ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

From Mansfield to Benalla (The Reckoning)

I should have seen it coming. It was just before sunrise.
I'm old and scarred and weary, but I am not very wise.
No way that they would ever let me head back into town.
The coppers sidled up to me, and firmly flagged me down.

To tell the truth, I felt relief to climb on that back seat.
The journey back to Melbourne had me well and truly beat.
It didn't matter where I went. I only wanted rest.
I think I also wished to get the whole thing off my chest.

In only fifteen minutes we were back beside the crime.
I thought how little distance I had travelled in that time.
Events now had me well ensnared. I'd have to take what came.
This was real life now - no more jaunty little game.

At last I saw the truckie who had engineered my fall.
His face was pale and puffy. He did not look tough at all.
He looked as if the stuffing had been ripped right out of him.
This brought scant satisfaction, for I knew my plight was grim.

Indeed, I felt some sympathy. He looked so driven down.
He couldn't have imagined that a touro up from town
Could cause such wholesale misery, and massacre his truck.
Was it rightful karma, or a case of plain bad luck?

It seemed that my position, though, was far much worse than his.
No doubt his employer would be in a dreadful tizz,
But in all likelihood insurance would pick up the tab,
And probably would also pay if he required a cab.

I was now in custody. Were handcuffs coming next?
I say without a shadow of a lie, I was quite vexed.
Would I be sent to Beechworth Gaol, just like poor old Ned?
Or were my frightened thoughts now racing far too far ahead?

I'd only nicked a mobile phone. I hadn't robbed a bank.
(I know. I had that other bogan Stirling Moss to thank.)
I hadn't shot a trooper. Didn't even own a gun.
(Yes, I know, it could be argued they had found me on the run.)

Ah well, I'll sit here patiently. I'll take it on the chin.
I'll pay whatever price that's needed to atone my sin.
When next a truckie rides my tail, I'll simply have a spell;
Pull over, let him harmlessly race past me…yeah, like hell!

© Stephen Whiteside 11.06.2016

I can sniff that truckie's revenge coming over the horizon, Stephen!!

Love the poem

Cheers
Shelley

Shelley, I think that truckie's done enough fighting for one day! He looked pretty sad and sorry for himself last time I saw him.

Mmmm ... I wouldn't be too sure about that - just keep a weather eye out in case

The blonde is back ...

From Benalla to the Watch House

What a night. A saga! Me truck’s a burnt out shell,
That damn weasel stole me ’phone, then shot through as well.
The cops arrived to clear the road. ’Twas backed up for three mile.
The other truckie’s up in arms that his rig’s a rubble pile.

Did I remember what he looked like? The cause of all this grief?
Betcha bloomin’ bottom dollar! The bloke’s a blasted thief!
He said he’d help a truckie out. Take a stroll up that there track,
But it took a month o’ Sundies and the mongrel ne’er came back!

So now he’s in the watch house. Let me get a hold of ‘im!
I’ll shake his nerdy little bod ’til his face is blue and grim.
And I want me bloomin’ ’phone back. Thank God for GPS.
Without that he’d have got away. To where I couldn’t guess.

So now he’s feelin’ sorry, for me or for 'imself?
Chuck ’im in the clink and nail his backside to a shelf!
Us truckies are the life blood of this country on the road,
This slow poke’s just a pest. An asphalt-hugging toad.

You’ll let 'im go. What?! He didn’t cause the crash,
Without 'im I’d have been in New South in a flash.
At least hold 'im overnight, in leg irons if ya’ can.
What?! He’ll just be fined a fiver. That’s a spit in a pan!

What’s this place comin’ to when a truckie’s rights are last?
If ya’ want ya’ food delivered then we have to get there fast.
Just let me get a look at 'im, I have a word or two to say,
Might shake 'im up a little and it’ll make my day!

“If ya’ wanna rubber neck find a track and buy a Jeep,
Join the local cockies who take an age to move their sheep.
Just keep the real roads free and find a tree to hug,
Or I’ll rev me thirty ton rig and squash ya’ like a bug!”

© Rhonda M. Tallnash 2016

Told ya

Yep!

They're giving me a simple fine. They'll send me on my way.
Who says that it is futile if you bow your head and pray?
I've got off pretty lightly - least it seems that way to me.
I'll be haunted by that fire, though, until eternity.

That blaze of red against the black - it shook me to my soul.
It tore my heart out of my chest, and left a gaping hole.
It took me to a place that I had never been before -
As if I'd just snubbed Paradise, and knocked on Satan's door.

Yet still, I cannot fathom why those truckies choose to drive
As though it matters little if they die or stay alive.
One moment, he is on my tail, complete with evil grin;
The next, he's at a corner in an uncontrolled, mad spin.

Why live your life so wildly? Surely, Life's worth more than this.
I know it cannot be a stream of unremitting bliss,
But nor should it be all on edge, one minute to the next.
I try to get inside their heads. They've got me deeply vexed.

You go home to your wife at night. She asks about your day.
"I terrified a clown from town, and sent him on his way.
He pulled aside to let me pass - and have a little cry."
"That's good, my dear. I'm pleased to hear. Another slice of pie?"

"Yes, thanks. But as I hit a bend, the trailer swung around.
You're lucky that I made it home for dinner, safe and sound."
"I'm sure it wasn't your fault, love. Those trucks are built so cheap.
The last one that you ruined was a rattling, shameful heap."

It's easy to believe when you are driving up from town
That this landscape is a certain way to wash away your frown,
But take this tip from one who has been shaken to the bone -
In fact it is a jungle, and it's best left well alone!