THE PONDEROSA
Posted: Mon Dec 13, 2010 11:54 am
I suppose we all have that odd poem that we have never really finished to our own satisfaction. (still not sure I have yet) This is such a poem, one of those I wrote in my very early days of writing, when I knew little or nothing about writing poetry. I may have even posted an early version of it here, if so this is completely rewritten with only the odd word surviving from the original version. The main reason I wanted to put some sort of a finish to this is that the ‘Ponderosa’ was a real place, a camp literally in the middle of nowhere between a gold field called Eucalyptus and another one called Pike’s Hollow.
I drove past where the old camp used to be early this year, and apart from a few scraps there’s nothing much left to show, where the Ponderosa stood. - Terry
THE PONDEROSA
Again that tinge of sadness as I looked up at his shack,
with memories resurfacing of days spent on the track.
I’d met him here so often just before each trip began,
out through the barren vastness rolling hills and bare clay-pan.
A friendship based on trust alone no thoughts of what awaits,
some twenty years my senior, but we were the best of mates
A year or so had hurried by since last I passed this way.
Then came the urge to look again at where he used to stay.
And though the camps deserted eerie feelings still persists,
perhaps his spirit lingers, though I doubt such things exist.
He’d been a long time prospector; an Aussie through and through
and he was held in high regard by outback folks he knew.
I paused beside a shady tree where he would often rest,
while looking at the breakaway, a view he loved the best.
I’d sat there with him many times while drinking mugs of tea,
a hundred miles from any town; out here you’re really free
He’d quietly talk of early days when bitten by the bug,
and of his search for nuggets that were waiting to be dug.
His called his camp the Ponderosa; why I didn’t know,
it graced a bit of high ground near an old abandoned show.
The earthen floor was leveled and then carpeted with bags,
while any holes within the walls were neatly stuffed with rags.
All visitors were greeted with the billy on to brew,
or sometimes just a coldie if you were a mate he knew.
Then came that bout of illness that in time would force him out.
He’d seemed so indestructible until that final bout.
An old friend called his daughter and said things were looking crook
and strongly recommended that she come and take a look.
I’d drop in for a visit if I happened to be near
and chat about the old times and the things he still held dear.
Now as I neared his camp old memories came flooding back,
of how I still remember him, there standing by his shack.
I’d come to see him off and offer any help I could,
I knew this was the end, a point he also understood.
And when he offered me his hand out near the mulga tree,
I thought I glimpsed a tear, before he handed me the key.
There was an eerie silence as I glanced in past the door,
and saw that his belongings lay there scattered on the floor.
His place had now been ransacked though some clothing still hung there,
but pots and pans were strewn about as was his silverware.
A wave of indignation seemed to sweep right over me,
appalled at this destruction for this seemed a shame to me.
The water tank was missing and part of the roof as well,
the lowlife had been busy taking all that they could sell,
They’d dug up nearly all the floor in hope of hidden gold,
I wish I could have caught them while a few home truths were told.
The termites had wreaked havoc on every piece of wood
and soon there will be nothing left, of where his old camp stood.
******
© T.E. Piggott 12/122010 Rewrite of (30/12/2005)
I drove past where the old camp used to be early this year, and apart from a few scraps there’s nothing much left to show, where the Ponderosa stood. - Terry
THE PONDEROSA
Again that tinge of sadness as I looked up at his shack,
with memories resurfacing of days spent on the track.
I’d met him here so often just before each trip began,
out through the barren vastness rolling hills and bare clay-pan.
A friendship based on trust alone no thoughts of what awaits,
some twenty years my senior, but we were the best of mates
A year or so had hurried by since last I passed this way.
Then came the urge to look again at where he used to stay.
And though the camps deserted eerie feelings still persists,
perhaps his spirit lingers, though I doubt such things exist.
He’d been a long time prospector; an Aussie through and through
and he was held in high regard by outback folks he knew.
I paused beside a shady tree where he would often rest,
while looking at the breakaway, a view he loved the best.
I’d sat there with him many times while drinking mugs of tea,
a hundred miles from any town; out here you’re really free
He’d quietly talk of early days when bitten by the bug,
and of his search for nuggets that were waiting to be dug.
His called his camp the Ponderosa; why I didn’t know,
it graced a bit of high ground near an old abandoned show.
The earthen floor was leveled and then carpeted with bags,
while any holes within the walls were neatly stuffed with rags.
All visitors were greeted with the billy on to brew,
or sometimes just a coldie if you were a mate he knew.
Then came that bout of illness that in time would force him out.
He’d seemed so indestructible until that final bout.
An old friend called his daughter and said things were looking crook
and strongly recommended that she come and take a look.
I’d drop in for a visit if I happened to be near
and chat about the old times and the things he still held dear.
Now as I neared his camp old memories came flooding back,
of how I still remember him, there standing by his shack.
I’d come to see him off and offer any help I could,
I knew this was the end, a point he also understood.
And when he offered me his hand out near the mulga tree,
I thought I glimpsed a tear, before he handed me the key.
There was an eerie silence as I glanced in past the door,
and saw that his belongings lay there scattered on the floor.
His place had now been ransacked though some clothing still hung there,
but pots and pans were strewn about as was his silverware.
A wave of indignation seemed to sweep right over me,
appalled at this destruction for this seemed a shame to me.
The water tank was missing and part of the roof as well,
the lowlife had been busy taking all that they could sell,
They’d dug up nearly all the floor in hope of hidden gold,
I wish I could have caught them while a few home truths were told.
The termites had wreaked havoc on every piece of wood
and soon there will be nothing left, of where his old camp stood.
******
© T.E. Piggott 12/122010 Rewrite of (30/12/2005)