This may surprise quite a few people, but I have written the odd bit of
poetry now and then.
This may surprise quite a few people, but I have written the odd bit of
poetry now and then.
I have to confess that in my humble opinion, if poetry doesn't rhyme - then it is not poetry. To write some long rambling bit of prose and then divide it up into short lines does nothing for me - like this for example.
The sea was rippling in the winter sunlight as the sea birds wheeled overhead. In the distant a sailboat drifted like a small cloud across the bay.
The sea was rippling in the sunlight
As the sea birds wheeled overhead
In the distance a sailboat drifted
Like a small cloud across the bay.
Some people class this as poetry. Not I!
If you want real poetry, then try Banjo Paterson:
It's west by south of the Great Divide
The grim grey plains run out,
Where the old flock masters lived and died
In a ceaseless fight with drought.
Weary with waiting and hope deferred
They were ready to own defeat,
Till at last they heard the master-word
And the master-word was wheat.
From 'Song of the Wheat', by Banjo Paterson.
Or if you want somebody more current, you couldn't go past Philip R. Rush:
The Outback is the mettle, it's the steel within us all;
We feel its distant drumbeat, and we hear its tireless call.
There is an actual Outback, but it's only seen in part,
For the spirit of the Outback is within the nation's heart!
From 'The Outback', by Philip Rush.
Or this beauty
They left the vine-wreathed cottage and the mansion on the hill,
The houses in the busy streets where life is never still,
The pleasures of the city, the friends they cherished best:
For love they faced the wilderness – the Women of the West.
The roar, and rush, and fever of the city died away,
And the old-time joys and faces – they were gone for many a day;
In their place the lurching coach-wheel, or the creaking bullock-chains,
O’er the everlasting sameness of the never-ending plains.
From 'Women of the West', by George Essex Evans
These are a few of mine: Return to Homepage
Sea Kayak Theme Poems
Bass Strait Islands.
Tasman Peninsula
Ode to an Adventurer.
Ode to Elli.
The Seashore.
So Bloody Close and
Yet so Bloody Far! (A tribute to
Andrew McAuley)
Others
Subaru.
Wedding.
BO.
Grand Canyon in a
Day
Queensland in a week..
My Friend Tenna.
Life in the Slow Lane.
The Sun Doesn't
Rise Anymore.
Old Timers
That Song
Laurie Ford.
Back to index
My partner Cec was doing a correspondence writing course, and
one exercise was to write a poem. She couldn't think of anything, so I
wrote this for her to send off.
Subaru.
My Subaru’s a heap of rust
Another car is now a must
But Banks don’t like me overdrawn
I must find something I can pawn.
It might be all my silver plate
Or what about my good ol’ mate
A Mini this time I will get
They seem to be the best bet yet.
My mate's are running like a dream
He has a green one and a cream
They’re almost twenty six years old
And not a sign of rust or mould.
But do I really need a car?
The local shop is not too far.
Perhaps a push-bike I could take
And get my tummy back in shape.
Down to Hobart Town I orta’
Go now’then to see Granddaughter
And soon the second will arrive
I really need a car to drive.
Some paint and putty I will buy
I will not let poor Subie die
She’s served me well these past few years
To give up now would bring on tears.
To visit friends around the state
I often go with my old mate
A brand new Nissan he did buy
I think the thing will almost fly.
And being such a good ole’ swell
He lets me take it out as well
So now I have a bit more time
To patch up this old car of mine.
But even so it won’t last long
The mudguard panels aren’t so strong
I should have started long ago
But rust’s a problem don’t you know.
And now the water’s getting in
I have to bail with a tin
The carpets are all soaking wet
But I’ll fix it, I’ll do it yet.
And after weeks of solid work
I wont quite feel I’m such a burk
No longer will it look askew
In fact it could look almost new.
In 1998 Cec and I received an invitation to Tilly and Chris’s
wedding, where Sue was to be bridesmaid.
Sue was in the Canoe club, and hates dresses. I sent the following
reply:-
A wedding at Orford? Oh, such a long way.
And a wedding present, we’d have to pay
lots of money, and we’re quite broke.
A wedding at Orford, it’s no joke.
We should say no, in a polite way
Though no doubt the occasion’ll be bright and gay
They’re only young kids, Tilly and Chris
Would they be upset if we gave it a miss?
But wots this I hear? Sue in a dress?
Now that is something I must confess
I’d go a long way to see such a sight
So travel to Orford we just might.
Sue in a dress? I’d pay to see that.
I’d travel to Orford and all the way back.
So Tilly (and Chris) we’ll be there on the day
To watch your old man give you away.
Now, I’m only joking as well you know,
Wouldn’t miss your wedding for rain or for snow.
We’ll be at the orchard, dressed in our best
To help you celebrate and wish you the best.
In 1999, when Cec and I were living with Jamie at Triabunna while
we built our house at Orford, Sue
Shearman started calling Jamie and I B1 & B2 (for the Bunna
Bastards). This was because we tended to
gang up on her a bit at times. We sent her this:-
OUR MATE, BO
We are the ‘Bunna Bastards, known as B1/B2
Or at least according to one of us, our mate Sue
Of course she’s only jealous of the things we do
When the feeling takes us, we’re on the water blue
We feel she’s really one of us, and have named her BO
Our nice young lady doctor is a bit doubtful though
“It could be ‘body odour’, or even ‘B zero’ you know
Maybe they’re just laughing at me, the rotten so and so’s”
BO Derek was a beauty, she was a natural ten
But our mate BO received a five, last weekend when
She bravely led a kayak trip, composed of mainly men
Who gave her hell, and now she says, “I’ll never lead again”
Beware out in the bush, when you invade her quiet,
She’s so incensed she’ll sometimes, expose a dreadful sight
Choppers, planes and liners, sheer off in hurried fright
As her bare bum winks at them, in the bright sun light.
The ‘Bridesmaid from Hell’ is a name she copped
When the wedding guests were all terribly shocked
With intimate details to them she socked
But to buy the ‘The Sensibles’ they flocked
Of course we really love her, when on a trip we go
Her natural sparkling company never lets the day go slow
And easy on the eye she is, B1 will have you know
Six foot tall with brown eyes, who needs the ‘other’ BO?
© B1/B2, 4 Inkermann St, Triabunna (The House of Bastards)
In 1990 our kayak club had met up with a not so young couple travelling to and from Flinders Island in a small motorised catamaran. Not the sort of craft I would have chosen, but they survived that trip, and went back and did it again in 1992.
Lyn published her story in a small booklet, and in 1997 gave me
permission to publish it in the Sea
Canoeist - the club magazine. It was quite an amazing story,
and moved me to write the following.
Ode to an Adventurer
There was a young lady named Lyn
Who went off, just on a whim
To look at the islands out in Bass Strait
So terribly keen she just couldn’t wait
For the waves to die down and wind to stop
She had to get out there and climb to the top
Of the far distant mountains, misty and blue
In Whiskas she went, and Stan went too
But boy it was rough and she prayed to God
Who ever so kindly gave her the nod
“Your time’s not up yet, so go on your way
Enjoy all the islands, the birds in the bay”
So onward she struggled and eventually got
To Cape Barren Island and stopped at the shop
Then goodbye to Claude and off to the pub
To clean up and wash, and get some good grub
She drove around Flinders enjoying the view
And climbed those mountains, misty and blue
And now it was time to leave all this behind
To leave all the people who’d been so kind
She recalled Little Dog, Tin Kettle and all
And thought my goodness, we have had a ball
Despite a sore toe the trip was worthwhile
With Nautilus shells, and big rocks in a pile.
She’d snorkelled and swum in water so clear
In an undersea garden with Key Island so near
And one of these days she’s going to go return
To those beautiful islands; Shearwater and Tern.
This next one was after a kayak trip with Elli, in March, 2001 - to Hunter Island. It rained and blew every day.
Ode to Elli
The lightning flashed, the thunder rolled
But Elli, - Oh so bold
Raised her sail and set forth
Across the bay to far Woolnorth.
Once ashore she stood in awe
As out to sea she plainly saw
The tidal rips and currents roar
Then launched her kayak yet once more.
Up the coast to Shepherds Bay
Where she was plainly heard to say
Oh what a spot, a dream campsite
Where we can safely stay the night.
The morning saw us with a pack
Walking north along the track
Down to a beach where surf did thunder
Where kayaks would have ripped asunder.
The next day saw us in Cave Bay
A ferocious battle all the way
There we found an empty shed
The perfect place to lay our bed.
The Sun! the sun! - it does exist
As it rose above the mist
But not for long, - it went away
As we sailed all the way.
Back to the car, in Robbins road
Where we were very quick to load
The kayaks and the camping gear
But we’ll be back, never fear.
Bass Strait Islands
I love it in a kayak, out upon the sea
Rivers are OK, but the coast’s the place for me
To go out to the islands, I really cannot wait
These islands are so beautiful, the ones out in Bass Strait.
There’s Clarke and Swan and Goose, and Preservation too
But you have to cross Banks Strait, and that makes people stew
It has a reputation, it sometimes can be rough
But if you pick your weather, it needn’t be too tough.
The beautiful white beaches, always squeaky clean
Miles and miles of sand where a footprint’s rarely seen
And camping under She-Oaks, it really makes my day
The islands in Bass Strait are where I love to play.
A trip out to the Furneaux really needs two weeks
A day or two at Trousers, to have time to climb the peaks
And the Tiger snakes on Chappell, they’re a sight to see
As I walk down through the rookery, stepping gingerly.
And don’t forget Three Hummock, and Hunter Island too
And Kangaroo, and Albatross, where once I went with Sue
The currents can be strong, the overfalls can roar
And Dangerous Banks is best seen, standing on the shore.
Shepherds Bay’s a place to go, with a great campsite
Where even in a gale I’ll have a peaceful night
There’s Steep, and Bird, and Trefoil, and Walker Island too
The Dough Boys, Penguin, Robbins, just so much to do.
I love it in a kayak, rising on a swell
The islands in Bass Strait, to the world I’ll tell
You can keep your lakes and rivers, and the arctic waste
The islands in Bass Strait, they are MY favourite place.
Most paddlers are too timid, to come to my playground
They like to stay in estuaries, or NW Bay go round
They don’t know what they’re missing, it really is so nice
The islands in Bass Strait, they’re close to paradise.
Grand Canyon in a Day.
We camped the day at Torroweap, out on the northern rim
But the track down to the bottom was looking pretty grim
A mile so loose and slippery, like a descent into hell
And the logbook at the top, it had some tales to tell.
We got down to the bottom with some minor loss of skin
And Laurie's shorts were torn and he could have used a pin
The sun was beating down, the lava rocks were hot
And it wasn't very long before into the shade we got.
Then people started gathering in groups along the shore
The kayakers and rafters to watch that awesome rapid roar
And to try and find a safe route so they could stay afloat
There were big rafts and small rafts, and every sort of boat.
We sat and watched for hours as the rapid they did run
They tossed about and spun around, it certainly was fun
Some of them the right way up, some were upside down
And the day still getting hotter, the sun still beating down.
We got into the river, to get all soaking wet
To try and cool our bodies down before that upward trek
It was like being in a furnace, like flames were being fanned
And the rocks were almost too hot, to touch with ungloved hand.
We clawed our way slowly upwards, it was pure hell
And part way up it was plain to see, Elli wasn't well
She was feeling dizzy, she was nearly overcome
And lay down behind a rock, to shelter from the sun.
But Laurie kept on going, right to the very top
Some food and drink for Elli, were the things he got
Then hurried down the slope, that goat track oh so steep
And was relieved to find Elli better, she'd had an hours sleep.
The day was cooling down as we scrambled to the top
The sun was dipping lower when to the car we got
That day we will remember when we're old and grey
The time we did Grand Canyon, did it in a day.
Life in the Slow Lane.
I used to work in the big smoke, in a high rise block
Never any time to waste, no time to watch the clock
But now I’m old and wiser, and living out of town
Only dimly recalling city days, usually with a frown.
I lie in bed each morning, and watch the sun arise
As it slowly crawls up from the sea, each day a new surprise
Its golden rays light up the clouds, and make them seem on fire
A sight that’s different every day, from which I’ll never tire.
And then I think about my day, what will I choose to do?
But first I’ll pick up a good book, and read a page or two
There’s never any need to rush headlong into thought
I muse about the day when this country place I bought.
A place to sit and gaze across the seascape just below
To watch the sail and fishing boats, as they come and go
And in the shallow river mouth the kids all like to swim
With their boards and beach balls, and even Mum goes in.
The scene is always changing, across the deep blue bay
Out to Maria Island, where the tourists go to stay
Somedays it’s like a millpond, and others churning white
And the day can change from overcast, to one of bright sunlight.
Maybe I’ll take a kayak down, and paddle on the sea
Except it’s nearly 11 o’clock, and time for morning tea
A chocolate biscuit, glass of coke, then check the view again
And watch the ferry back and forth, every now and then.
Then it’s time to think of lunch, to feed the inner man
What about a plate of chips, cooked in a large chip pan?
And surely after lunch it is time to take a nap
Just a short one mind you, you mustn’t think I’m slack.
I wake in time for another snack about mid afternoon
Then go and check my emails in the computer room
It takes a while to answer them, my typing is so slow
And then the day is nearly gone, the sun is sinking low.
Perhaps maybe tomorrow for a paddle I will go
Today the hours just rushed by, I don’t know where they go.
But it doesn’t really matter, there ain’t no schedule here
So as the day draws to a close, it’s time to have a beer.
The Seashore
Today I walked along the seashore
And I’ll tell you now of things that I saw
A pelican with his great big beak
Swimming slowly along a shallow creek
There were foamy breakers stirring up the sand
And a warm summer breeze blowing ‘cross the land.
I watched pure white gannets dive from a height
With folded wings, in the bright sunlight
There were Fairy Terns fluttering overhead
To shoo me away from their nest of eggs
Hooded Plovers scurrying out of reach
As I studied their eggs in a scrape on the beach.
I stood aside as a horse galloped by
Then watched it wade in the shallows nearby
I saw water-skiers skimming ‘cross the bay
Making the most of their summer holiday
And families out fishing for flathead and brim
While others splashed about, or went in for a swim.
There were pieces of driftwood, distorted and grey
And clumps of kelp, washed from far far away
There were shells in their hundreds, all different shapes
And Pied Oyster Catchers, there with their mates
Big gulls and small gulls flew overhead
And hard-to-see Stints, the ‘Little’ and ‘Red’.
There were very large rocks at the end of the run
Daubed with orange lichen, glowing bright in the sun
And little rock pools left behind by the tide
With tentacled anemones, and crabs trying to hide
I found small bits of stone polished smooth as can be
After thousands of years being caressed by the sea.
The seashore is the place where I mostly like to be
To stroll along there slowly, to see what I can see
To watch the endless birdlife, and listen to the sounds
Of wind and birds and waves which every shore abounds
So if I’m not at home, I’m where the phone is out of reach
And you’ll probably find me somewhere, walking on a beach.
The Sun Doesn’t Rise Any More
The sun doesn’t rise any more
Since you went out the door
The days are all gloomy and grey
Since you went far far away.
The light has gone out, like the tide
Living alone - no girl at my side
Rising early, facing the day alone
It’s not the same since you went home.
Waking alone in an empty bed
No whistling kettle to wake the dead
Just sit in the lounge and look at the sea
And long for the day you return to me.
Just potter around, doing this and that
And eating chips and getting fat
No girl to make me get up and go
She’s gone home to play in the snow.
To talk to her dog, the one named Blue
Which aptly describes how I feel too
The hours drag by, the clock seems slow
Oh for a Time Machine, so fast they’d go.
The sun doesn’t shine in this house
I sit here quiet as a mouse
And remember the girl, the places we went
And the beautiful hours together we spent.
She’d hold on to wires, and pieces of wood
Just being around her made me feel good
We’d make up a list of things that we need
And nip into Hobart, quite often at speed.
We’d get lots of books that are fun to be read
We’d buy old plates, and look at new beds
We’d get bits and pieces to make a new sail
And CD’s to play when we hit the trail.
And now she’s not here life’s not very nice
It’s like living up north amongst all that ice
Where the sun never rises, it’s permanent night
Life without her just doesn’t seem right.
The day I met her the Gods sent a sign
A drum roll of thunder, time after time
And Zeus threw lightning bolts into the sea
A sure sign they meant this woman for me.
12 months have gone by since that day of fate
But now for some weeks by myself I will wait
For my girl to finish her business at home
Then come back out here for Australia to roam.
Untill that day it won’t be much fun
To sit around here without any sun
Any day now I’ll expect it to pour
The sun doesn’t rise any more.
This one is about a Tassie Hockey team preparing for the Veterans Championships in Bunbury, WA, in October 2002.
Old Timers
There is a team of oldies, running round in white
The Wombats they are called, and what an awesome sight
As they play their games on Sunday, just a training run
Getting ready for October, and the West Australian sun.
They may be getting on a bit, and not too great at running
But with a thousand years between them, can be rather cunning
With legendary skill, they play a passing game
And on the ground in Bunbury will not be put to shame.
We may be over 50, and some are even more
But once upon the ground are deadly keen to score
We may be over 50, and some are turning grey
But we’ll go on for years, it’s the game we like to play.
We’ve seen some changes made upon the Hockey scene
Starting off in Schoolboys, on the grass so green
The grounds they were so rough back in those youthful days
But now upon the turf it is a joy to play.
We used to roll the ball in, from over the sideline
And catching forwards offside? We did it all the time
And what about the Bully, at the start of play
The rules have seen some changes since those early days.
The Wombats are still training, still getting into stride
And in WA will wear the Tassie shirt with pride
These carnivals are great, a chance to have a run
‘Gainst other teams of oldies, it surely will be fun.
Elli and I were camped next to a billabong near Winton, and this
sprang to mind (Nov - 2003)
THAT Song
We were touring in the outback, out in Queensland's west
Keeping off the highways - the dirt roads WE like best
Croydon, Burketown, Lawn Hill are places where we've been
From Isa down to Birdsville, the 'Big Red' dune we've seen.
And now we're camped out Winton way, beside a billabong
We think it must have been like this where 'Banjo' wrote THAT song
The one about the swaggie - with his tucker bag
Who had a spot of bother with the squatter on his nag.
Who with the aid of troopers, one, two, three
Hounded that poor battler, wouldn't let him be
He leapt into that billabong, now haunted by his ghost
Just because he was hungry and yearning for a roast.
That story now is famous, and sung in far off lands
And Aussie hearts are stirred when they listen to a band
Playing Waltzing Matilda, a national song for sure
And diggers lift their heads up high when hearing it once more.