Long Dray Poems
Long Dray Poems. Below are the most popular long Dray by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Dray poems by poem length and keyword.
In Dickensian time
Upon sunset hour
Overshadowing Thames
Is London Tower
Blackened cobble streets
Shimmer in the rain
Big Ben at Westminster
Chimes an eight bells refrain
At Euston Station
A passenger alights
On Platform 3
And enters the caff
for a nice cup of tea
At the local tavern
Behind steamy windows
The opportunists sit
Gleaning local gossip
Ever watchful to ensnare
Any hapless stranger
come wandering there
Covent Garden
still well lit
As lamplighters
carry out their remit
Striding with ladders
about old London town
With a cheery wave
and a purposeful frown
Patrolling policemen
in forbidding places
Echoing footfalls
as boots make paces
A courting couple shelters
under the arches
Oblivious to passerby's
and dray cart horses
A hackney driver cracks his whip
As high stepping hooves
on cobbles clip
From Westminster
stove pipe hatted M.P.s from
parliament sitting
enter a members club
to continue their
political discourses
unremitting
Mudlark urchins ankle deep
in moonshine glow
watch chugging steam boats
along the Thames flow
Billingsgate Market's
straw boated and
stripe aproned men
are found sluicing
with brooms in hand
the blood drenched ground
Along the West End thoroughfares
Come wealthy patrons
in open carriages with lantern flares
wearing evening attire
Bejewelled ladies in fanciful frocks
And around bare shoulders
Stoles of mink and silver fox
They ascend the red carpeted stairs
And look towards the royal box
A pretty young street seller
of violets and roses
with straw basket on hip
proffers up the scented poses
A peasouper fog blankets from
Thames to chimney tops
As a trader hooks his shutters down
Outside his haberdashery shop
Across London Bridge the East End rabble
Trail homeward to Hackney, Bethnal Green
and Whitechapel
From an open pub door
streams a music hall tune
played on an accordion
in a crowded tap room
Wending amongst the walkers
in the Strand
run beggarly children
with outstretched hand.
And......
Charles Dickens
walks the streets
at night
taking note
of every sight.
Where the forest is still virgin and the lyrebirds often call,
the bronze-wing comes to drink, and the ferns are growing tall,
there are deer prints in the mud, and there’s leeches seeking prey…
this little creek meanders on its way.
Where a pothole track goes winding through the burgan and ti-tree,
mountain ash and messmate stumps are overgrown history
from loggers in the forests, and the straining bullock dray…
this little creek meanders on its way.
Where recreation parks have forced a need for clearing of the bush,
where this grassland in the mountain now welcomes the human push,
and the platypus is unperturbed, where it’s still prepared to play…
this little creek meanders on its way.
Where lands been cleared and now the pines are planted in a row.
It’s all green but foreign and where nothing else will grow.
And king parrots or black cockies, have found their seeds okay…
this little creek meanders on its way.
Where dairy farms are greener than you ever think you’ll see,
blackberry hugs the banks with, bootlace bush and goodia pea,
and so mournful through the valley is the calling from the jay…
this little creek meanders on its way.
Where it’s back again to virgin scrub and hugging closer to a hill,
where the pools are getting deeper with backwaters black and still.
And the mother stream Latrobe, awaits the Loch, to draw away…
this little creek meanders on its way.
This little valley’s heaven for the angler coming here,
not only for the fishing, but the peace that’s always near.
Where one can reach the grassy banks of the chosen course,
then meander with the little creek, rippling from its source.
There’s a dearth of hides and cover for the trout who ‘hog’ the stream.
They chase the spinner to the edge, when they see the twirling gleam.
And where some take the triple hooks while others get away…
this little creek meanders on its way.
There are no records of the man who raised this grand hotel.
But there are many stories of the folks who new it well.
Thank God for the patient horses at the hitching rail
who carried home their rider, along a well-known trail.
The teamster he would travel, his two-mile every day,
bringing down a bounty on his overloaded dray.
And the mail coach would be coming from the other way.
They’d meet at the Star where they’d have a lot to say.
Star of Bruthen, for the many passing through,
was filled with entertainment from the characters it knew.
Whip cracking competition - fights in the stable yard
at the Star of Bruthen. Forever on its guard.
There were stables for the horses. A meal at any time!
Room for commercial travelers. Hay for the less sublime.
And if by chance you met your fate. Be heaven or be hell!
Down there at the Star there’s a room for you as well.
Star of Bruthen, for the many passing through,
was filled with entertainment from the characters it knew.
Whip cracking competition - fights in the stable yard
at the Star of Bruthen. Forever on its guard.
Star of Bruthen. What a lovely sight!
Coming down from Omeo in the fading light.
Star of Bruthen. What a welcome place!
After stepping on the wharf at the port of Mossiface.
The waitresses were pretty and so hard to retain.
Wooed and wed, the Star, would be short again
to cater for the coaches, and the folks who knew it well.
All pleased to be together in the Bruthen Star hotel.
Star of Bruthen, for the many passing through,
was filled with entertainment from the characters it knew.
Whip cracking competition - fights in the stable yard
at the Star of Bruthen. Forever on its guard.
"Andrea, with the accent on the dray",
she coyly introduced herself to me.
Exotic, dazzling beauty; to this day
her face still lingers in my memory.
My life till then seemed vaguely out of tune,
now, dulcet melodies played in my ear.
Her smile could warm the sun and melt the moon -
I'd dreamed of dating her that whole school year.
"Quit you like men", my father used to say,
so girding up my loins, I asked her out.
Expecting her rejection that tense day,
she answered, "Sure!" as I suppressed a shout.
We went out for some pizza, piping hot;
I saw in her no scarcity nor flaw.
My mind in wonder at her every thought,
meanwhile my eyes were pleased by what they saw.
Her lovely hair, like melted chocolate: rich
and silky smooth, at just the perfect length.
Good conversation was what scratched her itch
and I came thinking that was just my strength.
Sometimes though, bridges end up getting burned;
teen dreamers should be wary where they roam.
For when our dinner check arrived, I learned
alas, I'd left my money back at home!
Hugely embarrassed, I could barely speak;
up to that point, how nice the night had been.
I hardly left my room for one whole week,
too shy to ever ask her out again.
Life turned out great, I married well. And yet,
she still remains 'the one that got away'.
I reminisce with traces of regret,
Andrea, with the accent on the dray.
There stands my family’s horse-barn,
old logs, chinking, and rustic charm,
here out west it’s too dray to farm,
and mountain winds do small plants harm.
A ranch is what it’s always been,
since days of pioneering men,
this barn was first built was back when,
we still fought the Indians then.
How many people passing through
slept a night under this here roof,
and at least one banditto too
was shot here when the barn was new.
Countless cowboys kept mounts inside,
rose early in the morn to ride,
down the long valley they did fly,
seeking out where the herd did hide.
My grandfather rebuilt this place,
the work he did has proved so great
that even now, at present date,
there’s hardly anything to break.
I played here often, as a kin,
can’t believe half the things we did,
like the time my friend Bobby hid
in the haystacks, heaven forbid.
My first child was conceived here,
on new straw that I had put down that year,
Mel and I had stolen some beer,
two months later, we were in tears.
And now this barn belongs to me,
this ranch stays in the family,
Mel and I now have children, three,
making their own barn-memories.
So proud amidst the valley floor,
will is stand a century more?
Will my grandchildren know the score
of what happened behind these doors?
Damn straight they will.
Cap’n Thunderbolt
The moon stood out
Any traps about
Cap’n Thunderbolt did ask
He was on the road again
Brown snake for break-in-fast
The Drover said they went way north
Blacktracker with em eh
Following your week old tracks, old mate
When you robbed the coach and dray
So back over his tracks he cantered then
And followed the Traps all day
Just to confuse the Tracker
To make him earn his pay
He left Beeswing in a paddock
And rode old Combo today
These horses were good racing stock
Fast horse flesh to gallop away
Combo’s tracks weren’t known yet
By the tracker on his trail
And friends were hiding, not to fret
More racing blood I say
He crossed the border at Hebel
And worked horse breaking for pay
Currawillinghi had him on the books
For months fore he rode away
Some say he was shot by Constable Walker
Near Uralla on an 1870 day
Others say shot was his uncle
To the US he sailed away
Don Johnson
Fred Ward was Thunderbolt his statue is at Uralla
There is some doubt if he died or not when with the Traps he shot it out. An 1871 American
state census shows that a Frederick Ward (file #SC 289) and a Sarah Shepherd (file #SC
319) both arrived in America in late 1870. This seems to be an amazing coincidence
The final day done and now my Liberty Bell
No more work retirement is now for me
Others come to shake my hand to say farewell
Oh now work has just become history
I can now put my feet up and watch TV
No more listening to what the boss has to say
I can walk in the park just let life be
Is this retirement now one long holiday
My first day I achieved so much I did do well
I walked the dog for an hour for all to see
We walked in the wood where I tripped and fell
Then went to a café for a cup of tea
Drove home again behind a slow old taxi
I then watched the sunset at the end of the day
To see the moon rise over our old cherry tree
Is this retirement now one long holiday
I’ve been retired now a year you can tell
I thought in retirement I’d be happy and free
Sitting in the park I often gaze and dwell
Of times when I worked I was so happy
With a secretary so young and carefree
Now I feel like an old brewers dray
Sipping coffee at the café and eating brie
Is this retirement now one long holiday
Retirement is fine for some I think you’d agree
But I miss my colleagues that’s all I can say
With days that are long the dog my company
This retirement is no long holiday
No hearts and flowers for me on Valentine's Day,
so Cupid, don't take aim with your arrows.
My heart will not allow love to sweep me away.
For past passion there was a profuse price to pay.
I was wounded in the breast like a felled sparrow.
No hearts and flowers for me on Valentine's Day.
He destroyed my love with evil words not held at bay,
and snuffed it out like a candle flame atop the tallow.
'tis why my heart will not allow love to sweep me away.
There is no consolation for the sorrowful blame I lay
upon the shoulders of the man who acted like Pharaoh.
No hearts and flowers for me on Valentine's Day.
All the love I had to give was loaded upon my heart's dray,
and he dumped it in the gutter like dung in a wheelbarrow.
My heart will not allow love to ever sweep me away.
Hear me, Cupid, and don't try to lead my heart astray.
I've already been crushed and plowed as if by a harrow.
No hearts and flowers for me on Valentine's Day.
My heart will not allow love to sweep me away.
---------> ----------> --------->
January 22nd 2016
Valentine's Villanelle Contest
Sponsored by Dave Will
THE FAIR ELAINE
My mother had an uncle, Hayes,
Who loved the banker's child
Hayes was just a dray man
It made the banker wild
When Hayes proposed to fair Elaine
He asked for her sweet hand
Her father said that he’d agree
If Hayes could buy some land.
So off Hayes went
To make his stake
He traveled night and day
Until he found a growing town
He knew he had to stay
he drove his mule team
train to train
delivered tons of goods
and every day he wrote to her
he’d promised that he would
and once a week he mailed the pack
he sent his seven letters
she saved them all
so comforted that
times were getting better
and in two years
Hayes had the cash
To marry fair Elaine
He hitched his mules
To go for her
And traveled ‘cross the plain
And when he came up to her house
Black wreathes were on her door
He knocked and found his fair Elaine
Was on this earth no more
Hayes went home in sorrow
Took a shotgun from the shelf
He shot his pair of finest mules
And then he shot himself
Cattle trucks drive highways now
where drovers once held sway
Heavy rigs of chrome and steel
replaced the horse and dray
Gravel tracks of rich red earth
that rambled near and far
Have disappeared forever
‘neath miles of hot black tar
The billabong by shady gums
stands empty cracked and dry
The thirst of modern farms it seems
lets river systems die
The campfires of the cattle men
that used to dot the plains
No longer flicker in the night
no sign of them remains
Bush ballads sing of sweeping plains
where brumbys still run free
Of wild unharnessed rivers
and clear inviting seas
But brumbys fall as feral pests
the rivers drained and dry
The sea is choked with sewage
where fish and sea grass die
As the romance of the outback
begins to fade away
We learn that progress has a price
we’ve all been forced to pay.
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"