Out beyond
The western plain
A mighty river
Did once run
It was reputed
To of started
Up Killarney way
They say
It flowed
Accouple of thousand miles
South` west
Down Adelaide way
They say
I think they called it
The Barka
Or was it
The Darling
Some would say
It was big
And wide
Brown water did flow
That way
It survived
Thousands of years
The learnered would say
But then came the gentry
Beef and Cotton heads
Some would say
They divied up the water
And left none
To bath their mother
4ck her
They did say
The politicians
They did apologies
For the gentry
And their ways
Rape is complicated
They would say
Its the droughts fault
Its African gang youths’ fault
It’s the fishes fault
The politicians
Did say
Now a dead river
Does not flow
Its just a shell
Of a dried out old serpent
With its colour drained out
Beyond the western plain
Bourke way
Some would say
I mighty serpent
Once did sway
Authors Note
If the first nation peoples successfully cared for this river
For over 80 thousand years. Is it not a no brainer to give
Management back to them?
He couldn’t find a place to stay
So living on the street was his only way
Until a Friday in Bourke Street Melbourne town
A Terrorist set fire to a utility with gas bottles piled ‘round
And an innocent man was stabbed to death
By the Terrorist with a knife in danger’s breath
A struggle ensued with the police
Trolley man stepped in to help in the police relief
Lashing out with a knife danger bound
He helped corral the Terrorist going down
Instead of leaving to back away
He assisted the police in a courageous stay.
So now we honour him
For bravery shown in a courageous hymn
Terrorist is such a modern scourge
To stand up to it Trolley Man was there without urge.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Gundabooka Sam
Old Sam squats at Gundabooka
Somewhere out the back of Bourke,
He lives in a shanty hut,
Doesn't seem to do much work,
He wears rope-held trousers
And a long-john undershirt,
His crumpled hat's seen better days
Always covered in red dirt.
Old Sam he has a kookie
That sits upon his hat,
It always laughs its loudest
When Sam reaches for a pat,
He also has a hairy-nose
That follows him around,
That is when that wombat's
Not digging in the ground.
Sam, Sam, from Gundabooka
Always quick with an outback yarn,
Tells tales of outback men
And how some came to harm,
You can hear his raucous laugh
When he cracks a bush joke,
Rolling, rollicking, frolicking,
He's one hell of a squatting bloke.
Sam’s hair and beard are quite red
Although the locals aren’t quite sure,
If it’s just where the red dust gathered,
Maybe they were black well before,
The time he came to live
In his Gundabooka shack,
So far off the beaten path
Even the boomerangs don’t come back.
The Tree
Frank Halliwell
This ancient leafy giant
that's endured three hundred years
Seems to tremble as the chainsaw.
through it's heartwood rips and tears.
It stood tall when the 'Endeavour'
plied these golden coasts of old,
And gazed down as Bourke and Wills passed by
on expeditions bold.
But now it lies, a shattered thing,
among the forest litter.
A sacrifice to ancient lust for
things that gleam and glitter.
***
Uncle Les
My step grandfather was uncle Les,
Gun shearer of wooly sheep, he was,
Travelled the country, yes I says,
and at crutching, He was beaut,
false teeth of gold his mouth did hold,
just me funeral expenses,
He never seemed to get too old,
The gold the shiny dentures?
He hated scabs who under cut,
The wage of other shearers,
He tried to run one down in Bourke
Wife Tuppy almost had a seizure.
Les wanted his ashes scattered,
over the river Barwon,
daughter Pat flew there, did just that,
at Mungindi, the darling.
31-july-11 GOT SECOND PLACE IN THE COMPETITION
Memories of Grandma or Grandpa or Both
Sponsored by: Carol Brown