Best Dray Poems
There once was a farmer called Mr Brown
Who with his duck in tow went off to town
The duck panicked and quacked all the way
The farmer had his fill and left the duck in the dray
Then disappeared into the Rose & Crown
There once was a duck left in the dray
Who settled down nicely in the hay
Then farmer Brown he did returned
To the noisy duck he had spurned
The duck had three golden eggs lay
The now inebriated farmer Brown was elated
On his newly found wealth he then debated
The duck was relieved in more ways than one
Otherwise off to the market she was gone
Thinking of her fate had he not waited
There once was a farmer Brown and his duck
Who both could not believe their newfound luck
Farmer Brown on himself a new tractor did spend
And the amazing duck got herself a brand new pen
Not strung up with her feathers ready to pluck
Down in the meadow, bees are buzzing away
cows laze about, after feeding all day
Wildflowers attract butterflies, in pastel arrays
lapping up nectar, in the warm sunny rays
Down in the meadow, lambs frolic and play
ladybirds climb grass tufts, that gently sway
A farmer wipes his brow, whilst loading hay
midges swirl about, as young horses neigh
Down in the meadow, goldfinches come to lay
gobbling down thistle seeds, without delay
Baby spiders spin webs, in more than one way
none of them mind each other, so all’s ok
Down in the meadow, an old donkey brays
don’t think he’s cross, just dislikes his dray
The residents don’t care, what this ass says
all have things to do, and ignore me anyway
Where the forest is still virgin and the lyrebirds often call,
the bronze-wing comes to drink, and the ferns are growing tall,
there are deer prints in the mud, and there’s leeches seeking prey…
this little creek meanders on its way.
Where a pothole track goes winding through the burgan and ti-tree,
mountain ash and messmate stumps are overgrown history
from loggers in the forests, and the straining bullock dray…
this little creek meanders on its way.
Where recreation parks have forced a need for clearing of the bush,
where this grassland in the mountain now welcomes the human push,
and the platypus is unperturbed, where it’s still prepared to play…
this little creek meanders on its way.
Where lands been cleared and now the pines are planted in a row.
It’s all green but foreign and where nothing else will grow.
And king parrots or black cockies, have found their seeds okay…
this little creek meanders on its way.
Where dairy farms are greener than you ever think you’ll see,
blackberry hugs the banks with, bootlace bush and goodia pea,
and so mournful through the valley is the calling from the jay…
this little creek meanders on its way.
Where it’s back again to virgin scrub and hugging closer to a hill,
where the pools are getting deeper with backwaters black and still.
And the mother stream Latrobe, awaits the Loch, to draw away…
this little creek meanders on its way.
This little valley’s heaven for the angler coming here,
not only for the fishing, but the peace that’s always near.
Where one can reach the grassy banks of the chosen course,
then meander with the little creek, rippling from its source.
There’s a dearth of hides and cover for the trout who ‘hog’ the stream.
They chase the spinner to the edge, when they see the twirling gleam.
And where some take the triple hooks while others get away…
this little creek meanders on its way.
Cap’n Thunderbolt
The moon stood out
Any traps about
Cap’n Thunderbolt did ask
He was on the road again
Brown snake for break-in-fast
The Drover said they went way north
Blacktracker with em eh
Following your week old tracks, old mate
When you robbed the coach and dray
So back over his tracks he cantered then
And followed the Traps all day
Just to confuse the Tracker
To make him earn his pay
He left Beeswing in a paddock
And rode old Combo today
These horses were good racing stock
Fast horse flesh to gallop away
Combo’s tracks weren’t known yet
By the tracker on his trail
And friends were hiding, not to fret
More racing blood I say
He crossed the border at Hebel
And worked horse breaking for pay
Currawillinghi had him on the books
For months fore he rode away
Some say he was shot by Constable Walker
Near Uralla on an 1870 day
Others say shot was his uncle
To the US he sailed away
Don Johnson
Fred Ward was Thunderbolt his statue is at Uralla
There is some doubt if he died or not when with the Traps he shot it out. An 1871 American
state census shows that a Frederick Ward (file #SC 289) and a Sarah Shepherd (file #SC
319) both arrived in America in late 1870. This seems to be an amazing coincidence
The final day done and now my Liberty Bell
No more work retirement is now for me
Others come to shake my hand to say farewell
Oh now work has just become history
I can now put my feet up and watch TV
No more listening to what the boss has to say
I can walk in the park just let life be
Is this retirement now one long holiday
My first day I achieved so much I did do well
I walked the dog for an hour for all to see
We walked in the wood where I tripped and fell
Then went to a café for a cup of tea
Drove home again behind a slow old taxi
I then watched the sunset at the end of the day
To see the moon rise over our old cherry tree
Is this retirement now one long holiday
I’ve been retired now a year you can tell
I thought in retirement I’d be happy and free
Sitting in the park I often gaze and dwell
Of times when I worked I was so happy
With a secretary so young and carefree
Now I feel like an old brewers dray
Sipping coffee at the café and eating brie
Is this retirement now one long holiday
Retirement is fine for some I think you’d agree
But I miss my colleagues that’s all I can say
With days that are long the dog my company
This retirement is no long holiday
No hearts and flowers for me on Valentine's Day,
so Cupid, don't take aim with your arrows.
My heart will not allow love to sweep me away.
For past passion there was a profuse price to pay.
I was wounded in the breast like a felled sparrow.
No hearts and flowers for me on Valentine's Day.
He destroyed my love with evil words not held at bay,
and snuffed it out like a candle flame atop the tallow.
'tis why my heart will not allow love to sweep me away.
There is no consolation for the sorrowful blame I lay
upon the shoulders of the man who acted like Pharaoh.
No hearts and flowers for me on Valentine's Day.
All the love I had to give was loaded upon my heart's dray,
and he dumped it in the gutter like dung in a wheelbarrow.
My heart will not allow love to ever sweep me away.
Hear me, Cupid, and don't try to lead my heart astray.
I've already been crushed and plowed as if by a harrow.
No hearts and flowers for me on Valentine's Day.
My heart will not allow love to sweep me away.
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January 22nd 2016
Valentine's Villanelle Contest
Sponsored by Dave Will
They all came by our house each day,
The milkman with his horse and dray.
two tinfoil topped bottles on the step he lay.
They all came by our house each day,
The postman with his heavy load would come,
Christmas and Birthday cards for us and Mum.
They all came by our house each day
The coalman with his heavy black sack,
Dropped in the cellar, No nutty slack!
They all came by our house each day,
The ice cream man, his hand-bell would peal
A big bowl of ice cream for after our meal.
They all came by our house each day,
The rag-man blowing his bugle as if to say,
Have you any old rags for me today?
Yes they all came by our house each day,
Then time moved on and they went away,
No one selling their wares in the street today.
Inspired by Judith Angell Meyer.
© Dave Timperley May 2015
In Dickensian time
Upon sunset hour
Overshadowing Thames
Is London Tower
Blackened cobble streets
Shimmer in the rain
Big Ben at Westminster
Chimes an eight bells refrain
At Euston Station
A passenger alights
On Platform 3
And enters the caff
for a nice cup of tea
At the local tavern
Behind steamy windows
The opportunists sit
Gleaning local gossip
Ever watchful to ensnare
Any hapless stranger
come wandering there
Covent Garden
still well lit
As lamplighters
carry out their remit
Striding with ladders
about old London town
With a cheery wave
and a purposeful frown
Patrolling policemen
in forbidding places
Echoing footfalls
as boots make paces
A courting couple shelters
under the arches
Oblivious to passerby's
and dray cart horses
A hackney driver cracks his whip
As high stepping hooves
on cobbles clip
From Westminster
stove pipe hatted M.P.s from
parliament sitting
enter a members club
to continue their
political discourses
unremitting
Mudlark urchins ankle deep
in moonshine glow
watch chugging steam boats
along the Thames flow
Billingsgate Market's
straw boated and
stripe aproned men
are found sluicing
with brooms in hand
the blood drenched ground
Along the West End thoroughfares
Come wealthy patrons
in open carriages with lantern flares
wearing evening attire
Bejewelled ladies in fanciful frocks
And around bare shoulders
Stoles of mink and silver fox
They ascend the red carpeted stairs
And look towards the royal box
A pretty young street seller
of violets and roses
with straw basket on hip
proffers up the scented poses
A peasouper fog blankets from
Thames to chimney tops
As a trader hooks his shutters down
Outside his haberdashery shop
Across London Bridge the East End rabble
Trail homeward to Hackney, Bethnal Green
and Whitechapel
From an open pub door
streams a music hall tune
played on an accordion
in a crowded tap room
Wending amongst the walkers
in the Strand
run beggarly children
with outstretched hand.
And......
Charles Dickens
walks the streets
at night
taking note
of every sight.
Natures dirty washing hangs the
sullen skies, drab grey clouds a
weeping, mournful before the eyes.
From water to ice to crystal flakes
of white, down wards softly drift,
to spread a carpet bright.
Deep below the blanket spring and
summer sleep, in dreams of vibrant
colour shall seeds a promise keep.
The squirrel in his dray, field mouse
in his nest, the Robin bobs for berries
with puffed out scarlet chest.
Holly and the Mistletoe shed a flash
of green, the bird table full of tit
bits, a picture so serene.
The breeze it comes a cutting no
friend of yours or mine, and the
drifts get taller like some glacial
shrine.
And yet country life goes on, cattle
herded, sheep are fed, the farmer
meanders weary as he tends to
natures bed.
Cattle trucks drive highways now
where drovers once held sway
Heavy rigs of chrome and steel
replaced the horse and dray
Gravel tracks of rich red earth
that rambled near and far
Have disappeared forever
‘neath miles of hot black tar
The billabong by shady gums
stands empty cracked and dry
The thirst of modern farms it seems
lets river systems die
The campfires of the cattle men
that used to dot the plains
No longer flicker in the night
no sign of them remains
Bush ballads sing of sweeping plains
where brumbys still run free
Of wild unharnessed rivers
and clear inviting seas
But brumbys fall as feral pests
the rivers drained and dry
The sea is choked with sewage
where fish and sea grass die
As the romance of the outback
begins to fade away
We learn that progress has a price
we’ve all been forced to pay.
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"
"Andrea, with the accent on the dray",
she coyly introduced herself to me.
Exotic, dazzling beauty; to this day
her face still lingers in my memory.
My life till then seemed vaguely out of tune,
now, dulcet melodies played in my ear.
Her smile could warm the sun and melt the moon -
I'd dreamed of dating her that whole school year.
"Quit you like men", my father used to say,
so girding up my loins, I asked her out.
Expecting her rejection that tense day,
she answered, "Sure!" as I suppressed a shout.
We went out for some pizza, piping hot;
I saw in her no scarcity nor flaw.
My mind in wonder at her every thought,
meanwhile my eyes were pleased by what they saw.
Her lovely hair, like melted chocolate: rich
and silky smooth, at just the perfect length.
Good conversation was what scratched her itch
and I came thinking that was just my strength.
Sometimes though, bridges end up getting burned;
teen dreamers should be wary where they roam.
For when our dinner check arrived, I learned
alas, I'd left my money back at home!
Hugely embarrassed, I could barely speak;
up to that point, how nice the night had been.
I hardly left my room for one whole week,
too shy to ever ask her out again.
Life turned out great, I married well. And yet,
she still remains 'the one that got away'.
I reminisce with traces of regret,
Andrea, with the accent on the dray.
Another year has passed away
I saw the coffin passing by
It seemed like only yesterday
Another year had passed away
So many flowers on the dray
No sooner are we born we die
Another year has passed away
I saw the coffin passing by
Another year, another day
I heard a new born baby cry
And people in the market say
Another year, another day
Another soul come out to play
So many in the graveyard lie
Another year, another day
I heard a new born baby cry
Another year has passed away
I saw the sun rise on the hill
And heard the little children play
Another year, another day
Another hearse gone by. I pray
That you and I will stay until
Another year has passed away
To see the sun rise on the hill
© Gail Foster 5th January 2019
There stands my family’s horse-barn,
old logs, chinking, and rustic charm,
here out west it’s too dray to farm,
and mountain winds do small plants harm.
A ranch is what it’s always been,
since days of pioneering men,
this barn was first built was back when,
we still fought the Indians then.
How many people passing through
slept a night under this here roof,
and at least one banditto too
was shot here when the barn was new.
Countless cowboys kept mounts inside,
rose early in the morn to ride,
down the long valley they did fly,
seeking out where the herd did hide.
My grandfather rebuilt this place,
the work he did has proved so great
that even now, at present date,
there’s hardly anything to break.
I played here often, as a kin,
can’t believe half the things we did,
like the time my friend Bobby hid
in the haystacks, heaven forbid.
My first child was conceived here,
on new straw that I had put down that year,
Mel and I had stolen some beer,
two months later, we were in tears.
And now this barn belongs to me,
this ranch stays in the family,
Mel and I now have children, three,
making their own barn-memories.
So proud amidst the valley floor,
will is stand a century more?
Will my grandchildren know the score
of what happened behind these doors?
Damn straight they will.
THE FAIR ELAINE
My mother had an uncle, Hayes,
Who loved the banker's child
Hayes was just a dray man
It made the banker wild
When Hayes proposed to fair Elaine
He asked for her sweet hand
Her father said that he’d agree
If Hayes could buy some land.
So off Hayes went
To make his stake
He traveled night and day
Until he found a growing town
He knew he had to stay
he drove his mule team
train to train
delivered tons of goods
and every day he wrote to her
he’d promised that he would
and once a week he mailed the pack
he sent his seven letters
she saved them all
so comforted that
times were getting better
and in two years
Hayes had the cash
To marry fair Elaine
He hitched his mules
To go for her
And traveled ‘cross the plain
And when he came up to her house
Black wreathes were on her door
He knocked and found his fair Elaine
Was on this earth no more
Hayes went home in sorrow
Took a shotgun from the shelf
He shot his pair of finest mules
And then he shot himself
rainbow birds, you take my breath away
I see you cuddling there so pretty and gay
wondering if anyone else sees you today
or if you were put there by my angel Dray?
rainbow birds, you make me smile.
the two of you, all cozy with style
inside I feel warm and cuddly when I see
how much more beautiful could two birds be?
I would run and get my I-phone, but you both might fly.
when I got back, it would be too late to try.
So I am going to admire you as you are.
You are both gorgeous, prettiest birds by far.