Best Shearing 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.
Ronald was a tough old ram, the biggest of his breed
Daniel was a clipperman, renowned of shearing deed
Many sheep were sheared that day and woolless they had fled
Before those two met in affray and battled in the shed!
Ronald, he had seen old Wallace wrestled to the floor,
Mugged of his dignity and fleece, and knew that it was war
And seeing that his turn was nigh, his hooves he dug in deep
He'd fight and though perhaps he'd die, at least he'd die a sheep.
Daniel had no time to waste, he'd quotas set to keep
And unprepared, he reached in haste to take the waiting sheep
But Ronald steeled himself as Daniel took him by the horn
And, rearing, pulled himself away before he could be shorn.
Off-balance, Daniel stumbled, to Ronald's great delight
Onto his knees he tumbled as the shears flew out of sight
And Ronald now unhanded felt his victory increase
Protecting his sheep dignity and, likewise, his sheep fleece.
But Daniel was not beaten yet, he knew that he'd faced worse
His mind was still determined set, he rose up with a curse
But still he was unsteady and Ronald was a ram
His head was lowered ready and he charged the clipperman
Ronald's head met Daniel's side and toppled him again
This time headfirst and to collide his head against the grain.
Leaving, stunned, the clipperman upon the wooden floor
In final victory, the ram strolled out the open door.
But, alas, 'tis not the way that sheep triumph at last
And Daniel would not see the day that any sheep got past
Despite Ram Ronald's victor's pride, the shearer would not yield
So followed a less dignified pursuit around the field.
Ronald, he was fast and he had four legs matched to two
So Daniel was outclassed, if that was all that he could do,
But he also had a sheepdog and so Ronald was defeated
He would have had the victory, if Daniel hadn't cheated.
The yards behind the shearing shed are overgrown with grass
And the fence posts look a little worse for wear
There’s cobwebs on the tractors that are sitting all forlorn
And a farm cat snoozes gently on a chair
The boards have not been trodden by a shearer’s boot for years
But the remnants of their trade lie on the floor
A dull and rusty hand piece was left hanging on the wall
And an old grey fleece is draped across a door
A fridge that held refreshments for the shearers long ago
Stands rusting in the corner on its own
Some wool bales from the final clip are sitting in a pile
And the wind whips through the rafters with a moan
The only sign of movement is the farm cat getting up
It must be time to go and hunt for tea
As she slinks between the barrels that are holding up the floor
It’s time for mice to hide, or turn and flee
A drowsy looking blowfly buzzes lazily around
And the morning slowly turns to afternoon
Then the purple shades of evening slide across the waving fields
And the shearing shed is bathed beneath the moon
Then somewhere in the darkness you can hear the shearer’s ghosts
you can hear them clipping long into the night
Cries of ‘fleece off!’ are competing with the bleating of the sheep
but silence reigns again come morning light
And the shed just goes on rusting underneath the summer sun
And the termites come and chew upon the boards
And the spiders in the tractors go on spinning silken webs
And the shearer’s ghosts are undisputed lords
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"
Everything becomes atmospheric in its nature:
the black rock holding open a door to a room with no entry.
Redemption comes with a price,
but it is not for sale here.
Kind gestures mastering no weight,
and music being played idly through a cracked window.
Without your bright signs, or the screams of the unlucky who await within,
there would be no patrons of your dead hostel.
But we come for the screams and we come for the signs,
and we come for the music we can almost hear.
We are almost soothed and almost relinquish our personal peace
for the greater apathy to reign.
I am here with you darling,
but you cannot even feel my touch.
So gentle in nature, so tenacious in your attempts to learn.
So blanketed with dream trees and angelic harps that sound only in your ears.
This is my gallery to display the despair we call art.
Lack of emotion and childless mothers abound.
Come in, he says, Come in.
And on and on they stream.
With no tears for the dead,
the brothers that we left by the side of the road.
Too gentle in their tenacity.
No ability to further progress in this procession of the damned,
observed by careful observers from behind the glass.
Cracked and broken and without a place to conceal their eyes.
I am trembling in this wake,
but I grasp your hand and we march on.
To great nothingness,
to empty years of needing some way to be free.
Clanking glasses and shearing metal break my mind and bring me back to you.
Where are you?
And how are you going to take me away from here?
Here, where dream trees’ boughs bend and snap beneath the snow-covering.
We are burying the infants who have passed from this world to the next,
we are smothering their little mouths and tearing out their eyes.
We must suppress the screams of the innocent,
lest we believe we have a place with them.
Follow their stoic departure and wish with our minds’ whispers
that there was somewhere we too could go.
A man who'd crowned himself a vainglorious king,
'twas filled with foolish pride and never-ending need
to be revered with loud praises, heard in echoes ring.
Ego plowed the fields in his mind, planting that seed,
and he cared not if bitter words made hearts bleed.
Though smug notions danced in his swelled head,
his smile withered; lips quivered as a teardrop fell,
for he found himself lamentably, alone in his bed.
Conceit was his pillow, to romance he'd bid farewell.
In the depths of narcissism, he was bound to dwell.
His inflated vanity kept everyone at arm's length.
To be worshipped from afar, true love was never found
until the night Delilah's whispers sheared his strength.
Her love took his breath away until he nearly drowned
in her eyes. Fallen off his pedestal, he was earthbound.
No longer did he stride about like a cock-of-the-walk.
His pompous attitude shattered into shards of glass,
and his tongue stopped wagging with self-loving talk.
A change of countenance made him a better man. Alas,
he was reborn with humility by the kiss of a wee lass.
His love for her had rendered soft his haughty ways,
shearing away the wooly facade of his disdainful soul.
A demeanor of meekness, his sentiment now displays,
a nascent change, his ego defeated with self-control.
He's admired by many; his modest virtues they extol.
The hubris king stepped down from his lofty throne
and became a man who was valued and respected.
The only boasting he did was about a family of his own
and was so well-liked that as mayor he was elected.
A humble attitude altered his life, once 'twas corrected.
July 4th, 2022
Ego shorn, here now reborn contest
Sponsored by Unseeking Seeker
It’s shearing time again
My husband has to go
Back to the boards again
To make us all some dough.
He walks out the front door
Lets out a quiet moan
And gathers up his cutters
Tool box & his wide combs.
The boss will not accept
Less than 100 sheep today
My husband knows full well
any less won’t be much pay.
He bends down as he starts
he thanks God for the back aid
these young bucks will never know
what it was like in the ol’ days.
It was 20 years ago
He won the comp for the 8 hour
For strongwool ewes & wethers
He was at the peak of his power.
The strength may not be there
For time has moved on now
But he knows the shortcuts
As the sweat drips from his brow.
He walks through the door
Puts the toolbox on the sill
Says to me so proudly
Now you can pay the bills
He may not be so perfect
But to me he is a man
I’ll get him through the next few months
Its shearing time again
Yes, I’ll get him through the next few months
Its shearing time again.
A true story about 2 shearers wives I know but written as one
Larger than large, fostering the void,
Rippled iron for the walls, roof and door,
Above six-foot legs reaching up from the dirt,
To cradle the woollen greased floor,
With broken old memories in the years now at peace,
Years from the sheep shearing and men,
Years of disused hard immovable love,
Love from the chutes, race and pens,
This ghostly lit hall became an art hub,
Again a busy but with beautiful paint,
Where freedom can sit and relax with the past,
Where life can go to escape,
And walls are now coloured with exquisite art pop,
Everything here is a friend,
That greets folks each time they create art with a brush,
In the hundred year old shearing shed.
the sheep won't be led to slaughter /until sheared into submission
My head hangs low above the sink,
Ha, no, unlikely what you think!
True, there were times excessive drink
Did see the gut, recoiling, shrink.
Nay, far more happy time and place
Would best describe the here and now,
But weeds have overrun the fields;
It’s time to put the hand to plow.
’Tis head that’s needing to be shorn,
A humming scythe across the glade,
Or shearing sheep on frosty morn.
My tool of choice: the zero blade.
No victory until I die,
The onslaught merely staved, pushed back,
And when again the threat draws nigh,
My trusty blade will mount attack.