Best Squatters Poems
I’m the one who needs to be somewhere else,
I cannot stay in one place.
The grass is green where I’ve never been
and never have shown my face.
When I look back on every track
where there’s nothing to entice
me to return to where I never yearn.
You won’t see my footsteps twice.
I’ve lived through drought and I’ve lived through flood,
I’ve been where a fire’s burnt black.
I’ve seen the curse where the locusts’ worse
and the crops are all under attack.
I’ve been laid down in a cyclone town
when winds are a howling gale.
In the shearing shed when the markets dead
and the cheques bounced over the rail.
I’ve no good terms on the squatters land
for he’s never a man to talk,
and he can’t control his angry soul
when a restless man don’t walk.
If there’s sag in my tucker bag
near a campfire I’m content.
He’ll try to rule I’m a thieving fool
so my time with him is spent.
I’m the one who needs to be somewhere else;
each camp is a rainbows end,
where the only gold that I get to hold
is to wake in the morning again
to bear my load on the distant road
for ahead lies my clarity,
that with my charms in the need for alms,
there’s a world full of charity.
I’m the one who needs to be somewhere else,
in my chase for the know not what,
where time ahead guide the fearful dead,
something that I am not.
From coast to coast my eventual ghost
will tramp o’er the trail I made,
which can’t be denied is Australia wide
when I rest where my body is laid.
Categories:
squatters, moving on,
Form:
Rhyme
Santa hasn’t drunk cocoa tonight,
and he’s not dressed in red trimmed with white.
In blue denim so cool,
he is toasting the Yule
with a drink surely not mixed with Sprite!
Santa’s drink was a little too red,
and I think we have something to dread,
for he’s now in the sky
and he’s flying “too high”
as his sleigh widely veers overhead.
Had been use for the Humor Contest of Carol Eastman
* Slab City is a snowbird campsite in the Colorado Desert in southeastern California, used by recreational vehicle owners and squatters from across North America. East Jesus is part of its artistic community.
Categories:
squatters, character,
Form:
Limerick
~~ The Rabbit and the Fox ~~ 20 line Ballad
The Rabbit and the Fox
The Rabbit and the Fox are here
go down south, to Australia
They have a bounty on the Fox
Bring in his skin they’ll pay ya
Myxameatosis germ warfare (first ever)
Just for the Bagman's bunny (our ww1 war crazed soldiers lived on rabbit in solitude)
Old Rabbit got mattry eyed
It really wasn’t funny
Great depression in the 20s
We lived on lovely rabbit
skins made the Slouch hat
Our soldiers wear, our habit (fur felt made the hat)
The master took the Rabbit (Squatters said plague)
No more free feeds for us
So we started eating of his sheep
Become a bit nonplussed
They brought another virus out
To kill off outlaw rabbit
But bunny still gets about
The Fox your hens will have it
Don Johnson
Categories:
squatters, adventure
Form:
Ballad
heartbeat of the American dream
early settlers escaped tyranny
rode West, used squatters’ rights
claimed land and turned to ranching
nights ‘neath stars and grub by campfires
from nearby hills wolves howling
driving cattle across wide prairies
boomtowns erected when gold was found
ghost towns remain as a symbol of lost wealth
cowboys saw the growth of a nation
encountered tribes that rebelled
met others that passed peace pipes
Tombstone today haunted by sounds
barroom brawls and sultry saloon singers
not an easy life; the strongest survived
few emulated Clint Eastwood or John Wayne
just men who still enjoy freedom to roam the range
but freedom always comes at a price
few riders had family ties
ladies of the night were their comfort
only a handful became rich ranchers
still they ride
still they ride
Categories:
squatters, cowboy-westernfreedom,
Form:
Free verse
Waltzing Shearer
Out near Dagworth Station during 1894
Where the Waltzing Matilda, Swagman drowned,
Cos he liked them lamb chops nicely browned,
He was only eating the Masters sheep, scoffing em down,
Disgusting said Squatters and frowned, some more,
In 1894,
Great Shearers strike was still happening,
Burned down Dagworth shearing shed, for sure,
Firing guns were the Gun Shearers , ..shore 300 sheep a day..
Fair wages they wanted, some more,
The Shearers strike it got ugly,
The Master brought in the Army and war,
Shearers were using Phosphorous,
Delayed action fires galore,
The master and 3 coppers came along ,
They chased down a swagman, before,
He plunged in the water, the billabong,
And death did come like a whore,
So he goes no more waltzing a Jumbuck,………..…sheep
His ghost lingers still there by the shore,
Was it the Combo, waterhole,
Where he sprang and he bubbles no more.
Don Johnson 24-sep-11
Yes Vom, Gram.
nothing wrong with sweet little whores,
except unless she sometimes snores,
and forgets to pay the rent,
and death is welcome as before,
for this dim malcontent...
Categories:
squatters, adventure, death, death,
Form:
Ballade
Christmas Castaways
My good friend Jerry’s unemployment had run out
I feared print journalism’s future was in doubt
But while we commiserated on Christmas Eve
A disheartening report was broadcast on TV
Local law enforcement had been busy that day
People found living in the woods had been cast away
These homeless families had set up tents on state land
And police had ordered these squatters to disband
How heartless it seemed that these souls should be tossed out
Poor folks who had nothing and learned to do without
We shut off the TV, couldn’t take it anymore
And headed for a café with joyful décor
Just twenty degrees as we drove down the highway
Where a sight neath a bridge caused far more dismay
A couple and their small child huddled together
Trying hard to stay warm in cold winter weather
Sad images of Bethlehem flashed through my mind
With no room at the inn for the savior of mankind
I looked at my friend and he returned my glance
We both felt this family needed a second chance
“Pull over,” he murmured, “we can’t just leave them here
These folks deserve to share in our holiday cheer”
So money that could have bought steak dinners for two
We used to buy hamburgers for our five-member crew
Some cash left over for a room at Motel Six
Not a real solution – a temporary fix
We returned Christmas Day; our church would take them in
But they had checked out; it was half past eleven
For long I’ve wondered what happened to this family
And what each Christmas holds for those who are needy
*Recollection of Christmas, 2007, when the economy started to fail.
Categories:
squatters, christmas, friend, holiday,
Form:
Couplet
There are no shape walls
to bridle one's emotions
creativity is properly ventilated
unbound by meter or syllable count
embracing nakedness
yanked naked in its virginity
The binding belt of chastity
given over to lyrical lovers
Sleeping quietly in the meadows
a pristine area free of squatters
fighting for their rights
with sonnet-crafted homes
and hamlets defined by literature.
Straying away from the norm
acolytes watch as castles are built,
that worships orderly expression
poetic masterpieces,
safeguarded and preserved at all times
metaphors align into a specific subset
pictures look like works of art,
there is a distinct realm
for those unfit to fly in their confines.
Outside of the norm
is a vast nebulous
growing quill flowers from seeds sown
the power of smell to evoke memories,
which one's brain may elect to ignore
when settling at a location of a specific form
is what one's words must imply.
On this trip, there are no rules,
only that burning desire inside
strive to harass the page,
fire getting into the core
from telling someone a mystery,
till the key bares the chest
where other ideas demand rebirth.
1st Place Contest Winner
Written: August 28, 2022
Free Verse - Old Or New Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joseph May
5th Place Contest Winner
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Categories:
squatters, analogy, appreciation, birth, poetry,
Form:
Free verse
Aub
Aubrey Gordon Joseph Mc'Govern
by Don Johnson...
he was born in 1895 to a land so different then,
one of three boys born at Brenda station,
near to Hebel up the river near the water on a bend.
though just a child he told me of his life upon the land,
of strange things seen and space ships strange, with
coloured lights so grand.
how he and Walter and the boy had seen it flying past ,
but never went to look for it though it fell with a mighty blast.
he drove the coach for Cobb & co, held six horses by the rein,
these 3 Mc Govern's never married though,
so no Mc Govern's will remain.
he worked on Cubbie station as a station hand
their fences he did mend, delivered mail a sulky
mailman to the squatters he was friend.
no radio on the airwaves then, the news would come by him,
by word of mouth the bush telegraph, bare facts with no garnishing.
one time he was a shearers cook and cooked o'er an open fire.
he was on the rum, maybe seeing things, old Aub. he was no liar.
as he stooped to check the boiling pot he saw the Devil lunge at him.
so he flogged him off used his boiling spuds,
made a goodly campfire dim.
old Aubrey's gone where the old drovers go,
but i sure remember him.
as a story teller i did know,
when i was small and thin. …
Categories:
squatters, adventure, old, old,
Form:
Ballade
Don’t worry.
The head of British Gas
will take a pay cut.
Your favourite watering hole
will never shut.
There may be acid rain
because the ozone layer is kaput,
But someday
it’ll be OK.
Don’t worry.
Elvis Presley will announce
that he is well and truly dead.
You will be given a wage
to stay in bed.
There may be squatters
in your garden shed,
But someday
it’ll be OK.
Don’t worry.
There’ll be a non-stop funfair
in your local park.
Granny muggers will prowl
the streets in the dark.
There may be need
to build a fall-out Ark,
But someday
it’ll be OK.
Don't Worry
Leicester City will achieve
the Cup and League double.
Politicians will resign
when in trouble.
You may have to live
in a pollution-free bubble,
But someday,
it’ll be OK.
Don’t worry.
Lady Gaga will become
the Antichrist (or Pope).
Cliff Richard will crack
and start smoking dope.
You may have to listen
to another Tim Vine Joke,
But someday
it’ll be OK.
Don’t worry.
Footballers will not dispute
the yellow card.
Salman Rusdie will not need
an armed guard.
The next London airport
may be New Scotland Yard,
But someday
it’ll be OK.
Categories:
squatters, funny, happiness, hope, inspirational,
Form:
Rhyme
From the Painted Desert, head west
Past sagebrush, brittle bush, desert scrub
And The Petrified Forest at rest
To the Rocky Mountains above
Go past the Continental Divide
Below Douglas firs and pinyon pines
Head down the sunset side
Where the Colorado River cuts and winds
Many generations ago
Native Americans were inhabiting squatters
There were herds of buffalo
Along with now extinct muskrats and river otters
Beaver, cut cottonwoods and willows
Leopard frogs slept on limestone pillows
Mule deer and bighorn sheep
Climbed up and down walls so steep
Follow me down the foot trail
Like indigenous butterflies with swallowtails
In to the Valley of the Sun
Where Hopi civilization begun
Tassel eared squirrels frolic about
Bald eagles fly over and scout
Stream orchids, honey mesquite and arrow weeds
For pocket mice and other rodent species
Gray fox, weasels, bobcats
Spotted skunks, ring tails, and bats
Call this canyon their home
Where bark scorpions and rattlesnakes roam
While gila monsters and red spotted toads
Search for midges, flies and black widows
It took this river millions of years
To make this home for all who are here
an original poem by the "poemdog" Daniel Turner
Categories:
squatters, adventure, america, animal, history,
Form:
Rhyme
Ever pass a street garden
On the lower East Side
You know the kind
Long and narrow
Squeezed between two tenements
Ever wonder how it came to be
Who made it?
Where did it come from?
Odds and ends
And garden tools clutter one corner
Benches are set aside
A children’s swing waits at the far end
The garden is not magnificent
Like the ones you see in suburbia
But like every garden in the City
It beckons to you with a history of its own
Take a long look
When you peer through the chain link fence
See the rows of growing green things
They didn’t happen by accident.
Grassroots activists fought to stop the decay of the lower East Side
Squatters took over abandoned houses
Theirs were marked by struggle
Hardship
And violence
They and kindred spirits captured the activism of the 70’s and 80’s
From Alphabet City
Running along Avenue A to Avenue D
They used terms
Everyone understood
Affordable apartments
Living spaces.
Neighborhood volunteers
Worked the soil
Hunched over
Hands black with dirt
Digging past bricks, rocks and rubble
Breaking up the ground
Feeling the moistness of the Earth
In their fingertips
Their whole being
Sensing the beginnings of new life.
Categories:
squatters, life, garden,
Form:
Narrative
I stood at the door and knocked..
five hundred years...no one told
me to come in- no one told me
what's yours is mine.
I stood at the door and knocked.
The keys were in my pocket.
When I realized,I could unlock
the door and go in. Squatters
had entrance gained.
They changed the locks
and cast me into the rain.
If you knock three times
and no one answers...
"check your pockets"...
this is your house,
do not fail to unlock-it...!
Categories:
squatters, bible, blessing, wisdom,
Form:
Blank verse
Goshen ghettofied,
born and bred
Yeah, I’m the teen darkie
with the big nose
and the nappy head
Rolling with my homies
on an asphalt bounce,
with the music on blast
Yeah, we’re the young darkies
with the big lips ...
American society outcasts
As ministers of menace, we preach
dem chickens gon come back one day at last,
and lay some righteous eggs from the past
We’ve been called: Wall Street squatters
and ivory house doubters
We’ve been caged
disproportionately and dispassionately
When they feel our riot rage,
only then do they
ever wanna truly civilly engage
When they feel the anger heat,
only then do they
nervously open the door of the cage
Skid marks on our backs ...
concrete jungle death-trap metal violence burn
Skid rows across the tracks ...
poverty check delivered on a low-income tax return
America’s always bragging about
how they benevolently set their beloved slaves free
But from this darkie’s point of view,
the invisible chains of racism ain’t never been off me
That’s what these monkey big eyes see
Gorilla glue truth is super strong sticky
My peeps and me, like I said:
We’re born and bred,
Goshen ghettofied
Gospel truth be told: It’s commonly believed,
and the ghetto pain never lied —
on the day we were inner-city born,
the certificate said it was the day we died
Categories:
squatters, identity, perspective, racism, truth,
Form:
Dramatic Monologue
“METROPOLIS BLUES”
The elemental wind
curls in from the north east,
sublime salon creations in
disarray, in grimy profusion
inventiveness subsides.
The town clock strikes out,
within ear shot, a bench seat plays
host to a cast of thousands.
Soon! succulent rotting form to be
replaced by concrete.
“A dental job needed
for those poor little mites?”
Corrugated iron
picturesque in shades of autumn,
rattling in regimental disorder,
a haunting requisition
for regeneration.
Rogue waves spill over the
quay, reducing feathered messengers
to squatters alms.
Honking horn for the many that
miss “Cross now.” Hot profanity
escapes in sheer frustration,
diamond studded ladies,
gents in pin stripe suits
reduced to gutter sniping,
intellectual street wise gnomes
aroused by verbal definition.
Skywards, elevated glass menageries, a
product of inner city germination casts out
buoyant clouds, plays
yo-yo with minute window cleaners,
perched precarious in prefabricated
isolation.
One does get lost in
Duty Free! Polyglots
strutting between glass cabinets,
exemplification of
exaggerated personification!
No English! Here, yet many tongues
in resonant sounds, reverberating
throughout the confused clamour.
Idiot in pearly white
“BMW” Snookered
in “Victoria Street”
came in “Off the black” Seven
points away, no consolation for
the hot “Mini Cooper”
all concerned carried away
under flashing lights.
“Cardless head banger” In
aggressive mood, his
four numbered digits he
had forgot, so the machine
decided to take the lot!
Shades of the fifties roll on
by, silver wheels impeccable
against an opaque sky.
“Boom boom ‘John Lee Hooker’”
drifts into contention
a competitive participant
within the metropolis;
as aren’t we all!!
© Harry J Horsman 2012
Categories:
squatters, angst, confusion,
Form:
Free verse
To Right a Wrong
In vain did they look in wonder
In vain do they seek him still
He fought for Australia his country
Kokoda went, to die and kill
2 of our brave Aussie soldiers
Were left off the list of the dead (20 years)
Their hometown RSL elders
Despised life blood that they bled.
Their fathers had gone to one meeting
Communism seemed to help of the poor?
Blacklisted even though warrior sons were beating
The Japanese back from our door.
So I speak of Dan Seaton and Leo Judge
These men gave all that they had
Fought bravely in New Guinea’s mud
Printed on the honour board by Dad….
Don Johnson
These Dirranbandi soldiers were left off the honor board 20 years till my father joined
the RSL
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qxJHZ05E3gM
Well Joe the poor who worked from daylight to dark for a pittance, 6 days a week, saw the commo thing as a possible improvement they only had the positive propaganda at that time:} The rich were terrified of the Commos taking over and bringing equality:} The Squatters were sneaking about with guns and taking names for the black balling. And dead soldiers familys suffered.
Categories:
squatters, adventure,
Form:
Ballad