A Kangaroo Island tale

It was early Sunday morning, the air was crisp and clean,
The old Kooraka lay in port, her boilers hissing steam,
Her motley crew were cursing, as they laboured at their task,
Of building ‘lash-up’ sheep pens, on the decks both fore and aft.

It was common shipping practice, with the cargo stowed below,
The hatches tightly battened down, and more deck cargo stowed,
In this case it was woolies, a hundred more or less,
but some sheep pens were empty, the cargo missing yet!.

The local representatives, of Elder’s and Goldsborough Mort,
were sadly lacking in their task, the mob was fifty short!
Of course there was a reason, a slip-up down the line,
The usual weekend drinking bash, was still proceeding fine!
A party on the Satdee night, still had half the locals merry,
and so they were recruited to fill the waiting ferry!.

The local shipping agents, were driving ’round the town,
Trying to find some workers, that were mostly lying down;
the party hardly over, it was their day of rest,
The semi-trailer driver, was snoring at his best.

At last we were assembled, our heads were hanging down,
and heading for the holding yards, on land just out of town,
The pens were flamin’ empty, in the early rising sun!
The sheep had broken down a fence, and to the golf course run!

The Stock Firm boys had brand new ute’s, the latest Holden line!
and these were used to round up sheep, while the helpers ran behind.
We chased them ’round the hallowed greens, until our breath came hissing,
Then someone gave a worried shout, a Holden ute was missing!
We could hear some muffled cursing, but from where we couldn’t tell;
Until someone remembered, an ancient shallow well!

And there we found the Holden, a little less than new!
The doors jammed shut, the roof squashed in, the driver cursing blue,
The rear cab glass had popped, and we hauled the pilot through,
and checked him out for broken bones, while we had a drink or two.

The sheep were slowly rounded up, and loaded on the truck,
then on down to the wharf, where the ship was still tied up.
The crew were having smoko in the early morning sun,
but the band of willing helpers, soon had them on the run,
The yards a sea of wool, as down the pier they drove,
across the race and to the deck, where they were quickly stowed,
the crew then threw off moorings, and the Kooraka hit the road!!

Then back to check the Holden with the well around it’s nose,
It took some sweating people a couple of hours or so,
and then the battered ute was ready for a tow;
Back to the port it trundled, a rolling disaster;
The Stock Agent driver, the subject of much laughter!

We never knew the content of his accident report,
but one thing was for certain – the sack he almost bought!
All this happened years ago, the participants have scattered,
The ship long gone, the pier rebuilt – the Holden ute a classic.

But still I well remember, that morning in the town,
the milling sheep, the totalled ute, and the locals crowding ’round.

These days there is a ferry, with quiet efficient crew,
and everything is roll-on, the operation smooth,
No longer sounds of rattling winch, and rough and ready hands,
All a distant piece of history, that shaped our growing land!.

The barfly

My name is ‘Dingy’ Bell, I’ve a tale of woe to tell,
Me life has been a bloody mess and all;
It started wiv me mum, a happy country lass,
She was compromised behind the district ’all

It’s said me farver was a toff, wiv tons o’ dough to spend,
He caught the train, and ne’er returned, me mum was narked no end!

Around about the age of three, me muther left me cold,
But grandma took me to her heart, she was a lovin’ soul,
The years of school were bloody cruel, a brain I seemed to lack!
But later on me life improved – until I did me back!

Me aunts said it was wimmin, I just took after mum,
Me uncles laughed, and gave a nudge, ‘Yer just yer father’s son!’
An so I went on sowin’ oats, an a bit of barley too!
It wasn’t long I had a wife, an’ then a kid or two.

About that time I saw the light, an gave away th’ grog,
I got meself a steady job an’ started payin’ bills.
But the wife she’d had a bloody ’nuff, an took orf fer th’ hills!

I rolled meself a bloody swag an’ bought a flamin’ dog,
It died a week along the track, from eatin’ poisonous frogs!
I lived amongst those flamin’ toads, an’ cut a bit o’ cane,
But then me feet got restless an’ I hit the road again!

I’d get a job, but that meant work, you’ve seen it all before –
Fillin’ bloody income forms, an’ kids around the floor!

I hung around the gee gees, an’ made a tidy pile;
I had a car an’ pulled the birds – it lasted but a while.
I did the lot in mining stocks, with Skase an’ Allan Bond,
The very shirt right off me back, the boots I walked upon!

An’ then a mob of locals with arf a joke in mind,
elected me to the local seat, and an axe I had to grind!
I wasn’t sure just what it was, but a Politician Grand,
I never let the public know, an’ I shook a lot o’ hands,
Me Golden Pass I wore quite thin, an’ I talked a lotta bull!
I lived the life of Riley, upon that gracious hill,
I raised my hand an’ passed Great Laws, I shouted vague demands,
I became a proud front bencher, an’ flew to foreign lands!

We lost the next election, a most convenient thing,
I grabbed me MP’s pension, an’ hit the bettin’ ring;
From there it was casinos, I had a million mates,
I did me ever shrinkin’ funds as I played for higher stakes.

I had some shares in a new age bank, an’ tried a shifty PLAN!
I moved them ‘round the bloody world, an sold them off again
I ended up in bloody quod, among some doubtful mates,
But me IQ dropped, and a quiet parole, an’ I walked free from the gates.

I can barely live on the pension, me Rolls has had to go,
But all me kids have made it BIG, an’ gratitude they show,
I live a modest lifestyle, but you never hear me groan,
This land of Oz’s the greatest, a con mans ’ome from ’ome!

I could have done a lotta things, but I never had the time,
I’ll journey on till Peter calls, an’ try to string a line!
But the odds are dead against me, an’ a tougher boss I’ll find,
But there’s plenty there to share th’ work, the heat I’ll never mind.
I’m use’ta that from livin’, those years of endless pain.

One thing for sure I’m bettin’ – I WON’T GO ’ROUND AGAIN!!

An angler’s tale

Dedicated to the members of the Provan & Co. 5 Star Luncheon Club, whose company I wish I had enjoyed more often. This poem has been coloured slightly to keep the reader’s interest, but exaggeration has been kept to a minimum to preserve the original storyteller’s integrity!

It seems that he was fishin’, from a tinny rather small,
On South Alligator River, where the crocks are ten feet tall!
But not as tall as stories, that this Bloke is prone to tell,
Of tracks and bets and gee gees, and jockeys out of Hell!
And trainers like Bart Cummings – a chap he knew quite well.

The day was hot and steamy, the humidity was sin, as he sat upon his backside, flies crawling on his skin,
On this stupid bloody dinghy, that some clown had decked right in.
The barra were biting, and he held a ten pound line,
Passed through his toes, while he sank some amber fine.

Close by stood a jabiru, who had a crafty plan,
And not far off, an eagle, with another, much more grand;
Our mate gargled noisily, as the bottle he did tilt,
And not far off, a hungry crock without a trace of guilt,
His eyes fixed on those swaying toes, and every sinew taut,
Not quite sure, but pondering, the victim that he sought.

The line snapped tight, the dinghy lurched,
The bottle flew, the angler cursed!
With loops of line, and stinking bait, about his ass; he strove to cope,
And land his catch, on an eight foot boat.

The jabiru was tense, as he checked incoming line,
And when the time was right, he claimed a barra fine,
But to swallow was, beyond his powers, and the eagle sensing supper sweet,
Was off that tree, to claim his thrashing treat.

But the wily bird, just ducked his head, and raised his wings to form a shed,
The crock was fast, and jaws snapped shut, and halved the barra with a swift clean cut!
The jabiru, now swallowed fast, and took to wing, with the danger past,
The angler clung to the rocking craft,
The eagle soared, and returned to his tree,
The crock was gone, with a crash of his tail,
Our mate was alive – but a trifle pale!

He coiled his line, and headed home, then to the pub, to drink and moan;
And tell his mates of wonders seen, then a counter lunch of pork and beans!

The Murray

A child of the Snowy, it’s icy waters rush; grand place of rugged mountains, and wild Australian Bush!
The cattleman has pride of place amid these lofty peaks,
The roof of our Great Country, where Nature’s beauty sleeps.
But we have drilled these ancient mounts and changed the river’s flow!
The Murray now forever joined by alien eastern flows.

Echuca’s towering wharves, once busy country hub,
Now place of ghosts and tourists, and odd surviving pub,
and ancient river boat men, with stirring tales to tell,
Of steam boats high on river beds and battling savage swells,
Of redgum snags and sandbars that change just overnight!
The challenge of the boatmen, their long and endless fight.

The lower land is arid, a place of sand and tree
But further down at Renmark the banks are grand to see
Of high red cliffs and sandstone once part of inland sea

And then the stream turns Southward, at Morgan on the bend
A place of trade and commerce, and mills that rose and thrived,
and all around was wilderness where natives spent their lives;
The river part of Dreamtime, A sacred place of Trust!
A paradise of living things where life was hard but just!

The river life was tough, the men as hard as nails!
They built their ships of redgum and never needed sails,
With paddlewheels and hearts of fire and bottoms flat and tough,
And barges high with wool and trade, the squatters life line thrust

To furthest lands with waters mean. One week a flood, the next a stream,
Marooned for months on rivers dry, with opening planks ’neath heartless skies,
To float again with winters rain. The owner broke, yet plies again.

The river trade will boom but eventually die,
The mighty stream forever lost, no longer comes alive.

And man will fight this raging beast until the water’s tamed,
And Nature’s work lies broken, it’s wild beauty maimed.
A tool of irrigation and regulated flows,
With dams and flooded flatlands where salination grows.

By lock and gate and monstrous works that keep the giant chained,
Until it’s life is crushed, it’s spirit proud restrained,

At Goolwa in the South where man has stopped it’s flow,
A stranger to the ocean now, a place of shoal that grows,
This wide and mighty river, it’s lakes no longer free,
To tidal flows and ocean’s swell, but slave to man’s decree.

Timeless land

This timeless Southern Land, it’s vast expanse with places yet unseen,
Great oceans rend it’s endless shores, from tropic heat to icy Arctic blasts;
And mountain range to distant desert shores!
It’s ancient secrets still to be explained,

A native people with a Dreamtime memory slowly dying!
Their tribal pasts a victim of man’s savage thrusts,
To colonise and crush with thoughtless blows,
and place their privy stamp upon their lives!
Their culture lost to all but tribal elders, who even now have little left to show!

Tis wondrous what the human frame can stand

More than skills and brain power - more than speeding trains,
The strength of this Great Nation, is based upon it’s people,
Sacrifice of body and soul, the will to tame this land!
Tis wondrous what the human frame can stand.

The unforgiving outback, miles of dust and sand,
A thought that it held rivers, and lakes of unknown span;
It drove the early seekers, for mile on thirsty mile,
Dropping from the saddle, facing death  and it’s grim smile!
Always more to face the task,
Tis wondrous what the human frame can stand!

Even civilization, with it’s government driven powers,
The safety of the Mother Nation, her need in time of war
Her youngest sons and daughters, the cream of all the land,
Marching off to death and Glory, 
Tis wondrous what the human frame can stand.
                                                                                                                                               
Victory brings peace, but Australians strive for more,
Bending wills, and breaking bones in every known endeavour,
A new device, a greater task, a sport to  learn and  conquer !
To be the best, and even then, to lend a helping hand,
It’s wondrous what the human frame can stand!

The search to find a mate, a companion for the soul,
For some it’s years of heartache, a search that’s full of pain and trial,
Wild loves, and harsh rejections, days and nights of desperate plans!

It’s wondrous what the human frame can stand!

Uncle & Aunt Harding

Dedicated to a band of my close relatives, who farmed wheat through the 20’s Depression in the Mallee country of Eastern South Australia. Really a tribute to my Uncle and Aunt, Ally (Harold) and Evva (Evaline) Harding, who knew years of backbreaking toil and raised three children in bush huts at Parilla, Mindarie and Halidon. They never did have a home of their own that I knew of. Uncle died comparatively young with broken health. Aunt Ev remarried at 73 and finally had a place of her own till she passed on in her late 80s, the last of her generation.

The chooks were in shock, the cows long gone dry,
the sun beating down from a cloudless sky; the rabbits aren’t digging –
the bucks all kicked out!
The does sticking together, in this terrible drought.

Galahs are all starving, and drop from the sky,
yet mice are thriving – I’m darned if I know why?
The billabong’s gone, and the river’s long dry,
there’s little surviving – apart from the flies!

The windmill creaks a song of despair,
the pump keeps a’ squeakin’ – but the water ain’t there.
A dust storm is brewing, the scourge of the land,
here in the Outback, there’s little but sand,
with the odd bunch of ti-tree, saltbush and mulga,
we may make it to fifty, but we won’t get much older!

Dad’s carting water from a bore that is salt,
with horses exhausted, he must call a halt;
He’s thinking of moving, but has no idea where!
an’ Mum’s making jam, from the old prickly pear.

The farm is mortgaged, way past the hilt,
but the whole place is worthless, the land hard baked silt;
there’s salt and erosion, and hardly a tree,
Who the Hell called this the land of the free??

A bushfire is raging, off to the West,
no-one is worried, the old man knows best;
someone says, ‘But the wind could just turn!’
‘So what’ says Dad, ‘there’s nuthin’ to burn!’

The birds have all moved to shade ’round the house,
they drop from dead branches to the cat down below –
he’s on his last life and his movements are slow.
The dog is near death – he’ll chase ’roos no more;
Mum’s just collapsed in a heap near the door,
the heat’s bloody got her – she’ll recover in time,
but we all have the feeling – it’s the end of the line!

The great day has dawned – we’re leaving this place!
and everyone’s packing their own battered case,
the bank can have it – no cause for alarm,
and some stupid bugger will buy the old farm.

The Chevy is packed and we’re ready to go,
Mum and Dad went a’ wandering, their walk was real slow,
I can’t understand ’em, what’s into ’em now;
Mum was crying – Dad kicked a plow!

Old folks are funny, we’re off to the town,
with green trees and plumbing away from this land,
a new life before us, just like we planned,
A house with a garden – vegies and flowers,
and a few basic comforts, that we hope will be ours.

Then they return – Dad seems in a trance,
Mum wipes her eyes and without a rear glance,
We all shake the dust of this place from our pants!

Dad is long gone, his life was all spent,
but Mum is still going, a tower of strength.
Us kids have survived, and there’s grandchildren many.
Those days are long gone, a distant memory,
but the land is still there – the old Murray Mallee!

The milko’s favourite

An udder slightly withered, a tit barbed-wire torn,
A psycho cow Down Under, a heifer underborn,
A coat that’s rather rough, a tail badly tattered,
A limp, a lurch, a broken gait, that’s never really mattered.

A spinal misalignment, caused when she was born,
a lazy eye, and drooping lip, the look – Oh so forlorn
to top it off, a final touch, the original crumpled horn!
but always first to reach the bail, on every Winter’s morn.

A rather bad digestive fault, obvious to all,
A bloated bag of Green House gas, just about to fall! –
but waiting for the moment, when she hears that old, old, tune,
then with a burst of flatulence, she’ll soar above the moon!

She leans against the fences, and has learned to open gates,
The scourge of cottage gardens, no apology she makes!
The local bulls ballistic, when they sight her swaying rump,
and hear her gentle lowing, as she scratches on a stump!

But this old cow is ageless, her milk still flowing clean,
always high in butterfat, with gently rising steam;
A heifer dropped most every year, the ever doting mother,
Her loving owner’s pride and joy, for him there is no other!

A poem by a local

There’s those that call me gormless!
an’ dismiss me with a shrug,
But my life is mine, I’m happy,
I’m no one’s bloody mug!

I’ve saved an’ put some money by,
but here’s the stinkin rub!,
I’m always short those extra bucks,
to buy that outback pub.

I’ve worked at many an interestin’ job,
an’ never known to bludge,
from shearin’ sheep to shootin’ pigs,
an’ diggin’ bloody spuds!

I’ve picked some grapes an’ oranges;
amongst a female throng,
and sure as Hell, I’ve ne’er been caught,
A’doin nuthin wrong!

But sheilas don’t disturb me,
I’ve always got me dog,
it never gives me backtalk,
or keeps me from me grog!

But then again I see me mates, at times around the town,
their missus hangin’ on their arm, an’ kids a runnin’ round.
They say their life is full of joy, an’ never endin’ riches,
but breast the bar an’ ’ave a few, an’ then they talk of witches!

There seems to be a moral here, so plain to any fool,
but I seem blessed with blindness, an’ spurn the Golden Rule.

There’s times when I feel lousy,
and have a hungry need,
but then I go into a cafe,
an’ eat a damned good feed!

But then again I know my life,
could be improved by far,
A man may be a trifle slow, but he’s not a dumb galah!

On freezin’ nights in winter,
I sometimes get an ache,
I think of home an’ childhood, an’ long forgotten mates,
It’s times like these I wonder, if what I’m doin’s wrong,
maybe it’s time to settle down, an’ join the married throng.

I’ve bought a house in Melbourne,
it pays it’s way with rent,
I don’t tell any sheilas,
They’ll think I’m Heaven sent!!

Just down the Coast I know a bird,
She’s sweet an’ full of fun,
and deep inside a voice is heard,
You twit, your day has come!!

My dog is gone, his life is run,
an batchin’ days no longer have that sting,
I’ll journey home, an settle down,
an prob’ly ask the girlfriend round!

My footy team I’ll stand an’ cheer,
On Sat’dee night we’ll ’ave a beer
I’ll hope the stork can find our place,
An we can swell the human race!,
An’ then the call to ’ave us spliced,
A fittin’ end to my misspent LIFE !!!

The red gum

I’m a gum, and I am red and I have a regal crown.
My roots are long and mighty strong, and bind the earth around.
My branches strong and massive, I live for countless years,
I brave all Nature’s assaults, but sometimes lose a limb,
My timber sometimes hollow, the ants secure within.
Possums, snakes and cockatoos, and spiders by the score,
They live in every crack and hole, from basement to top floor!

The Aussie land has bushfires, with many things destroyed,
But I can live a thousand years, with a gnarled and twisted butt,
my storey  bright and evergreen, a eucalyptus ‘cup’
My only fear the logger - who lives to make the cut!

Here I live securely, and see the world go by
But in the end, I face decay, with help from a million ants,
My massive limbs, once live and strong, now hollow thinned & frail.
Soon to break in the next high wind & rot on the forest trail.

But even then, though life has gone , from my once proud  limbs & branches.
I serve as a home & refuge, for many living creatures,
Until at last , after countless years, Nature takes it’s final toll,
A howling  gale,  rotten roots, a crash that shakes the soil,

The sound of axe & chainsaw, heralds my final gift,
to heat the hearths of families, who still love an open fire.
My last gift to mankind, ---  so those of you who care,
Love my living family, -protect us if you can