G'day you beauty Blue
as I haven't heard you play
in a year and a day
what did you do
with your fair dinkum didgeridoo
don't get me wrong
but it's been gone so long
has your bonzer boomerang
returned from whence you threw
by yonder backwater billabong
how about your most unusual pet
a marsupial (a roo) if I am correct
was it sold to pocket the proceeds
and pay for your daily needs
or abandoned beside the track
in the bush a.k.a., outback
Within a crack in grisly clouds one night
I briefly glimpsed the redish-orange hue
of the Australian desert poking through—
pillars of bunched up puffs, in the colored light
of a sleepy sun’s rosy rays,—and the might
of such a sight struck my soul’s drowsy blue.
So suddenly my heavy spirit flew
like a falcon to that unequaled height.
And soon returning home, I shut the door
on that marvelous fantasy of mine.
The evening heavens, far from human reach,
yet teach me a quite foreign form of speech,—
that of mysterious, metaphoric sign.?
Thus I transcend myself,—find something more.
Be sparse like the saltbush plains
of the outback, short on adjectives,
mostly verb and noun. Let the sun
scorch shadows into the sand,
hollow out some shade where a little
life can hide from the heat.
Celebrate the light, its clear passage
through the air, hard as the sharpened
edge of a steel blade. See how it cracks
the land, opens wounds where
the inland snake hides and brews
its venom in perfect silence.
At night feel a cold descend
from a sky emblazoned with stars
set in the icy distances of space.
Endure a solitude that drains the soul
as it leaks out towards horizons
of absolute nothingness,
here,
come face to face with yourself.
Note.
The Australian outback is largely
a dry and unpopulated area covering
around 70% of the total land mass
of the country.
By comparison, this arid region
equates to a little over 50%
of the area of the United States,
( excluding Alaska ).
The wind blows across
empty cattle yards
and tailing mounds
from old copper mines,
across open spaces
that spread beyond
boundary fences
and the reach
of railway lines,
way out past
the rutted wakes left
by four wheel drives.
Only bones take root
out here and grow
into phantoms
who haunt the horizon,
finding voice in the moans
that wander the land
in search of lost
ancestral homes.
Something ancient
sleeps here
deep underground.
Coiled in a sacred womb
it waits for rebirth.
Beneath the quiet cathedrals
of vaulted nights
you can hear it breathe
through pore holes
rising up out
of the red earth.
Far away,
corralled inside coastal cities,
a nation grows deaf
on the din of its own noise.
Blinded by the dazzle
of unresting lights,
it floats the continent
dangling clots
of shallow roots.
“in the outback”
g’day
bidet
giant sandstone hand fell in the Outback
several koalas and kangaroos heard it
others chose not to
i can barely see the fingers now
but i know they are there
On an outback plain where big Roos were few
A gang went riding their Harley’s
Their plan was to stop at the pub for a brew
So they headed at top speed for Charley’s
It wasn’t too long as they sped along
that a Big Red hopped out of nowhere
that was the moment that things went wrong
and started this sorry affair
After the first Harley hit the Roo
they ended up in a spinning heap - until
someone had a silly notion of what to do
I’m certain they meant no ill will.
They decided - for a novel photo op
They would dress the dead roo in leather.
They propped him up beside a large rock
In a biker’s jacket and helmet
Laughing and joking and dressing and poking
They stood beside him to pose.
When all of a sudden and I am not joking
The dead carcass took off with the clothes.
The tragedy was the jacket was new
and the bloody thing was expensive
But it gets a great laugh when he’s having a brew
Still, it took a long time to make sense of.
There's a poet on our site,
Who can really tell a story.
He looks at everyday affairs,
And then weaves tales of glory.
The way he writes he takes you there.
He draws his readers in,
With colorful description,
Of adventure, laughter, kith and kin.
The Clemens of the outback,
Our personal Mark Twain.
It's a privilege to read for him.
For certain he's got game.
If you wonder who I'm talkin' 'bout,
If you want to know his name,
Lindsay Laurie is his handle,
Of The Soup's poetic fame.
God just made a terrible blunder
Clearly revealed by claps of thunder
There was no sinner
Just Aussie dinner
After poking around Down Under
There is a headstone in the Outback
About a Halfway along the Birdsville track
Written on it Thomas William Noel Treloar
Who was accidentally drowned in Coopers Creek’s fatal shore
He was aged in years six and twenty
Dying on 6 October in 1920
But the curious thing to be
Is the Track is 900 miles from the sea
Ya know once and a while the Cooper will come down
And flood the creek turning it around
And Tom just happened to be there ya see
To drown in the Outback so far from the sea.
© Paul Warren Poetry
Lindsay Laurie's never boring
~ Tales from the outback flip my back out
January 01 2020
Who Trips your Trolley Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Bobby May
AUSSIE OUTBACK CHRISTMAS
Comin' 'ome in an aussie sleigh,
ol' tractor ute with a rusty tray,
with a big branch of Gum, it be
the Christmas tree .
hard to find 'em white ant free.
Nailed it to a webbed dusty wall,
usin' my boot as a hamma
watching all the spiders fall,
decorated with koala, snake an' goanna
.
Com' Christmas morn here in Whatabugga,
dis summa heat could cook a burra.
Da' ol' bath tub, empty with prezzies gorrrn,
taken outside to cook magpie 'n' corn,
while some have fun on the dusty lawn.
Some prezzies still on dah floor,
Beaut!, new hinges for the dunny door.
Mum is smilin' even more,
a rackit, for flies 'n mozzies galore,
near the size of a dinosaur.
Tis Christmas in dah' auzzie west,
with heat 'n' flies to enjoy the fest.
Singlet, shorts 'n' thongs,
our very best.
Be our guest,
and enjoy Christmas in the Auzzie west.
I hear the drone that quizzes me then see the swirling mass.
A cloud veers in all directions; green changes in a flash.
Ten thousand wings are beating. The sky a wonderful delight.
I follow the budgerigars until the flock is out of sight.
Close 'round the crackling fire we three,
with sweet acacia in the air -
tell stories of Gallipoli
and digger's bond of friendship there.
We laughed and shared like family
with roof and walls of stars our home -
tracker Wiley, Henry and me
on highland edge of bushland dome.
But now across the outback trail
away from Henry's place of rest,
near to where he fell and failed
with bloody head against my chest.
We slowly lead his faithful mount
through clear streams where spirits flow
and tales the bushman mates recount,
the final sail of mateship souls.
Based on my consulting this year’s almanac
June 30th being the best possible day for a BBQ out back
I sent out invitations to everyone, I didn’t hold back
There was the lumberjack, the nymphomaniac
The humpback, the hunchback and the hypochondriac
The kleptomaniac, the hemophiliac and the insomniac
No reason to leave out the egomaniac and the pyromaniac
Ooops and how could I almost forget our local amnesiac
I proposed a neighbourly exchange of paperback
I asked them all to contribute, call back or at least provide feedback
Eve of June 30th, gotta prepare my shack
Start to clean vigorously with ammoniac
Wash my floors and dust that miscellaneous bric-a-brac
To make room for guests, park my hatchback in the cul-de-sac
Find bowls for every possible sweet and snack
Think of various games including kayak and piggyback
Think I might serve some type of aphrodisiac
Put together a musical playlist of 60’s to 70’s flashback
Get all set for a promising night of banter and wisecrack
I think I’ve thought of everything and I’m right on track
O gotta go… I think I hear the doorbell- must be Jack
AP: Honorable Mention 2020
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