Best Paddocks Poems
Feeling the desolation, of smothering air
Hemmed in by crowds; the obliqueness of fear
Throng of the city and no sight of the sun
Incessant noise and the desire to just run.
And I drive.
Arterial routes clogged by metal and wheels
Schizophrenic drivers living others ideals
Neon and lights sizzling the sides of the streets
Marketing signage, greed’s consumer receipts.
And I drive.
White picket fences, roses, and manicured lawns
Ridiculous box housing, erected for ludicrous pawns
Playgrounds, big supermarkets, cafes and parks
Sprawling suburbia with its pools built by sharks.
And I drive
Warehouses dispensing the needs of the hordes
Industrious factories like cash castles of lords.
Sawmills busily feeding more desecration of land
Refuse collection sites completely sterile and bland.
And I drive.
Ten-acre barons on frivolous bundles of dirt
Escaping urbanity in the unproductive outskirts.
Postage stamp fields supporting ponies and kids
While toffee nose parents sit in ultra posh digs.
And I drive
Paddocks of cattle dispersed through productive farmland
Shiny new tractors with men toughened and tanned
Marshmallow hay bales pimple the face of the ground
Irrigators urinate on earth until drowned.
And I drive.
Magnificent mountains covered in beckoning trees
Clear running streams and whispering breeze
Wild flowers gently waving as robins flit all around
Radiant true colours and smoothing calm sounds.
And yes I am home.
Categories:
paddocks, change, conflict, nonsense,
Form:
Rhyme
I’ve always been restless since I was a kid,
to settle near drives me insane.
I’ll just throw together the best that I can
what I own and be gone again.
Boxes long packed I had stacked in a shed,
are obsolete, so I feel that I have
to lighten my load for my road ahead,
then discover an old photograph.
Stopped in my tracks, I sit on the bench;
I look deeply into the face.
My eyes go all misty as I travel back,
to a little old weatherboard place.
Where I remember the warmth in the kitchen,
on those cold and wet winter nights.
Hot steaming soup; the open wood fire,
and the flickering kerosene lights.
How the family was close knit together.
We hadn’t even heard of T.V.
Chatting while eating our Sunday roast;
neighbour visits for hot scones and tea.
Bare footed we ran through the paddocks,
seeking out mud or a puddle.
If we came down with an ailment,
the remedy - a kiss and a cuddle.
Patched up were my breeches and socks.
Most ‘jumpers’ were ‘hand me down’.
I was so proud of my ‘new’ clothes;
showing everyone who came around.
Rabbit was our staple diet.
Trapped in the bush at the back of our home.
‘Chooks’ we kept for the eggs;
only eaten if we killed one of our own.
Blinking, I came back to earth;
took a breath and so pleased to find,
what I believed was forgotten,
is deeply entrenched in my mind.
Dormant I wait for the moment.
Something releases memories I have.
A tear falls and darkens a spot,
on Mother’s faded photograph.
Categories:
paddocks, memory, mother,
Form:
Rhyme
A halo round the fading moon
Sweet mist upon the grass.
The croak of frogs from yon lagoon,
A flight of ducks wing past.
A dingo howls farewell to night,
The crimson sunrise comes;
The dawn is here to start the day,
Al hail the rising sun.
That blazing orb now bakes the plains,
Heat shimmers on the ground.
The gum trees droop their leaves in pain,
The paddocks all are brown.
From long grass on the flat below
Rise heads of kangaroo;
Of rain. no sign, of clouds, no show,
Just endless skies of blue.
But now, the evening cool arrives,
The distant hills turn red.
The sun's rays flash like crimson knives
And darkness' blanket spreads.
Cicadas strike their evening chords,
And kookaburras laugh;
On sunset's purple cloak abroad,
The moon spreads silver paths.
Categories:
paddocks, beauty, earth, environment, image,
Form:
Narrative
Society
an illusion, the shimmering mirage in a blistering desert of homogeny
with silicon grains seen only as dunes
mass minded sheep willfully penned in suspiciously safe paddocks
fearful of everything and nothing
tumultuous ocean with waves of conformism and exclusion
where rivers of contrast flow diluted to extinction
one and few dreaming in clouds and walking on air
tethered to a wonderfully disparate and inclusive reality
September 24, 2016
Poetry Contest: What is Society?
Sponsor: Ir0nic ZiNk
Rules:
- Let's see if you can describe society better than the next.
- You may terrify me.
- you may glorify me.
- You may even simply summarize society to the best of your ability.
- 10 lines max...
- bring it on! No holds bar
- Any form allowed
Categories:
paddocks, environment, perspective, poetry, social,
Form:
Free verse
Squatter Jack
have you lived awhile in west Queensland,
out in the red soil dust,
where the crows will pick your eyes out and,
bore water is a must,
have you seen a thin and starving cow,
not a blade of grass to eat,
the timber`s gone no Mulga now......(13% protein in leaves)
just the deadly summer heat,
the squatter flogged his paddocks out,
too many cattle there,
he thought good seasons were about,
but we know they are rare,
so now he tears his hair out,
and cries poor bloody me.
we`ll have to subsidise the lout
when he whines so publicly
the old cow bogged in the dam today
and there she`ll likely lie
the crows will take her eyes away
before she gets to die
scrub Mulga`s tucker in a drought (Mulga tree)
on the bushy limbs they`ll thrive
where some mugs had it bulldozed out
no cattle left alive
then the rain it comes after years of drought
and the grass is green and sweet
they`ll forget the bad times have no doubt
till dead cows are flyblown meat.
by D H Johnson.
Categories:
paddocks, adventure
Form:
Rhyme
Vinny Rogers was a dairy man who milked three hundred cows.
Share farming with his son Bernie who put in the milking hours.
Now Bernie was adventurous; he liked his teenage fun.
He owned a car; paid off a boat - he also brought himself a gun.
Bernie you be careful
when you’re loading up that gun.
You've got to know your distance
and what damage can be done.
This gun was something special; more power than a three-o-three.
The bullets were more piercing said the spiel that he showed me.
The bore was mighty larger than his old twenty-two -
Bernie scanned the paddocks to see what this gun could do.
Bernie you be careful
when you’re loading up that gun.
You've got to know your distance
and what damage can be done.
Well it wasn't very long before, his first kill he's going to boast,
when he took aim at a crow that sat upon a corner post -
the bullet fired; the gun recoiled, and the crow is spun around.
Bernie heard the bellow from beyond - and saw their Friesian bull go down.
Bernie you be careful
when you’re loading up that gun.
You've got to know your distance
and what damage can be done.
Categories:
paddocks, animal, farm,
Form:
Lyric
Crazy Mick the Irishman, with trademark bike and overcoat,
wheeling his way back into town, classed as a tarnished silly goat.
His hair was long and curly; spoken words barely understood.
His manner gave impression he's up to no flamin’ good.
Shopkeepers grew an extra eye toward their advertised outside,
watching Mick out on the street as up and down he'd ride.
This man was on outcast; different to the folks they know,
a little dirty; is a vagrant, and he acts a little slow.
Mick’s first stop the butchers shop; bargained for a ‘snag’ or two.
The butcher he felt pity, so threw in an extra few.
This pleased Mick no end as he left the butchers door.
His feast was quick and final; ate the meat been given raw.
The pub through past experience had little time for Mick,
for beer became his nemesis; urged forward his fighting trick.
Too many times Mick’s antics had forced him to the street,
with bloodied nose, blackened eye; always getting beat.
Compromising was the bottle sale - take half a dozen and then go.
Sit over by the railway line and then drink them nice and slow.
Young kids without feelings teased Mick in his toxic state,
laughing as he chased them, for he'd stagger and gyrate.
When Mick disappeared, our town wondered where he went.
Had he found a home! Had he died! Where has his time been spent!
It seems in potato season when the pickers were required,
Mick was slogging in the paddocks where potato tops had died.
The 'swampy' people honoured Mick, for he had no fear of sweat.
He'd bend his back the furthest; earnt the spud farmer’s respect.
They saw a different person than the townie’s man un-trusted.
Hard working in the hot sun; not the drunk so often busted.
Mick perished one cold winter, alone inside a pickers shack.
Long after picking season ended, so what had brought him back?
He must have known his life was ebbing; left for where he felt no shame.
Spud farmers heads bowed 'round his grave - but not one townie came.
Categories:
paddocks, discrimination,
Form:
Rhyme
In the cool of an autumn morning
my father and his friend,
Jimmy Kerin, would go
mushroom picking in paddocks
way out past the last suburban fence.
I would tag along not to pick
but feel the freedom of open land
stretching as far as the eye could see
and for the pleasure of the ride.
I would sit in the back seat
of Mr Kerin’s 1950's Skoda, taking
in the smell of the leather
and laying out along its length
like a ferried prince.
I can remember the wet, green
paddocks, the cold dew being
flipped up to coat the back
of my bare legs as I walked.
Then, seeing a carpet of white crowns
pushing up through the short grass,
plump eruptions catching
the morning sun that got my Dad
and Mr Kerin excited and set them off
decapitating the tallest with their kitchen
knives. They soon would each have
a bucket full, some mushroom heads
as big as Dad's hand.
That evening the ritualized meal
would be acted out. Dad sitting
at the table waiting, Mum frying up
the mushrooms in a cast iron pan
then making the juices into a thick
buttery gravy. It was a celebration
with Dad voicing his pleasure
on downing each savored mouthful.
Mum and us kids would look on,
none of us could stomach the taste
of fungi and instead, tucked into
tomato soup and toast.
Such simple memories seem
to cling onto life as if sensing
autumn, stirring deep in the self's soil
to poke their heads up here.
Categories:
paddocks, autumn, dad, memory, mother,
Form:
Free verse
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
Categories:
paddocks, death, emotions,
Form:
Verse
Dog Master
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
Fifty dogs all different in size and shape
Impossible to tell the type of breed, mate
All the dogs have a discriptive and unique name
Irene, knows them all, for none are the same
…
Only Irene can handle and work this team of dogs
They trust and respect her in the paddock, bush and bogs
Their home in the bush a stone throw from the house
Made of tin, steel and hollow logs free of louse
…
Heading, gathering or pushing in the paddocks
In the yard, on the sheep's back, the dogs are no hicks
Commands yelled out amid the noisy barking
The dog master Irene gets the job done, she is king
…
The hounds on the hill get excited and start baying
The rousers stretch their leads in the air they spring
The horse all saddled, the men go forth with guns
Time for a Kangaroo hunt down by the creek run
…
The dogs search for sheep on the plains and hills
They gather, they drive never fearing the terrain or spills
In weather of heat, snow, cold winds or driving rain
They push the mob towards their master, Irene
…
The sheep yard-ed the dogs job is done
Head for home, horse, rider and dogs as one
All the dogs patted when the chains done up
Given a feed of kangaroo and water to warm-up
…
Snug in their kennels, worn out and asleep
Oblivious to the howling wind, cold and sleet
The dogs resting for their work is never done
As their master, Irene heads home on the run
Categories:
paddocks, dog, weather,
Form:
Rhyme
Have you seen dudes feed their dates on straw or hay?
I have! I have been through the States of usa!
A society watched aghast at the Kentucky Derby
As the jockey got half-mast and Ken snuck into Barbie.
Now hand in hoof they trot along
Love's aloof, is it ever wrong?
So Ken was fined then he married that lady horse
Taken nine months carried holding baby Centaurs
I'm guessing the vicar's even sicker
The blessing of Love he delivered.
With softly diverted silken manes
From a Godly pervert hidden in Maine
They look nearly perfect kids, in their reins
They've got four legs like a table
You won't fit them in a second hand cradle
Their Dad is Short and Odd, but Mum's more switched On.
Would they be employed by Horse's Resources
When they were deployed to the work force
Would it be classed a win in the awful rat race
To have a stable relationship in a beautiful place
Paddocks of green, Haydock seems keen
I just hope they are tame with Neigh-bours
Why the long face? Smile your famous!
With that much dough they could bake thoroughbread
With lots to plough, they'll be well fed
Could his favourite drink be Red Rum
Would his feet clink when he wiped his bum
He'd definitely not be all fingers and thumbs
Not to mention what his wife says, about his tongue.
His life story mate you would have to witness
Cos no bookmaker could ever print this.
Categories:
paddocks, horse,
Form:
Paint pretty pictures peacefully
Paddle past ports paddocks – places panoramic
Peruse prospects pending play
Plan perceive possible plots
Pander persuade people precociously
Promising provocative plans persuasively
Propose patrons participation piquantly
Provide platforms permitting passion
Paradoxical pleasures permeate pleasingly
Participants partake pander panache
Paradigms preempt paradise pleasantly
Post-postmortems provide perchance possibilities
Present portray peaceful poise
Poignantly permit passing promises
Pledge pitch permit pipe-dreams
Pilot phenomenal pleasing performances
Categories:
paddocks, imagery, poems, poetry, word
Form:
Alliteration
Day I've known in early Autumn
You are spring in winter long thought on
How truth differs; three have I known
Two hemispheres I now call home
German day in such heavy leaf
British may I've known of chief.
Aus May mists and paddocks longer
Cross roads Albury Wodonga
Mays, holding notes in my life's song.
Categories:
paddocks, appreciation, celebration, character,
Form:
Rhyme
I remember fitfully,
Those verdant fields their
Yellow brushed cotton tips,
Gyrating, swirled to beauty,
sighing, undulating minute blades
infintesable allure wafted
on those white wattle nights,
even drained of sustenance
it still motioned to flower
as I am drawn to nigh.
Jaundiced paddocks replace
the suppleness of earth, where,
once green strands laid
like laurels on the dawn
Rich red particles of death
now pepper the ether,
unwonted limbs litter lanes
original ground now fallow
Trans morphed unholy Gaia
sits cackling next to Azimuth,
sons of the fathers, follow
the false prophets online
As their hands are filled
with knowledge of the world,
their heads are lackluster
gazing today after tomorrow
Good intentions are twisted
in a government mainframe,
planet earth screams succour
and only God is left to hear
but I'll ever remember,
viridescent pastures
millions of miles long,
breathlessly beautiful
before the tech triumph
life's last gasp of gorgeous
Categories:
paddocks, beauty, death, earth, life,
Form:
Free verse
A white lily sunrise
brings the malaise,
humid dreams shimmer
off the blackening tar
Red dust girates an axis
dark matter is overcome,
lethargy drags the body
into a blazing bright sun
Work, a joke on labouring men
each day drains into the next,
without a dropping of heaven
without a wisp of air, no respite
The incessant heat hoards air,
the smell of rain on a breeze,
nothing but a cruel memory
as the earth bakes golden
These summer days long
for the circles to turn,
for cooler winds braced
with a stinging cold nose
For nights clothed in linen
their warmth, a comfort,
not these deadly months
this end of the world
Gaping fissures score
the face of the outback,
spinifex gathers along
a rabbit proof fence
Farmers no longer see
a blue horizon beckoning,
the life they bestowed, now,
lost in bankrupt despair
The year's turning decades
and the green paddocks,
never more will checker
our rolling countrysides
each day another species dies
each day another million lives
become nothing but a eulogy
on a yellowed classified page
Still we do nothing, much,
still the child cries unheard,
and the world will end, not,
with a bang or a shout
But on a whistling breeze
only heard by the gods
Categories:
paddocks, earth, encouraging, environment, humanity,
Form:
Free verse