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Marc Glasby Poem
When everything seems peaceful
and all is going well
you'll find out that Murphy's rules
will grab you like a spell
When you build your money up
a bundle in the bank
and trouble strikes at every turn
then you'll know who to thank
The car you just had serviced
is spewing smoke and oil
the fridge just out of warranty
now watch that good food spoil
Just when you least expect it
Old Murphy will appear
He's cruel enough to make you spill
your last mouthful of beer
At every turn he's waiting
until you think you're safe
the shoes that fit well yesterday
today will make you chafe
Your wallet's in your pocket
at least that's what you think
until its time to pay the bill
then feel your light heart sink
You glide along life's easy way
it's such an easy dance
Until old Murphy comes along
and kicks you in the pants
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"
Copyright © Marc Glasby | Year Posted 2018
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Marc Glasby Poem
At a point where the old road meets the hill
and runs down the other side
There's an old tin shed that's standing, still
and a grave where the old dog died
He surely had seen better days
when our paths chanced to cross
As I lit up a fire and laid out my swag
he got up and wandered across
I could see from the look in the old dog's eye
that his race was almost run
but he sat by my side and offered his paw
So I gave him a pat and a bun
I cooked up some meat and he chewed on a bone
then he rested his head on my swag
We sat and we watched as the stars all came out
and his tail did a slow steady wag
We fell fast asleep and I woke with the sun
to find the old dog passed away
So I gathered him up and I buried him deep
and sadly I went on my way
It was later that morning I stopped at a farm
to ask about work round about
and I happened to see a new litter of pups
one turned and came waddling out
He sat on the ground and he offered his paw
and I saw a strange glint in his eye
Had the old dog returned? Was he telling me now
that I shouldn't be sad that he'd died?
Well I picked him right up and his warm puppy tongue
quickly licked off the tear from my cheek
I couldn't think straight, I was stunned and choked up
and found my knees going all weak
So I bought him right there and I gathered him up
He settled right down in my swag
As I walked down the road I could feel the odd thump
as his tail did a slow steady wag.
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"
Copyright © Marc Glasby | Year Posted 2018
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Marc Glasby Poem
All the Anzacs have faded back into the past
And the old men now rest with their mates
We can hope they play 2 up and still have a beer
Now they’ve entered the heavenly gates
We have cause to remember the men who died young
How they fought to ensure we live free
How they looked back at home for the very last time
As their ships pulled away from the quay
They went for adventure, for country and King
Their country still mourns for their loss
They died in the trenches and on the barbed wire
So far from the great Southern Cross
They couldn’t have known as they sailed far from home
Just how cruel would be some of their fates
But they lived for Australia, a land of their own
And they died for the sake of their mates
And each life extinguished still burned like a flame
In the hearts of their loved ones at home
And their memory lives on in the pride of the nation
In respect for the flag that they’d flown
Their young eyes look out from the passage of years
From the old pictures, tattered and torn
And their nation looks back to the past and remembers
How the legend of ANZAC was born
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"
Copyright © Marc Glasby | Year Posted 2018
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Marc Glasby Poem
I am the bushland dawning
in the stillness of the morning
I am the sunlit plains
and the mighty river's flow
I'm the drought and I'm the flood
I'm the earth and I'm the blood
I'm the breezes ever blowing
where the wild pandanas grow
I'm the stockman and the drover
and I've walked this land all over
and I share forgotten secrets
that the wild ones only know
I'm the dust of outback trails
I'm the wind that fills the sails
I'm the city and the country
and the first high mountain snow
I'm the Murray River flowing
and the cattle softly lowing
I'm the kangaroo and emu
and the sunset's orange glow
I'm the Southern Cross at night
the explorer's guiding light
I'm the place that tells the traveller
that it's better to go slow
I am Banjo and I'm Lawson
I am Kelly and I'm Mawson
I am the Melbourne Cup
and the Sydney Easter Show
I am wild and still untamed
and there's beauty in my name
I am the land Australia
where the lucky people go.
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"
Copyright © Marc Glasby | Year Posted 2018
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Marc Glasby Poem
Have you ever felt the magic
when you're standing by the sea?
The rise and fall of ocean swells
Sublime serenity
In the morning's salty air
the working boats leave port
and anglers keen on fishy fare
go looking for some sport
The seabirds wheel and flap and cry
as dawn breaks overhead
but all these sights and sounds are lost
to those still tucked in bed
The tinkling of the rigging
of the yachts out on the bay
a gentle way of waking
in the first new light of day
The morning sun comes peeping through
a drifting bank of cloud
and on the beach, so empty now
will come a bustling crowd
The small boats now all set to sea
their sails so clean and bright
they jibe and tack across the wind
on which they seem so light
The afternoon now still and warm
there's naught but time to pass
the racing yachts all sit becalmed
upon a sea of glass
With evening come the twinkling lights
from far across the bay
a gentle breeze to cool the land
the closing of the day
Until tomorrow's light breaks through
I bid the sea 'farewell'
But in my dreams I fall asleep
upon the ocean swell.
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"
Copyright © Marc Glasby | Year Posted 2019
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Marc Glasby Poem
The yards behind the shearing shed are overgrown with grass
And the fence posts look a little worse for wear
There’s cobwebs on the tractors that are sitting all forlorn
And a farm cat snoozes gently on a chair
The boards have not been trodden by a shearer’s boot for years
But the remnants of their trade lie on the floor
A dull and rusty hand piece was left hanging on the wall
And an old grey fleece is draped across a door
A fridge that held refreshments for the shearers long ago
Stands rusting in the corner on its own
Some wool bales from the final clip are sitting in a pile
And the wind whips through the rafters with a moan
The only sign of movement is the farm cat getting up
It must be time to go and hunt for tea
As she slinks between the barrels that are holding up the floor
It’s time for mice to hide, or turn and flee
A drowsy looking blowfly buzzes lazily around
And the morning slowly turns to afternoon
Then the purple shades of evening slide across the waving fields
And the shearing shed is bathed beneath the moon
Then somewhere in the darkness you can hear the shearer’s ghosts
you can hear them clipping long into the night
Cries of ‘fleece off!’ are competing with the bleating of the sheep
but silence reigns again come morning light
And the shed just goes on rusting underneath the summer sun
And the termites come and chew upon the boards
And the spiders in the tractors go on spinning silken webs
And the shearer’s ghosts are undisputed lords
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"
Copyright © Marc Glasby | Year Posted 2018
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Marc Glasby Poem
I lie dead and broken and crushed by the road
and the crows make a meal of my eyes
I no longer wander the trails in the bush
there's no one who mourns me or cries
And all who pass by are repulsed by the sight
and the smell that hangs on in the air
where once I was handsome and vibrant with life
my little ones now must despair
The thing I did wrong was to cross the big road
alone on a dark Summer's night
and the last thing I saw as I ran for my life
was the blazing of oncoming light
I was everything wild, I was everything free
I was lizard and emu and roo
I was betong and wombat and numbat and quoll
I was eagle and black cockatoo
So next time you see me all battered and torn
lying still under brilliant blue skies
don't see me as something grotesque and misformed
with the spark of life gone from my eyes
Look back and remember the way that I was
before my eyes dimmed in the light
and next time you travel rest up before dark
and slow down when driving at night
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"
Copyright © Marc Glasby | Year Posted 2018
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Marc Glasby Poem
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"
Copyright © Marc Glasby | Year Posted 2018
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Marc Glasby Poem
Hooks and lures and fishing line, an eight foot throwing net
The sea is calm, the weather fine, there’s challenge to be met
Bait fish schools along the rocks dart frantically away
mesh descends on heavy weights to trap unwary prey
A baited hook is set and cast, the line is brought in taut
time like water trickles past, the battle still un-fought
The sun beats down on golden sand, the waves lap at the shore
the rod is passed from hand to hand as shoulders become sore
Nibblers tease and rip the bait but miss the gleaming hook
larger fish show here and there but only seem to look
Then all at once the sea explodes with one almighty flash
a heavy pull and line reels off, a headlong racing dash
Leaping twisting running deep the line pays off the reel
excitement builds and tension mounts, the fish’s fate is sealed
Pumping rod and straining arms bring colour to the top
but once again the fish will run, it seems to never stop
An hour or more of reeling in, the fish begins to tire
arms and neck and shoulders burn and feel like they’re on fire
The battle nearly over now the fish comes closer in
at last you have it in your hand, how sweet it is to win
Looking down at shining scales of silver black and blue
the streamlined body glistens with the light of every hue
with mouth agape and staring eyes the fish begins to gasp
the hook is pulled, the fish reacts, falling from your grasp
Back into the sea once more, it slowly swims away
maybe to get hooked again and fight another day
A flick of tail and flash of scale it vanishes from sight
You long to hook it up again and recommence the fight.
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"
Copyright © Marc Glasby | Year Posted 2018
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Marc Glasby Poem
'Thar she blows!' the cry goes up
a breaching whale is seen
The longboat's manned and low'red
the lookout's eyes were keen
The hunt begins, the whalers chant
the oarsmen strain and pull
The whaling ship won't turn for port
'til her holds are full
The boat seems small, the men seem weak
beside the mighty whale
but it's gentle nature seals it's fate
the harpoon never fails
The sea is churned to bloody red
the whale takes hours to die
but no-one there bemoans its fate
no tears in whaler's eyes
The killing done the mighty beast
is cut and torn apart
It's oil and perfume that combine
to still the giant's heart
The days of sail soon fade away
a spear becomes a gun
now gas is used to float the beast
when all the killing's done
Just when it seems that all is lost
that all the whales will die
the world begins to count the cost
of slaughter, greed and lies
The gentle giants of the sea
are saved from death and pain
We never should have hunted them
and never should again
To see them float with lazy grace
to spout and roll and dive
To touch their calves, a fluke's embrace
be glad they're still alive
It's very hard to understand
why some still want to kill
Their claims of scientific culls
are lies that make me ill
Let's let the gentle giants live
in peace beneath the waves
for once they do it's more than whales
that we will then have saved
From my PDF book "Bush Ballads and Bulldust"
Copyright © Marc Glasby | Year Posted 2019
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