Best Watercourse Poems
3 holes Hut on Cubbie
Yep me an Sow the wild pig were,
Under the low set hut, yessir,
I was 12 months old, I be,
Nappies were short, so I had none see,
The piglet kept me clean,
Did he…
The old hut is now a fallen down,
Where piggy an I would wriggle around,
I only came out, when she needed to see,
When mama fed the fat piggie,
Then I’d crawl and bound,
1946 I say it was,
under the one room hut of cos,
we had no lectricity,
and cooked outside under a tree,
brown boredrain fed the pig an me,
till civilized I got because,
I needed to be,
Tommy Hook he came to me,
A lousy Jack, one legged he,
Noisy family bird was, see,
Great chatterer, quite featherly,
A talker of the bush,
We came there by sulky,
with an unbroken horse,
it had the blinkin blnkers,
to maybe force,
it not be frightened see,
by the sight of a close sulky,
across the watercourse,
so harnessed up and circling free,
at the canter it, came round for me,
when mum threw me up by force,
an poppa caught me in the sulky,
one hand was free, I got caught,
she sprung aboard next circle brought,
and off sailed the family,
to old Cubbie, yet of course,
to the stink of wet Gidgee,
after rain, the smell so coarse… Don Johnson
Yes Joe...8
Yes at a year old i needed a friend,
so a wild piglet came and then,
was a pet of the family,
brought by my pig chasing dad for me,
from a brood that an old Sow had when,
he found em in the thin Lygnum bush old friend,
in the shade of a Gidgee tree...
Snatched and grabbed, reefed off me horse,
Just crossed over the watercourse,
Big white light it came and got,
Zapped me, jerked me up aloft,
A bloody flying saucer.
Saw the circle spinning disk,
With panels from one did whisk,
Beam of light had done the job,
In me pocket, thirty bob?
Darkness came within my head,
Aliens, bug eyed did me force,
Anger burned hot instead,
Tucker had, no bloody sauce?
New planet appeared with a jolt ,
Purple haze was a taking holdt
Pink of sky with glass buildings clear,
An orange sun was setting here,
Bugeye came and led me in,
To the glassy citadel,
Hover beds without support,
Lifted up no bed clothes sport,
A specimen in their jar,
Often watched and fed bizarre,
Jabbering bugs saw something rare,
Aussie drongo with whiskers there.
Not Just Any Sunset
Sponsored by: Paula Swanson
The river runs its winding course
along an ageless bank I stand
ceaselessly brewing silty soup
a recipe of dirt and sand….
I played in youth along these shores
And swam its raging watercourse
Wearing makeshift suits, swimming nude,
floating its breadth on inner tubes….
Alas! Those days are nevermore.
… As I mused my lost childhood years
Seeing this eternal river
from a timeless riverbank
it’s hard to fathom life’s changes
until I saw my wrinkly hands.
With bent torso, fenced horse Corso,
Tows corpulent gent Morse into a Kent forest.
This portly source torments tense Corso to such a contentious extent
That he sends them off course with vehement force to show his discontent.
“Whoa”, vents the incensed Morse
With voice tense and hoarse from onerous discourse.
“Endorse a gentle course,
And dissent from one so dense and coarse.”
With sore torso resentment, Corso forewent his horse-sense and sent
Enormous Morse into a torrential watercourse from Trent.
“You senseless, offensive, violent horse,”
Chorused the tortured, drenched Morse.
Yet, Morse lamented and swore to descent his portly content,
As soon as Corso implements his chores back in Kent.
And to mend his sores
From his hell-bent horse,
Reinvented Morse reinforced his orders
By tensing the cords toward extensive fence borders.
With a consenting snort for repented gent Morse,
The contented horse, relented pretenses and wended a short decent course.
For Sheri's couplet contest
O yes, that is fine day
For fishing in mountain river
When weather is bad,
And raining from early gray dawn.
When world look so pity and doleful
Maybe for artists and poets
But so nice for big and hefty fishes.
They are swimming out
from deep and cold bottoms and hidden caves
to surface
collecting on shallows,
sometimes one by one
splashing and jumping out watercourse
close to edge
with clear joys and playing ecstasy
as if that silver living marvel
suddenly felt and predicted
the next Great Flood,
or time of Paradise
when all creatures
will coexisted friendly, peacefully and intermixed
Lullabying with one unimaginable divine future.
So its seems that fishes
have tryed set on the benches and wings
of some awesome waterwheel,
more grandeur than London’s or Singaporean’s Eyes,
appearing airily
for the vision of greatest waterfall
between joining Heaven and Earth,
Seas and Skys
in rainy day.
The skillful fishermen
Have good sense and flyer
For such days and luckiest instant.
They early wake up and gone to river
And capture lot of precious fishes,
Plying so naively for own hopes, dreams and ruptures.
Alas, for fishes
But good for intrinsic and great love
That also has such marvelous days
When you captured your reward,
If you early wake up and prepare himself
for catching precious golden
Swimming up from deep and waste waters.
We are truly blessed with splendid scenery in this great nation,
Overwhelmin' our senses with awe and inspiration!
Visitors to such places may view them with differin' perception,
And the spectacular Grand Canyon is certainly no exception!
A preacher, for example, might fall upon his knees in exaltation,
Praisin' and glorifyin' The Lord for His magnificent Creation!
He'll be inspired to concoct a sermon for his languid congregation,
That'll bring them leapin' from their pews in rousin' exultation!
The artist, no doubt, will view it with a practiced eye and gush,
About the masterpiece he'll create with his paint and brush .
As he critically eyeballs the colorful vista so breathtakin',
He'll exclaim, "Tis a marvelous canvas in the makin'!"
The contemplative poet will ponder the scene and then,
Create volumes of flowin' verse from his prolific pen!
The musician becomes emotional standin' on the high plateau,
Hearin' a symphony as the waters flow on the watercourse below!
An old cowpoke might marvel at the scene and scratch his brow,
Sayin' to no one in particular, "One helluva place to lose a cow!"
From the rocky coast of Maine to the San Diego Bay,
Ain't no two people gonna see things in the very same way!
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
(c) All Rights Reserved
Entry for PD's "7 Wonders of the Ancient or New World"
Navigating the immense void of night
The right ascension to a winter’s sky;
Coincides with the height from which I stood
Stars, interlinking crescendo’s so freely,
Imitate the centuries, as I presumed as much.
At least with one tuned in, to so many stars
The magnitude existence found, far large;
Appearing close to one another as a variable
Heralded each, a legend the Greeks had made.
(The Constellations)
Snoozing with the intention of inanimate usage
The head long bolster pillow, namely, ‘Hydra’,
Chose an encounter with Hercules as foe
Prolong impetuous, to each gradual hemisphere,
As one could sideways look, exclaim its’ breath
Pursuing each as on-lookers, chose that group!
Individually did it taper each ceaseless path.
Warily, with twisting motion, a scathing attack
Searching menageries from whence it came;
To the labyrinths where pulsars engage sense
Trails to adjoining torsos, and ten thousand heads,
Though be them stars or for the sheer hell of it
Combine as one, each with a will of its own;
As per chance, with the combined effort, sway
Euripides, a watercourse, with banks on each.
There, Centaurus takes grip of its south west tip
Uninspiring Sextans, via Alphard’s luminary
The heart to all there is, and everlasting life,
Immortality may be a reality or mere illusion.
Secondments trail to endearments out of view,
To Southern scopes from omnipotent fathers;
Godly endeavours that imaginations flame
Find these dreams for us, the Hydra dead,
To remain in searing portals to then regroup
Bestowed as thoughts to future centuries.
This modern social scene has overhung-
Encompassed by a twirl, one single snake
That twisted and turned where each was caught
By something that as groups could never see,
We as the stars ourselves imposing on each
Imposing one another, avoiding calm.
This meandering replacement deals with hope,
Extremely drawn out as the Hydra is;
To engulf every membrane of tale told so far,
Where mass of spatial existence seems blood
From which taking blame its life’s loss came,
And every impending story told so far,
Was simply a daydream to a night time sky.
Angels amass amid the garden of surety with their watercourse formulas
In pristine pails pouring tenderly this life in decreeings drops upon my Soul
Its soil summoned to be nourished; fertile words as light from, The Rising Sun
Visible in their warmth alive that I may reach high these visions petals....
Vestives fragrant fingertips; unto quintessentials eternal skies so promised
Paragons in perfection borne to embrace my joyous heart within sacreds gentle
Anointings; as that of a sweet aroma for all to behold throughout the heavens
Cherubs gathering with their pristine pails and watercourse formulas; a decree....
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....“Celebrations Metropolis, Amid The Garden of Love” *
With His hand He measured the span of the universe
Of which planets, stars along with earth will immerse
Like river rock on any given great river's watercourse
Yet His hand holds me as a mother that newborn nurse
Comforting hand which He measured span of universe
Yet when I am sad, lonely, fearful comfort he will disburse
All my fear, collect my tears in the jar hold all my remorse
Sheltering me from the storms of life away from the concourse
Oh! Grand is the hand that measured the span of the universe
I can safely trust in His promise as He shelters and endorse
By writing my name down in the Book He's my only recourse
In His strong great hand fears truly disburse as comes the hearse
The brook thrums as it vaults over the piled rocks
Rolling on deep into the Zambezi valley
Twisting, flirting with the rigdes that compliment the escarpment beyond
And the indigenous lass strolled to the rivulet a rose
A dragon rose burgeoning before the morning glory of the sun
Her corn-rows tufted with the vermilion splendour
Of marigold petals she picked along the footpath
The sleeves of chives thriving along the watercourse
Weaved in the refined breeze sweeping across the wafting water surface
She surged on a jade
A jade turning, swinging in the butter sunrays
With every step, every turn
Seeking a new face, reflecting a new light.
Her supple skin freed from fetters of freckles and blotches
By the enchanted resins of the savanna balm
The hale and hearty of the chlorophyllous lily-pads
Reclining their backs against the waters
Consuming their limpid, shading enigma below
Genies, river monsters and cold blooded demons
That loll beneath the swish, patient, cuddling an ambush
She reached the songful stream
With her khakied antique clay pot clasped against her left hip
A treasure handled down her lineage
A pride of the tribal women
The gold then rested in her arms
She furled the pot beneath the mesh of lily-pads to quench its thirst
Offering the thyme of her bountiful body to the monsters
Her clamor short-lived while her breath sheared off
The waters gulped her, with the dye of her flesh teeming off
And the stream clad in red
The ceramic whimpered into shards
The seering forest kept vigil, languid
As it guttered down her tears along its wrinkles
Her palm couldn't bridle her fate
But let it sip off between her fingers
Ambush
There's a lovely tropic island at the bottom of the map,
It's a paradise on earth except for one small handicap;
We have wallabies and kangaroos to only name a few,
And a gentler crowd is seldom found in any city's zoo.
But there's danger lurking everywhere throughout these tropic isles..
The forests here are full of snakes, the rivers; crocodiles!
There are miles of golden beaches where the crowds don't hesitate,
But just beyond the breakers, swift and hungry shadows wait!
In the land of Oz, downunder, lives a creature greatly feared
Both in quiet rural country and the city he's appeared.
His appearance is deceiving, and he sometimes looks quite strange..
And his colour varies widely right across his tropic range.
You may see him lurk half-hidden near a path or watercourse
Where he waits with endless patience and attacks without remorse!
He may strike your leg from ambush on some dark and moonless night.
And in terror you will recoil, and you may just die of fright!
So you'll rush off to the doctor, sure that it will do no good,
But he'll find no deadly venom, just a bit of splintered wood.
'I think that you'll survive', he says, 'although the leg may ache,
For you have just been bitten by the dreaded Bentstick Snake! '
Frank Halliwell
O, my life like a gray, gray smoke,
That's newly pillowing from an old engine.
O, my life like a trumpeting
That's sweetly sounded by an elephant.
As fair as a river, my life stream in meanders,
So deep in gush am I;
And I will pour thee still, my watercourse,
Till a' the seas gang flood.
Till a' the seas gang flood, my stream in deluge,
And the rocks bath in sweeping waves:
I will spurt jet out till, my waterway,
While the sands o' life shall run:
And fare thee well, my only grit!
And fare thee influence, a while!
And I will draw closer again, my currents
It was routine thousand atoms transmutation.
Your LOVE is like an adoring reverie,
like pebbles on a shore you surface me-
Like a tide in the sand you set me free,
you bring healing to this heart’s TRIBUTARY.
You flow through me like a tender memory.
I need you like a babbling brook of infatuation,
in REVERENCE to the stream of our veneration-
You bring a watercourse of life’s inspiration
and ease with a sincere CURRENT of alleviation.
There’s a deluge running through my veins,
now only a waterway of LOYALTY remains-
You are mother nature’s beauty my heart contains.
We share a fluvial flow of a lover’s CONNECTION,
an aqueous cascade showering me with affection.
The slightest touch of your hand sends a piety of EMOTION.
This flux in motion has caused such flattery,
making me so GRATEFUL for your beloved creation-
Each time you caress me my soul obtains
a meandering stream of pure perfection.
For your love is like a reverie of DEVOTION.
January 27th, 2018
The beauty
Of
Namatjira
White haired
Bark painter's
Of fish
Wandjina
Feathered man
Full sunset
Corroboree
Pintubi
Dancers
In watercourse
Colours
Of hills
And rangers
Near Henbury
Or was it
Kings canyon
South
Alice springs
Dome like peaks
Of Olga's
Stark landscape
Barren
Barkly
Near Soudan
Where
Dust storms
A common hazard
The faces
Of William Richetts
In the Maelstrom
Those colours
Of time
And day
House Wife's
Bushman
Children of the
Banka, Banka
Old hats
Tin shacks
The Southern Cross
Spinning
Creaking
Just there
In the sky
A Rhyme
To its own time
Wonky
Old water tank
Those proud
Spearman
From
Emily Gap
A shared history
Not us
Them
Just the
Layers of life
Turned sideways
Like
Krichauff Rangers
Somewhere
Out west
Where Echidna
Thorny Devil
( my favourite )
Freshwater tortoises
Swimming
Crocs
Beauty
In birds
Of flowers
Palms
In valleys
Secrets
Of bushman
Ringers
Dreams
Of its people
And fading
Its
Fading
Memories
ALL THINGS NORSE
These are the guys in horn-helmets of course,
And the biggest hammer was always Thor’s.
They traveled each European watercourse
From the mouth to the source,
And their transport was boat - never by horse.
They were preoccupied with trade as a resource
And with local women had lots of intercourse.
Regardless of singularity, marriage or divorce.
Their own huts were simply made from gorse
But they destroyed better villages with no remorse:
They did everything by force.
Their language was often coarse,
Usually yelling themselves hoarse.
But relatively little is known of their discourse
For their code was always morse.
27 July 2014