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Old Man Emu Poem
Benedict was tired, he’d been driving all day.
This was his last delivery, 2 tonnes of eggs delivered to Safeway.
The kid came out of nowhere, stared Benedict in the face,
He tried to brake, then swerved, in the wrong place.
The scene was chaos, emergency services scramble into action,
Ambulance officer, Florentine put Benedict’s legs into traction,
loaded him in the ambulance and quickly whisked him from the site.
The bystanders hoped that Benedict would be all white!
Sergeant Skillet arrived on the scene, he was feeling a little queasy.
A witness came forward and told Skillet the truck went over easy.
Skillet gleefully took a statement, finally a case he could crack.
He poached a pen from Constable Quiche, wrote it down on his back.
The clean up took some time, it was a delicate operation.
The fire brigade, were walking on “eggshells”, had been since they left the station.
Scene commander, Dumpty, directed the crew from a nearby wall.
If things went wrong, he knew he’d be the one to take the fall.
A nearby, protest group, trying to shake loose the yoke of oppression,
were called over to help, clean the streets, for these young folk a good lesson.
It’s not all about being self, centred from the cradle to the casket.
And to remember the old adage, Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.
Copyright © Old Man Emu | Year Posted 2017
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Old Man Emu Poem
It occurred by carelessness and mere happenstance.
If I could move, I would stand and perform a victory dance.
Dropped behind the washing machine, sliding down the back.
I am a solitary sock and my color is black.
I lost my partner a few months ago,
paired with another, in the drawer to be stowed.
We didn't get along, entwined and rolled together.
He smelt like dirty feet, especially in hot weather.
I caught glimpses of my old mate, while hanging on the line.
Called out greetings to each other, he seems to be doing fine.
I noticed a small hole, frayed across his tip.
He said the left toe nail was badly in need of a clip.
I've been stuck behind the machine, all covered in dust.
At first happy with my freedom, now leaving is a must.
I know in time I will be found, like Roger, the blue.
He told me about it once when we were doubled in a shoe.
We socks are always blamed for going missing in the wash.
But human carelessness is usually the cause of our loss.
One more thing about us socks, and this is a fact.
We don't like to be folded and rolled, we like to lie flat.
Copyright © Old Man Emu | Year Posted 2016
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Old Man Emu Poem
Hey mum, could we have roast chicken for dinner?
You know your roast potatoes really are a winner.
Mum, remember you promised to help with my homework later?
I have to hand it in tomorrow, your help would not be greater.
Hi mum, my doctors appointment today is around ten.
Your picking me up, just wanted to know when.
Hello mum, is it ok for you to look after the kids around noon?
I have to get my hair done, will drop them over soon.
Yes mum. I texted you but you didn't reply.
Anyway did you get all those things I asked you to buy?
Well mum, the thing is, we've been really busy this week.
Could you have the kids overnight now? We really need some sleep.
Hi mum, how are you today? My car wont go!
Can you drive me to work? I really need your help you know.
Mum, when you go to the post office can you grab a parcel for me?
I'd go there myself but I don't like to wait in line you see.
Mums are really angels of God, sent from up above.
To look after children and fill there lives with love.
Happy Mothers Day to all the mums out there.
You may sometimes feel unnoticed but dads are well aware.
Copyright © Old Man Emu | Year Posted 2016
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Old Man Emu Poem
The dwelling place is in lofty mountain peak,
hidden from protruding human eyes that seek.
A lonely figure the Yowie cuts,
All contact from the outside world he shuts.
I saw him once, this hairy fellow,
a face so sad and eyes of yellow.
He stood on a ledge in sunshine's glare,
I dare not move, I could only stare.
His seven foot frame, large outstretched arms,
My fear set in I recited the psalms.
The agile beast toward me started,
My belly boiled and then..... I farted.
He got so near my eyes did close,
I peaked and saw that he covered his nose.
The fart I did, boy did it stink.
It caused the yowie's eyes to blink.
For just a moment I thought I had him cold,
but he recovered quickly and became quite bold.
With a sweeping motion he did pick me up.
and around his frame put my face at his butt.
I was upside down and in an awkward spot,
then he let one rip, gave it all he got.
On the richter scale, I'd rate it at ten,
It was the fart of about a thousand men.
So if you're out in the mountains for a quiet stroll,
beware of Yowie, big foot or some other troll.
If they encounter you, turn and their butt cheeks part,
they will surely unleash the most abominable fart.
Copyright © Old Man Emu | Year Posted 2016
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Old Man Emu Poem
Brumby.
A strong gale cuts its path across the snow laden mountain tops,
light and tough the timor, thoroughbred mix, leads his mob at a trot.
A day spend grazing the valley below they now ascend the range above,
his brumbys follow out of awe and fear not with any love.
Echoing through the gullies is the thunderous clap of a stock whip,
in pursuit of the mob the mountain horseman cut a mean pace at a clip.
Coming up on the brumbys, surrounded them their lariat ropes are let loose,
the stallion is caught for the first time in his life his neck feels the noose.
In 1897 born to tough stock, I think Steve was his name,
His family raised cattle by Corryong of Snowy River fame.
Riding before he could walk, in the saddle he would ply his trade.
Catching brumbys on Kosciuszko's slopes for a little money to be made.
He made the high plains and steep valleys his primary domain,
believed that this was his home, in the hills he would ever remain.
Word reached his ears of the great war in Europe from a close friend.
with fear of threat to king and country, to enlist his mind would bend.
The noble thoroughbred steed, king of his country was finally tamed.
Saddled and bridled, freedom lost, and now he was named.
Garnished with weapons of war to a new mob he was placed,
rigorously put through his training in readiness for battle to be faced.
Somehow he sensed the young man on his back was of similar ilk,
rode low in the saddle, moved with ease, yes they drank the same milk.
A bond was formed, a friendship even, between man and his stallion,
Although both small they rode tall as though kings of the battalion.
Unloading in Palestine the hot sandy desert now their new home,
a far cry from the lofty peaks and steep valleys they both would roam.
This tough little man and horse to new environs would quickly aclime,
strutting across the dunes, a fine stance cut and looking sublime.
The bugle calls out a mighty charge on Beersheba they began to lay,
horse flaring his nostrils , galloping wildly, into battle making their way.
Flying over the trenches the young man with his bayonette swinging true,
horse compensating expertly as the enemy lines are burst through.
In the heat of the battle cannon fire starts to rupture the ears,
the young man and his horse are finally realising their fears.
A solitary rifle round pulls young Steve from the saddle of his panting steed,
the horse pulls up fast, spinning around, recognising the riders need.
A mortar fatally reaching its mark, puts the poor brumby to the ground,
man and horse mortally wounded, dying without making much of a sound.
In the hot sandy desert final memories flood through their whole being,
and long lonely valleys with snow covered peaks, the last thing they were seeing.
Copyright © Old Man Emu | Year Posted 2016
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Old Man Emu Poem
Mums Kitchen.
If I went back to the house of my childhood days,
I'm sure I'd see mum in the kitchen, as my eyes start to glaze.
Busily moving pots and pans from the stove to the sink,
I would hold onto that vision afraid just to blink.
Her blue and white apron all covered in flour,
preparing food and baking hour after hour.
Just hand written notes, no need for a recipe book,
Things made so many times she'd barely need to look.
I would sit at the table and into the kitchen I'd stare,
watching mum work away making such delectable fare.
The aroma's and smells that would waft through the house,
I'd breathe deeply and pretend that they entered my mouth.
There would be pasties laid on and the apple pie of your dream,
lamingtons, jelly cakes both all covered in cream.
cloud soft sponge cakes and chocolate chip bickies,
Mum made cooking look easy but was really quite tricky.
Mum would bring me some tea and load up a plate,
I wouldn't care about sugar or worry about weight.
Eating to my fill and my mouth gets the drools,
Then I would say, "Mum, your kitchen rules".
Copyright © Old Man Emu | Year Posted 2016
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Old Man Emu Poem
There's an old timber, farm gate at the end of a track.
You wouldn't see it driving past unless you looked back.
It's made of roughly hewn wood more than a lifetime ago,
time and weather has worn it down, as the seasons ebb and flow.
A rusty abandoned ute lays near, covered in pine tree nettles.
Where weeds and braken make claim to it as in the earth it forever settles.
Late sunlight filters through the trees, casting shadows through the gate.
Where once cattle on the other side for feed would stand and wait.
Young children used to play on the gate, stand and swing it open wide.
Then climb through the cypress trees for another place to hide.
Atop the rail the magpies perch, warbling away without refrain.
Intently gazing across the fields, the kings of their domain.
The children have all gone now, grown up and moved away.
For many years the gate lay untouched, its frame in disarray.
Who knows? maybe someone will see its worth and fix the old farm gate.
Embed it back into time, for another's memories to recreate.
Copyright © Old Man Emu | Year Posted 2016
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Old Man Emu Poem
MORNINGS.
The sun has almost breached, across the Eastern sky,
The little birds feel it first and begin their morning cry.
Their orchestral chorus is transcending as they all join in with song.
From tree to tree and mountain ridge in unison sing along.
Lazily it flows, the tranquil mountain stream.
Is suddenly brought to life when touched by sunshine's beam.
Platypus and dragonfly dance across its surface.
Reveling in the morning light, precious life, filled with purpose.
Rivergums make a dramatic change from grey to brilliant hues.
A touch of green, a splash of red some pink and even blues.
Sunlight has blazed their canopies as light is filtered through.
Branches, boughs, supported by a trunk that stands ever true.
From sandy bays to mountain ranges the morning sun breaks forth.
To wide coastal beaches all bathe in natures warmth.
Ever the morning is transforming, not only for nature's leisure.
For all to forget the pitch of night, and look forward the day with pleasure.
Copyright © Old Man Emu | Year Posted 2015
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Old Man Emu Poem
Lenny was 30 and still living with his old cheese, everyone called, Lenny’s mum.
She was always on his Cadbury Snack to go find a trouble and strife for a chum.
“Geez, leave off mum, I’ve been looking down at the Punchbowl rubbity Dub”.
“Well Lenny, go to the grab a granny at the Rissole, Fridý night will ya luv”.
Friday came, Lenny put on his best bag of fruit and fired up his old VS Dunny Door.
With his pay in his sky rocket as he hit the frog and toad with the peddle to the floor.
Mum put some of dad’s old brill cream in his Fred Astaire before he left the house.
“Be good Lenny, me little china plate, if ya need a lift home give me a Wally Grout”.
Jenny was on the rock ‘n’ roll so she saved up her oxford scholars for a big night out.
She wasn’t flash to look at, with her bifocal monkey’s arses but she had a good jam tart.
She walked into the Rissole, tilting her leg as she let rip a decent Royce Hart.
Her dad would’ve said, “A bit more choke and it would’ve made you start”.
Jenny met Lenny at the near ‘n far, knowing he was giving her the old Captain Cook.
Introductions made and Lenny thought she was a bit of alright, as he had a second look.
They hit it off after Jenny’s Third vodka and Lenny’s fifth schooner of pigs ear.
Feasting on bar snacks of party dogs eyes, Jenny dripping the dead horse in Lenny’s beer.
A couple of young blokes walk up to Jenny and tried to give her Reg Grundies a flick.
Jenny started throwing cut lunches, smashing him on the Lionel Rose, then gave him a kick.
Lenny intervened, saying, “We don’t want any froth and bubble.” Before thing got nasty.
He took Jenny outside screaming, “He’s got a face like a half eaten pasty”.
And that’s how Lenny and Jenny met, Lenny’s mum was happy seeing Lenny with stars in his mud pies.
They got cash ‘n carried, had a couple of billy lids, that loved to eat burgers and fries.
It’s not at all romantic, but that’s how most Aussie love stories go.
Lenny and Jenny together forever, They’re mates most of us will know.
Copyright © Old Man Emu | Year Posted 2017
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Old Man Emu Poem
When a child if gifted with a book it transforms into a key to unlock the mind. The gate to the secret garden of imagination is pried from its forgiving hinges and the child is free to expand their imagination to galaxy proportions.
The simple pages of a book provide a passport for a passenger seat next to the likes of Captain Biggles in his Tibetan adventures to locate the forbidden city of Shangri Lah, or a magical flight to Neverland with Pan and the lost boys. Who knows how each “child’s mind’s eye will envisage the loathsome creature that is Mr Hyde or the demure Dr Jekyll?
It captures the heart of a parent to witness their young boy, lying on his bed, engrossed in the pages of Stevenson’s Kidnapped. His imaginings transform him into the character of David Balfour, fighting alongside the Jacobite rebel, Alan Stewart. Such a comforting vision is a young girl, lounging on the couch on a rain soaked winters afternoon, fanning through a copy of Anne of Green Gables, engrossed in the character of Anne Shirley, wishing to emulate her outgoing spirit and giving nature.
The abundant bread basket of literary expositions act as a conduit, unlocking a child’s ability to make judgements about morality, injustices and an understanding of consequences in decision making. All the while the simple act of quietly reading procures an incalculable and surreptitious response to education for a lifetime to come.
The nostalgic aroma of floral vanilla and almonds that emit from the pages of an old book invokes a sense of anticipation to the imaginary adventures about to be embarked upon, creating an atmosphere of ambivalence.
An implore to parents across the globe to leave the television set and so-called social media, bombarding a child’s mind like a tidal wave, leaving in its wake a desolate landscape of nothingness. Embrace the tactile feel of pages in hand, gently stroking the mind, embedding feelings of, wonder and imagination. Read to your children every day and encourage them to jamb their noses into literary masterpieces from the likes of Stevenson, Doyle, Dickens and many more worthy exponents that have stood the test of time.
Copyright © Old Man Emu | Year Posted 2017
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