Best Ute Poems
There's an old timber, farm gate at the end of a track.
You wouldn't see it driving past unless you looked back.
It's made of roughly hewn wood more than a lifetime ago,
time and weather has worn it down, as the seasons ebb and flow.
A rusty abandoned ute lays near, covered in pine tree nettles.
Where weeds and braken make claim to it as in the earth it forever settles.
Late sunlight filters through the trees, casting shadows through the gate.
Where once cattle on the other side for feed would stand and wait.
Young children used to play on the gate, stand and swing it open wide.
Then climb through the cypress trees for another place to hide.
Atop the rail the magpies perch, warbling away without refrain.
Intently gazing across the fields, the kings of their domain.
The children have all gone now, grown up and moved away.
For many years the gate lay untouched, its frame in disarray.
Who knows? maybe someone will see its worth and fix the old farm gate.
Embed it back into time, for another's memories to recreate.
In the land of Oz, we're all fair dinkum,
Every bloke, Sheila and Healer too.
By crikey mate, if you get us started,
You'll regret the day I guarantee you.
In bonza days some may call hard yakka,
With an esky chockers and a barbie that blares.
Strewth! I tell you even our bogans are grouse,
Where else can you find platypodes and Koala Bears?
So spend an arvo or two and don't be a bludger,
Smoke a durry and blow the froth off a few.
You'll be saying "Man, that was a bloody ripper",
So get off your dunny and tell a furphy or two!
If you're thinkin' of comin' over, but not too sure,
Just have a go, ya mug, you may just find.
The best place to go walkabout and make new friends,
But don't be a goose and leave your goon bag behind.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
We're as Aussie as "You Beaut",
We're as Aussie as the Holden ute.
We're as Aussie as a kangaroo,
We're as Aussie as we're "True Blue".
Sweet n Dumpy
I’m a bit of a brute when I’m out in me ute,
When the road rage gets me a bit grumpy,
I’m feeling beaut like hairy galoot,
The meat on this Shiela is lumpy,
got me a girl might give her a whirl,
short at one end and quite dumpy,
she always slaps me round the head,
I nibble her ears twice monthly,
I must have me meat ,
Cos me toenails compete,
With me claws and the fangs in me head,
The life blood so sweet,
Fills the void just a treat,
But still, there’s sweet dumpy instead.
Don JohnsonMatt Caliri
Contest Name Wolfman Falls In Love
Silver’s scars
The evil little lad that creeps
About while others soundly sleep,
With a key he scratches many cars,
He hates the stranger owners, ha ha.
Cos they have much more than him!
My silver ute, she bears the scars,
Of screwdriver,
scratches are,
The prettier they really want to marr,
Cos it's anger they can bring,
Of course I have been in his place,
Was tempted sometimes to deface,
Jealous kind of thoughts erase,
But I’m no dingaling?
Most never had the dollars, gosh,
To strut around and be so posh,
Us poor, had things without the gloss,
Does life bring on the whinging:)
Don Johnson 8-jul-11
It's like a flamin' maze out here
where I'm looking for a name,
where hawthorn hedges line the fences,
and the crossroads look the same.
I'm up and down seems every road;
I've criss-crossed east to west,
as well as going north to south,
where I am cannot be guessed.
I've been through Catani twice,
and three times into Bayles,
so the road and house I'm looking for,
on me mate’s direction fails.
I cannot place just where I am,
with all this wasted time I spent,
then on a crossing close to Caldermeade -
bang! And I'm in an accident.
I was stunned there like a mullet,
with nerves tingling to touch,
I got out to see the damage,
which luckily was nothing much.
Then the fellow in his rusted ute,
stepped out looking pretty grey,
for he'd gone through a give-way sign,
where I had the right of way.
He looked at his car, then mine
with a big sigh of relief,
for there seemed little damage,
were the words of his belief.
So back to the ute he sauntered,
returning with a drink,
saying, “Mate our shattered nerves,
need a steadier I think.”
He handed me the bottle
with the cap on it undone.
I had a drink and then he said,
“Go on you have another one.”
I took a swig and then another,
and me nerves were back on track,
so I handed him the bottle,
and in the ute he put it back.
I said, “You didn't take a drink!”
And he replied to me “I know -
but you can bet that I'll drink plenty
after the coppers go.”
Destiny arrived on a Tuesday,
in a box marked
FRAGILE: REGAL.
I signed for it in my slippers,
holding half a piece of toast.
Inside: a sapphire crown.
No instructions.
Just joy,
heavy and brilliant
as the midwinter sky.
Naturally,
I took it out.
I didn’t wear it—I carried it.
The rain applauded.
Every puddle on the footpath
tried to catch its reflection.
A magpie, professionally suspicious,
followed me for three blocks,
hoping I was a very shiny chip.
At the crossing,
waiting in the drizzle,
I cradled my glittering fate.
A tradie’s ute splashed past.
I didn't flinch.
Instead, I gave the driver a slow,
magnificent, regal wave.
He honked, entirely confused.
I grinned like a fool.
At the bakery,
the woman with the tongs said,
“Special occasion?”
“Apparently,” I said,
carrying destiny in both hands
like a cake too beautiful to cut.
By dusk, even the clouds
had put on their best
sapphire hue.
I still had no kingdom,
no horse,
no useful instructions—
only a sapphire crown in my arms
and the extraordinary feeling
that winter,
at last,
had remembered my name.
Apache, the Ndee, "the people" of Arizona and other States
Blackfoot, the Siksika, whose painted red faces we can relate
Cheyenne, the Tsitsistas, meaning relatives of the Cree
Dakota Sioux, the Dakota, meaning little snakes in Ojibwe
Euchee, or Yuchi, are the "children of the sun"
Fox, the Meskwaki, eventually native to Wisconsin
Gros Ventre, strangely named "big belly" by the French
Huron, with their above allies left many a tribe wrenched
Inuit, the Eskimo, this tribe with the snow
Juaneño, from the Sunshine State around Orange and San Diego
Kickapoo, with their linguistic code, unique called "whistle speech"
Lakota, like the Dakota, speak with similar tongues they teach
Mohawk, "People of the Flint" from upstate New York
Navajo, is now the most spoken, where extinction has not gone berserk
Ottawa, "the traders" their name lives on in their City
Potawatomi, "fire keepers" one hundred speakers, my hearts in pity
Qwulhhwaipum, "the prairie people from beyond the mountain range"
Ryawas, by the Missouri River where they no longer reign
Shawnee, meaning "southerner" were are far ranging tribe
Tonkawa, "they keep together" but only a few still reside
Ute, of Colorado and Salt Lake valley fame
Victorious the ones who remain to this day, whilst the V has no name
Wiyot, and its last native speaker, died in 1962
X, xenophobic they would be, to the ancestors of me and you
Yavapai, from Arizona, are the "people of the sun"
Zuni, like all the tribes above, fell victim to the white mans gun
.
The True American.
Apache, the Ndee, "the people" of Arizona and other States
Blackfoot, the Siksika, whose painted red faces we can relate
Cheyenne, the Tsitsistas, meaning relatives of the Cree
Dakota Sioux, the Dakota, meaning little snakes in Ojibwe
Euchee, or Yuchi, are the "children of the sun"
Fox, the Meskwaki, eventually native to Wisconsin
Gros Ventre, strangely named "big belly" by the French
Huron, with their above allies left many a tribe wrenched
Inuit, the Eskimo, this tribe with the snow
Juaneño, from the Sunshine State around Orange and San Diego
Kickapoo, with their linguistic code, unique called "whistle speech"
Lakota, like the Dakota, speak with similar tongues they teach
Mohawk, "People of the Flint" from upstate New York
Navajo, is now the most spoken, where extinction has not gone berserk
Ottawa, "the traders" their name lives on in their City
Potawatomi, "fire keepers" one hundred speakers, my hearts in pity
Qwulhhwaipum, "the prairie people from beyond the mountain range"
Ryawas, by the Missouri River where they no longer reign
Shawnee, meaning "southerner" were a far ranging tribe
Tonkawa, "they keep together" but only a few still reside
Ute, of Colorado and Salt Lake valley fame
Victorious the ones who remain to this day, whilst the V has no name
Wiyot, and its last native speaker, died in 1962
X, xenophobic they would be, to the ancestors of me and you
Yavapai, from Arizona, are the "people of the sun"
Zuni, like all the tribes above, fell victim to the white mans gun.
sleeping (( COLLABORATION * Don Johnson ))
by~ DON JOHNSON
The Nullabor it does abhor
the desert in it standing
The broken heart
he keeps apart
where Eagles are a landing
kangaroo is prolific cos good seasons bring in millions
they shoot them for the last hundred years,
Hoppy is still there in millions
Almost a plague after rain
The cure the joy the madness ploy, just catch a little Shiela
but broken hearts tend to self destroy
The one true love, to feel her
so searching for the lock of eyes upon the Nullabor
kangaroo does abound, dead straight the road for sure
Ironic tale sour grapes inhale,
He sleeps upon the plain
his swag is near the old Ute, and the dog is ever watchful
his protector is a beaut
~civilization calls~
he has to go back to the city streets
And searching ever searching for the eyes of lady sweet.
***by~ POET D:
Searching and searching till weak eyes fall asleep.
~civilization calls~
Calls the plague of raining streets!
The sleeping kangaroo took me into the abyss of sour grapes.
A wildlife with wildfire turned over by wildflowers.
Seascapes; full of sand that no one dared to understand!
Drowning underwater in a universe that had no expand.
Where the passer-by's felt the expression of sadness in his sleeping face.
All it took was experiencing the world with one lonely look.
A grain of salt, in the night sky!
Where clouds ‘walk-sneak and / clouds-cry like a whirlpool’,
Tears from a near by fountain deep in a valley.
Where we can sing for roo's sleeping heart.
Death in a wild flower mourning asleep on the hour.
Seeing’ is believing when Shiela appeared.
Drying tears with her sweet eyes over the desert lands.
A Collaboration with *DON JOHNSON
~MY COLLABORATION CONTEST~
Another New Year
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
2014 done and dusted
I’ve welcomed in 2015
With a beer and a crayfish
Round a campfire with some friends
…
New resolutions, not for me old mate
Cause I won’t keep what I promised
So I’ll just open up the gate… and
Let fate decide what’s in store for 2015
…
Like the man in the barbed wire canoe
Spearing tadpoles with a crow bar
You can bet my year won’t be great
But I’ll tough it out and see it through
…
I’ll do a bit of travel in me Ute and Van
Probably round Australia and free camp
When I can
Catch up with some mates along the way
Have a chin wag and a beer or two
…
I don’t really give a rat’s ****
What goes on in this world of turmoil
As long as they pay me pension
I’ll just live my life as free as a bird
…
But I will say this old mate
That’s it’s your family and friends
That will get you through the gate
Should a little trouble strike
…
So enjoy your life one and all
Leave your troubles behind the gate
Love your family, friends and mates
Be kind to your heart, it has only so many beats
…
WELCOME 2015
Living the Dream
By
Kevin L Fairbrother
From Hobart to Cape York from Perth to Sydney
And all the cities, towns and country in-between
I am visiting places on this Island I’ve never seen
Experiencing the highs and lows and living the dream
East and west of the great divide a picture so different
In the west the landscape so bruised, dry and parched
With the drought lingering and causing so much suffering
People so resolute and tough don’t know the meaning of giving up
East of the divide a picture of greenery as far as the eye can see
Not feeling the hardship of life unlike their cousins on the other side
Here the cities and country towns are vibrant and alive
For the mountains hide the devastation on the western side
Thousands of kilometers and thousands of liters of fuel
Not to mention the thousands of dollars well spent
With my Ute and van I’m able to greet a new day in a new place
So every day is a new adventure called living the dream
So many new and old friends I have met and greeted
Lots of campfires and happy hours under the stars
Filled with stories of travel, adventure and friendship
The memories of which will stay with me fore-ever
So many places I have been, so much I have experienced and seen
The sea of sugar cane from that stretches the eastern coast
The beaches, the forests, the mountains, the flora and fauna
All visited and reached by manmade roads that stretch from coast to coast
The country music musters so enjoyed by so many travelers
The buildings and relics of old so rich in fame and history
The diverse cultures that live on because people care
Are just a small part of living the dream in Australia
I will keep travelling as I follow the ribbon of tar
For every day I wake to something so different
As my life unfolds towards an ending down the track
I’ll sleep with the memories, I’m living the dream.
There isn't a mass grave in my neighborhood
a creek has never flooded
(there is no creek, after all)
and bones have not surfaced.
A bulldozer never grinds to a halt
stayed by a smiling white skull.
The driver doesn’t jump down
doesn’t sift through the remains
kneeling there on the plot.
I once found a grey limb
jutting out from a hill.
I hoped it was a bone
maybe a femur from yore,
the last limb of a virulent Ute
protecting his home—
built by him
with his arms and legs
with the tools of the plains.
His scalp no more,
his skin long gone
but the bone remaining
still staking claim
for the living and free.
But it wasn’t a bone—
it was a tree limb
because there aren’t graves in my neighborhood.
There aren’t even real trees
or game trails;
there aren’t survivors
or failures
let alone corpses and fleas
And the only war left to fight
is against omnipresent me.
The rain had passed leaving fields of mud,
Mud to work with, to rest and to play.
Mud in our shoes, in our pants, in our hair,
Mud to brighten the rest of our day.
My girl and I, we worked the sheep,
Counting, marking and drenching together.
We tackled and fell, dragging each to the side,
And did it both dressed in full leather.
When we completed the sheep, all ewes and one ram,
We relaxed with a beer on the ute.
And we talked open talk about how lucky we are,
And I told her, in mud, she looked cute.
She whipped my legs out and laughed down at me,
Our day it was done by two thirty.
So I pulled her to the mud, and within half an hour,
We had both gotten down and got dirty.
The flies like molasses clinging firmly to his back,
as aimlessly he ambled along the dry dusty track.
Like a wave of the ocean the flies would swarm to his face,
but were expertly dispatched with his gum branch mace.
A battered farm ute lurches forward to a stop,
"Give ya lift inta town mate, in the back ya can hop".
"Na me legs are work'n fine, they're not painted on
With a shake of the head, put in gear and the ute was gone.
Go into town? he thinks to himself,
don't need a fancy shop, picking food from the shelf.
Felt the grub in his pocket, some heavy salted liver,
maybe catch a fish or two from the Murrumbidgee river.
Below a sun bleached hat hangs a face lined and weathered.
A broad happy smile with teeth barely tethered.
Does anyone know him, does he even have a name?
Where is he from, has he a family to lay claim?
When he beds for the night and sets up his camp,
unrolls his swag using the fire for his lamp.
What thoughts surround him, what goes on in his head?
Will anyone care when life ebbs and he's dead?
The life of a swagman is elusive to most,
He's just a brush stroke on the landscape appearing like a ghost.
A happy go lucky, vagabond, traveling pilgrim.
But just like us one of Gods precious children.
just moments ago, a dawning realization
arose within this sol son begat
from ma late mother
and octogenarian widower father,
oh..no nothing cat
tuss strophic, boot merely the revelation,
how fist bumping dee clocks hour hand ahead
remembered by dat
dog gone refrain spring ahead, and fall back,
this unemployed chap doth down play eclat
attests that his quotidian schedule minimally effected
holed up here in Highland Manor named flat
roomy enough for thyself, the Missus,
and buzzfeed ding fruit flies
each approximately the size of a gnat
a minor nuisance, though tolerable
within this appealing habitat
where minor inconvenience experienced
by this Schwenksville, Pennsylvania resident
cuz as a recipient of social security disability
(social anxiety) this psyche didst get rent
which fixed (unearned) income budgeted
and predominantly costs of living money spent
hence no need to arise bright tailed and bushy eyed,
a freedom akin to folks camped out in a tent,
which exemption immunizes
this doodle ling middle aged
muddle brained chap subject ranting
early morning drivers,
who angrily, frenetically,
and splenetically rant and vent
thus, the tendency, piquancy, and lunacy
to twitter (for the Yardbirds),
and keep company with night owls, who went
a hooting for all the world wide web
to hear, whence dawgs Bach
the exact number of hours, yer oblivious
to the tight rigorous mortised schedule
manned by Mister Clock,
essentially foisting on Bread Winners,
an abstract artificial construct spurring
madcap commuters to scurry in the rat race,
lest tardiness could cost
more than paycheck
(to ap pier with permanent dock
hue ment aye shun),
an unwonted blot add hoc
king worry about getting canned -
i.e. on permanent furlough,
perhaps forced into a life of crime,
yet if caught...
wasting away in a jail cell
as warden turns the lock
one redeeming factor,
would offer opportunity to mock
management, and more pertinently
mandate to rock
and roll to the incessant muted,
yet devastatingly loud tick tock.