Best Drought Poems
primrose coloured sky
grey clouds chase the setting sun…
rain kisses scorched earth
© Harry J Horsman 2022
The Long Drought
A raging drought is running, causing pain
Beneath the scorching sun, the barren plain
The river’s gone, she’s ceased her mighty flow
And bushland trees no longer thrive nor grow
The dams are low and dry, it pains my heart
Our town will slowly die and friends depart
No bales of straw or hay for starving stock
As more succumb each day, my dying flock
From hills of broom and land of dark”ning strife
He came to find a better way of life
The call of peaceful bush like magnet drew
In this sweet place my father’s dream came true
Beside a spread of bright and golden grain
A link was forged anew in our strong chain
Where ‘roos abound among the fields of corn
On this fair land, it’s here that I was born.
Work started for me at only fourteen
Became a sheep drover, still wiry lean
The days long an’ hard, the burden was light
The soil rich and dark, the future so bright
The farm became mine when my father died
Then came the dry clime, lost all of my pride
Long years of hard graft while still holding trust
Til lack of good rain turned soil into dust
The bank took our farm, I wished I were dead
Dark thoughts of self harm flood into my head
But senses prevail, I see them so clear
My darling wife, my young son very dear
I give you my hand, long time cobber mine
Take care of this land, it’s your dreaming time
Adieu my friends, for my time here is done
I'll pray for you all as the drought rages on.
Until the drought of '88
Euphonic sounds adorned his walls,
as he, his wife, and daughter ate
and laughter tripped through carefree halls.
His wife caressed the ivoried keys
until the drought of '88,
their daughter sang with youthful ease;
each day a gift to celebrate.
That baby grand now bears the weight
of dust and silenced dreams once dreamed.
Until the drought of '88,
how strange such silence would have seemed.
Alas, a drunk behind the wheel
cut short his life at 28.
Unsullied joy was ours to feel
until the drought of '88.
In fond memory of my cousin Brian, killed by a drunk driver.
The sun is setting in the west
While crowned in gold, the eastern crest
Stands sentry in its scrubs and sighs
Offering its sage advice
A single lizard darts about
Driven forth by searing drought
Towards healing waters beckoning
Seeking Horeb’s rocky spring
Among the endless rocks and weeds
Between regrets and sinful deeds
Above, a pale blue sky so clear
Who knew that Heaven was so near
And through it all, this wayward soul
Uprooted outcast, blindly rolls
By gentle zephyrs carried on
Comforted by desert psalms.
Drought Riches in the Desert
my life is so dry
that I can fill the desert
lands fill the gulf and valleys
shuck pay dirt yet I'm
I am not rich yet so I
confess it's just grains of sand
11/01/19
Written words by James Edward Lee Sr. 2019©
Hot sun
trees wither
no rain
WATERFALLS, RIVERS AND DROUGHT
The frenzied forces of cold, icy streams
detonate explosively on the rocks below.
Their rapid currents wreak havoc
on logjams caught in crevasses beneath
the mist and rainbowed spray.
We blink in awe to see this
spectacular remonstration
of pretentious power abruptly
become whirling vortexes
of descending splash downs.
But then, almost as quickly, this despoiler settles
and begins to accumulate in multitudes
of rippling bubbles and froth
immediately bleeding onto the embankment
promptly losing much of its potential goodness
swooshed as sucking sounds
into the wild soils of the firmament.
What survives roams free and for awhile
flows in any direction, with no beginning, no end
as the river turns into riverlets
Eddying on without any selected steering.
The rains that used to drip down from the mountain top
cry to see the diversions of the most glorious river
dissipate and dry up knowing that the drought
which has appeared can not adequately supply
sustenance to a parched soil.
For that sunbaked soil to be reclaimed
the river must continue to extend its reach
and water the seeds of new growth.
and use its silt to fertilize the new life
that waits anticipating its turn
in creation's timetable.
CAK 6-04-2012 Revised 6-18-2013
Cool; green; heat; dry; brown; dust . . .
The wind blows
enticing moisture from the dirt.
Forming quiet earth quakes
that sneak along rupturing the soil.
A small weed muscles the crack larger;
hiding in its shade,
making earth powder as it drinks the last dew.
It peeks up to bathe in the heat brought here on foul breath.
Inhaling into dry nostrils,
it leaves the earth gasping,
weary of filtering the particles that were once our home.
We pray good times will come again,
As we sit and beg for rain,
We pray good times will soon draw nigh
As we dry the tears we cry,
And watch our livestock die.
I am tired of singing the same old song
This drought has lasted way too long
Ten years now it has been
Since decent rain we have seen
As storm clouds gather on the coasts
Flooding rivers, roads and signposts
We wait hoping, praying for a bit
Those coastal towns are always hit
We pray good times will come again,
As we sit and beg for rain,
We pray good times will soon draw nigh
As we dry the tears we cry,
And watch our livestock die.
We save and skimp and stand our ground
Praying for that magic sound
Of raindrops hitting thirsty earth,
Filling dams, creating rebirth
When the rains fall far away
Flooding waters speed our way
Drowning livestock, stealing fences
Removing soil, causing dam breaches
We pray good times will come again,
As we sit and beg for rain,
We pray good times will soon draw nigh
As we dry the tears we cry,
And watch our livestock die.
Life on the land is tough, they say
Yet we are tougher still, we pray
Not often do we take a stand
But now we need your helping hand
Livestock and men are dying here
Women weep for all they hold dear
The time has come we cannot wait
Depression is looming at our gate
We pray good times will come again,
As we sit and beg for rain,
We pray good times will soon draw nigh
As we dry the tears we cry,
And watch our men folk die.
Thoughts on California's drought
The palpitations in this wash basin
Do not belong to the wind or the sky,
Or even the sea
They are the eager feet of children
Surveying and searching the
Scorned land for
Foxtails and lady bugs.
The color is washing away
From the memories of this artist
Now he sketches children
Because it reminds him
Of hope.
DRAT THAT DROUGHT
Relinquish water's recipe and rain from sky.
All rain dances done left California dry.
Ignited fires baked us like a Scottish mutton pie.
Now let us wash it down with RAIN and not with rye.
-Edlynn Nau
© November 9, 2015
Contest: Wind, Snow, or RAIN [AcrostRain]
Sponsor: Jan Allison
PLACED: SECOND PLACE
kill the tree
clear the path
drought applaud
The Pain of Drought
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
The road trains full of emancipated cattle roar by
Heading south to somewhere that is lush and green
For the big dry out west as tightened it’s grip
As the dry westerly winds lay the paddocks bare
--
The cows they roar and moan and stamp their feet
At the struggling calves that lay dying in the dirt and dust
The Kites on high circle the scene of death and dying
As the mothers walk away they dive bomb the carcasses
--
The cattle cluster round the dwindling water holes and shade
Their skeleton clearly visible held together by skin and bone
The heat so intense they endure .. together with the millions of flies
A scene so horrendous you just cant help the tears in your eyes
--
The lean and tall farmer looks over his dying herd of cattle
And wonders why mother nature can be so bloody cruel
I’ve nurtured these cows from birth, they are my pride and joy
And to watch this scene of my dying stock… Mate it hurts
--
To bloody late to shift this lot off, he says out loud
I must end their suffering as quickly as I can
He heads to the Toyota to fetch his gun
Walks back to the herd with a tear and a heavy heart
--
With an anguished look and tears in his eye, he fires his gun
As the last one falls he looks on with pain etched on his brow
I best bury them deeply before the night falls
And heads to the homestead to fetch the machinery
--
As he drives he mumbles to himself the bloody politicians don’t care
And the city folk, well it’s outa sight outa mind with them
They can rest easy in their homes and comfortable beds
Whilst I toss and turn with mind racing of how to survive this devastation.
--
He returns to the macabre scene of blood, bodies and gore
The Kites in their thousands lift off from the bodies of the cattle
He digs a large hole and buries them deeply as night falls
And hopes that he doesn't have to repeat the process with the stock that’s left.
--
The farmer heads home and is greeted by his wife at the door
He sobs in her arms and she says… I’m so sorry but it had to be done
We will look to the new day and hope the drought breaks
Knowing that Mother Nature will always have her way
Sun warm on my back
As the pick breaks hard ground down
Drought soil bakes solid.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Pedaling along river drive
empty plastic grocery bags
fluttered and flapped from tree branches
like lost battle surrender flags
that line the drought-stricken river.
Their interspersed clings reminded
me of inundated levels
this now anemic river reached;
where once the floodwaters surged south
along its journey to the sea
its now imperceptive flow
struggles, its intimate's exposed:
river-bottom, water-worn rocks
sit like petrified bowler hats.