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10 comments on “Australiana

  1. My Australia

    My country is an adolescent youth;
    A wayward brash and confident man child.
    All one has to do, to find this a truth,
    Is to look to our heroes; always wild.

    Convict times forged an angry disrespect.
    The base metal was hammered until tough;
    Fired, fanned, white hot glowing unchecked,
    Fire fed, irreverent, hard, full of bluff.

    See the inflamed, defamed swagman and thief,
    Waltz his way to a cool billabong grave.
    Sing loud of misguided indignant grief
    And praise this impulsive poacher and knave.

    The Kelly gang terrorised the police
    And made merry with their cauldron and strife.
    Ned, clad in fired armour, broke the peace
    Defiance sealed his fate; “Such is life!”

    A hero is made of famed dolts and cads;
    There is Shane Warne; the philandering fool.
    Ben Cousins; one of the drugged likely lads
    But if you can handle a ball, “You rule!”

    This nation only stops for just two days;
    One is the running of the Melbourne Cup.
    On the football grand final most will gaze;
    All Aussie punters in these times, do sup!

    On Our Coat of Arms is displayed proudly;
    The kangaroo and emu so unique.
    Neither can retreat; we brag so loudly,
    Yet we eat them with a diner’s critique!

    When does a nation finally mature
    And embrace all heroes pure and true?
    To reward those who have much to endure,
    Yet still enrich their world; this selfless few.

  2. New Joeys

    I live in a forest, Jarrah trees all around.
    The wanton wind plays with every leaf,
    Winging a whispering, secret sound.
    The whispers tell of an ancient grief,
    The endless force, the ebb and flow,
    Of life, slow death, painfully on show.

    The mob visits as twilight descends,
    The gentle does and their daughters,
    Seeking safe pastures, old friends,
    Far away from the forest slaughters,
    Where rotting carcass, twisted limb,
    Black glass eyes reflect an end so grim.

    Too often comes the orphaned joey,
    Dehydrated, desperate, to my door.
    A lost plucky baby, so tiny, yet so toey,
    Rearing up, swaying, falling to the floor.
    Can my heart take the blow once again,
    Of loving feeding, of loss, then strain?

    “Oh, why do you do it?” comes the sigh,
    “ Well, you could help relieve my load.”
    Thud! Swinging kitchen doors is the reply.
    “You will reap what you have sowed,”
    Chant the voices of the pulpit trees.
    Four hourly feeds, I begin on my knees.

    I live in a forest, kangaroos all around.
    I watch the stage, I now call my own.
    At twilight, the new joeys all abound,
    Free of the milk pouch, briefly unsown.
    They frolic and leap, these shadow dancers,
    Shaking the odds, such promise, such chances.

  3. Indeed. Agree w/ Migs.

    I’ll throw up one I wrote on a monday morning…
    25 July, 2005 in fact. Dedicated to our cat Bronky Boy…mightily missed.

    Moments in a mad garden

    I sit pillared as a gnome
    the rays of life
    absorbed from my midmorning sun
    it’s less entertainment
    than necessity
    for any brain of unpredictable play

    within the embrace of grandiosity
    in a bliss of melancholy
    hitting hard ground
    in this garden of obligation
    p/t fun
    and expectation
    fostered in drought-struck years

    Emi’s all need & desperate luv
    a real Daddy’s girl
    strokes are abundant
    writhing in ecstasy
    the peak special
    in her predictable life
    of scatty & scamper

    there’s creaking Bronk
    stretched out, merely a meter away
    a bony version of his Big Red past
    tired even in tender moments
    hunched by cruel time gremlins
    riding his back
    in the curved space
    that is his running water addiction
    as Thyroid runs rampant
    tempered only by pills & sleep

    if I’m up, he follows
    Bronk’s sure I know the way
    His amber eyes still glow w/ hope
    His movements riddled w/ determination

    Springs of eternal youth are not my privilege tho
    more often than I prefer
    I’m sure to provide of late, at best
    disappointment to my wee lad
    thru the firmness I’m forced to provide
    sad attempts to quell
    the compulsion & obsession
    Bronk’s dominant fiends
    in his final days

    So I sit, remain glued
    beneath the Majestics & Golden Canes
    He waits, half awake, ever vigilant
    ready to hit the tap
    like Groundhog Day
    whilst I stroke my viper-smiling girl
    for an elongated dime of time

    time’s up Emi
    Master of our jungle’s home
    Apollo down from the mountains
    temporarily exhausted by the spacious hunt
    for dirt to roll in
    a plant to pee on
    his arrival almost a relief
    he’s the third & last for awhile
    allergy awareness unfortunately a main priority
    in the altruism of the stroke

    It’s tough luv now for a tough cat
    as he glances softly on the edge of bite
    firm undulations
    w/ every sweep of my hand
    freeing the obsolete fur
    potential carpets of dander
    that float slowly in the breeze

    he grunts, purrs, vibrates
    w/ a tail in occasional spasm
    there’s a sense of proud renewal
    for a domestic King
    once feralhood orphan

    he’s off…

    sniffin’ at his game
    Emi’s it, she’s fight or flight
    a rush of blood & she’s up
    perched on tree stump, emancipation
    w/ scoundrel snufflin’ & bemused below

    within seconds he’s moved
    a new game’s afoot
    there’s more to know
    in his destiny of curiouser & curiouser

    garden gnome, soon to be Bear on the Net
    passionate, slightly less than passive
    stands, stretches…studies
    observes mad garden
    it’s all contradictions
    wild country w/in civilised borders

    a garden sick w/ beauty
    w/ passion
    the stuff of life

    this capricious soul
    the lone caretaker
    til S’ returns like lady of the lake
    the brightness in this heart

    for now, and evermore
    it’s toiling for satisfaction
    relief, distraction
    sweat-soaked to sit in contemplation
    & bathed in the light
    of a doomed paradise

    saved for one more day
    from clutches of eminent domain

    some plants wither amidst the thrive
    some bloom within the decay
    colourful & browned

    magenta flowers
    rioting under exploding palms
    Xanadus righteous
    w/in rotting mulch

    Jurassic park of ferns & lizards
    adjacent to a tangle of cream spotted Jasmine
    and the antenna flowers of natives
    food for the fluttering & flying alike

    prickly dry resistance of cacti & succulents
    camped out below the hi-rise Ponytail
    caressed by the overhanging rainbow
    of Bougainvillea the Impaler
    thorny friend indeed

    Italian parsley & paddles of spinach
    wave, content w/ the breeze
    flourishing herbs for a meal or twelve hundred
    green compatriots to the red competition
    hot gut rotting chillies that scarlet the bed
    and numerous pots…patient & prettified

    it’s life in all its glory
    & sufferance


    he, I, they are
    for now…

    in magic moment
    in mad garden



  4. Thank you Nasking for a truly wonderful poem full of the poignant descriptive elixir of life. Your garden and your pets live in this poem. It was a treat to read and I was brought to tears. Moving.

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