Best Outback Poems
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams mirrored lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story often told,
in optimistic mirages where water is pure as gold,
and living quarters offered would barely shield the moon
in stifling heat of summer, or bitter cold in June.
All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
There's hand-made nails, broken rails, memories that are spread,
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.
I feel like I'm intruding out here on the western plains,
standing here in a ghostly wind where it hardly ever rains,
imagining I lived the life that these shearers led,
in the ruins with the ghosts of an outback shearing shed.
All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
Oil tins and sharpening stone, broken glass is widely spread
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.
I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams preceded lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.
Excitement filled the bushland as December was near
Every creature had been waiting for Christmas time - all year.
Wallabies hung their stockings on a gumtree branch with care
Just as all nice children do – everywhere.
Meanwhile those more up to date logged on the internet
sending E mails to Santa to see what they could get
Koalas draped high treetops with shiny garlands green
And furry possums lined their dens in golden glitter sheen
Wallabies joined in with bright balloons hung on their tails
All the crows tied streamers, cascading from the rails.
Kookaburras’ laughter changed to Christmas songs
While magpies and peewees piped along in throngs.
A wombat and a bandicoot made honeysuckle punch
The parrots came too early and drank’ til they got drunk
And when the’ Magic Pudding’ came to help with Christmas Dinner
His taste was so delicious he left a trifle thinner.
With a Kangaroo as Santa, his pouch stuffed full of cheer
hopping ‘round the outback in the hottest time of year
Just guess what all the drovers got- lots of ice-cold beer.
Suzanne Delaney
For Children's Christmas Poem Contest for Carol Eastman
On an outback plain where big Roos were few
A gang went riding their Harley’s
Their plan was to stop at the pub for a brew
So they headed at top speed for Charley’s
It wasn’t too long as they sped along
that a Big Red hopped out of nowhere
that was the moment that things went wrong
and started this sorry affair
After the first Harley hit the Roo
they ended up in a spinning heap - until
someone had a silly notion of what to do
I’m certain they meant no ill will.
They decided - for a novel photo op
They would dress the dead roo in leather.
They propped him up beside a large rock
In a biker’s jacket and helmet
Laughing and joking and dressing and poking
They stood beside him to pose.
When all of a sudden and I am not joking
The dead carcass took off with the clothes.
The tragedy was the jacket was new
and the bloody thing was expensive
But it gets a great laugh when he’s having a brew
Still, it took a long time to make sense of.
I hear the drone that quizzes me then see the swirling mass.
A cloud veers in all directions; green changes in a flash.
Ten thousand wings are beating. The sky a wonderful delight.
I follow the budgerigars until the flock is out of sight.
Poppy can you tell me, just one more,
About the seasons, you say there are four
The old man in his rocking chair
Smiled at his granddaughter, oh so fair
Tell me please about Spring,
It seems to make spirits sing.
She begged as she climbed onto his lap,
His memory turned to a younger chap
Before I came to Queensland’s Outback
He began; I lived beside a Welsh coal stack
There when winter’s grip firm and bold
Relinquished, a world of beauty does unfold
Birds again begin to sing
Green shoots from the earth do spring
A rhapsody of brand new life
A joy of colour, and far less strife
We have only two seasons here,
And then not even every year
When they come, the wet and the dry
Both in excess will make us cry
In the dry we pray for rain
Yet when it comes it floods the plain
Then we pray for it to dry
And we watch our cattle die
Poppy, the child said drawing near
I guess, we are really lucky here
All the people long for Spring again
Yet we have it after every decent rain
03/03/2014
My brown kelpy outback dog
Quite often gets on the grog,
He chases his tail constantly,
Briefly stopping to scratch a flea,
Then, off with the sheep to play leap-frog.
Twisted, gnarled, snapped and broken.
dead limbs belie the tortuous years when thrived.
Eroded landscapes display, layers of eons passed by
where nomadic man’s footsteps, once trod and so survived.
Jewels of desert beauty hang, and use their scent to reach,
through beckoning colour, the nomadic bird and bee who need
to be tantalized to fertilize, so when each flower dries,
a fruit is formed to hide the need for traveling seed.
Late summer breezes dance, across wavering grasses,
far as the eye can see now yellowing straw,
with heads emptying, dispersed by wind, or eaten,
by finches, parrots, doves and more.
Where all around this death before decay,
lie hidden embryos sheltered in a protective case,
defying browsing stock, which trample and churn the soil.
The seed lives waiting, dry and hard in a hiding place.
Shifting, drifting, migrating with the wind,
swirling grains of dust are rife.
Crevices, cracks or any rocky fracture,
fill and cover … to become a grave for dormant life.
'Tis the gentle rain that falls all day,
infiltrating the particles; seeping in between,
changing the land from pink to shades of brown…
In three short days a billion seeds, paint the landscape green.
He goes by the alias Outback Jack
Telling tales of OZ, he’s got the knack
Little Joe's no punk
He’s an Aussie hunk
Whom I’d love to get in the sack
Close 'round the crackling fire we three,
with sweet acacia in the air -
tell stories of Gallipoli
and digger's bond of friendship there.
We laughed and shared like family
with roof and walls of stars our home -
tracker Wiley, Henry and me
on highland edge of bushland dome.
But now across the outback trail
away from Henry's place of rest,
near to where he fell and failed
with bloody head against my chest.
We slowly lead his faithful mount
through clear streams where spirits flow
and tales the bushman mates recount,
the final sail of mateship souls.
Based on my consulting this year’s almanac
June 30th being the best possible day for a BBQ out back
I sent out invitations to everyone, I didn’t hold back
There was the lumberjack, the nymphomaniac
The humpback, the hunchback and the hypochondriac
The kleptomaniac, the hemophiliac and the insomniac
No reason to leave out the egomaniac and the pyromaniac
Ooops and how could I almost forget our local amnesiac
I proposed a neighbourly exchange of paperback
I asked them all to contribute, call back or at least provide feedback
Eve of June 30th, gotta prepare my shack
Start to clean vigorously with ammoniac
Wash my floors and dust that miscellaneous bric-a-brac
To make room for guests, park my hatchback in the cul-de-sac
Find bowls for every possible sweet and snack
Think of various games including kayak and piggyback
Think I might serve some type of aphrodisiac
Put together a musical playlist of 60’s to 70’s flashback
Get all set for a promising night of banter and wisecrack
I think I’ve thought of everything and I’m right on track
O gotta go… I think I hear the doorbell- must be Jack
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
A track leads through a gully in the bushland
Following the least line of resistance in a haphazard plan
The kookaburras and the magpies squawk happily away
The sun on my back makes me want to stay
Walking to the rock face broken on the gorge face
Two wallabies look our way and away they race
A creek flows through glistening in the sun
The day exploring is heaven easily done.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Things been gittin' a mite boring 'ere,
So called on my old mate;
Said let's git out of town awhile,
He said,"That sounds great."
Said "Put together a bit 'o' grub,
A bed roll, tack and such,
And we'll go walk-about, we two,
Don't think that we'll need much,
'Cuz we'll be livin' off the land,
The way we're meant to be.
We'll hunt and fish and just relax,
Just you and God and me.
We won't be in no hurry,
To return in no time soon.
We'll be back when good and ready.
We won't be countin' moons."
So off we set, me mate and me,
On horseback through the bush.
Been ridin' that old rockin chair,
And find I've a tender tush;
But that's okay, it'll be just fine,
I love this clean, sweet air.
Think we may be out 'ere awhile,
So long as fishin's fair.
For Tracie - Indigio Dreamweaver's A Lil Bit Of Aus Contest
There's a poet on our site,
Who can really tell a story.
He looks at everyday affairs,
And then weaves tales of glory.
The way he writes he takes you there.
He draws his readers in,
With colorful description,
Of adventure, laughter, kith and kin.
The Clemens of the outback,
Our personal Mark Twain.
It's a privilege to read for him.
For certain he's got game.
If you wonder who I'm talkin' 'bout,
If you want to know his name,
Lindsay Laurie is his handle,
Of The Soup's poetic fame.
Three men seeking to stake their claim
Rode off into the Australian outback
Not experienced with the torrential rains
Only two men came riding back
In a land that is parched by the Southern sun
New prospectors feel only heat's pain
Their first year in this unforgiving land
They do not expect the rain
Rivers run dry for most of the year
You can't even tell where they be
But if from flash floods you don't stay clear
A rush of water will be the last thing you see
Three men seeking to stake their claim
Rode off into the Australian outback
They were not prepared when the flash floods came
Only two men came riding back
AUSSIE OUTBACK CHRISTMAS
Comin' 'ome in an aussie sleigh,
ol' tractor ute with a rusty tray,
with a big branch of Gum, it be
the Christmas tree .
hard to find 'em white ant free.
Nailed it to a webbed dusty wall,
usin' my boot as a hamma
watching all the spiders fall,
decorated with koala, snake an' goanna
.
Com' Christmas morn here in Whatabugga,
dis summa heat could cook a burra.
Da' ol' bath tub, empty with prezzies gorrrn,
taken outside to cook magpie 'n' corn,
while some have fun on the dusty lawn.
Some prezzies still on dah floor,
Beaut!, new hinges for the dunny door.
Mum is smilin' even more,
a rackit, for flies 'n mozzies galore,
near the size of a dinosaur.
Tis Christmas in dah' auzzie west,
with heat 'n' flies to enjoy the fest.
Singlet, shorts 'n' thongs,
our very best.
Be our guest,
and enjoy Christmas in the Auzzie west.