Long Australian Poems
Long Australian Poems. Below are the most popular long Australian by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Australian poems by poem length and keyword.
Twas accursed destiny
since birth alack
nascent emasculation abominable barrack
emergent deus ex machina,
viz zit ting older sibling counterattack
thirteen plus chronological gap
eldest sister struck like diamondback
surrogate "mother" role
assumed tubby exact
protectorate pseudo fullback
against cruel beastie boys
bullying barbs
comeuppance giveback
pummeling spongiform
gray matter (yours truly)
fisticuffs she didst highjack
proxy mothering
kept corporeal essence intact
jilting nefarious nemesis aligned
(maligning) and stalking,
this fee-fi-fo-fum
ordinary bean sized Jack
are runt (arrant) cowardly
(non lion) nerdy lad owning a knack
courage lack this glum
older married chap doth adumbrate
satisfactory accomplishments lack
king, where crazy quilt aimless wandering
described purposeless multitrack
thus, sympathetic
to hue men/women nonblack
or decimated aborigines
once populating Australian outback
existential nihilism would,
undergirding hypothetical
unwritten paperback
with little need to prevaricate,
nor appear as quack
pot, one measly *****sapiens,
who accrued millennial palimpsest zeitgeist
where, punctured
disequilibreated psyche dust rack
asper protean (in utero)
multitudinous setback
soundlessly resonating
with concussive thwack
as this rickety ship of state
(a haunted junk ket)
unwanted emotional ballast to unpack
asseveration, asper assiduously
preferably welcoming
dry suction no vac
jar this pawn (knight wannabe
in his bishop rick) torrid
me psychological wrack
king within (castle keep)
complex edifice shackled
in dungeon with repast constituting.
alt tear knitted title –
how I i.e. Cinder Fella spent
thee better part of January 4th 2018
hey yo' Donald, one suggestion
to make America great again,
would be to groupthink, draft,
and assign a domestic accord,
where the man of the house (or bachelor)
spends hours applying elbow grease
to scrub vigorously any stubborn stain
using a handy dandy blues clues wash board,
and during faux pas, sans station identification
give this John Doe (while taking –
while he and ye take a knee),
applauding, displaying how much he iz adored
thence demanding,
(while he gets handed a mop and pail),
plus hire spongebob square pants
if Yukon afford
(the competitive fee he requires),
or roughly equivalent payment, where gourd
(takes the place of precious metal
as legal viz edible tender)
traced back to fore fathers and their horde
of wives, whose reverence idolized
via husbands infatuation
(and secret crush) toward
singer songwriter Lourde
dez, who at a young age scored
major deals
with prominent recording studios, and toured
across the webbed, wide world
receiving many an a ward
which Australian “Queen Bee”
put pep in the step
of house broken good fellas forced
to grovel for Arthur Treacher's fish and chips prithee
re:
garding being an outstanding kitchen helper
buffer hitting the sack (of potatoes)
on the menu for every Fry day cooking spree.
Natural Finery
Gazing out the window from a coffee shop, came an image that changed the world. Like a breath of fresh air, light and refreshing, that could be immediately enjoyed in the lungs and registers to the brain with an awakening clarity. The object of my attention was not monumental, nor flamboyant, but it was in stark contrast to the surroundings that changed everything. To the observer it was everything, but to all else, there was no recognition. In fact, it went entirely without notice, except for the occasional dog, dragging the undisciplined owner by the leash. After fifty years of training, my eyes have seen enough, like a fine jeweler appraising a diamond based on the cut, clarity, carat, and color. The expression on my face, a slight smile, a relaxed gaze, and a peaceful submission broadcasted my evaluation as most acceptable. And as rare as this occasion was, it brought a slight sadness with it. This fine opulent standard, if you will, is not desired as a possession, but seen as a fleeting reminder, of what the world could be. If only the world wasn’t so consumed by distractions, and demanding my attention at every turn, like a loud and obnoxious parade. This was an open meadow, with a singular tree, and a field of flowers, simple, and charming, a pleasant retreat from jangling clowns, and honking fire trucks. And now, there she goes. Goodbye, miss white summer dress, with your wide straps, non-revealing neckline, and flowing material. Au revoir belle fille, with medium-length hair and ebony curl. Your delightful smile, unhindered by cosmetics and jewelry… lifted my soul. Even the male, tri-colored, Australian Shepherd you walk heals obediently, and lovingly by your side, tells of your character. May you marry a man worthy of your grace, and you have many children that will influence the world as positively as you influenced mine. Please, remain, unspoiled.
by, Martin Braun
July 14th, 2023
A friend of mine has just joined the Soup
She's glowing, overwhelmed and delighted
Her screen name is Miss Wattle so you know
Drop by, she'll be over the moon excited
Known her a while, this Australian lass
So talented in so many endeavours
The voice of an angel and a sweetheart to boot
Never known such a talent, not ever
Her heart is warm with Australian charm
Must be something in the water down under
Their love of life is second to none
It's filled with great joy and wonder
If you've never had the joy of knowing an Aussie
Here's your chance, make it a date
Known as Miss Wattle, a very sweet lady
She'll greet you with a “G'day mate!”
© Jack Ellison 2013
The shears sleep heavy, lethargic and lost,
Silent on the cold wooden floor,
Covered in webs and dust from the years,
That have passed since they clicked to a roar,
With each sheep and ewe, and every big ram,
In the shed that was life on the land,
In the shed where the men shore, two hundred or more,
Sheep with their iron clad hand,
And lanolin and resin still emanate the air,
The walls are still old mahogany brown,
But gone are the men, in blue singlets and shorts,
Bought from the one shop in town,
Now things are quiet, the seasons they go,
The shearing shed has gone by and by,
And these worn out lonely shears hold all of the memories,
Under the dry burnt Australian sky.
Is it a woodchuck, a beaver, a miniature bear?
No but it is Australian, and it looks like it does not have a care.
I look at this little fellow, his smile is enormous and wide.
I cannot help it, my happy feelings about him I simply cannot hide.
A quokka, for real? I have never heard of this
He has a beautiful look, he looks full of incredible bliss.
I have seen several photos of more than six actually.
They each look about as happy as a wild animal can be
If I get to Australia, I plan to look one up in the wild.
I have faith he will become a crazy friend, not any way mild.
The photos I see make a quokka look human friendly.
I am excited to begin my hunt for the perfect quokka for me.
Red dirt chases the single-laned tarred roads,
For kilometres past the horizon.
Wrapped in endless yellow canola fields
With lapping barbed wire fences.
Authentic, wise eucalypt giants stand guard-
They have lived
And will always live in the years of the forgotten lands,
They define terra-nullius.
They lean over, offering shade from brazen suns.
Oh, how the creeks know the Australian sun,
Their beds have slept
And will always dream of the time before the stolen lands.
The land owns terra-nullius.
The kookaburra calls to the morning,
With all its glory,
Sings the song of ancestors
To city buildings
That will never live to care about
The roots of the Narraburra Hills,
That wear olden-day graffiti rock art.
Those hills whisper in their valleys
Of the way they’ve lived
And will always live overseeing
The overtaking of terra-nullius.
We don't see the stars as we once did.
We've lost contact now,
we live indoors.
We've lost the mythology of stars,
our ancestors once had.
They were glued to the celestial display at night,
and the stories and omens it told them.
Even when city-dwellers venture out at night,
to gaze and peer up at the night-sky of lights,
their view is dimmed by city lights, so bright.
Perhaps we should get out more at night,
and relearn what the ancients knew,
and what the stars told them.
It makes more sense than what we are told by science
much of which is quite frankly beyond belief.
In one Australian Aboriginal culture,
the Sun is female while the Moon is male.
"The Sun is a lovely old lady called Walu Yolngu"
She arises each morn and puts on her red ochre
this is why the sunrise is red.
Then the sun, sets a stringy bark tree on fire
and carries it across the sky and giving us daylight,
At day's end the sun puts out
the flaming stringy bark tree, and it's night till dawn.
The Moon is a bad person, called Ngalindi,
He is lazy, does nothing around the camp,
and becomes big and round and fat,
like the full moon.
His kin get so angry with his laziness
that they chop bits off him off each night.
So he gets thinner and thinner in phases.
Eventually he dies and disappears
completely for three nights in a row.
Then, he returns as a new full, fat new moon.
His is still, just as lazy, and loses his bits in phases.
This is charming, and makes much more sense
than what we are told in school.
We should get out more at night,
with our torches to read the ancient texts.
To relearn the lovely ancient stories again.
To put the heavenly soul back in the night sky.
There's a lot more out at night.
Good morning Australia!
How are you...? Gday!!!
It's our favourite day of the year
And a national public holiday!
The weather is fantastic
And the days fully packed
Lots of great things to do
And the eskies fully stacked
Important things to remember..
The old slip, slop and slap.
Slip on a shirt, slop on sunscreen..
And slap on a hat!
The barbeques are all fired up..
The crowds are building up fast.
The footy is being kicked around..
And the kids are having a blast!
Turn your radios up real loud..
Sing along in your best voice.
It's the Australian National Anthem..
Come on now.... Let's rejoice!
The night sky is starting to darken..
And the momentum starting to build.
For the best sky-show fireworks..
Everyone watching will be thrilled!
So when the night is over..
Be trueblue and do the right thing.
Please keep Australia beautiful..
And put your rubbish in the bin!
The importance of the small things
Out of a crack at the foot of a wall, a tiny baby mouse
blinded by the brightness of this autumnal day
I picked up the new life and put it in the palm of my hand
sensing the warmth, the baby curled up and slept.
To think this tiny animal had a heart, lungs, liver and
so, just like me; living in a world too immense to
grasp other than an outline of space and time.
In less than a week, the baby mouse will be an adult
and since mice do not go for higher education, one
can assume it will not take an interest in the Binary
or no Binary aspect of the struggle to survive.
I put the infant back where it came out of the wall
and upset an Australian, the seller of the house who
hated vermin with a passion.
He claimed mice who came by boat to Australia with
prisoners from the British islands had no enemies
there and was free to breed, they did with a vengeance.
Once he had a farm in Victoria, he didn’t give detail
about the location of the farm, only that an army of mice
and eaten his Vietnam pigs and many of his cats.
He sat fire to the dry grass outside the barn, trying to stop
the onslaught, but the fire also set his barn ablaze
his house took fire also, lost everything he did.
The insurers wouldn’t pay him compensation because
of his stupidity; angrily, he condemned his countrymen
as vulgar beings.
The man from Australia took up trucking; for two
years crossed the mainland of Oceania killing mice if they
crossed the road.
Having saved up money and also won some monies
at the local lottery, he landed in Lisbon and spoke to a land agent
and bought a farm in Alentejo and specialized in
mule breading, that thrived when he was informed that
breeding mules entails horses and donkeys too.