead.

I camp out.
It requires a tenth...tent.
An Eagle never blinks.
No eye lids.
An unimpeded view.

...but I...I surrender.
There is no place in the world
I can escape.

i think of you.

You are living art.
What I perceive 
is what I live.
I perceive us.

I can picture you.
I am photography,
the camera, the lens.
I absorb your image,
process it.
A form of plagiarism

I didn't borrow.
I stole.
Inhaled you but 
I dream
and I...

...i think of you.

March 11 2015

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne

More great poems below...

Details | Australian Poem | |

The Hamburger

For thirty years I’ve been a truckie who has driven far and wide,
Carting goods through day and night all across the countryside…
But hours spent upon the road, do not permit a set routine,
When it comes to dining regular, on healthy style cuisine.	

If there’s time I’ll organize an esky, with ice and cans of coke,
Plus a dozen rounds of sandwiches…‘cause this won’t send me broke,	
Not like the tucker of roadhouses who all serve a similar trait,
With a big bill like a pelican’s and grease to decorate your plate.

But a truckies life is not habitual; the phone’s his driving sign,
If someone’s sick, or broken down, and the company’s on deadline,
There is no time of thoughts ahead; he must consider first the load,
And it’s on these hauls a truckie must buy meals along the road.	

I’d been driving fairly flat out now, for I’d say six weeks or more,
Carting produce down to Adelaide for a distribution store,
Some mornings I would leave at two, and backup a couple of trips,
And live upon that greasy take-away including fish and chips.

But then driving home one evening, I could feel that hunger pain,
Though didn’t feel that I could really cope with roadhouse food again,
For I needed something different, and then this jogged my memory,
There’s a fast food café up ahead that really does cook differently.

I stopped close to the café near the South Australian border,
And walked up to the counter where it says to place your order.
The cook who had his back to me, was making salad rolls to sell,
While dropping chips into the cooker, as he battered fish as well.

And the young girl, who is serving, asked me what I’d like to buy,
But before I gave my answer, one more feature caught my eye,
The cook had gone out to his cool room, and rushed back with a sack,
Then started slicing spuds and onions, while his chips are burning black.

So now by knowing that the backyard chef was well within ear shot,
I nodded, “All right love, well what about, a hamburger with the lot,”
As she was writing down my order, I had some further more to say…
I asked if I could have my burger cooked, in my own special way.

I requested that the bun I get, be very hard and three days old,
The bacon mostly crispy fat, fried onions fatty, burnt and cold,
I want the lettuce limp and bitter, and cucumber piled five high,
A slice of cheese like cardboard. Shredded carrot, brown and dry.

I want my slices of tomato, to be slushy more like juice,
With the egg yolk set like concrete, plus salt and pepper overuse,
I want the meat as black as charcoal, and cooked to a rigid phase,
Then asked her if it’s possible, to drown the lot in mayonnaise.

The cook who had been listening, looked away from boiling fat,
And rudely said, “Fair go mate… I can’t cook, a hamburger like that!”
I raised my eyebrows just a mite and then with tongue in cheek,
I said to him “Why can’t you pal? …You bloody could last week.”

Copyright © Lindsay Laurie

Details | Australian Poem | |

The Knights Crusade

Dearest damsel, thou art my life
If thou want for food, it will always be there
I will offer confit and other gourmet fare

Whatever jewels ye desire I present to you
Be it Australian opals or Colombian gold 
Dearest damsel, thou art are my life

The ravages of nature may threaten ye
But I’ll cool thee in the brutal heat
and warm thee in the bitter cold

I will slay where all the dragons dwell
I'll protect thee from the gates of hell
Dearest damsel, thou art my life

My strength and resolve to win thy love
I will defy the gods above
Until my labors bring fruition

all these enumerations that I have stated
I promise thee with all my heart
Dearest damsel, thou art my life
But thou cannot have my Tapioca

Copyright © Ralph Sergi

Details | Australian Poem | |


I have traveled the world     rode 
the scorching desert on horseback     
Dined in Parisian cafes on the 
Left Bank repulsing the poetry                               
of amorous French men     and
toasted my toes by a roaring fire 
in a chalet high in the Swiss Alps

If you repeat a story until it is absorbed 
into the collective consciousness of 
enough people it becomes the truth     

Doesn't it?     

The world watched TV to see man land 
on the moon     No one noticed that the space 
capsule was an aluminum salt shaker
launched by a slingshot     The elaborate 
pyrotechnics disguised the truth in the hands
No one knows where the shaker ended up 
for the matching pepper shaker was waiting 
in the Australian outback resting on dusty ground
Astronauts romped around leaving footprints 
that the wind later erased     and spouted dialogue
scripted by Tonight Show writers     I could divulge 
the coordinates for the flag they left     
but that would rend the illusion     

I could relate the directions 
to my hometown of 3,000 souls     sister city 
to some Swiss town with an unpronounceable name
with the French-like bakery on the corner by the park
where the town council built a sandbox for the toddlers
But people find pride in their ability to know the truth           

Who am I to tell everyone that man never left Earth     
I never left home     
We all settled for less than we deserved 

Copyright © Monterey Sirak

Details | Australian Poem | |

Lest we forget the bad decisions

Sponsor	Nancy Jones
Contest Name	Things that suck

Lest we forget the Bad decisions …

(Myxo the rabbit steal the Bagmans Bunny),     first use of a deadly weapon
( Cane toads 4 cane beetles,)( 12 atom bombs exploded …what!!!)

Does anyone remember back in 1955 …
 why we were blessed with atom bombs….
we are lucky to be left alive …
The Liberals said its fine…
No need to bloody worry mate….
 12 atom bombs that’s all…
The Poms might us incinerate…(British)
And leave some mushrooms tall…

And we of the convict strain …
10 Thousand died that’s all…(bones kept 12 thousand suspicious deaths….)
Brisbane town a falling radioactive rain …
Geiger counter saw it fall……….tech guy couldn’t zero the counter it got worse near window,
rain in Brisbane…..1955/56
So I said to a Pom you dropped the bomb….
No, a tower they’d had a seat…
Strontium 90 in the milk for some….
Off the grass the cows did eat…….free milk for the school kiddies back then:(…

So the order of the garter …
Was given to some mug …
For atom bombs the barter….
And they surely burnt our rug.. :(
The master is there for the master….
To keep the worker down …..
To contract for the cheapest slave…
Like the business side of town …….

The CSIRO man Marston? In the fifties found enlarged thyroids in sheep he checked all over
Australia Found evidence of the radioactive poisoning of Australia …He tried to warn the
Australian public but only got his comments In some farmers magazine due to political
interference by the master …..

This is what happened and there is a documentry available in the Aussie ABC shop.

Copyright © DON JOHNSON

Details | Australian Poem | |

The Girl From The Mountain

It’s a diaphane, this day, with all the lives, stringed to one another.
The filament of life is asking for something I wouldn’t know.
For this is all but nothing? Or a little something, a little nothing, a little both.
Vertigo! Vertigo! Ends like this. Ends like this.
Little confusion, little confusion, spinning about itself.
Yet wouldn’t know. Wouldn’t know. When to stop and feel stupid.
But now I know. Now I know.
‘til the clouding stops, and mountain starts, I must keep moving. Keep moving.
Keep my shoes clean, and heart abbott.
I’m stupid lot. Stupid lot.

When did sweltering heat become the winter gales?
I won’t hear this, but within earshot.
Restful, yet I fluster. I once took a red road,
Walked into an Australian day, foamed. Now I defoam.
I must listen, all the silent lines in my head.
The fate that vanishes, becomes a feat.
And I wake up, waking up with the fowl flow of a river,
That reminds me of a Syrian night, no antigram to go with it.
                                              So I respawn.

One stream of consciousness, and I recall,
Half my head is underwater, where things are clear.
The other half, wandering about someplace good in a little light weather.
I hope it’s the same Australian day in the ferns.
Hitherto moving along the daylight, hitherthen dreaming twice,
Of the same Syrian night in the fall,
Where I trip over a lazy way off, and toss my thoughts for a call.
Head; and this mountain is all I have in the middle of another day.
So I must not stop, till I see what she’s like in the sun.
Tail; and I hope she likes the Sun.            

But who is she? Is she the mountain I want to see?
I always knew people are, where they are.
And not who they are, I know for sure.
Is it morning yet? I walk indifferent, to the sky that keeps changing.
But to tell this a plethora of it, I do not have one.
I feel one ray on my skin, only dreaming of a myriad.
Now this dream sets my skin, sleep inducing,
Not a ray would wake it up, it will take more.
So I keep walking till I see a lot of mornings.
More than I have ever seen, more than I can take.
                                              I have known for long, tranquility not.

Why do the most beautiful words not sound so good?
Rhapsodic moments take away all the illness, to not feel so good.
Grotesque vestige of my behaviours, wear me out for the rest of the day.
Yet for long, I couldn’t walk so far, not the fear, but the far.
I am never too afraid to not wait, to not walk the red road.
It’s always like this, waiting seems like walking.
So I wait two miles, walk long in gaze, grimace to go with it.
Not a lot of it, but it still is the story that echoes in my head.
Sits calm in the bucolic, watches me wait, watches me walk.
So I must not stop, till I see the Harbinger become so.

This is ineffable, this hearth that has taken the place,
Of mantles in my labyrinth. Love, is the only way I know,
To walk out of it. So I must love what I see.
Penumbra of daily thoughts waiting with me as I walk,
My love is waiting for me in the mountain, as the mountain.
So I must not stop, riparian to this talisman, the one that keeps me going,
Wherewithal to all my quintessence, my love is watching me wait, watching me walk.
And when all lives merge with me, erstwhile.
I must read the first few lines in my head,
And keep going.

They say, this love, it is for someone else to take, but I do not care.
I just keep walking, telling my red road romance,
Submerging into it, the panoply of stories I always needed to tell.
To my love.
The girl from the mountain, I must walk up to her.
For only she can end my vertigo,
Or tell me why I should keep spinning, so I don’t stop and brood into it.
I have always loved her in stranger ways I wouldn't know.

Copyright © Lalit Kumar

Details | Australian Poem | |

'The Wakening World

The Wakening World

A new world spins kaleidoscopic, a whorl of color in revolt.
Oceans quake, molding into fissures of tectonic hunger,
ravaging the deep, stirring the primal need depressing
populations unseen to the denizens of land, left in man’s wake.
From diatom, to whale, from single cell, to open hand 
from sun, to star, to mushroom bomb, we have light.

Within the orb of eye, retinal flares of light
an inside-out, upside-down, yin and yang revolution;
juxtaposing wealth with poverty, throngs rise asking for hand-
outs, aching with a human need to know, hungering.
Childhood ends as the predestined ouroboros wakes.
Death’s rattle subsides, as head eats the tail of depression.

Communication becomes the global antidepressant.
Aborigines in Australian huts and Inuit in igloos see the light.
There will be no holding back the tide, for hand in hand, cells wake.
No longer can knowledge be held. “Phone home,” a revolutionary
cry, the breast will not be ripped from the lips of hungering
humanity, tyrant and saint will be juxtaposed, their time at hand.

Instant contact scrapes the barnacles of blight handily.
The stroke of fingertip to keyboard or keypad depressed
sends ignorance fleeing, freeing the knowledge hungry;
showing the way out, the way up, the key. Light-heartedly
heads bow in prayer, the we will rock you will revolt.
Let tyranny be eaten, and righteousness wake.

On the egg of earth, we float in celestial wakes.
Solar tides stir the shards of glass raising death’s hand.
Round and round the top spins each revolution
forced by the pumping thump of nuclear rods depressed,
rods magnetized or charged with lightening
will energize the populous for we all hunger.

Evolution brings revolution, each thirst quenched brings new hunger.
Repression will never depress the desire to wake,
nor, will the fisted hand ever bring the light.

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi

Details | Australian Poem | |

One Country, One World

Which nation of the world
Do I belong?
I belong to the nation 
Of unity,
No transgression,
And freedom for all.

I belong to the nation 
Of  Equalities-
Equality between 
Proletariat and aristocracy
Disabled and abled
Woman and man
Young and old
Black and colored
People and nation
Right and rule...

I belong to the nation of peace
Across the land, the sea and the sky.
And peaceful stretch to the arboreal.
And Peace of souls,
Of bodies
And minds.

My belonging
Is my strength-
The rhythm that keeps me growing.
Though I was born a Nigerian.
Not I neglects being call
American, Ghanaian, Portuguese
Chinese, Korean, Indian...
Though I'm by virtue 
Of land mass
An African      
Not do I dismiss 
In unison unit 
That type me Asian,
North American,
South American,
And Antarctica.

I belong to
A nation,
A voice...
One country,
One world.

Copyright © Abdulhafeez Oyewole

Details | Australian Poem | |

Thoughts on Citizenship day

    Thoughts on Citizenship day.

                               Frank Halliwell

Can you hear the trumpet fanfare?
And the crowd shouting "hooray"?
Cause they're making me a citizen
Down at the hall today!

Who will make the presentation?
Will it really be the ones
Who have the greatest claim on it,
Or those who had the guns...

To wrest it from those peaceful blacks
Who owned this ancient land
To make a place for criminals,
...The thief and the brigand!

But I'll front up for the paper
And attend the little bash
While the pollies in Canberra
Dip their fingers in the cash...

...And fly around the country 
Visiting ficticious joints
While the Australian taxpayer
Funds their "frequent flyer" points!

"Matilda" always stirs my soul
A song without compare!
But I have reservations on 
"Advance Australia where?"

But I love this land of blue skies
And I have for decades past,
And when the dealer calls my hand
It's here I'll breathe my last...

Where sparkling diamonds fill the night
And nothing dulls the gloss,
Of paradise in southern seas
Beneath the southern cross!

Copyright © frank halliwell

Details | Australian Poem | |

A Gift Horse

In Australian vernacular
he was a ‘flea-bitten’ grey.
Not dappled like a dream horse
but speckled like a rock and not a 
fine large horse like Tom Cable’s
roman-nosed, “Major.”

Dad, had traded for him- two rolls of barbed wire
and a fence strainer.  He came with a used saddle
 and bridle and the high spirits of
 the seldom ridden.

Before he would let us mount him, Dad
knew he had to take the 'curry' out of him.
 Rode him hard, through a ploughed paddock.
Rode him until he stood in a foaming sweat
ears sideways, subdued.

I can’t forget being led, those first few rides
“Don’t let go of his head, Dad” I’m not ready
yet,” and I knew the horse sensed the trembling
 in my being, until one day his bone- jarring trot
 became a solved puzzle.
I felt a gathering- a sense of balance between the 
pony’s mouth, the stirrups and the reins
and from a secret fulcrum
I was posting, “Let him go now, Dad”
I shouted, and my heart and  soul were
 floated to some rhythmic magic.
Around the homestead once and back
I cantered
I pulled the reins, “Whoa boy!”

That first halt, obeyed,  filled my head
for days and days.

Suzanne Delaney

Copyright © Suzanne Delaney

Details | Australian Poem | |

3 things I take with

         Gifted with 3 things  on a deserted Island what do I bring .
           Having clothes on,   a smart phone wet not smart at all
              For you have hope in store when you can not make a call ..

         ~ A sharpest of knives that starts fire 
               Ugg boots Australian built resilient  
                  A pot to boil water pure from the salt  ~
         This being a hard choice for it's these I desire  ~
           Belgium chocolate,  coffee with evaporated milk
               Tea  & sugar to last a decade , paper , pen 
                  A goose down blanket under stars ,warming like silk

           my favorite books , The four agreements 
                A working I pod, guitar, for music is my muse ..

          A Bible to read so I can keep my faith higher ~
          After becoming one with all nature I call this my own
             Now bring me a prozac and a cell phone 
            "   A special forces man ...oh no , temptation,  I may not come home ! "
           Yet being true to self , and my soul unfolds..
      ~ For I love and miss my children , what is life without them to hold ~
      "written for Shadows contest on 10-8-13"

Copyright © Shanity Rain

Details | Australian Poem | |



                                                Two men on horseback 
                                                hidden from authorities
                                                in Australian bush 
                                                On the creek that flows slowly
                                                their eyes are drowned in the sky


Copyright © Ruben O.

Details | Australian Poem | |

Divine Intervention


While flying from Uruguay to America,
I experienced some fearful problems,
Some were real and some nightmares.
I was tossing my handbag left and right
I heard a sermon my mother used to sing
I was quite engrossed for a few minutes
Forgetting all the problems I was worried about.
Hey, my co-traveler said, “your tape is running”
I remembered recording my mother’s voice
I think my mother came as protecting force
Giving an edge over my imaginative problems.
A mother is next to godliness, God personified.

An event of March, 2010 confirms my belief.
An Australian mum brings her premature baby son
Back to life by loving cuddles when chances none.
The doctors battled for twenty minutes gave up
Of saving her lifeless baby boy of 27 weeks.
Doctors gave the child to the mother to say goodbye
The grieving mother cuddled him tightly two hours
Bringing back her son to life, weighing 2 lbs.
Twenty minutes of science, two hours of love.
I bet it is nothing else but divine intervention

September 19, 2014
Form: Free Verse

***Second part of the poem relates to a miracle happened in Australia. Anyone interested to read more, here is the link*** 

Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta

Details | Australian Poem | |

Ned Kelly bush ranger

Ned Kelly, bush ranger.

An Australian bush ranger
Of Irish descent
He roamed through our ranges
With evil intent.

His name was Ned Kelly
He earned so much fame
Teaming up with his brothers
To rob was their game

He killed him, some policemen
There were three of them
And so repercussions 
From this evil did stem

When one day there came
 Knocking at his door
Some men of Authority
The arm of the law.

His life was cut short
They hung him one day
In old Melbourne town
His life slipped away

Now he is a legend
Most hold him on high
To me he was evil
And evil must die.

Vera Duggan 4 July 2014

Copyright © Vera Duggan

Details | Australian Poem | |

The Thinker

Koala the Australian version of. “The Thinker”, sits high. Ponders the spicy tang of his next meal then, he’ll sleep for hours. People gawk at him, as he munches eucalyptus.

Copyright © M. L. Kiser

Details | Australian Poem | |

EPS Syndrome

My Dogs have the dreaded multiseasonal EPS syndrome “Eat-Poop-Sleep”.
But not my Dragon, so clever, he’s added mischief to this illustrious heap.
He has our Australian Cattle dog herding the penguins up the street.
The Gutter frogs hop along, checking out future gutters for to keep.

The little Closet Trolls are weighing in, to help exercise the lot down the sidewalks!
They’ve even saddled up our cats, so we can add them, too. What an amazing shock!
Our forest friends and even the friendly bear, disturbs his sleep each day, for this walk.
You ought to see the neighbors run when we come on parade, right down the block.

Tho, it might be Hubby’s Basement Trolls who scare them, as we walk the street.
They’re bringing up the rear. Yes, on Pooper scooping patrol. They are so sweet!
And the little Closet Trolls have convinced every squirrel to taunt the dogs…
By running across the street, and yes, up every single tree, to make them, jump and jog!

Dragon has everyone involved as he wears a sign… for his new project and job…
The sign: “Pet Walking for every pet! We Don’t come Cheap, but we’re not snobs!”
Surprisingly, we now, find pets tied up at all the neighborhood doors…
With money in their collars… waiting to join in all the walks, for sure…

We wander down the street, thru the park, and to the ice cream parlor, with its allure.
Wind, rain, snow, and cold… does not stop this glorious prevail, on it’s tour.
For Dragon loves his ice cream…and the others they do, too, those tasty treats, to procure.
I come along to make sure no one is left out… in this quest for ice cream, de jure.

Eat, Poop, Sleep…Well, to this: I say my lovely peeps…
“Piddle Dee Dee… and Piddle De Dum”
Look Out for Dragon’s business… For Here We Come!
The Dog days of winter… are no longer Hum Drum!

Remember: a dream, using a mind… can create something, quite sublime!

Copyright © Carol Eastman

Details | Australian Poem | |

A Sanctuary-safe and strong-w

People don’t have to migrate to be citizens to this palace,
Over here life burning well creativity is the ash
Even the poorest gets the best sanctuary
The status not inevitable here in this heaven
Rare infusion of mind and heart, not an illusion
Yearning to write and to be read with pleasure 
Poets, writers, commoners, dreamers old and young
An African-Asian-European-Australian-American all
Lands are free, homes are beaming with activities
A problem of racism unknown, prejudice, malice dead
Come all sane, insane, to record the best or the worst
Eventually let the Goddess of poetry soothe our hearts.

First place win in:
Contest: Poetry palace sponsored by Linda-Marie

Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta

Details | Australian Poem | |



And Introducing 
The arch enemy:
((Political Correctness and Health and Safety))

Ladies and Gentlemen: boys and girls. Peter Pan is set to strike again.

A sequel to J.M. Barrie’s classic tale will be published in the very near future, in which Tinkerbell will be replaced by a male fairy named Firefly, the Darling little children are all grown up, Neverland is blighted by pollution and Nana the dog, is sadly dead. 

Darryl Ashton has obtained this exclusive interview with Peter Pan to find out what went wrong. Peter says: “What has the world come to when someone like me is no longer allowed in children’s bedrooms? OK, so at first inspection things don’t sound too great.
I am someone who climbs secretly through children’s  bedroom windows. I have a friend called Tinkerbell who is, yes, a ‘Fairy’. The two of us tell the little Darlings’ to forget about their parents and come away with us on a big adventure to Neverland. But relax, will you! 
Looking’ back I guess my problems really began when I started planning this return trip to Britain after some 100 years. Do you know how hard it is for a guy like me to get the paper work together? By the time Childcare Agencies, Social Services and The Criminal Records Bureau had vetted me, the magic was wearing pretty thin, I can tell you.

Was I self – employed? Or were Tinkerbell and I in a VAT – registered partnership? Did I have a pilot’s licence, which met all compliance standards? Did I have the relevant Visa for tourists from Non – EU countries? Questions, questions! Don’t all these regulations get you down? Anyway, as Tinks and I soon came to discover, Britain has changed beyond all recognition in the years we have been away.
Our first discovery, much to our horror, was Wendy, and her brothers John and Michael, were some time ago taken into foster care. We learnt that their parents, who were in the habit of leaving them in the care of Nana the dog, had been stripped of access to the children.

TV crews chased Mr and Mrs Darling down the street and a police guard had to be placed outside their door to prevent vigilante gangs from attacking them. Well, that was all too much for Nana the dog who was carted off to an RSPCA hospital, where she was soon being seen by a strange Australian man with a beard and a didgeridoo, who said he could make her a star, on, Animal Hospital.  

Nana said she’d rather be put down, so after a quick call to an assisted suicide group called Dognitas, the old dear’s now pushing up the daises next to Shep in Blue Peter’s garden. Such a waste, she’d been trained by Norland, you know. 
But I don’t suppose that means much these days.

Unsurprisingly, the Darling children went rapidly down hill from there. Shunted from one foster home to another, they fell in with the wrong crowd. Before long, Michael was wearing a hoodie and worse, hanging out with Prince Harry’s lot. As for little John, without any proper father figure to look after him, he found solace in a new faith, changed his name to Sinbad, and was last heard of heading for the Afghan hills for a spiritual vacation. Which is why Wendy got back in touch with yours truly.

So with no one else left to help her, Wendy closed her eyes tight and sent a wish to her old mate Peter Pan. I must confess, when her message first popped up on my Blackberry, I winced. Is there nowhere the office can’t reach me these days? Even Neverland? So I made a few calls, and whaddya know? Hookie agreed to help me out. Yes, I know he’s a rogue and bounder who has polluted the whole of Neverland, after swapping the Jolly Roger for a fleet of turbo charged jet skis. 

Big mistake. We’d scarcely set foot in London before the anti – terrorism squad and Hookie was carted off to Belmarsh. You should have heard him shouting when they took him away! “I am Hook, one time bosom to Blackbeard. The only man to send a shiver up the wooden stump of, Long John Silver. The only consolation for the poor Captain was that the crocodile never made it through the security checks at Neverland Airport”. The other passengers heard that clock ticking in its belly and said they would not travel unless the croc was chucked off the flight.

As for Tinkerbell, no sooner had she returned to her old haunts than a gay rights group called Stonewall said it was totally unacceptable for her old name to be retained. When asked for an explanation, they just threw their eyebrows to the ceiling, sucked in their lips like lemon quarters and gasped: Firely was so much more ‘now’. They even wanted Tinks to change her gender, but we’re still negotiating on that. The Elf’s trade union is pretty sticky on that sort of alteration.

The fairy costumes had to go too, something to do with stereotyping. But when I showed Tinks her new thong, her little pilot light went out altogether, and I’m afraid no amount of Polish plumbers can get it started again. So now I’m stranded and alone, with only my shadow for company. Even Wendy has cut off contact after getting a six – figure deal to appear on a Celebrity show---get me out of here! All of this I can tell you, is incredibly upsetting.

What has happened to Britain these days? I know Neverlands not perfect, but it’s a place where time stands still – and innocence is preserved and I like it that way. Today’s inspectors and officials all say that they’re only interested in protecting children. But by imagining the worst of people they are only wrecking the very innocence they presume to defend.

As I was telling the tooth fairy the other day: “You know Gums, sometimes I wonder if childhood itself is vanishing”. And do you know what she said in reply: “Sorry Pete, I’ve gone private. If you want a consultation, you’ll have to pay up front”.
How about ‘Pay – as – you – go? Sorry Pete, it’ll Neverland!

DARRYL ASHTON                                                      


Copyright © Darryl Ashton

Details | Australian Poem | |


I raised an Australian dingo,
no name came to mind but Ringo;
he jumped on me,
ripped my clothes daily...
it costed me plenty of money!

Only once I left him alone;
good grief... my furniture was torn!
Oh, should I be mad...
or be kind instead?
I'll sleep over it for tonight!

All Ringo did was run, bark and howl,
mistaking a small cat for an owl;
They took him away
to the zoo today;
he'll whimper form his cage, not rest!

I'll take him back, lest he behaves;
his lesson he'll learn:  good manners!
Now, Ringo just stares
to earn forgiveness...
it's fun to play with him and laugh!

Copyright © Andrew Crisci

Details | Australian Poem | |

From anxiety to Joy

From anxiety to joy

Hi to all my friends
   I decided to write this story of me down, because I see so many unhappy people on this site. They make this very clear to me when I read some of their beautiful poems. I have tried telling it in verse, but now I feel it is time to write it down in prose

    When I was a child I was not happy because I had very strict parents who robbed me of all my freedom. I was a very freedom loving boy and I felt so totally restricted in a family that never could and never would understand me. There was a lot of psychological cruelty handed out to me by my Father and a hell of lot of bullying, I was subjected to by the other kids, I came from a very rough part of London called Peckham, and I was an extremely sensitive young lad.

    When I grew up I married a beautiful Australian girl named Vera who is still my beloved wife after fifty years. We immigrated to Australia, and after about three months, I decided to join the army, and I volunteered to go to Vietnam, so I could pay back the kindness that the Australians had Showed me by receiving me to their beautiful country.

     I served in Vietnam for about nine and a half months, then they decided to ship me back to Australia because of injuries and illness. when I came back my troubles all started and I developed PTSD, even though I had not really been in much danger during my days of war. I was filled with a terrible anxiety, and  was absolutely terrified of both life and death. I had these periods of deep, deep dread that completely ruled my life. I was angry most of the time, and I detested everybody I ever met with a vengeance so hard to understand

     This got worse and worse as the year proceeded, and I tried everything to control it, from counselling to reading every kind of self help books, and I read every religion, and all the stuff by so many different Spiritual teachers until I had a bookcase brim filled with all the books I had read. I tried every kind of meditation, plus yoga, Tai chi, and many other things. However, nothing worked. They helped a bit but not enough to stop the ugly terror I felt.

    Then one day I came across a man named John Sherman on the net, who has helped so many people, and thousands of people now practice what he advocates with much success.

     John told me that all I had to do was close my eyes and look at the me ness of me, it was as simple as that. At first I laughed at him with this simplistic approach to gaining back ones sanity. But I was desperate; I had walked out on my wife for a year and given everything I had away. My anger was getting worse and worse, and when I finally came back to my family, I really wasn’t worth being with. My wife tolerated me because she loved me so totally, but I could tell that I was leading her into Pyschological, of physical illness.

    So I gave John’s method a try, I meditated every day using my me ness as a meditation point. I don’t mean my thoughts or sensations, emotions or such. I mean the ‘me’ the part of me that actually runs the show. The ‘me’ that always seems hidden but is always there in the background. I noticed some changes in me very quickly, but then the progress came slower, but very steady.  Now I have been doing this for nearly five years and the difference in me is phenomenal. I am so happy now, that I could almost scream with joy. I have no more anxiety any more, and the dread that once debilitated is totally gone.

     My neurotic fear of death has faded, and although I don’t want to die, when it comes I will be totally ready for it. My life is so beautiful these days and everything seems so beautiful, and crystal clear. These days I walk on feather feet, and I am so grateful to John and his wife Carla for what they gave to me. I really want to share this with anyone who cares to listen. You would not believe how beautiful my life is these days.  Thank you for reading, all you who reached the end of this story. I hope it helps you as it most certainly helped me….Peter.

Copyright © Peter Duggan

Details | Australian Poem | |

Divine intervention-w

While flying from Uruguay to America,
I experienced some fearful problems,
Some were real and some nightmares.
I was tossing my handbag left and right
I heard a sermon my mother used to sing
I was quite engrossed for a few minutes
Forgetting all the problems I was worried about
Hey, my co-traveler said, “your tape is running”
I remembered recording my mother’s voice
I think my mother came as protecting force
Giving an edge over my imaginative problems.
A mother is next to godliness, God personified.

An event of March, 2010 confirms my belief.
An Australian mum brings her premature baby son
Back to life by loving cuddles when chances none
The doctors battled for twenty minutes gave up
Of saving  her lifeless baby boy born at 27 weeks.
Doctors gave the child to the mother to say goodbye
The grieving mother cuddled him tightly two hours
Bringing back her son to life, weighing 2 lbs.
Twenty minutes of science two hours of love
I bet it is nothing else but divine intervention

Second part of the poem relates to a miracle happened in Australia. Anyone interested to read more, here is the link 

Sixth place winner in
Contest: Divine Intervention in honor of Catie Lindsey

Copyright © Dr.Ram Mehta

Details | Australian Poem | |



My Name? 
I'll set the record straight, right now for what it's worth
Wordancer was not the name my mother gave me at my birth.
My avatar can be Emu, Fairy, Frog, or a dinner suited Wagtail 
Like the one who tattles to the birds when a Cat is on their trail.
This Poetically Spirited Soup shows there’s a welcome at the door, 
I don't know you; you don't know me, I'll see you on the dance floor 

As I travel through this varied life other names I sometimes own,
Like, Eliza and Threadneedle, they're all part of me alone.
On the Southern Fleurieu Peninsula, on the South Australian coast
Near the town of Yankalilla, is the place that I haunt most,
And if you're ever down our way the door is left ajar
You'll be welcome whether travelling from close by or from afar.

Oh yes, I love to dance.


Copyright © J Eliza JAMES

Details | Australian Poem | |

Immigration Policy

All immigrants or persons migrating into Australia shall be extended no more courtesy that the average Australian unless unusual circumstances can be justified
No financial aid will be offered to any person migrating to Australia unless unusual circumstances can be justified
24 months after becoming an Australian citizen will be first time a migrant shall be allowed to claim for any financial assistance of any sort from the Australian government unless unusual circumstances can be justified
All Australian traditions, icons, beliefs, and religions shall not be defaced in any way; if they are then the person or persons responsible shall be required to leave Australia and citizenship and passport will be revoked unless unusual circumstances can be justified
All immigrants shall follow Australian law
No employer shall be allowed to pay a migrant a lower rate of pay than an ordinary Australian would receive in the same position in accordance to the award wage. If an employer is found guilty of underpaying workers they shall be shipped to PNG and passport revoked after reimbursing twice the amount of money owed unless unusual circumstances can be justified

Copyright © Gordon Andrews

Details | Australian Poem | |

The River Of Tar

The River Of Tar
Kevin L Fairbrother

The river of tar… an artery
A means to access the highways
Branching through capillaries of roads
Penetrating the Australian landscape
The river of tar weaves and wanders
Through cities, towns and villages
Along the coast, in the mountains
To the dessert land of the outback
The river of tar, provides the means
For a diverse population to live
A life blood for so many
Scattered through-out the land
The river of tar melds with the gravel
Reaching small towns away from the cities
Unites with the red dirt roads that access
Outback stations and dessert communities
The river of tar makes it possible, to
Grow and harvest the food we need
To mine and export the minerals
The fruit and vegetables that grow abundantly
The river of tar provides an access
To the ports to harvest the sea
For the tourists to experience
Our great Australian diversity
The river of tar a grey nomads dream
Living a life of adventure before dementure
Experiencing the pioneering spirit
Keeping so many small towns alive
The river of tar we owe our for-bares
The explorers, the pioneers, now long gone
Blazed the many roads we see today
Enabling everyone to see our great land

Copyright © Kevin Fairbrother

Details | Australian Poem | |


A crisp Outback day. . . .
Two jackaroos pause midstream.
Breathing in nature,
they hear cool rushing water
and feel the sun at their backs.

Written 2/21/12 and based on a picture  
of Australian cowboys.

Copyright © Andrea Dietrich