Where is the Humanity?

The visions on the screen haunt my waking hours

People suffering in so many ways, so many places

It’s hard to fathom it all

My heart cries and my voice shouts at the screen

The world is mad, I tell myself

The compassion and humanity I yearn to see, replaced by desensitization

What ever happened to the Great Australian nation?

Men in suits with agendas that have nothing to do with the chaos

Twisting their words, spun into grand ideals that bare no fruit

When did the public voice go unheard?

Even the average Joe knows dropping bombs won’t solve a thing

It’s a war that no one can win

 

 

 

I want to believe

I want to believe

In the words they say

The promises they make

The plans they lay

 

But everyday

You get a different view

The people are now

So very confused

 

We want leadership

Someone to admire

Someone to trust

But the dreams

of the people

are turning into dust

 

More talk of war

Less on equality

Less on love

All I see now

Is the death

Of the white peace dove

Cricket – A poem.

 

Cricket…such a fickle game

Our team the Aussies, so very lame

The batting order was bloody tame

We lost the ashes….*sigh*…again

All out for sixty….such a shame

Will Aussie Cricket ever be the same?

Cricket Australia needs a new name

Papers wish the team WAGS never came

All I know is the British are not to blame

-cheers up-

Is the footy still on?

 

 

 

‘Don’t sell Australia out’ – A Poem by Chris Long.

‘Don’t sell Australia out’

 

When the shearing sheds are silent and the stock camps fallen quiet
When the gidgee coals no longer glow across the outback night

And the bush is forced to hang a sign, ‘gone broke and won’t be back’
And spirits fear to find a way beyond the beaten track

When harvesters stand derelict upon the windswept plains
And brave hearts pin their hopes no more on chance of loving rains

When a hundred outback settlements are ghost towns overnight
When we’ve lost the drive and heart we had to once more see us right

When ‘Pioneer’ means a stereo and ‘Digger’ some backhoe
And the ‘Outback’ is behind the house, there’s nowhere else to go

And ‘ANZAC’ is a biscuit brand and probably foreign owned
And education really means brainwashed and neatly cloned

When you have to bake a loaf of bread to make a decent crust
And our heritage once enshrined in gold is crumbling to dust

And old folk pay their camping fees on land for which they fought
And fishing is a great escape; this is until you’re caught

When you see our kids with Yankee caps and resentment in their eyes
And soaring crime and hopeless hearts are no longer a surprise

When the name of RM Williams is a yuppie clothing brand
Not a product of our heritage that grew off the land

When offering a hand makes people think you’ll amputate
And two dogs meeting in the street is what you call a ‘Mate’

When ‘Political Correctness’ has replaced all common sense,
When you’re forced to see it their way, there’s no sitting on the fence

Yes, one day you might find yourself an outcast in this land
Perhaps your heart will tell you then, ‘I should have made a stand’

Just go and ask the farmers that should remove all doubt
Then join the swelling ranks who say, ‘don’t sell Australia out’

The Man From Snowy River – Banjo’s Poem

 

One of Australia’s best loved poems.  Written by  Andrew Barton “Banjo” Patterson in 1890, and published in The Bulletin; an Australian News Magazine.  This clip is from the movie by the same name, but brings out the beauty in Banjo’s words.

 

The Man from Snowy River.

 

There was movement at the station, for the word had passed around
That the colt from old Regret had got away,
And had joined the wild bush horses – he was worth a thousand pound,
So all the cracks had gathered to the fray.
All the tried and noted riders from the stations near and far
Had mustered at the homestead overnight,
For the bushmen love hard riding where the wild bush horses are,
And the stockhorse snuffs the battle with delight.

There was Harrison, who made his pile when Pardon won the cup,
The old man with his hair as white as snow
But few could ride beside him when his blood was fairly up –
He would go wherever horse and man could go.
And Clancy of the Overflow came down to lend a hand,
No better horseman ever held the reins;
For never horse could throw him while the saddle girths would stand,
He learnt to ride while droving on the plains.

And one was there, a stripling on a small and weedy beast,
He was something like a racehorse undersized,
With a touch of Timor pony – three parts thoroughbred at least –
And such as are by mountain horsemen prized.
He was hard and tough and wiry – just the sort that won’t say die –
There was courage in his quick impatient tread;
And he bore the badge of gameness in his bright and fiery eye,
And the proud and lofty carriage of his head.

But still so slight and weedy, one would doubt his power to stay,
And the old man said, “That horse will never do
For a long a tiring gallop – lad, you’d better stop away,
Those hills are far too rough for such as you.”
So he waited sad and wistful – only Clancy stood his friend –
“I think we ought to let him come,” he said;
“I warrant he’ll be with us when he’s wanted at the end,
For both his horse and he are mountain bred.

“He hails from Snowy River, up by Kosciusko’s side,
Where the hills are twice as steep and twice as rough,
Where a horse’s hoofs strike firelight from the flint stones every stride,
The man that holds his own is good enough.
And the Snowy River riders on the mountains make their home,
Where the river runs those giant hills between;
I have seen full many horsemen since I first commenced to roam,
But nowhere yet such horsemen have I seen.”

So he went – they found the horses by the big mimosa clump –
They raced away towards the mountain’s brow,
And the old man gave his orders, “Boys, go at them from the jump,
No use to try for fancy riding now.
And, Clancy, you must wheel them, try and wheel them to the right.
Ride boldly, lad, and never fear the spills,
For never yet was rider that could keep the mob in sight,
If once they gain the shelter of those hills.”

So Clancy rode to wheel them – he was racing on the wing
Where the best and boldest riders take their place,
And he raced his stockhorse past them, and he made the ranges ring
With the stockwhip, as he met them face to face.
Then they halted for a moment, while he swung the dreaded lash,
But they saw their well-loved mountain full in view,
And they charged beneath the stockwhip with a sharp and sudden dash,
And off into the mountain scrub they flew.

Then fast the horsemen followed, where the gorges deep and black
Resounded to the thunder of their tread,
And the stockwhips woke the echoes, and they fiercely answered back
From cliffs and crags that beetled overhead.
And upward, ever upward, the wild horses held their way,
Where mountain ash and kurrajong grew wide;
And the old man muttered fiercely, “We may bid the mob good day,
No man can hold them down the other side.”

When they reached the mountain’s summit, even Clancy took a pull,
It well might make the boldest hold their breath,
The wild hop scrub grew thickly, and the hidden ground was full
Of wombat holes, and any slip was death.
But the man from Snowy River let the pony have his head,
And he swung his stockwhip round and gave a cheer,
And he raced him down the mountain like a torrent down its bed,
While the others stood and watched in very fear.

He sent the flint stones flying, but the pony kept his feet,
He cleared the fallen timber in his stride,
And the man from Snowy River never shifted in his seat –
It was grand to see that mountain horseman ride.
Through the stringybarks and saplings, on the rough and broken ground,
Down the hillside at a racing pace he went;
And he never drew the bridle till he landed safe and sound,
At the bottom of that terrible descent.

He was right among the horses as they climbed the further hill,
And the watchers on the mountain standing mute,
Saw him ply the stockwhip fiercely, he was right among them still,
As he raced across the clearing in pursuit.
Then they lost him for a moment, where two mountain gullies met
In the ranges, but a final glimpse reveals
On a dim and distant hillside the wild horses racing yet,
With the man from Snowy River at their heels.

And he ran them single-handed till their sides were white with foam.
He followed like a bloodhound on their track,
Till they halted cowed and beaten, then he turned their heads for home,
And alone and unassisted brought them back.
But his hardy mountain pony he could scarcely raise a trot,
He was blood from hip to shoulder from the spur;
But his pluck was still undaunted, and his courage fiery hot,
For never yet was mountain horse a cur.

And down by Kosciusko, where the pine-clad ridges raise
Their torn and rugged battlements on high,
Where the air is clear as crystal, and the white stars fairly blaze
At midnight in the cold and frosty sky,
And where around The Overflow the reed beds sweep and sway
To the breezes, and the rolling plains are wide,
The man from Snowy River is a household word today,
And the stockmen tell the story of his ride…

 

When Grandma read Fifty Shades – A poem by Granddad.

The missus bought a paperback

down Shepton Mallet way.

I had a look inside her bag;

T’was Fifty shades of Grey.

Well, I just left her to it,

and at ten I went to bed.

An hour later she appeared;

the sight filled me with dread….

In her left she held a rope;

and in her right a whip!

She threw them down on the floor,

and then began to strip.

Well, Fifty years or so ago;

I might have had a peek.

But Mabel hasn’t weathered well

She’s eighty four next week.

Watching Mabel bump and grind,

could not have been much grimmer.

And then things went from bad to worse.

She toppled off her zimmer!

She struggled back upon her feet;

a couple of minutes later.

She put her teeth back in and said

“I am a Dominator!”

Now if you knew our Mabel.

you’d see just why I spluttered,

I’d spent two months in traction

For the last complaint I’d uttered.

She stood there nude and naked

Bent forward just a bit

I went to hold her, sensual like

and stood on her left tit!

Mabel screamed, her teeth shot out;

My God, what had I done?

She moaned and groaned and then shouted;

“Step on the other one!”

Well, readers.  I can’t tell no more;

’bout what occurred that day.

Suffice to say my jet black hair

turned Fifty shades of Grey.

Story with no end.

I felt them

Heard their voices

Watched their tears

Travelled through time

Shared their fears

But now they are gone

And I can’t get them back

Am I emotionally devoid?

How the hell did I lose track?

 

Silence

My cries go unheard

The world simply stopped

Blackened heart….ruined

The loneliness is crippling

I would give all to return

Yet…it is my fault

I left them all to burn.

 

~RB~

 

Anticipation.

 

 

 

Searching

Longing

Fingers stretch

And the ache returns

Dull at first….then a burst

Eyes brighten at your name

My thoughts are never the same

The anticipation, I shiver

Your tongue, a sliver

Naked

Skin soft, so moist

I want to touch

I want to feel

Deep inside me

So surreal

I can hardly wait

Lips parted

I salivate

Come find me again

Your collaborator

Your friend

 

~RB~

Santa’s Fire truck.

 

Kids in pyjamas line the street

Wearing cotton to beat the heat

We hear the sound of the fire truck’s blast

Expectant families all wait on the grass

Every year just around five,

that is when Santa Claus will arrive.

It’s tradition in many an Outback town

and kids with dogs chase the fire truck down.

The truck is decorated with tinsel and foil,

flashing it’s lights, flags fluttering.

There is Santa, way up on top

Waving to the crowds

tossing lollies down to all the kids;

while Mum and Dad watch on from the front porch.

 

~RB~