Best Aborigine Poems


Gold Fever

Gold Fever 

History will not record the bloated weight
Of this pious and bigoted race 
Or count the fat and flaccid wealth
Of religions idolatry

Those pages have been scrubbed clean
By prosperous forgivingness 
And the cruelty of established political dominion
Will not tally the bodies of the oppressed

To them, faith and belief are merely a weapon
A system of abusive control 
And a means of power continuation
A dictatorial right to rule the population

History will not record the inheritance of opinion
But lay blind at the doors of massacre
The Aztec, The Aborigine, The North American Indian, The African *****, 
Pray in silence to The Church

Centuries written in blood and torture
For a message of verbiage and usage
Extracted and leeched from the poor and uneducated
Created the western dream

The long night of the witch hunt is not over
The Inquisition has saved us
With fake blood and wooden crosses
This elite of moral perspective shall save us all

We have paid the price in conscience
Superiority managed by white skinned indifference
Holy mother church has welcomed all
All into its iron embrace of slack jawed wonder

And what more despicable rule can there be
Than to dictate ones own spiritual journey
Spouted by the rote of political expediency
And the promise of heaven

Ingrained now this so called Christian ethic
And so much of the truth left distorted
Forgotten now are the ancient mystical secrets
Which united mankind to understanding

Idol of gold and crucifixion
Of cathedral and stained glass objectification
Gilt and holy water of sumptuous ritual
Of silken pope and luxurious self righteous invention

An aberration of human faith and belief
An unrepentant destroyer of “ Loves ” dream 
The curse of The Christ as you continue to translate
The Word

And where the paupers fist crunches the dirt
Where dried and parched lips pray for rain
Where the desperate cry for a reason echoes
Where blood flows in feted anger
Where children scream in fear
Where hunger and despair debase and demean 
Where there is no light
And in the dark only pain

If you wish to care for the souls of mankind
Preacher
It is there with them
There
Is where you should be

Yellow Dog's Eyes

Is there danger in the glow of the campfire?
In the strangers words not understood in the night?
Watch the drover move the mob before the morning light.
What's the thinking behind the yellow dog’s eyes?

How long is it since the tongue first licked the hand?
How many years did he follow the Aborigine around?
Who built the fences? Who offered the easy prey at night?
That's the thinking behind the yellow dog’s eyes!

Who learnt to take a backward step with the paling of the skin.
Taking out some early battles - the stranger would not give in.
Now see the broad hat miles away - it's best to run than fight.
That's the thinking behind the yellow dog’s eyes!

Is there danger in the glow of the campfire?
In the strangers words not understood in the night?
Watch the drover move the mob before the morning light.
What's the thinking behind the yellow dog’s eyes?

Yellow dog - how long did it take you to be the colour of the sand?
Yellow dog - there's no trust in you when another lamb goes down!
Howls of protest draw the light.
Death is on the march tonight
right between the yellow dog’s eyes.

Is there danger in the glow of the campfire?
In the strangers words not understood in the night?
Watch the drover move the mob before the morning light.
What's the thinking behind the yellow dog’s eyes?

Worthless World

In the world wide and broad 
Aborigine, distort and deform 
Out of hatred and disgust 
We kill each of us! 
Humanity dies by the hands of human 
Brutality become familiar member 
Kindness and emotions broke up with chamber  
All seems dull and dead 
No life left, maybe it’s the end.


If History Was Food Part 2

If history was food part 2

Australia's Beckoning Call

Can you hear the distant echo of the 
hauntingdidgeridoo,                                   
as it pulses through the airwaves?  Yes, my friend it’s calling you.          
To this land beneath the Southern Cross, it welcomes one and all, 
and its drone spells out a message.  Can you hear its beckoning call? 
                    
So come share our hospitality and shake an Aussie hand. 
Mate, enjoy a trip down under … share the culture of our land.      
It abounds with nat’ral beauty from its coasts to Uluru          
and you’ll share our nation’s freedom just like we have learnt to do. 
 
You’re invited friends to join us on a wond’rous holiday,                
where the sun, our surf and golden sands are yours in which to play.  
We’ve the Opera House and Harbour Bridge, The Reef and Kakadu         
and experience the magic of a Darwin sunset too. 
                
Can you hear the distant echo of the 
hauntingdidgeridoo,                                   
as it pulses through the airwaves?  Yes, my friend it’s calling you.          
To this land beneath the Southern Cross, it welcomes one and all, 
and its drone spells out a message.  Can you hear its beckoning call? 
 
Come and cuddle a Koala, feed our unique kangaroo, 
see our Emu and our wombat and our talking cockatoo.  
Boil a billy, bake a damper, share a campfire’s flick’ring light,  
in our vast Australian outback on a glorious star filled night. 
 
See the paintings and the craftwork of the aborigine 
and experience the stories of their dreamtime history. 
More than anything you do here or wherever you may roam 
we’d just like to say you’re welcome and please make yourself at home. 

Can you hear the distant echo of the haunting 
didgeridoo,                                   
as it pulses through the airwaves?  Yes, my friend it’s calling you.          
To this land we call Australia, it welcomes one and all, 
and its drone spells out a message.  Can you hear its beckoning call?

Premium Member Bleedin' Poetry

The ringmaster left 
but the carnival stayed in town.
Erect, proud, empowered people
stride by living the Crayola dream.
Awash in color, characters in the screenplay,
the scene played with aborigine like dream walkers.

No surface left to its utilitarian plight,
all stroked and stoked with the creativity
of the artist, all crooned to by boombox
and skateboard smack, or the concrete
slap of a mariachis’ feet.

The burnt bright white light shivers
to a Hendricks strum, and the caffeinated come
one by one hooked in to hook up,
to the juke boxes sixties twang.

Children play on Aztec snakes rising
from a soft foam of green with
mosaic skin and glass eyes
freed from the restrictions, the confines, 
the confounded, gay, straight, bi, free
bleeding poetry.


Mr White Man You Are My Brother

Mr. White Man you are my brother
I am a Black man from Africa
Give me your friendly hands
And I will feel at home in this world

Mr. White Woman you are my sister
I am a Black Woman from Africa
Give me your that family closeness
And I will feel so loved and happy

Mr. White Man I am your brother
I am a Black Man from Congo
Give me your compassionate heart
And all the conflicts will end here

Mr. White Man you are my brother
I am an Arab from the Middle East
Give me your brotherly affection
And refugee problems will be history

Mr. White Man I am your brother
I am an Aborigine from Australia
Give me brotherly regards so sweet 
And all of us shall be color-blind

White Man, Black Man, Coloreds
In this temporal existence on earth
Humanity is above everything else
Let us sit down and laugh together

We sing trade union hymn of solidarity
For one life, one humanity, one earth

Unchained

Unchained,
free of commitment
Explained,
in her persistence

Heartache, trust issues,
her skeletons run a muck.
Physical and mental abuse,
she finally left that schmuck

Charming,
her benevolent smile
Enchanting,
and extremely versatile

***


Self-contained,
committed to money
Unrestrained,
when he tells his stories

Lone wolf in a den of solace,
independence from captivity.
Free from emotional malice,
let go with a sense of chivalry.

Contingency,
alone feeling festive
Aborigine,
a supple beauty so majestic

Explicit, this voluptuous vixen,
feasting on my fragility!
Wrapped nude in Egyptian linen, 
irresistible!!

"I'll be your huckleberry"


Jared Pickett
3/7/2014
Asavvy1

Who Will Sing Their Praises?

It was when I paused a moment from my workload’s pressing call 
that I gazed upon the picture frames which lined my office wall 
and I sensed a strange sensation and was soon to be beguiled 
by the host of beaming faces as six generations smiled. 
 
Though I laud the pioneering skills my grandfathers had showed, 
my thoughts drifted to the women-folk who also walked that road 
and it dawned that all our chronicles, our ballads, poems too 
failed to sing the women’s praises in the way they ought to do. 
 
From the dreamtime of our nation and the Aborigine, 
long before the new white visitor arrived from ‘cross the sea, 
the indigenous black mothers would seek out bush tucker food 
in an effort to give sustenance to her nomadic brood. 
 
And the wretched convict woman with her love-child by her side 
forced to labour in the work house - and in vain as her child died – 
how she struggled for existence in the infant colony 
with the hope of serving out her time and one day being free. 
 
Loyal wives of military men who too were forced to dwell 
far away from native England and to live here quite a spell; 
also women of free settlers proud to stand beside their men 
in a land of sweat and sorrow and rebuild their lives again.

When the question of imbalance of the genders rose its head, 
many women sought to emigrate and hoped that they would wed; 
but the immigration policy developed many flaws 
till the Chisolms of the century took up the women’s cause. 
 
Once the mountains to the west were crossed the steadfast settler's wife 
looked to find a piece of country where she might live out her life: 
far from comforts of the cities to some isolated run 
where she fought a running battle with the searing summer sun - 

Where a slab hut was her castle - where a white ant bed the floor – 
where she always had a handout for the traveller at the door. 
Though she bore a swag of youngsters with the aid of her black friend, 
sadly some would battle whooping cough: it won out in the end. 
 
CONTINUED

Premium Member An Albanian Aborigine

Almost all aborigines are Australian
And are apparently also Albanian
Although an amateur actor and atheist
Allegedly also an arsonist
Asked an adjacent Albanian
Are any Albanians Australian
An ardent and arrogant activist
And actually an able archivist
Abruptly answered accordingly 
All answers are always affordably
Available at advisory areas
And an agent adept at arias
Answers abruptly affirmative
And adds an adapted alternative
An anatomically accurate assessment 
And Albanian Australian attestant
An aborigine and an Australian
Aren’t actually actual Albanian



29 June 2922
Contest: Begin With A Letter
Sponsor: Angela Tune

I Am

I am an Indian, an Aborigine, Arab,
Greek, Norde, African, Chinese..... I am
a human whose alphabet and genes tell tales
of my ancestors' journeys and cultures, as they
roamed around the world; tales about how cultures
were absorbed, or influenced others; kingdoms that reigned,
and kingdoms that collapsed.
Coliseums, Stonehenge, Pyramids of Giza, Ghana’s Gate of No Return,
Taj Mahal, and many other historical spectacles, tell a piece of my
ancestors’ tales….tales that prove that I am you and me; tales that prove
 we are part of a web that link us to an original source. Languages,
cultures, and races, are quickly merging together, helping all of us to complete
the Script of our purpose and origin. Finally, “I AM” will reflect in our souls,
as our Divine Source!

The Aborigine Boy

The aborigine boy, his poor young heart was yearning
For the young raven haired girl, a passion was quickly burning
He was to carve his first boomerang to prove he was a man
If it returned back to him, he would carry out his plan.

He took the mulga branch and checked it was just so
The angle was correct, he couldn’t wait for his first throw
He split the branch and picked the piece that he knew would work
He had learnt from his ancestors, his walkabouts he never did shirk.

The branch he split, he took a stone and carved his mulga with care
He wanted it to fly and return, then win his maiden with raven hair
He inscribed it with his love and painted it with ochre of red
He took it to the outback and threw his first throw with a dread.

The boomerang did spin, it twisted and then dropped
The young aborigine felt his love and life, had suddenly stopped
He tried again he flicked his wrist it spun up heavenward
It spun it’s last spin and once again it was then floored.

His love was slipping away, a man he was not to be
His raven haired love, his bursting heart would never see
He tried and tried and then with a long last flick of his wrist
He had learnt the way he saw; he pounded the air with his fist.

His boomerang started to turn; it started on its first return
He danced as he watched it, and he felt his loins begin to burn
He jumped up and down waiting; he saw a glint of red
He knew he had done it, when it smacked him in the head

He had learnt to make his weapon 
But his plan did not quite hatch
In learning to make the boomerang,
He forgot to learn how it to catch…

© 21/01/2013~GG~
Contest entry:
Inspiration came from Seren Roberts Poem 'Always To Return'

G'Day Part 2 a Poem For Don

“We’ll need to get him good and drunk, 
So then we can have our way. 
As a Sheila he’ll go in the trunk, 
Then we’ll put him on display.” 

Sam had his sister’s evening gown, 
And a pair of high heeled shoes, 
A stunning rhinestone tiara crown, 
And a pocket book of Sue’s. 

We’ll need to find a place somewhere, 
Where we can trick him into drinkin’. 
Then we’ll strip him of his underwear, 
And teach him a thing fair dinkum. 

Just then my truck hit a rut, 
And the crate flew in the air. 
My left wheel lost a single nut 
But it only started with a pair. 

We drove on for a little way 
Until the axle snapped in two. 
We watched our cargo hop away 
What a lucky kangaroo. 

Under the truck I went just to get a peek, 
To see if we were even in the game. 
That’s when I spotted the petrol leak 
And the whole thing went up in flame. 

Sam pulled me out and stripped me bare, 
‘Cause my clothes were all on fire. 
My **** was barbied medium rare 
By my smoldering attire. 

Sam wrapped his hand with his own shirt, 
Then he opened up the door. 
He bravely made a grab for the skirt, 
Because that’s what friends are for. 

We were lost out in the outback 
Stuck up the proverbial gum tree. 
The sun gave us a blistering attack,
Because we were dressed like Aborigine.
© Tony Lane  Create an image from this poem.

Premium Member Alphabet On Display

Abominable Aborigine
Boycotted Baltimore’s Bakery
Canady Canola’s Cannery
Decoded deceitful debauchery

Endless energetic energy
Forwarded farmyard frolicking for a fee
Geographically greeting in Germany
Hardcopy happiness hee hee hee

Ignoring ignorance illegally
Juicy juggling juggernauts
Kettledrums, Kenya and Kentucky
Livening up our literacy
Maniac madness in a manatee

Nightingale nips so nervously
October’s ocelot obviously….
Paralyzes Petunia Parkway’s parenthesis
Quaking quail quickly qualifies me

Relaying relative radioactivity
Scapegoats and scarecrows so scantily
Treat Tajikistan twice tactfully
Undermining Ukraine’s utter ukulele

Vaporizing various vanities
Wicked Washington warrants wisely
X-rays xylophones ‘xtra-instantly
Yellow jackets yield young yearly
Zippy Zeus’s zesty zoology zings with zeal between you and me.

Memorial Tree

On a park beside the Murray
on a state park boundary,
amongst red gums and black box
and the silver wattle tree,
there’s a place to go exploring
with a thousand things to see,
on the weekly Thursday ritual
for Gary, Tom, and me.

We’d sit and watch Tom wander,
speak about a boundary tree
that’s significance in history
is for the local aborigine.
There are markers in the river
for the boat fraternity,
and a place with peace and quiet
for Gary, Tom, and me.

But the first call for our Tommy
was to cock his leg and pee,
on a red gum that’s still growing
to leave his message; ‘this is me!’
And before it’s time to leave
it’s back to have another wee.
That red gum on the Murray will,
always be, Tom’s memorial tree.

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