Poems for NeoGirl

[laura]

Mulga Bill's bicycle

I posted that one in 'you and your job' thread Ox. Its an absolute cracker!!

[The InnFORCEr]

If you are still looking for one, this is one of the best I have EVER read.


The Anzac on the Wall


I wandered thru a country town 'cos I had time to spare,
And went into an antique shop to see what was in there.
Old Bikes and pumps and kero lamps, but hidden by it all,
A photo of a soldier boy - an Anzac on the Wall.

"The Anzac have a name?" I asked. The old man answered "No,.
The ones who could have told me mate, have passed on long ago.
The old man kept on talking and, according to his tale,
The photo was unwanted junk bought from a clearance sale.

"I asked around," the old man said, "but no one knows his face,
He's been on that wall twenty years, deserves a better place.
For some one must have loved him so, it seems a shame somehow."
I nodded in agreement and then said, "I'll take him now."

My nameless digger's photo, well it was a sorry sight
A cracked glass pane and a broken frame - I had to make it right
To prise the photo from its frame I took care just in case,
"Cause only sticky paper held the cardboard back in place.

I peeled away the faded screed and much to my surprise,
Two letters and a telegram appeared before my eyes
The first reveals my Anzac's name, and regiment of course
John Mathew Francis Stuart - of Australia's own Light Horse.


This letter written from the front, my interest now was keen
This note was dated August seventh 1917
"Dear Mum, I'm at Khalasa Springs not far from the Red Sea
They say it's in the Bible - looks like Billabong to me.

"My Kathy wrote I'm in her prayers she's still my bride to be
I just cant wait to see you both you're all the world to me
And Mum you'll soon meet Bluey, last month they shipped him out
I told him to call on you when he's up and about."

"That bluey is a larrikin, and we all thought it funny
He lobbed a Turkish hand grenade into the Co's dunny.
I told you how he dragged me wounded in from no man's land
He stopped the bleeding closed the wound with only his bare hand."

"Then he copped it at the front from some stray shrapnel blast
It was my turn to drag him in and I thought he wouldn't last
He woke up in hospital, and nearly lost his mind
Cause out there on the battlefield he'd left one leg behind."

"He's been in a bad way mum, he knows he'll ride no more
Like me he loves a horse's back he was a champ before.
So Please Mum can you take him in, he's been like my brother
Raised in a Queensland orphanage he' S never known a mother."


But Struth, I miss Australia mum, and in my mind each day
I am a mountain cattleman on high plains far away
I'm mustering white-faced cattle, with no camel's hump in sight
And I waltz my Matilda by a campfire every night

I wonder who rides Billy, I heard the pub burnt down
I'll always love you and please say hooroo to all in town".
The second letter I could see was in a lady's hand
An answer to her soldier son there in a foreign land

Her copperplate was perfect, the pages neat and clean
It bore the date November 3rd 1917.
"T'was hard enough to lose your Dad, without you at the war
I'd hoped you would be home by now - each day I miss you more"

"Your Kathy calls around a lot since you have been away
To share with me her hopes and dreams about your wedding day
And Bluey has arrived - and what a godsend he has been
We talked and laughed for days about the things you've done and seen"

"He really is a comfort, and works hard around the farm,
I read the same hope in his eyes that you wont come to harm.
Mc Connell's kids rode Billy, but suddenly that changed
We had a violent lightning storm, and it was really strange."

"Last Wednesday just on midnight, not a single cloud in sight
It raged for several minutes, it gave us all a fright
It really spooked your Billy - and he screamed and bucked and reared
And then he rushed the sliprail fence, which by a foot he cleared"

"They brought him back next afternoon, but something's changed I fear
It's like the day you brought him home, for no one can get near
Remember when you caught him with his black and flowing mane?
Now Horse breakers fear the beast that only you can tame,"

"That's why we need you home son" - then the flow of ink went dry-
This letter was unfinished, and I couldn't work out why.
Until I started reading the letter number three
A yellow telegram delivered news of tragedy

Her son killed in action - oh - what pain that must have been
The Same date as her letter - 3rd November 17
This letter which was never sent, became then one of three
She sealed behind the photo's face - the face she longed to see.

And John's home town's old timers -children when he went to war
Would say no greater cattleman had left the town before.
They knew his widowed mother well - and with respect did tell
How when she lost her only boy she lost her mind as well.

She could not face the awful truth, to strangers she would speak
"My Johnny's at the war you know , he's coming home next week."
They all remembered Bluey he stayed on to the end
A younger man with wooden leg became her closest friend

And he would go and find her when she wandered old and weak
And always softly say "yes dear - John will be home next week."
Then when she died Bluey moved on, to Queensland some did say
I tried to find out where he went, but dont know to this day

And Kathy never wed - a lonely spinster some found odd
She wouldn't set foot in a church - she'd turned her back on God
John's mother left no will I learned on my detective trail
This explains my photo's journey, that clearance sale

So I continued digging cause I wanted to know more
I found John's name with thousands in the records of the war
His last ride proved his courage - a ride you will acclaim
The Light Horse Charge at Beersheba of everlasting fame

That last day in October back in 1917
At 4pm our brave boys fell - that sad fact I did glean
That's when John's life was sacrificed, the record's crystal clear
But 4pm in Beersheba is midnight over here.......

So as John's gallant sprit rose to cross the great divide
Were lightning bolts back home a signal from the other side?
Is that why Billy bolted and went racing as in pain?
Because he'd never feel his master on his back again?

Was it coincidental? same time - same day - same date?
Some proof of numerology, or just a quirk of fate?
I think it's more than that, you know, as I've heard wiser men,
Acknowledge there are many things that go beyond our ken

Where craggy peaks guard secrets neath dark skies torn asunder
Where hoofbeats are companions to the rolling waves of thunder
Where lightning cracks like 303's and ricochets again
Where howling moaning gusts of wind sound just like dying men

Some Mountain cattlemen have sworn on lonely alpine track
They've glimpsed a huge black stallion - Light Horseman on his back.
Yes Sceptics say, it's swirling clouds just forming apparitions
Oh no, my friend you cant dismiss all this as superstition

The desert of Beersheba - or windswept Aussie range
John Stuart rides forever there - Now I dont find that strange.
Now some gaze at this photo, and they often question me
And I tell them a small white lie, and say he's family.

"You must be proud of him." they say - I tell them, one and all,
That's why he takes the pride of place - my Anzac on the Wall.

[jono]

shit TIF.
i can see why its your favourite.
thats one awsome poem!
thank you for showing it to me

[The InnFORCEr]

Reminded me of another beauty.

Green and Gold Malaria

by Rupert McCall

The day would soon arrive when I could not ignore the rash.
I was obviously ill and so I called on Doctor Nash.
This standard consultation would adjudicate my fate.
I walked into his surgery and gave it to him straight:
`Doc, I wonder if you might explain this allergy of mine,
I get these pins and needles running up and down my spine.
From there, across my body, I will suddenly extend -
My neck will feel a shiver and the hairs will stand on end.
And then there is the symptom that only a man can fear -
A choking in the throat, and the crying of a tear.'
Well, the Doctor scratched his melon with a rather worried look.
His furrowed brow suggested that the news to come was crook.
`What is it Doc?' I motioned. `Have I got a rare disease?
I'm man enough to cop it sweet, so give it to me, please.'
`I'm not too sure,' he answered, in a puzzled kind of way.
`You've got some kind of fever, but it's hard for me to say.
When is it that you feel this most peculiar condition?'
I thought for just a moment, then I gave him my position:
`I get it when I'm standing in an Anzac Day parade,
And I get it when the anthem of our native land is played,
And I get it when Meninga makes a Kiwi-crunching run,
And when Border grits his teeth to score a really gutsy ton.
I got it back in '91 when Farr-Jones held the Cup,
And I got it when Japan was stormed by Better Loosen Up.
I get it when Banjo takes me down the Snowy River,
And Matilda sends me waltzing with a billy-boiling shiver.
It hit me hard when Sydney was awarded the Games,
And I get it when I see our farmers fighting for their names.
It flattened me when Bertrand raised the boxing kangaroo,
And when Perkins smashed the record, well, the rashes were true blue.
So tell me, Doc,' I questioned. `Am I really gonna die?'
He broke into a smile before he looked me in the eye.
As he fumbled with his stethoscope and pushed it out of reach,
He wiped away a tear and then he gave me this stirring speech:
`From the beaches here in Queensland to the sweeping shores of Broome,
On the Harbour banks of Sydney where the waratah's in bloom.
From Uluru at sunset to the Mighty Tasman Sea,
In the Adelaide cathedrals, at the roaring MCG.
From the Great Australian Blight up to the Gulf of Carpentaria,
The medical profession call it "green and gold malaria".
But forget about the text books, son, the truth I shouldn't hide.
The rash that you've contracted here is "good old Aussie pride".
I'm afraid that you were born with it and one thing is for sure -
You'll die with it, young man, because there isn't and cure.'

[NeoGirl]

I have a poem. I don't need any more. Thank you everyone who put them up.

[no.8]

What is it NG?

It isn't
Good night Captain Possum, Kookaburra, Kangaroo,
Good night young Kenny and goodnight to you...

You know she can't go to sleep until daddy sings it to her!

[Darren]

[NeoGirl]

What is it NG?

It isn't
Good night Captain Possum, Kookaburra, Kangaroo,
Good night young Kenny and goodnight to you...

You know she can't go to sleep until daddy sings it to her!

Shud up

[NeoGirl]

FYI It's "Clancy from the Overflow", and shouldn't you be working?

[Flamethrower]

FYI It's "Clancy from the Overflow"

That's much better than,

Mary had a little lamb
it' fleece was black as charcoal

[Burgs]

THE WELLS OF OLD BEERSHEBA


In saga and in story their tale has been told,
As long down the years of madness the battle tides have rolled;
Their drops of crystal water - more precious than gold
The Wells of old Beersheba were battle scarred of old.
On an Autumn evening that seems so long ago
The war-worn Walers reached them with stately step and slow,
And the guns roared welcome, peal upon thunder peal,
The Wells of old Beersheba were held by Moslem steel.
On barren cactus ridges the British army lay,
All sore in need of water at the burning close of day;
And so the desert riders must charge at evening gloom -
The Wells of old Beersheba - to victory or doom.
A league across the desert, slowly Walers came,
And Turkish shrapnel answered with a burst of flame
That flashed amid the smoke clouds, deep in the murky haze,
The Wells of old Beersheba with trench-lines all ablaze.
They lined the ridge at sunset and, in the waning light
The far-flung line of squadrons came on in headlong flight,
The desert land behind them - in front the fearful fight,
The Wells of old Beersheba must fall before the night.
The Turkish rifles raked them and horse and man went down,
But still they held the gallop towards the blazing town;
They heard the hot lead whining, the big guns thunder-roll -
The Wells of old Beersheba their destiny and goal.
With cold steel bayonets gleaming, in sodden seas of blood
They raced towards the stronghold, all in a crimson flood,
Such maddening surge of horses, such tumult and such roar
The Wells of old Beersheba had never seen before.
They stormed across the trenches and, so the stories say,
They drove the Moslem gunners as wild winds scatter spray.
No force or fire could turn them on that long maddening run,
The Wells of old Beersheba had fallen with the sun.
Fast through the gap behind them column on column poured,
Loud in the darkening dust - wrack the guns of England roared;
Won in a race of ruin through the lurid waves of flame
The Wells of old Beersheba had brought them deathless fame!
Remember them, my brothers, lend them a helping hand -
They led that charge of splendour that won the Promised Land -
And those who came not homeward, their memory is grand -
The Wells of old Beersheba will guard their graves of sand.

[shasta]

Bradman

Sydney, 1926, this is the story of a man
Just a kid in from the sticks, just a kid with a plan
St George took a gamble, played him in first grade
Pretty soon that young man showed them how to flash the blade
And at the age of nineteen he was playing for the State
From Adelaide to Brisbane the runs did not abate
He hit 'em hard, he hit 'em straight

He was more than just a batsman
He was something like a tide
He was more than just one man
He could take on any side
They always came for Bradman 'cause fortune used to hide in the palm of his hand

A team came out from England
Wally Hammond wore his felt hat like a chief
All through the summer of '28, '29 they gave the greencaps no relief
Some reputations came to grief
They say the darkest hour is right before the dawn
And in the hour of greatest slaughter the great avenger is being born
But who then could have seen the shape of things to come
In Bradman's first test he went for eighteen and for one
They dropped him like a gun
Now big Maurice Tate was the trickiest of them all
And a man with a wisecracking habit
But there's one crack that won't stop ringing in his ears
"Hey Whitey, that's my rabbit"
Bradman never forgot it

He was more than just a batsman
He was something like a tide
He was more than just one man
He could take on any side
They always came for Bradman 'cause fortune used to hide in the palm of his hand

England 1930 and the seed burst into flower
All of Jackson's grace failed him, it was Bradman was the power
He murdered them in Yorkshire,he danced for them in Kent
He laughed at them in Leicestershire, Leeds was an event
Three hundred runs he took and rewrote all the books
That really knocked those gents
The critics could not comprehend this nonchalant phenomenon
"Why this man is a machine," they said. "Even his friends say he isn't human"
Even friends have to cut something

He was more than just a batsman
He was something like a tide
He was more than just one man
He could take on any side
They always came for Bradman 'cause fortune used to hide in the palm of his hand

Summer 1932 and Captain Douglas had a plan
When Larwood bowled to Bradman it was more than man to man
And staid Adelaide nearly boiled over as rage ruled over sense
When Oldfield hit the ground they nearly jumped the fence
Now Bill Woodill was as fine a man as ever went to wicket
And the bruises on his body that day showed that he could stick it
But to this day he's still quoted and only he could wear it
"There's two teams out there today and only one of them's playing cricket."

He was longer than a memory, bigger than a town
He feet they used to sparkle and he always kept them on the ground
Fathers took their sons who never lost the sound of the roar of the grandstand

Now shadows they grow longer and there's so mush more yet to be told
But we're not getting any younger, so let the part tell the whole
Now the players all wear colours, the circus is in town
I can no longer go down there, down to that sacred ground

He was more than just a batsman
He was something like a tide
He was more than just one man
He could take on any side
They always came for Bradman 'cause fortune used to hide in the palm of his hand

- Paul Kelly

[KenyaQuin]

WHY WE PLAY THE GAME: By Rupert McCall



When the battle scars have faded
And the truth becomes a lie
And the weekend smell of liniment
Could almost make you cry


When the last ruck's well behind you
And the man that ran now walks
It doesn't matter who you are
The mirror sometimes talks


Have a good hard look old son!
The melon's not that great
The snoz that takes a sharp turn sideways
Used to be dead straight


You're an advert for arthritis
You're a thoroughbred gone lame
Then you ask yourself the question
Why the hell you played the game?


Was there logic in the head knocks?
In the corks and in the cuts?
Did common sense get pushed aside
By manliness and guts?


Do you sometimes sit and wonder
Why your time would often pass
In a tangled mess of bodies
With head up someone's arse?


With a thumb hooked up your nostril
Scratching gently on your brain
And an overgrown Neanderthal
Rejoicing in your pain!


Mate - you must recall the jersey
That was shredded into rags
Then the soothing sting of Dettol
On a back engraved with tags!


It's almost worth admitting
Though with some degree of shame
That your wife was right in asking
Why the hell you played the game?


Why you'd always rock home legless
Like a cow on roller skates
After drinking at the clubhouse
With your low down drunken mates


Then you'd wake up - check your wallet
Not a solitary coin
Drink Berocca by the bucket
Throw an ice pack on your groin


Copping Sunday morning sermons
About boozers being losers
While you limped like Quasimoto
With a half a thousand bruises!


Yes - an urge to hug the porcelain
And curse sambucca's name
Would always pose the question
Why the hell you played the game!


And yet with every wound re-opened
As you grimly reminisce it
Comes the compelling feeling yet
God, you bloody miss it!


From the first time that you laced a boot
And tightened every stud
That virus known as 'rugby'
Has been living in your blood


When you dreamt it - when you played it
All the rest took second fiddle
Now you're standing on the sidelines
But your heart's still in the middle


And no matter where you travel
You can take it as expected
There will always be a breed of people
Hopelessly infected


If there's a teammate, then you'll find him
Like a gravitating force
With a common understanding
And a beer or three, of course



And as you stand there telling lies
Like it was yesterday old friend
You'll know that if you had the chance
You'd do it all again



You see - that's the thing with rugby
It will always be the same
And that, I guarantee
Is why the hell you played the game!
AMEN

[Happy]

thread mining eh .. and I'm glad you did, I didn't get to read The Anzac on the Wall before, glad I did today!

[Burgs]

One that should raise the hairs on the neck of any rower.
Is on the Scotch Rowers Dinner program every year.

A Racing Eight

by James Lister Cuthbertson

WHO knows it not, who loves it not,
The long and steady swing,
The instant dip, the iron grip,
The rowlocks’ linked ring,
The arrowy sway of hands away,
The slider oiling aft,
The forward sweep, the backward leap
That speed the flying craft?

A racing eight of perfect mould,
True to the builder’s law,
That takes the water’s gleaming gold
Without a single flaw.
A ship deep, resonant within,
Harmonious to the core,
That vibrates to her polished skin
The tune of wave and oar.

A racing eight and no man late,
And all hearts in the boat;
The men who work and never shirk,
Who long to be afloat.
The crew who burn from stem to stern
To win the foremost place,
The crew to row, the boat to go
The eight to win the race.