Best Patterson Poems
A Tribute to Banjo Pattersons, Road To Old Mans Town
by Robert (Bob) Moore
I read a poem when I was young, by Banjo Patterson
called “The Road To Old Mans Town” about a life near done
I did not understand back then, the meaning was obscure
but as the years go passing by, I understand it more
He spoke of youth, and freedom, of time that had no end
of doing what we wanted, the future ours to spend
time to waste if that’s our want, not count hours as they fly
days that stretch into the distance, don’t yet go rushing by
But as the days grow shorter, and we begin to see
our life is not forever, and what will be will be
and we are sadly looking back, and slowly drifting down
the lonely road we all must tread, to Banjo’s Old Mans Town
He also makes a hope, that we are not alone,
that someone walks beside us, a love whom we have known
that God may not allow us, this dusty road go down
With faltering steps and whitening head,
on the road to Old Man's Town!
The Stumble and Rise Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Jami Patterson
Contest Judged: 9/30/2025 8:28:00 AM
( Honorable Mention )
I stumbled straight down by surprise,
To laughter and widening eyes-
But I jumped to my feet,
Made the misstep a beat
and waltzed as the crowd cheered my rise.
Basking under moonlight glow
midst meteor rainfall wish
hearts struck with Cupid's arrow
soar high by love's blissful swish...
Enthralled around each other's warm embrace
their endearing gaze reflects partner's face
expressing care along joyous terrain
to conquer pain by compassion's gain...
As music wades, echoing grievous tone
they bend toward horrific end
turning like frozen bone
light* should amend...
now!
1 John 1:5 This then is the message which we have heard of him, and declare unto you, that God is light, and in him is no darkness at all.
February 16, 2026
9th place, "The Vester Step" Poetry Writing Contest
Sponsored by Jami Patterson ; judged on 2/18/2026
DAY BY DAY GROWING UP WAY
TOO FAST
WISH I COULD GO BACK TO THE
PAST ,
THATS A DREAM I KNOW WONT
LAST,
I REMEMBER ALWAYS BEING TOLD
,
BY 3 PPL WITH HEARTS OF GOLD,
TO STAND UP FOR MYSELF
AND FAMILY N DO AS IM TOLD...
WE ALL LIVED IN ONE BIG ASS
HOUSE ON PATTERSON AVE,
THATS WERE ALL MY BOY CUZNS
I GREW UP WITH TURNED ME INTO
SAVV
THEY TAUGHT MY ASS HOW TO
FIGHT
N MY MOM AND MA TELLIN ME TO
DO
WATS RIGHT,..
MA N PAPA TOOK CARE OF US
ALL,,,
THEY WAS THERE ALL WE
HAD TO DO..
WAS MAKE ONE PHONECALL..
BUT THESE LAST FEW YEARS
Things STARTED
TO CHANGE,,THOSE WE LOVE
BEGIN TO PASS
AWAY,,UNCLE WILLIAM ,JC, JESSE,
MY MA N MOM,,
N THEN GOD EVEN TOOK MY PAPA,,
MY LIFE SEEMS TO BE FALLING
apart MORE N MORE EACH
DAY THE ONES CLOSEST TO ME
,MADE WHO I AM TODAY HAD
ALREADY GONE N PASSED
AWAY,,LOST FOR WORDS
EMPTINESS
N PAIN ,JUST ME N MY BBYS N
WAT FAMS LEFT..
Man or myth, fact or fiction, a primitive walking legend,
A photo vision of realism, or fraud’s conception of the
Ultimate hoax gone wrong, evolution's unseen experimental
Beast, lying in the hallow shadows of discovery.
In the tinder box of humanity vs. creationism, the
Patterson film is a spark igniting the flame of
Controversy, singeing the ends of these too
Fragile beliefs, pitting them against each other.
Anomaly belong, in the twisted trail of DNA,
Is she a Hominid unknown or a cryptid fake?
In the vast body of evidence, do we truly
Have to kill just to prove that something exists,
Life is mystery, beauties accent quality, and
Freedom is a God given right, not to be taken
Away lightly, with a single bullets flashing’s strike.
Look within the eyes of the beast, to her kind
We are the true animals, invading her kindred’s
Environments.
In the forest wilds here the screaming cries of the
Missing extinct, raging at their iron bars of the
Forgotten species, as the last one falls, do we
Not hear their bodies hitting the floor of existence.
Are we not the intelligent ape, whom climbed down
From the trees, and walked upon two legs of knowledge,
Nay do I ponder these questions?
In the linkages of legacies frame work, a divine welder
And craftsman decides the lines of survival not mankind.
A harsh fact in realism, tomorrow we may become the earthen dust
Blowing in the winds of destiny, joining the dinosaurs of yesterday.
Man or myth, fact or fiction, a primitive walking legend,
A photo vision of realism, or fraud’s conception of the
Ultimate hoax gone wrong, evolution's unseen experimental
Beast, lying in the hallow shadows of discovery.
.In the forest thicket, the hunters stalk the forests unknown,
And there huddled together are the cryptic, hugging
Their young tenderly ever closer to the bare bosom, hushing them
To remain silent, for mankind draws ever nearer.
Man or myth, fact or fiction, a primitive walking legend,
A photo vision of realism, or fraud’s conception of the
Ultimate hoax gone wrong, evolution's unseen experimental
Beast, lying in the hallow shadows of discovery.
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN
Sounding astounding
lUxurious vigorous volcanic erupting voice
laNguage of lava flowing, hot melting me poetry
a liNguist lyricizing spoken wordress
is alIgned dormant in each line
speak, Preach sermonizing poetry
your stAge material is a worthy pulitzer prize for poetry pulpit winner.
holy poeTic ghost fulfillment
loud shouT outing her-Wow!
this is a poEtic minister
poetry congRegation be seated as an audience
you shall feaSt
her words are fOod like manna
a reading feediNg falling from heaven
For the first time in the history of the Olympics
Has there been someone from the U.S. at the time
Who has won the Individual All-Around
In an Olympics that was fully attended
That was until Carly Patterson came along
And became a golden girl in the gymnastics world.
Yeah I know that Mary Lou Retton
Won the All-Around title twenty years ago
But those Games had countries to boycott them
I’m not saying that she would have lost the gold
Because she earned it but we’ll never truly know
And then with Carly’s you knew that she beat the best.
That wasn’t the only medal that she won
However it was the most prestigious
But she earned two other medals also
Which was a team silver and an Individual silver
And also with one other woman in gymnastics
Became the most decorated women gymnasts in the 2004 Olympics.
I was asked, "What is important to you?" by a friend-
she was just making conversation...
I was silent, deep in thought of diversity-
The true meaning of important.
Other than the worldly treasures of love,
money to survive, intelligence and adventure-
WORDS- was my answer.
Words. Power. Intelligence. Knowledge.
Adventure. Love. Death. Birth. God. Evil.
Conception. Contemplation. Life. Living.
Ovid, Homer, Ducasse, Rimbaud,
Patterson, Rice, Strieber, Jung, Darwin,
Verne, Grisham, Seneca, Christ...
As I read the words from the greatest,
and not so greatest, of minds-
It is all encompassing. I am in their world.
Writers bring their world to life when simple
words are written.
I can go to Atlantis, dissect a human, kill mummies,
be a vampire, see into the mind of a beagle, fly with eagles,
see the center of the Earth, view a rose in a way alien to me.
I can do anything. I have yet to do everything.
WORDS- little configurations with infinite
meaning.
RHYMER FRANK HALLIWELL SENT ME POEM
BY FAMOUS AUSSIE BANJO PATTERSON,
ABOUT A MYSTERIOUS COME BY CHANCE TOWNSHIP,
THAT DON'T EXIST....
to Frank
so come by chance becomes a poem,
for the dreamers of the garden gnomes,
till the witless in their folly,
give up this ghasty dance,
and the sheep do run it terror,
from their romantic advance,
bleating c'mon termorrer,
it's our only Kiwi chance,
begorrah...
(AUSSIE JOKE ABOUT POMS AND SHEEP MAKING KIWIS , New Zealanders)
Don
amidst cavorting delightfully, enjoying thorough
frolicking gingerly, foreign hick hating slo
hip-hopping insouciantly sustaining row
biological status quo
kvetching lamely moreso mother became pro
naturally physically rumbling,
heard all the way in Oslo
supposedly twerking, undulating vivaciously
wantonly x2c wisely yielded – nada no
zona pellucida anchored byte size seaman,
potent embryonic fetal moe
newlweds nocturnal merriment
moma's Menses marked march 1959
lovingly joyusly, insemination happened ha low
bullseye clenched diploid fertilization
guaranteed germinating heiress
while squaqking lichen Apache at Diablo
ma late mother did should know
upon awakening upon tautly stretched exertion
during dilating cervix, which jiggled like jello
three score orbitz round el sol, warmed cockles
and muscled away brutally cold degrees
tab billed an igloo,
or circa six decades
drafted exuberant ho...ho...ho...
cuz, i.e. thencee at 362nd day
baby in belly did fully grow
December first nineteen fifty seven
sanctioned newly minted papa
to sing a capella for he's a jolly good fellow
quintessential nascent
kickstarter heady everflow
though wintry dark,
a “hi” beam illuminated
newborn girl with dayglow
sans, mechanical engine ear
papa (an honorably discharged army vet)
all spit and shine groom,
who wed a bride somewhat callow
first time parents with giddiness did saul fully bellow
Boyce and Harriet Harriet countenance
twas (like an elf on Christmas eve) all aglow.
--------------------------------------------------------
Dear Sis – I knew not what else to do
thus, this poem crafted fur ewe
a doe ting maternal gal – whose time on Earth flew
There he blows
on his way to the gents
Book in hand
we all know
this is where
he shall be occupied
for the next half hour
Imagination envisages
him making himself
comfortable
There for a duration
Intent on sinking
his teeth into several chapters
of the latest James Patterson
Belt slowly snakes
to the floor as he sits there
concentrating
on task in progress
with trousers half mast
supported by knees
Book on lap
A certain familiar
thunder echoes
through the house
Stench slowly seeping
through under door
Leaves mum running
for the air fragrancers
Doors and windows
are opened as mother
tries to ‘air’ the house
as she goes about
her business cleaning
the house until it shines
bright as a freshly minted coin
Eventually father emerges
Fresh and relaxed
Missing one gas mask
Mum trepidly takes a breath
and dives into the bathroom
Intent on finishing her work
disguising Dad’s omissions
Bathroom engaged again
Mother’s work never done
and yet as she vacates
a beautiful flowery scent
followers her through
The empty room vacantly awaiting
Welcoming next guest.
Hear me mates, before its too late.'
Get awake..Not woke! It'll send you broke.)
I have cried in anger.' In sadess and rage.'
At the counrys humilliation, and the world its stage
Its time to leave ideaologys that steal great
Aussie values.' Cue labour liberals greens and the teals!
Go and study the 1980s.' Though there were still fools
In charge.' The people were more involved in actions
By and large.' Put away navel gazing. And disengage.'
From the quackery and e u foolery.' And useless tirades'
In all states and territory, can you just say g'day? Embrace
Your true heros.' Listen to what they say.' I think of Hobart
And Patterson, Bosi' Latter and Hoody.' Culleton and
Rennik and Antic; another goody.' Smit; and krystal, iyah, Claire Woodly too.' stand
With them Australia." And get back to ( true blue!)
HANSEL AND GRETHEL*—A FRACTURED FAIRY TALE
Poem written for and submitted to “The Seed of Fear Poetry Contest,” Jami Patterson, sponsor, August 5, 2025.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
In the great city where towers scraped the sky,
lived an accountant with taxes too high.
His fingers trembled over empty ledgers,
scary times calling for drastic measures.
No longer in democracy did his country embrace
personal freedoms left without a trace.
The economy did falter
most everyone, including him, lived in squaller.
His wife sighed, "Oh, what shall we do?
Our cupboards are bare, our dreams bid adieu.
No bread to share and not enough food
for Hansel, Grethel, you, and me. We’re screwed!”
“There's a camp on city’s outskirts,” he did say,
"where the broken, lost, and weary can stay.
There we can live free on government aid.
So, dear wife, not to worry, for everything will be paid!"
“We can’t go there!” she said, her voice filled with dread.
"We shall not seek where the lost souls are led,
in a camp where the government with us its taxes has bled
offering breadcrumbs to our children instead."
Hansel, with his innocence, clutched his mother’s skirt.
Grethel, with wide eyes and a sweet voice, filled the air with mirth.
But with heavy hearts, they packed up their toys and possessions~
no more yearnings, no more hunger or worries, only depression.
The night was beastly cold, hope worn thin.
The stars watched Hansel and Grethel’s struggles begin.
The camp, a frightening place, was filled with sorrow,
no more dreams of a bright, better tomorrow.
Personal freedom was bartered for fear;
drugs and violence were always near.
Curfews, rampant theft, socialism, and criminal infestation
took hold in our once great nation-now the land of desperation
*Note: "Hansel and Grethel is a German fairy tale collected by the Brothers Grimm and published in 1812. It tells the story of two siblings who are abandoned in a forest by their stepmother and encounter a witch who lives in a house of candy." (Wikipedia.com)
Funkin AT THE CHICKEN SHACK – Tony Adamo - 1990
Jimmy Smith was laying down an incredible riff on a wall of kinetic sound that was oozing out of my car radio. I was on my way back from a singing gig at an Indian Restaurant. Saturday night is jazz night in the City by the Bay. On my approach to the Bay Bridge, I could see the fog was cold and watery wet, as it lay low and crept along like solders on night patrol in Vietnam.
I steered my Chevy Nova like it was a priceless Lamborghini the musical transition of thought. No traffic on the B Bridge…2:00AM on the steel span and all was right with me. Jimmy smith with friends Kenny Burrell, Stanley Turrenting, and drummer, Donald “Duck” Bailey were my musical guides for the ride.
I dug deep as I had to slow down. The fog was horror movie thick. Now I had time to think to the 100th power. Sho’ ‘ nuff and came up with Don Patterson, Richard Groove Holmes,Charles Earland, George Fame, Wild Bill Davis, Shirley Scott, Big John Patton, Baby Face Willette, Larry Young, Brother Jack McDuff, Jimmy Magriff. That’s where it’s at baby. The royal bloodline of B-3 players who brought us into R&B, Pop, Rock & Roll and Soul Jazz. Into the swingin’ feature goes Joey “D”. No boundries, no limits.
Bridge:
Back at the Chicken Shack people dancin’ to a kookin’ groove.
Breakin’ out into a funk sweat
Boogie sounds brewin’ from the B-3
Your twisted sister never danced like that
Reuben Wilson and his killer sounds was a stackin’ the beat shakin’ the Chicken Shack down to its feet
(Solo)
(Bridge)
What a beautiful and dynamic management of mind, body and intellect goes into coaxing Soul Jazz out of a fat Hammond B-3 organ. Was it the foggy, misty, jazzy night? Or…was it that I actually got paid to sing Jazz? No! It was Jimmy Smith’s playin’ that was vibbin’ me along the steel rail. The joyous atmosphere that hung in dense textures of musical thought was punctuating my life like bayonets turning to thumb prints on the consciousness of my creative mind. It was in thick reference to the wet fog rippling across the bridge, like fingers on a Hammond B3, Jimmy and me……free to be.
From Tony Adamo's Miles of Blu Cd/ Hipspoken Word
To write the perfect ode or verse
Is inevitably every aspiring poet’s curse
To write like the greats of the past
Who somehow have managed to last
Perhaps as a guide follow Patterson or Shakespeare
But wouldn’t this just lead to more confusion and fear
I wonder if there is a dummies guide to becoming a poet
With a cheesy heading like ‘your poet you just don’t know it’
What would such a book suggest
Would it be easy to digest
It would probably read
Poetry made simple here’s what you need
Step 1; it must always rhyme
And be kept in time
Step 2; create a meaningful flow
Which is not too fast or too slow
Step3; convey superior knowledge and I.Q.
Show a variety of styles perhaps put in a haiku
Step 4; capture the readers mind
Know when to be cruel and know when to be kind
Step 5; make your theme relevant
A topic know one knows may be irrelevant
Step 6; use a thesaurus
It will help you find words similar to porous
Step 7; make sure your message is clear
When trying to portray terror give the reader fear
Step 8; keep your verse short and sweet
Keep your writing punctual and neat
Step 9; don’t rush, take your time
Eventually you’ll find a word to rhyme
Step 10; end it with a great line or pun
And lastly try to have fun
If only creating the perfect verse was such an easy creation
We would certainly have a poet filled nation
The substance of verse would perhaps be bad
Which would make lovers of verse increasingly sad
If you need to follow instructions or a list
In relation to verse you evidently don’t get the gist
Simply write what you feel passionate about
Say it softly or say it with a shout
Grab pen and paper and feel the space
Because with more self expression the world would be a better place
This guide to poetry is clearly a joke
Follow it and you will unavoidably choke