Paddocks Poems | Examples

Devoid Of Fear

I feel safe and whole here
Devoid of fear

Alone listening to the rain
Devoid of worry or pain

Cocooned by green paddocks and trees
Devoid of thoughts of death or disease

No humans for miles around
Devoid of white noise sound

Completely at one with mother nature
Devoid of chaos, destruction, haters

I feel happy here as my soul is at rest
Devoid of negativity and lifes stress

I feel safe and whole here
Devoid of fear!

But not the mountains

But Not The Mountains

There is no sound from the mountains
Unlike that of  the Magpie
The kereru or the Bell birds
Or the tractors rumbling across the paddocks

There is no sound from the mountains
Like the Nor Wester racing through the trees
The bleating of the sheep, the lowing of the cattle 
the bark of the working dog

There is no sound from the mountains
As the Southerly snow whips them unmercifully
Save the sound from the waterfalls 
as they race towards some unknown destination

There is no sound from the mountains
As the braided rivers wend their way to the sea
As the big jet planes fly hither and yon
There is no sound from the mountains
Save that of peace and tranquillity

My drug of addiction

I see peace in the bright blue skies, in the paddocks green
In the warble from the magpies tounge in the breath of
God I come undone, in the pouring rain there are melodies
To heal hearts and fill the soul of me, I take strength from
Others of the human race' i note the joy we can embrace!
I see gold in the seashores sand; in sunbursts on rooiftops
Its vast and grand..From Kempsey down to Wangaratta
I listen to traffic on the m25 and yearn to be far from
Londons tide.' To return once more to penong and look
Over the plains, toward Perth or maybe i'd jump the train?
Take the Indy ride.. back to the Eastern States, buy some tinnies
And conjugate.? Eat Barrumundi maybe redfinToo? I'm game.'
Now I'm worn and battered.. I need home again..I need the
Drive of the Aussie folk, the strength of un-assuming women and blokes, And I know I'd slip right in..Like wool off the woolshed table
I'd be right into the bin.'

Where Do They Go

You see them everywhere,
sometimes countless in number,
winged, walking or wading,
running the gauntlet of waves,
filling the air.
Birds populate the planet, 
make their home in trees,
buildings, on grassy paddocks, 
icy continents and clinging
to the craggy heights of cliffs. 

So many. But where do they go
to die. We see only a few 
as roadkill or the odd one 
decomposing under a bush.
Where are the others?. Surely
death should be more visible
in their ranks, parklands dotted
with those that have fallen dead
from the sky or a branch. More
washed up on a beach.
You would think their remains 
would be everywhere 
in plain sight. But no.

It's as if the dead slip through
a portal and into the unseen,
leaving no trace. Or maybe
the earth simply claims 
and disposes of them 
in haste out of respect. 
Or do they find somewhere 
inaccessible, hidden from view, 
a place to pass away 
and leave the human mind
to wonder why
the bodies of the avian dead
seem to number so few.

The Aftermath

Meaning is over there,
beyond the burnt paddocks
and blackened hills, 
the crumpled, flattened ruins
of houses. It is further out
than that nothingness glazed
upon the distances 
of a vacant stare.

A powdery dust now coates
the walls of a terrible absence.
There is a gaping silence,
a hole emptied of screams,
of moans, cries given up
to heaven. What was living
has been burnt back 
to where only 
a dull numbness 
chafes against passing time.

Melted pots poke through
a tangle of charcoaled waste. 
Memories, lifetimes crumble
into flakes of ash and amongst 
the rubble, 
a fire blackened teddy bear 
with outstretched arms
seems baked in a posture
of perpetual still,
holding onto something
beyond the reach of fire.

The Greenhouse - a True Story

I have a little greenhouse
It sits wobbly on the hill
Constructed from a kitset
Requiring monumental skill

A 40 page instruction book
Said it was a simple task to do
But I was not convinced
That this was entirely true

A fragile aluminium frame
Held with 500 fiddly screws
Was a testing of my patience
To see how many I would lose

The polycarbonate sheets
Fragile and light as fine chiffon
Flew off in the slightest breeze
Before I could attach them on

'Two hours of construction'
Is all the time you need, they say
But let me tell you, that's a lie
Because it took three days

Then in the first nor'easter storm
It collapsed, negating all my labours
The walls were in the paddocks
And the door was at the neighbours

Now it's badly taped together
And held down with bungy cord
So far so good, fingers crossed
We get some vege as a reward!

Frost

on a chill morning
a crisp sheet of white frosting  
coating the paddocks 



29 December 2022
Poetry soup syllable counter

July Winter Storm

trees along the fence line strain
stretched tight by the wind
turning inside and out 
leaves in all directions 
buffeting and thrashing in the howling gale 

sheets of horizontal rain hammer the paddocks 
through the knee deep mud 
sodden cowprints overflow with water
       
still the rain pours down uncontrollably
and the wind roars over the hills
scarred with open clay slips 

raincoat and gumboots 
barely visible in the gloom 
the farmer trudges home 
after evening milking

September Spring

Tui birdsong starts again, melodious warbling 
              bitter southerly wind still bites 
              sleet, horizontal and cold, flattens the daffodils
sudden rays of bright warm sunshine 
race over paddocks
              vivid green grass juxtaposes clear blue sky
Earth warms

Play

warmed earth from blue skies 
falling down flat in long grass 
my whole self laughing
we had the best fun playing 
hide and seek in hay paddocks 


Tanka 57577 syllable count

A Lay For a Day In May

Day I've known in early Autumn
You are spring in winter long thought on
How truth differs; three have I known
Two hemispheres I now call home
German day in such heavy leaf
British may I've known of chief.
Aus May mists and paddocks longer
Cross roads Albury Wodonga
Mays, holding notes in my life's song.

You'Re Not a Community, Part Ii

...I use these two as examples,
but this trend goes far beyond them,
the lefties just pick out some traits,
unchosen by women and men,
then build those traits up into walls,
pens and paddocks, like we are cows,
demand we stay where they placed us
by shouting ‘community’ loud.
But it’s all a load of garbage,
humans are not wired this way,
we are mixed matched with strangers,
amidst all them life’s game is played.
Communities aren’t skin color,
sex choices, age, weight, or gender,
communities are who we live with,
the people who make our work turn.
Those people are community,
and those people can’t be defined,
because shallow, superficial things,
pale before the soul and the mind.

Calyx Eclipse

With indecision rode abreast
              Intended path becomes digressed 
              Old age accompanies us soon 
              Protected from sway of heart's swoon

              Independent flag flown above
              Declares no use for fickle love
              Closure wraps webs, unspent calyx
              Composts in forgotten paddocks

             Extension as petals erupt 
             Resilient haughty's harsh disrupt
             Crumbles robot disposition
             Gives passion due permission 

             Held out is your hand to delve in
             Wafting musk man wax firm terpene 
             Growth emergence drifts adjacent 
             Inhaled fragrance fresh placement

            Dangled now upon my doorstep 
            Taking the chance, you endorsed it
            Stainless steel crumpled, heart on tap
            Safety reigned, your care eclipsed that

            Ready to bloom in love splendid 
            Softness of Libby now rendered 
            Able to lay guard down, submit
            Spread open desire soul permits






         27th September 
             8 Syllables

Drought

DROUGHT

young lamb at watering hole,
partaking of bubbling brook
from down below of artesian bore,
like many lambs here and now,
all hesitant at first,
and only taking what is offered, 
in order to sustain their thirst
and to feed an empty belly,
for in this dry parched land,
‘tis a land of seemingly endless drought
where many days without rains,
many days a lacking grass,
many days of gathering dust,
many days of never-ending heat,
and many days of thirsting throats,
and bellies catered on no amount of feed,
and where many have gone to die on their feet,
now with the help of grazier, family, friends
and old Blue the dog,
herded together as a mob,
and in from the long paddocks of no more,
and with the banks at their throats
but now with help from afar;
and hay and feed from donated trucks
all the way from Corio Bay,
just maybe, just maybe, 
there is a God who has heard the message,
and their pleas for fair dinkums,
and the prayers of night and days,
and from what lambs they can muster at the hole,
for when the rains on the morrow come,
there is now a hope of a new beginning,
and a revival on its way.

Francis Cooper – Mac © August 2019

Petrichor

The noise of it falling
Comes closer on the wind
Louder
Brisker
As if the two have mated
And birthed that funky smell
Of Petrichor
Oh we have
Met before
The smell
Well remembered
After long hot summers
In brown dry paddocks
Frightening dry forest floors
A welcome smell
To bring relief
To all

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