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Best Poems Written by Frank Halliwell

Below are the all-time best Frank Halliwell poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Frank Halliwell Poem

Just grab a seat on that stump lad, and I'll take centre stage,
With a yarn about a small brown donk, and a lad about your age.
And thanks much for the offer, but I'll give the beer a miss,
I've got half a cup of coffee here, and I'll be drinking this.

One afternoon, just as the sun was starting to go down,
Dad chased him on an errand, to the little shop in town.
Now this young fella blazed along, the old ute fairly flew,
About as close to the speed o' light as the four wheel drive would do.

And as he roared up a small hill, just standing past the top,
Was a jenny donk with a half grown foal, and the young lad couldn't stop.
The jenny was the closest and she took the deadly blow,
But her body saved her little one, although she'd never know.

The young lad checked the jenny out, but she'd begun the flow,
To that great green meadow in the sky, where all the donkeys go.
The foal was badly bashed up, with her hide all torn and slashed,
But her eyes were bright and she might be right...stitched up where she was gashed.

So he huffed and puffed and heaved and swore, and he got her in the back,
And he set out for the vet that lived a bit further down the track.
And the vet, he laboured mightily to save that battered foal,
And by dawn's first light after that long night, he finally reached his goal.

So young lad took the small donk home, and in the course of time,
They left the territory, for Queensland's sunny clime.
He finished up in barracks, for the company took him in,
And gave him work, down in the mine, scratchin' round for tin.

He'd seen the poincianas bloom, their crimson flowers aflame,
And so he called her 'Blossom', and that became her name.
Now the Isa's not the most thrilling place there is along the track,
So he taught young Blossom a trick or two, to help take up the slack.

To stand with forelegs on his shoulders, (gawd, that lad was game!)
And to stretch out on an empty bunk, a trick that brought her fame.
For the common ass is pretty smart, her funny looks aside,
And she soon preferred the soft-sprung bed to the cold hard dirt outside.

And though the blokes would chase her out when time had come for rest.
She'd soon sneak back through the open door to the bed she liked the best
And most of the guys didn't really mind, and felt a little quiet pride,
In this funny donk who made them laugh, but left her souvenirs outside.

Ah yes, and she had one more quirk, that I'll add to this log,
On a hot day, she'd walk up to you, and lick you, like a dog.
I guess it was a need for salt, that's found in many forms
To fill her need she found a source on miners sweaty arms.

Now the office took a new man on, and assigned him to his shift,
To start on monday morning, at the number seven lift.
And this was friday, fairly late, so with the weekend free,
He took his wad and went to town, to celebrate, you see.

So several hours later, and much the worse for wear.
This fella staggered back again, without a single care.
He managed to remove his clothes, with a lot of crashing sound,
Then held on tight with knuckles white, as the room went round and round

Eventually he fell asleep as the booze turned out his light,
And Blossom, at the same time, gave up grazing for the night.
She came on tiptoe down the room, as only donkeys can.
And gazed in silent disbelief at this new, intruding man.

Who'd taken without sanction, her comfy little bed.
And left our donk with no good place to rest her weary head.
She put her head down close to his and snuffled in his ear
Well then, perhaps a slurp or two, might bring him past the beer.

At last in desperation, she put her lips up to his ear
And loosed a mighty donkey's bray, that those in town could hear,
And followed with a lot of slurps to help her win the toss,
And ensure that he would stay alert 'till she got her point across.

Yes lad, I woke in terror, and much dismay at those
Two big brown eyes like dinner plates, and enormous roman nose.
And ears like radar dishes and a voice like a cannon's roar.
So I up, and out, and down the road, and I run for a mile or more.

So that was when I took the pledge and swore right off the grog.
And vowed that I'd spend no more nights in alcoholic fog.
And when I feel that stirring urge, I'll go out and get some grub,
And never, never, ever, chat up sheilas in a pub.

I've spent lots of nights, out on the grog, when we had got our pay,
And woke beside some dreadful dogs, come the cold gray light of day.
But let me tell you matey, no one's ever seen a sight,
Like her that woke me with a kiss, that awful friday night.
***

Details | Frank Halliwell Poem

Bushfire

BUSHFIRE
                                                               by Frank Halliwell..
                                                                     Jimboomba, Australia

The sun hangs like a furnace in the brassy sky at noon,
All living things are hiding from it's blaze.
The sultry air surrounds us like a smothering cocoon,
The distance is a dusty, shimmering haze.

The old, dead gum stands gauntly on the highest point of ground.
Two almost fledged young hawks prepare to fly,
While mother hawk sits watching with the game that she has found,
Until her newly fledged have had their try.

The ever shifting puffs of wind become a steady breeze
And swing around into the north northwest.
It strips the last of moisture from the grasses and the trees
And gently rocks the fledglings in their nest.

The months of drought have turned once verdant land a lifeless brown,
The earth is parched and cracking from the heat.
The trees are dry as bulldust from the roots up to the crown.
A week of steady rain would be a treat.

But down along the river to the west, below the ridge,
It seems that fate has formed a different plan,
For a curl of smoke is rising from the grass beside the bridge.
For whatever reason, here the fire began.

Timid at first, the flames advance across the earth's dry face
Toward the litter lying thick beneath the trees.
And a bone dry bush says 'welcome', to the flames' torrid embrace
And the sparks go swirling downwind on the breeze.

And where they touch the flames spring up to spread the fire wide
And the insects die in millions in the grass..
As the questing flames seek out the spots where they have run to hide
And the searing heat leaves nothing room to pass.

Emboldened now, it crackles on along the river bank
As the choking smoke goes streaming towards the trees.
And up the slope beside the track through herbage dry and rank
And it vaults across the narrow road with ease.

Both predators and hunted watch it come in great dismay,
Their enmity forgotten in the quest
To find a sanctuary: somewhere safe to get away
From the monster that's approaching from the west.

But the beast pursues them upward through the thickets and the glades
And hastens flying feet with searing breath.
'Til a rocky wall confronts them, and all hope of refuge fades,
As capricious fate metes out a fiery death.

And the fire spares no pity as it rages up the slope
With it's smoke and heat and flame that act as goads
To the mass that flee before it, with evaporating hope
As the superheated canopy explodes.

It cascades burning embers as it leaps from tree to tree
And spawns the fires' offspring far and wide.
Two scared young hawks await their fate in their remote eyrie
As the fire charges up the mountainside.

The hot wind is a living thing, a servant to the beast:
To this ever changing monster without form,
And the oxygen it carries garnishes it's master's feast..
As it feeds the all-consuming firestorm.

The eyes recoil from blinding smoke, the skin, from scorching heat
And the flying sparks attack like angry bees.
Each breath's a painful, gasping chore, the lungs are near defeat,
And the fearsome roar is echoed from the trees.

At the plateau's edge it falters, here the boulders thickly lie,
And the grass and scrub grow sparsely here and there,
And without the fuel to feed it, it must very quickly die,
And the hot wind wails a note of pure despair.

The blood-red sun descends to earth beyond the ravaged plains
To be swallowed up beneath the distant seas,
And through the night the hungry flames consume what fuel remains,
Punctuated by the crash of falling trees.

The new day arrives in glory, with a sunrise to amaze
The like of which is seen by very few,
But it lights a scene of stygian murk and drifting smoky haze,
With blackened ruin the only thing in view.

The old dead tree is burnt out and lies shattered on the ground.
No sign of life near what was once a nest.
But the morning holds a promise, as a distant rumbling sound
Comes from thunderheads that rise out to the west.

Yesterday was full of losers but it's often something wins.
Now the sound of thunder echoes on the breeze,
And in the sky above the ridge as this new day begins,
Three hawks soar high above the blackened trees.
                                      o0o

Details | Frank Halliwell Poem

Blossom

Blossom

Just grab a seat on that stump lad, and I'll take centre stage, 
With a yarn about a small brown donk, and a lad about your age.
And thanks much for the offer, but I'll give the beer a miss, 
I've got half a cup of coffee here, and I'll be drinking this.

One afternoon, just as the sun was starting to go down, 
Dad chased him on an errand, to the little shop in town.
Now this young fella blazed along, the old ute fairly flew, 
About as close to the speed o' light as the four wheel drive would do.

And as he roared up a small hill, just standing past the top, 
Was a jenny donk with a half grown foal, and the young lad couldn't stop.
The jenny was the closest and she took the deadly blow, 
But her body saved her little one, although she'd never know.

The young lad checked the jenny out, but she'd begun the flow, 
To that great green meadow in the sky, where all the donkeys go.
The foal was badly bashed up, with her hide all torn and slashed, 
But her eyes were bright and she might be right...stitched up where she was gashed.

So he huffed and puffed and heaved and swore, and he got her in the back, 
And he set out for the vet that lived a bit further down the track.
And the vet, he laboured mightily to save that battered foal, 
And by dawn's first light after that long night, he finally reached his goal.

So young lad took the small donk home, and in the course of time, 
They left the territory, for Queensland's sunny clime.
He finished up in barracks, for the company took him in, 
And gave him work, down in the mine, scratchin' round for tin.

He'd seen the poincianas bloom, their crimson flowers aflame, 
And so he called her 'Blossom', and that became her name.
Now the Isa's not the most thrilling place there is along the track, 
So he taught young Blossom a trick or two, to help take up the slack.

To stand with forelegs on his shoulders, (gawd, that lad was game!) 
And to stretch out on an empty bunk, a trick that brought her fame.
For the common ass is pretty smart, her funny looks aside, 
And she soon preferred the soft-sprung bed to the cold hard dirt outside.

And though the blokes would chase her out when time had come for rest.
She'd soon sneak back through the open door to the bed she liked the best
And most of the guys didn't really mind, and felt a little quiet pride, 
In this funny donk who made them laugh, but left her souvenirs outside.

Ah yes, and she had one more quirk, that I'll add to this log, 
On a hot day, she'd walk up to you, and lick you, like a dog.
I guess it was a need for salt, that's found in many forms
To fill her need she found a source on miners sweaty arms.

Now the office took a new man on, and assigned him to his shift, 
To start on monday morning, at the number seven lift.
And this was friday, fairly late, so with the weekend free, 
He took his wad and went to town, to celebrate, you see.

So several hours later, and much the worse for wear.
This fella staggered back again, without a single care.
He managed to remove his clothes, with a lot of crashing sound, 
Then held on tight with knuckles white, as the room went round and round

Eventually he fell asleep as the booze turned out his light, 
And Blossom, at the same time, gave up grazing for the night.
She came on tiptoe down the room, as only donkeys can.
And gazed in silent disbelief at this new, intruding man.

Who'd taken without sanction, her comfy little bed.
And left our donk with no good place to rest her weary head.
She put her head down close to his and snuffled in his ear
Well then, perhaps a slurp or two, might bring him past the beer.

At last in desperation, she put her lips up to his ear
And loosed a mighty donkey's bray, that those in town could hear, 
And followed with a lot of slurps to help her win the toss, 
And ensure that he would stay alert 'till she got her point across.

Yes lad, I woke in terror, and much dismay at those
Two big brown eyes like dinner plates, and enormous roman nose.
And ears like radar dishes and a voice like a cannon's roar.
So I up, and out, and down the road, and I run for a mile or more.

So that was when I took the pledge and swore right off the grog.
And vowed that I'd spend no more nights in alcoholic fog.
And when I feel that stirring urge, I'll go out and get some grub, 
And never, never, ever, chat up sheilas in a pub.

I've spent lots of nights, out on the grog, when we had got our pay, 
And woke beside some dreadful dogs, come the cold gray light of day.
But let me tell you matey, no one's ever seen a sight, 
Like her that woke me with a kiss, that awful friday night. 
Frank Halliwell
Submitted: Sunday, September 28, 2008

Details | Frank Halliwell Poem

The Monster

THE MONSTER

by Frank Halliwell
Jimboomba, Australia.
Public Domain.

In the northwest foothills of the mount
That's known as Tamborine,
When the evening mists swirl up
In a surrealistic scene,
The landscape writhes beneath the moon
And black-lined, scudding clouds,
And in the swamps, the tea-trees
Wear their foggy, dripping shrouds.

When the purple shadows lengthen
On the flanks of Tamborine,
And the bleak wind wails in lonely gums,
Then races on unseen,,,
The somber ribbet of the frogs,
The music of the night,
And suddenly a hunting owl
Glides by in silent flight.

Amid the high-pitched cricket sounds..
The lowing of a cow..
A hint of sound just past that dam,
The frogs fall silent now..
And even the cicadas cease
As if in deadly fear...
The world stands still...
There's not a sound..
A silence
you can
hear.

And then, a sobbing, strangled cry,
like someone sorely maimed..
The monster then, has struck again,
Another victim claimed.
It prowls around Maclean's bridge,
Verses dripping from it's jaws.
The locals live in terror
Of that huge voracious maw.

For years he's fed it bits of rhyme,
To whet it's appetite,
Then loosed it on a trusting world,
One dark and dreadful night.
The populace has vanished,
From this land of brave, bold men..
For Johnson's rhyming monster
Is upon the land again !!!
Dedicated to Don Johnson, of Nash road who must bear much of the responsibility for inflicting the monster on the world.

Details | Frank Halliwell Poem

Canadian Winter

Canadian Winter
                           Frank Halliwell

At dawn you hear the crackle
As the sap in frozen trees
Splits the tree trunks like a gunshot
Down below fifty degrees.

And the crying of the kee birds
As they circle in the sky,
In ever smaller circles
'Til they vanish bye and bye-

Up their fundamental orifices,
Or so the story's told,
In their fruitless desperation
To escape the awful cold.

Turn on the car's ignition
And all it does is groan!
You forgot to plug the car in,
And the motor's turned to stone.

But the sun on newly fallen
Snow's a magic fairyland,
And windows all display the art
Of Jack Frost's gifted hand.

There must be other places
Where the weather's more perverse,
And the moment that I think of one
I'll write another verse.
                   ***

Details | Frank Halliwell Poem

Kosovo

LEST WE FORGET!

KOSOVO

Frank Halliwell

You must give us all your money. You must leave your home and land.
If you're not gone in five minutes, we will kill you where you stand.
Women go and take your children, but the men must remain here.
...So they gather up their children, and depart in deadly fear!

Fleeing from barbaric terror toward a future dim and bleak.
Tramp the widows and their children, and the tired, old, and weak.
Through the lonely empty valleys and the passes white with snow
Stream the footsore, cold and weary dispossessed of Kosovo.

Past the shattered shells of houses, and the ruins of others' hopes,
Past the rubble of a village and the smell of acrid smoke.
Toward the border of their country, and perhaps a helping hand,
Toward the hope of their salvation in a friendly foreign land.

Who could watch without compassion as this tragedy unfolds
Untold thousands on the borders cower in the rain and cold.
Down the road that leads from Kosovo, they come in endless streams,
People stripped of human dignity, possessions and their dreams.

A woman moans in labour, her distress is ill-concealed
With her baby's life beginning in a wet and rainy field!
No place dry to place the infant, no place warm for there's no fire.
Nothing dry in which to wrap her in this field of mud and mire.

Here a Serb and there a Muslim, they have shared these lands for years.
Each in turn has been the victim, each in turn has known the fears...
If you stood them up before you they would look about the same,
But each man detests the other, for their gods have different names.
Two different superstitions of two different deities,
So mindless hate will propagate down through the centuries!

Will justice long delayed seek out the beasts in business suits
And pitiless barbarians who rob and execute?
What will be the final outcome, will the force of arms bestow
A peace to stop the winds of hate that flow through Kosovo?
***

Best Poems Written by Frank Halliwell

Dorry's Ridge

The Mechanic

Thoughts On Citizenship Day

The Soil Expert

Blossom

Bushfire

Blossom

The Monster

Canadian Winter

Kosovo