ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

So true in every word and most of these kids if given half a chance can succeed.


Bob

Too true Bob.

Oh I do like this - how wonderful that you captured that moment in your words - I do hope you have sent a copy of this off to the local town/school/paper involved....I think the young lass concerned would be absolutely thrilled to receive such a high accolade.

I like the way you captured the cynicism and boredom the sense of looking down on the town as being of no account that the pollies depicted and then the complete turn around, sitting up and taking notice as the young lass laid it on the line. Well done.

That last line is something that all pollies would be well advised to take note of when dealing with our country towns. They might be small and sometimes off the beaten track but country people do vote and they do have long memories and they are not as gullible as some pollies like to think either.

Thoroughly enjoyed reading this poem

Cheers

Maureen

The night I listened to this young girl speak, she really impressed me, I guess you've sensed that by its content. Thanks for sharing it Maureen.

The Storyteller

Only one day to go if anyone else has a contribution ????


Hope this has inspired someone to have a go.

Bob

I wrote this poem a few years ago but is now as relevant as it was then Val W
DARFURS DISGRACE“
©
“I can do cartwheels with only one hand! Watch me! “ my Granddaughter cried
Her brother did two somersaults on the lounge. Attention, could not be denied.
In unison both made requests for a snack. “Some Orange Juice, crackers and cheese?”
“Also some strawberries or olives as well. Could you get them now, Granny please?”

I set to the task they requested of me, my mind took a quite different path
of pictures I’d seen on the telly last eve, results of a war’s aftermath.
The programme was showing the depths of despair as families fought not to die
I couldn’t help thinking as my two played there -For the Grace of God there goeth I!

Those who’d survived, they had travelled all day, to reach what they thought was respite.
A camp faraway from the war’s savagery, rewarding their hazardous flight.
At least to be given a slight glimpse of hope on reaching the Red Crescent Camp
A faint flickering flame for them now maybe would, glow in humanities’ lamp.

No visible shelter to keep them from harm, exposed to the sun’s desert rays
The flies playing havoc in mouth and in eyes, no sign of clean water for days.
The Granny surrendered to dust and to heat and sorrow enveloped her soul,
the only subsistence on offer that day - a few grains of corn in a bowl.

Beside her, these two little children were cowered, a shadow of what they should be
Their gaunt and disease ridden bodies so frail, a shock for most carers to see.
Their eyes were the windows to pain and despair, quite useless for one to ignore
The flame of life quickly receding from them- the horror too harsh to endure.

The old lady sighed a deep sigh of resign, the promise she’d made to her son
to keep both his children from horror and harm – The task a most onerous one.
Her demeanor of pride, heart wrenching indeed, would make the most hardened man cry
but she’d never give up on the task now at hand. Duty forbade her to die!

The chopper flew low with its doors opened wide, the charter to distribute aid
The airmen aghast at the scene which they faced, a human disaster parade.
She scratched and she scrabbled, food parcel her prize, battling life’s last desperate breath
Dredging the ultimate strength that she could , she fought her last fight to the death.

It doesn’t seem fair in the big scheme of things, that children all over the planet
Should not be entitled to love and to peace. It can’t be impossible. Can it?
Then out in the desert, in grim, dark Darfur, where they struggle for water and meals
A Granny from Heaven might look down and see –
HER Grandchildren trying Cartwheels!

Hmmm, so that little , whatever , wasn't good enough for ya, hey Bob?

Okey dokey, you want something serious, here ya go ...

Nails In The Mango Tree
by Kym Eitel

Beneath the giant mango tree, a young boy sadly stood.
A patch of shining nail heads scarred the mango’s trunk of wood.
The young boy held a hammer and a single, silver nail.
He added one more nail head to the bumpy metal Braille.

He dropped the hammer to the ground and stared at what he’d done.
A hundred times at least before, he’d struck the nail, then run.
He’d run till he could run no more, with tear streaks down his cheek,
then hide beneath the ghost gums, throwing rocks across the creek.

Today though, he felt calmer and he didn’t want to hide.
He stood and studied all those nails, felt sadness deep inside.
Each nail had been his punishment. Each angry, hate-filled word
resulted in a hammered nail through vision teared and blurred.

Behind the boy, his Grandad stood. The young boy slowly turned.
“I’ve said a lot of hurtful things.” At last the child had learned.
The old man nodded slowly, he had waited for this day.
Perhaps the boy would understand the words he had to say.

“Angry words are weapons, son, they’re poison, they’re a knife.
They hurt your loved ones’ tender hearts and leave them scarred for life.
Although words are invisible, just sounds that we can hear
and though they are intangible, we feel them, right in here.

Harsh words become indelible when placed inside a heart.
Those hateful words can grow and spread, rip friendships right apart.
Once spoken, words are permanent. They’re etched on someone’s mind -
eternal scars you can’t erase, so always, son, be kind.

Apologise. They might forgive, but never will forget.
Cruel words will haunt the two of you. You can’t undo regret.”
The old man hugged the young boy close, then touched each shining tack,
“Be sure to think before you speak, you cannot take words back.”

The young boy made apologies to Grandma, Mum and Dad,
the kids at school, his teacher and his brothers, Greg and Brad.
For each regret and insult, each offense and tattle-tale,
for each and every “sorry” said, he pulled out just one nail.

Yes, Grandad’s patient wisdom helped that very angry boy
to turn his gloomy life around, find laughter, fun and joy.
He’s grateful for that lesson, treasures ev’ry memory,
but knows there’ll always be those scars on Grandpa’s mango tree.

Loved this when you entered it in the ABC comp way back when, & I still love it now Kym, thank you for posting it eh!

OK then here ya all go.

On the Wallaby with you


I know it’s always great, to sit down with your mate
and talk of all the places that you’ve been.
Around the campfire light, beneath the stars so bright,
we reminisce on all the sites we’ve seen,
and, as we’re sitting back, the billy, old and black,
now boils and spits onto the campfire flame.
Then, looking back at you, I feel your love that’s true,
I’m pleased that you agreed to take my name.


So as I fill your cup, (beside your bluey pup)
again I’m drifting back to when we met,
was Brisbane at Rocklea, when you first noticed me,
I knew you were the one I had to get.
Now after all these years, including sometimes tears,
our love has just grown stronger everyday,
and while we’re on the road, we share each others load,
until we find another place to stay.


We talk of Wineglass bay, that Tassie summer day,
how we walked hand in hand along the shore.
Port Arthur’s famous jail, (where prisoners would wail)
were buried on that island by the score,
or when we stayed at Sale where hay I tried to bale
before we headed out to see Karween.
Then rode the scenic rail down in old Flowerdale,
We’ve never seen the land so lush and green.


And how we felt the chill, at ‘Eagle on the hill’
when building snowmen in the local park.
We read about a bloke (who struck the Sydney smoke)
at Stuart town once known as Ironbark.
At the Cervantes fair, we smelt the fresh sea air
and heard the poets spruke their very best.
With Tamworth’s country din, we merrily joined in,
we wore Akubras and a leather vest.


Then up in Kakadu I hung on tight to you,
when that large croc leapt at the boat for food,
and down near Uluru, that’s when you spotted ‘Blue’,
your charming way I just could not allude.
The river Todd’s a place, we went to watch a race,
and laughed at all those boats with hairy legs.
Then how could we forget, the Queensland far north wet,
those northerners who drink their beer from kegs.


If we did settle down, in some small country town,
we’d write a book as thick as ‘War and Peace’.
Of summers and the rain, of happiness and pain,
and oceans, birds, and jumbucks and their fleece,
though here we sit again, years travelled tally ten,
I know we’ll keep on moving for some time.
For you my darling love, I thank the Man above,
and sometimes write about you in my rhyme.


For now, I’ll write a song by this old billabong,
of how we like to hold each other tight.
And while you stroke blue’s ear, I turn and say, ‘My dear,
you’re perfect like the Kimberleys tonight’.
I knew it from the start, back when you stole my heart
there’s nothing in the world I’d rather do
than have you by my side, my love I just can’t hide,
when touring ‘on the wallaby’ with you.


David J Delaney
18/01/2011 ©

Dave you are pure marshmallow - that is lovely.

I have never seen your mango tree poem before Kym and I know I would remember it. What a wonderful story told in such a simple but heartfelt way. Very touching and a lesson to be learnt but what what a wonderful way to teach it.


Cheers

Maureen