Long Brumbies Poems
Long Brumbies Poems. Below are the most popular long Brumbies by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Brumbies poems by poem length and keyword.
The old man and his grandson viewed
A barren bladeless ground.
When to his left the young lad's eye
Saw bleached bones scattered 'round.
'Twas more than one beast's bones that lay
There exposed to the sun.
It seemed more like a battlefield
Where only death had won.
The old man saw the young lad wince,
He reined in close behind.
As memories of what took place
Came flooding through his mind.
A century turned, but not his luck,
For rains had failed again.
He slowly watched the dams dry up
While cattle died in pain.
A little water still remained
Though sought by feral stock.
Some brumbies which came down at dawn
Still often used the block.
In good times no one cared that much,
But not so any more.
The young lad's dad and this old man
Both knew what lay in store.
A high log fence closed off the dam,
The timber they had sawn.
Suspended gate it lay in wait
For piccaninny dawn.
Then as the last mare ambled through
Wood gate it dropped like lead.
A wood rail race seemed their escape,
But death lurked there instead. Their capital had all dried up,
No cash for lead and gun.
To execute the feral stock
Took knife and old man's son.
With legs astride the wood rail race
Son grimaced as he drew
That blade of death 'cross jug'lar vein,
Then slapped the victim through.
Each fleet foot spirit faltered there
A hundred yards away,
While blazing eyes showed fear of death,
Mouths gave a weakened neigh.
Then one by one their weak frames fell
Onto the dusty ground.
The racing hearts of those poor beasts
Then gave their final pound.
The slaughter did not save the stock
For all the dams went dry.
It fin'ly broke the old man's son,
He watched the grown man cry.
All this the old man told the lad,
The picture was now drawn.
On why his dad then took his life
One piccaninny dawn.
The young lad then took from his head
his father's sweat stained hat
And as he wiped the tears away
He said, Gramps thanks for that."
I'd always had my doubts you see
About the way Dad died,
But now I know the truth at last
I'll wear this hat with pride.
how clever a peck on the cheek, a kiss on the head
a hug with a boa constriction for the parents i love.
how cruel this fate of social isolation, to stunt the breath
of this illusion, that i might have them more and more times.
the kiss off of a mother’s day and all things pretty and wrinkled.
a jolly show of faces — did i once think the actors could slink
through a small or large screen. we haggle with time, dressing
up in effects, wrapping backgrounds, like furs, around caricatures
of ourselves — astronauts, cross-dressers, punk. my mom
holds a very dry martini — six olives on a skewer in empty glass.
we kin do amuse one another and the claustrophobic togetherness
where a normal situation would have us wandering, appetizering,
sidewinder-chitchatting, fobbing the keys of a remote control,
checking seconds and minutes for appropriateness of slipping
out the door — that of course, for bored spouses, who love
the in and out of screen time and beg to screen all holidays this way
while a bored housewife wants for the drive that spurs one on
toward childhood — a link between life and death, playful
joy of trinkets and melodious voices soothed by the setting years;
the wrinkle of time sells all anger, judgment, unkindness —
the baggage that weighs down elephants, the infantile crawl
of bondage. Now the rocking of Brumbies, snail’s pace of sunset
grace of a gray nest, cascading shoulders, ears out of tune
but pure-gold’s love — the plinking strings of a plentitude heart.
Mom and Dad cheer with glistening glasses, their merry martinis
marvel at their wealth — one olive, three olivettes grin at them.
5/11/2020
Non-rhyming couplets
..DINGO..
Out in the west the wild Brumbies still roam,
there you`ll find red Dingo the sheep killer dog.
Dog netting fences are there to keep the sheep home,
Roo holes let him through like a Frog.
Wild Pigs burrow under this fence,
and leave another hole.
The cunning dog looks for them with good sense,
to find a way in is his goal.
So then he`s in amongst the Sheep ,
to weed a killer out.
More than one will go to deathly sleep,
I have no cause to doubt.
With dead Sheep laying all about,
he`ll eat his fill, old Dingo.
The Fox will watch until he`s gone,
he`ll starve the Crows by jingo.
Well daylight comes and the crows arrive,
will they pick these bones so bare.
Old man goanna eats away inside.
Yes the crows do tear their hair.
A few days do pass, now his stomach it is empty.
The dog returns to the easy sport,
of sheep there sure are plenty.
The worms do bite to feed the thought,
he`ll kill just two not twenty.
The doggers rifle shot rings out,
old red he staggers plenty.
He stopped to smell piddle fresh about,
shot dead by a 25. 20.
Old Johnson the dogger had set his traps,
on the dingo`s route he knew.
Dog piss he dripped right across his tracks,
to a dog trap cruel but true.
He sometimes used a shotgun trap,
made of water pipe with care.
The shell got fired by a 2 inch nail,
trip wired this deadly snare.
by D H JOHNSON
How Dingo trappers operated till about 1960
Seduction
Allison she came to live with us
I told Chris I might have some fun
I’d handle her just a little bit
Yes she threw my hand off, some
But I was just an old Horse breaker
Used to patting down brumbies some days
Too take the fear of the man from the Hoss
Till the fear had all gone away
So later I’d put my hand on her knee
No slap, yes it was ok
So I’d handle the inside of her thighs
But then I’d just walk away
I could see the steam arising
The heat in her love wanting way
It’s hardly even surprising
I kissed her and then walked away
That night I walked into her room
She asked what are you doing?
Said I don’t know, really
but we were in romantic tune
She was up at the daylight,
The heat of the night, washing sheets
Told Chris she had a sore tummy
Not my fault, I say and methinks…
Don Johnson 2-4-11
This is not romance or love, just a different type of connection between humans.
This is not your true romance
where guys try to get within your pants (really)
And love of course has its place
as we beget the human race....
If your eyes are open you will see
a method well known and free
a different path
you can debate
not spoken of to agitate
Don
The brumby of Australia, not known to be well bred
Some are tough as leather, but that not often said
More criticised that praised, for damage that they do
Muddying the waterholes, as cattle never do
The biggest problem that they have, their wish to have a roll
Find some nice clean water, then muddy up the hole
They will get to station horses, the mares have foul breed foals
The quality completely gone, and fences torn to holes
The stockman love to muster them, the wildest of the rides
Chase them way along the flat, and down the mountain sides
But we also have a saying, and is so very true
You should never kill a good horse, as some brumby chasers do
So though it is so very sad, we have to thin them out
We can only breed fine horses, if no brumbies are about
Your life depends on stamina, and full trust in your mount
It is your horse that saves your life, more times than you can count
My favourite animal in the wild?
Brumbies and mustangs when I was a child.
But now as an adult I really can't say,
There's such a magnificent diverse array.
But I suppose upon some introspection,
With my lean towards natural selection...
The dogs I keep are as wolfy as possible;
Faving the wolf seems the most plausible.
But if I have to pick one, pets aside,
There is one particular handsome hide;
Seeing beauty in a mug that's for others a slog,
I positively adore that fang dangled Warthog!
May 7th 2018
Line Gauthier
Your favorite animal in the wild - Poetry Contest