Long Shearer Poems
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I could recall some years ago
The day that sealed the deeds of the deal
And dot the long journey of nine months
In my calendar of the years
The same brought about the cry
That started the journey of my childhood…
What a honey of motherhood?
An answer to your heart cry
You were assisted and ushered
Into the labor room
Like my savior was accompanied
To Gethsemane and went further
With the burden of sin of perishing souls
He bent His knees in prayers;
He sweated blood
So you lingered 'un-angered'
With the burden of a baby boy
You genuflected in labor
Fear with joy loomed in the air
Swimming in the ocean tides of the clouds
And I could see water dripping
Down your cheeks and nostrils
All because of me
Could I see any one that flogged you?
No! It's I beating you from within
Not with cane but with pains
Like a sheep before its shearer
You journeyed between life and death
All because of me!
It would have been simple if that was all
But I could see
Like two of your younger ones
Even of your daughter's age
Shouting at you
Push! Push! Push!
Else you kill this baby
What ridicule leading a miracle?
All because of me!
Push! Push! Push!
That was their shout and cry
That ushered me into a new world
Right at their ward
That was not because they're wayward
It was a labor room
It was labor for you
That which ignited my favour
What a pain heralding a gain?
But it was like a pay to me
I took it for a ride but
It was mother’s pride and joy
I thought it was play
Until she smacked and spanked me
Yet they succeeded
As they persuaded you and encouraged you
Then and there with flow of water
And pool of blood you pushed forth
And you pushed through.
I thought it was a favour and for my good
Only to see her hand carried me
As if she was all out to help
But it was only to cut the cord
While I held my hands together
Lost in the comfort and dream
Of the cosy womb
She took me out of the comfort zone
She smacks and spanks me
Again, again, and again
She made me to cry and never cared to say sorry
But told stories
He's another boy, she said
Right there she baptized me
Into a new world
She dragged that thing
She called cot to your side
And placed me in it
Alone I was laid crying
And all she did was to laugh at me
Mum. Her white uniform belied her act
Dedicated to V.A Aderounmu.
© Fisayo Aderounmu.2012
“And you call yourself a bloody cook”, this mongrel shearer said.
“I oughta ram this rubbish down yer’ throat, it’ll kill a bloke stone dead.”
He’s talking ‘bout the stew I burnt, which I hoped he couldn’t focus.
That he’d gulp it down with ‘red-eye’ wine, and he would fail to notice.
But no, my luck was out, he flew raging from his seat
“You’ve put a taste into my ‘gob’, now I need something sweet,
What’s in the fridge;” he yanked the door, took out a plate and bowl,
On one was chunky custard, and one a mouldy sausage roll.
“Look at this!” The shearer screamed, so all the mob could see.
First they eyed the sausage roll, and then looked back at their tea.
“Hang on” I said, “You ‘mangy’ lot, what you’re seeing here,
Is something I can’t be blamed for, they’re from the cook last year.”
“Git’ the boss!” I heard yelled out, and one went for the door.
I need this job and need it bad … to them I vowed and swore.
I’ll clean out the fridge and lift my act; then promised I would bake,
A treat for them on Wednesday ... my special chocolate cake.
My memory’s a little blank, for the ingredients I need,
I’ve got most in the cupboard, with no recipe to read,
Butters scarce but lard will do, and the milks a little sour.
None of them are ‘gunna’ notice, the weevils in the flour.
There’s salt and caster sugar, I need cocoa but there’s none,
There is a tin of milo though; its use by date is March of sixty-one,
That’s everything to make the cake; all I need’s an egg to bind,
Oh yes! There are two in the fridge; last years cook had left behind.
I got down the mixing bowl, and took some water from the tank,
Spooned out a couple of wrigglers … the dead ones to the bottom sank.
I’m not sure about the ounces or the tablespoons and such.
Cups of this with drops of that, but does that really matter much.
The only time I wasn’t sure, and felt maybe should I renege,
When I cracked the shell and found, a half grown chicken in the egg.
But they’re shearers here, big and strong, who’d never get to eat,
Let alone a chocolate cake, but one that’s made with meat.
The oven’s hot, the textures great, I greased the baking dish.
The cake was cooked and it smelt great … every shearers wish.
But a chicken’s foot stuck out the top; I cut out and ate that bit.
You know this chocolate cake of mine, tasted – more – like … ‘passionfruit’!
I sing the praises of Sterilite
(even Mary Poppins would tout
a plug for said company she would spout
forcing playthings scattered helter skelter
retreating into their respective bins
analogous to a defeated army
beating a hasty retreat after a major rout
against all odds fighting off
the aggressive incursion
of a trumpeting lout,
which troops use weapon of choice
namely breath issuing "Kraut"
which in German, "Kraut"
primarily means herb
or the leaves and stem
of a plant, as opposed to the root,
also used in compound nouns
to refer to various cabbage products,
most notably Sauerkraut,
which is fermented white cabbage.
Additionally, "Kraut"
can be a derogatory slang term
for Germans, similar to how "Frogs"
used for the French,
according to The Guardian).
which accolades vocalized
on behalf of a company
whose sturdy products
helped transform the wife
from a potential candidate
of Hoarders buried alive
into a rival for the Odd Couple
neatnik character Felix Unger
though room for improvement
the spouse tries to abide
by the phrase
"a place for everything
and everything in its place"
an idiom that promotes
organization and orderliness,
where maximizing the space
afforded by a one bedroom apartment
here at Highland Manor
taught us the necessity
of maintaining an ever closer approximation
to becoming the reigning queen
of spic and span
affected by the mandates of management
(reinforced by dictates
of urban housing for low income
linkedin to yearly "violations")
toward instilling acquiring
"the model tenant award"
by regular inspections
which if I ruled the world
would include a month of free rent
as an extra incentive
leaving no room
for the likes of Oscar Madison,
which objective becoming
neat and tidy truth be told
finds me relishing living
according to the gospel
of several people offering
decluttering and organization methods
similar to Marie Kondo's KonMari approach,
focusing on simplifying and creating
a more joyful living space.
Some notable figures
include Gretchen Rubin,
known for her
"Outer Order, Inner Calm"
philosophy, and The Home Edit duo,
Clea Shearer and Joanna Teplin,
who emphasize visual organization.
Other methods, like Swedish Death Cleaning
and Peter Walsh's approach,
also offer alternative strategies
for decluttering and organizing one's home.
In a land of endless saltbush stretching miles across the plains
Of western New South Wales where it rarely ever rains,
And the temperature is searing on a soil that's living hell,
Where bleaching bones remind you of the killer droughts as well.
In a land where boredom strikes you as you seek a 'cockies' shed,
Where you put up with the haze that always shimmers up ahead,
You have drove a hundred miles and there's a hundred more to go,
So you're looking for some difference to relieve the 'status quo'.
Now you see I am a shearer who has worked upon these plains,
And from one shed to another I've put up with travel pains,
So I'll tell you now a story that has always stuck with me,
About a time when in the vastness stood one single Wilga tree.
Now this Wilga is a haven from the sun and stifling heat,
And offers shade for resting sheep that found this quiet retreat,
But danger lurked in sandy forms with eyes as cold as steel,
As 'round and 'round with heads bent low, the fear of death is real.
It was common in the outback when one heard the dingo howl,
To find the carcass of a slaughtered sheep where the dingo's prowl,
So every man who worked this land would take with them a gun,
To shoot the scourge of killer dogs until there is not one.
Still 'round and 'round those dingo's slunk to get the sheep to run,
I think the time is nearly here for me to sight the gun,
For the sheep were getting restless and were tending now to bleat,
But only moved around in circles keeping shaded from the heat.
Yet 'round and 'round the dingo's slunk and still their numbers grew,
With the pack much closer now, and the sheep had noticed too,
Then in a charge of hoof and dust, where blended fur and wool,
I had my finger on the trigger but I wasn't game to pull.
For I noticed there was separation from the hunter and the prey,
Every sheep from near the tree had made a perfect get-away,
It was the dingoes that had panicked, and it was fairly plain to see,
That their interest was not killing, they were busting for a pee.
©Lindsay Laurie 2002
By Robert (Bob) Moore (©2015)
The gun shearer has gone now, like many other things
the shearing sheds are empty, and wools no longer king
gone now like the drover, and the brumbie on the plains
but we still have the scorched brown earth, and droughts and soaking rains
The aussie language has almost gone , the things we used to say
fair dinkum sport, and ridgie didge, and hello was “G’day”
no “its your shout” “snakes in your pocket” “he’s a bonza bloke”
“Bloody oath” and “Dinky Di” and “can’t you take a joke”
no footy shorts and tshirt, an Akubra hat was neat
now its baseball caps and hoodies, and Nikies on your feet
you don’t drive a Holden car, you drive a Nissan tank
the aussie way of life is gone, you can take that to the bank
once you could walk along the street, anytime without a care
bread and milk delivered to your door, the money you’d leave there
upon the step, with empty bottles, people just walked bye
no way that you could not do that now, and you wouldn’t even try
no bangers on the barbie, with a great big piece of steak
Hoges even calls a prawn a shrimp, the Americans to placate
used to say “a barbie out the back”, but now its “al fresco”
with emu, ostrich, and crocodile, and some you may not want to know
now everything is different, but did it all go wrong
can we say that it’s just progress, and we are where we belong
multicultural, many Nations, trying to live as one
no manufacturing anymore, all of that has gone
Is it still a Western Culture here, an Anglo-celtic race
or has it changed, to something else, at a slow, unnoticed pace
there’s Catholics, Buddhists. Muslims, there’s Anglicans and Jews
in every tier of government, and controlling all the news.
So we only know what we are told, and pretend that we don’t see
what’s happening to this Country, ‘cause that’s just not PC
so soon the Lucky Country, may not be lucky anymore
and we’ll find the life which we once knew, has walked right out the door
"We are the wandering wonders forever readying ourselves until our next show and we will be even more spectacular than any of our previous performances where we shall not only marvel at ourselves, but we shall dazzle you our world audience
with our refreshing and mesmerizing brand new us." ... by Poet
“we woke up early one morn, ego shorn
it felt as though we were in form
nodes within stirred, boundaries blurred
our head and heart, with love, concurred”
Do I anticipate, be I forethought,
plan, cautious, store-bought, or am I free thought,
or should I turn and be an afterthought?
Flipflop, reverse or have a second thought.
Mayhaps I be the one in the mirror,
behind the glass or in front, be clearer.
Tell me true, tell me blue, or who's nearer.
Where does consciousness stand; bring your shearer.
Former victims serving others in need.
Lost times we wonder who does a good deed,
deep in prayer, our sins washed, we succeed.
Reclaim, recover, get back, now we're freed.
When we crossed the lines, didn't think it would count,
after all, 'tis a concocted account.
No rhyme or reason, or scheme to surmount.
Pique cross fallacy or clarity fount.
Reincarnation, its majority
tether nature's beast and humanity.
Genesis claims Eden and Ark, singly.
Man and beast aren't one, Christianity.
Pews be filled, constant prayers forgiving.
Pews be emptied, constant those be sinning.
Our measured worth is primed for exampling.
Pews new souls earn Heaven's Gate opening.
Our eyes were opened, filled with empathy.
And see what's meant to be, and not to be.
We're led astray, but here we stay, Glory!
We had learned all about Jesus's story.
They'll be messengers, one true, and one naught.
They'll be harvesters, most rot, others fought.
They'll be winged handlers, who'll descend when caught.
They'll be winged handlers, who'll ascend those brought.
Ronald was a tough old ram, the biggest of his breed
Daniel was a clipperman, renowned of shearing deed
Many sheep were sheared that day and woolless they had fled
Before those two met in affray and battled in the shed!
Ronald, he had seen old Wallace wrestled to the floor,
Mugged of his dignity and fleece, and knew that it was war
And seeing that his turn was nigh, his hooves he dug in deep
He'd fight and though perhaps he'd die, at least he'd die a sheep.
Daniel had no time to waste, he'd quotas set to keep
And unprepared, he reached in haste to take the waiting sheep
But Ronald steeled himself as Daniel took him by the horn
And, rearing, pulled himself away before he could be shorn.
Off-balance, Daniel stumbled, to Ronald's great delight
Onto his knees he tumbled as the shears flew out of sight
And Ronald now unhanded felt his victory increase
Protecting his sheep dignity and, likewise, his sheep fleece.
But Daniel was not beaten yet, he knew that he'd faced worse
His mind was still determined set, he rose up with a curse
But still he was unsteady and Ronald was a ram
His head was lowered ready and he charged the clipperman
Ronald's head met Daniel's side and toppled him again
This time headfirst and to collide his head against the grain.
Leaving, stunned, the clipperman upon the wooden floor
In final victory, the ram strolled out the open door.
But, alas, 'tis not the way that sheep triumph at last
And Daniel would not see the day that any sheep got past
Despite Ram Ronald's victor's pride, the shearer would not yield
So followed a less dignified pursuit around the field.
Ronald, he was fast and he had four legs matched to two
So Daniel was outclassed, if that was all that he could do,
But he also had a sheepdog and so Ronald was defeated
He would have had the victory, if Daniel hadn't cheated.
Last night I took a thought travel.
Across the land of my past.
Weak soil and slippery grounds
Thorns, thistle,
bends and curves.
I could see myself wasted away.
Blinded by my passions, desires.
Ambitions and the things I longed to acquire.
My heart was darkened, sick and lead me astray.
Soothing the desires of this flesh
Living a life of rebellion to my maker
Though my conscious bared witness
My spirit suppressed this truth,
For everything that surrounded could see a reflection of him.
But still, kept on clinging to the false than the truth.
Saw myself headed to the pit.
A place that I deserve,
All alone in this broad road.
With all the flitting pleasures that I desired,
No hope of salvation from this.
Like a sheep before the Shearer
Blinded by knowledge, trapped by wisdom.
None to tap a shoulder to warn me.
When I looked around the land grew darker
Storms rose, the wind blew heavily.
Quakes,
The land started folding ready to take me in.
My heart fell in despair, limbs felt weak.
Eyes clouded with woes.
Feared for my soul, everything that tasted good now is poison,
sight turned to be blindness.
Sweet turned soar, light turned darkness.
Joy turned sorrow.
And the fullness wrath of Him was in wait.
Ready to be laid on me.
Just at the right time,
Christ drank the cup of wrath as a substitute.
In his body took it all.
All at once light shone,
Peace became the ocean around me!
My heart changed; joy filled in.
Stood in awe, tears of joy.
Nothing in my hands to deserve such a great salvation.
How amazing is Grace.
Today I stand,
His mercies displayed,
How amazing is Grace?
That He could reach a rebel,
save a wretch man like me?
There is a story from Renmark in the Riverland
Of a man in the bush as his legend began
He was a shearer from New Zealand in the Depression
Who came to Australia in the 1920s for shearing sessions
But hard times meant he could not buy his Union ticket
This put him out of work without it
So he went into the bushland
And lived his life there not so grand
Cause people were different in those days
And Possum was proud staying out of the way
So he lived on bush tucker all the time
Doing odd jobs he would be just fine
Surviving on track rations from police stations
He travelled the bush tracks of the Australian nation
Taking no charity working for salt he’d need to do
This he said it would get him through
Max Jones was a local detective sergeant there
Who tried to look after this legend as he did care
But Possum would look after himself
Using his bushcraft skills as his wealth
As the years went on his legend grew
He’d mend a fence or chop firewood too
But he would not take handouts
As he would travel the Riverland on walkabout
He would say he’d be alright
When he would get his Union ticket as his right
One of a disappearing breed
Only taking what he would need
And so now Possum has gone from this world too
With his body being found next to the river in 1982
They built a statue of Possum at Wentworth town
At the place where the Darling meets the Murray flowing down.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Dirranbandi plonking
27Australians and a shearer came to bash Bronco Don in 1945
He was just back from Kokoda killing Japs to stay alive
Some carried beer bottles and others 2 handed sticks
I was in hospital being born while Don he got his kicks
It was enough to put a bull camel off his dinner camp
And the richosheying bullets hummed and wizzed and danced
Down the high stairs he came laughing with old threoh shooting quick
10 shots amongst the bashers the goona it was thick (faeces)
Much screaming as they left the yard running up the gravel road
Reloading he bounced bullets between a shearer and the toad.
The locals thought he celebrated the birth of a son
Others thought the war was almost being won
But in the pub the gravel rash was checked for bullet holes
And the boys sucked and drank old fourex got a priest to save their souls.
Don Johnson 2.45 am 14-march-2011
Don Johnson enjoyed fisticuffs And In the forties
The Goodooga footballers came to Dirran for a boxing match, Old Jack McKay would poke em into line with a billiard cue while Bronco Don and Bushman Hoath fought em one at a time. The day of the shooting
with the shearer Don had knocked out 6 men and piled the up in a heap. The copper said “what are you doing with them”. “I’ll burn them” said Don “Too green to burn said the copper”reinforcements and revenge that night, perhaps? Don Johnson