POETRY GALLERY - MARCH 2024
This month we are still looking at poetry. 

THE RUSTLERS YARN by Ron D

Way out west of Rockhampton town lived a cattle man called Dan,

Now Dan was troubled by rustlers, so he knew he needed a plan.

That old man was my old man, and he was smarter that good looking,

Rustlers thought they had my old man beat but his brain was busy cooking.

My old man’s normally a happy coot, as happy as a Cootamundra tree,

He’ll ride all day on his favourite horse as black as ever you’d see,

He checks his herds of cattle, one by one, tallying them up as he goes,

I go too on my pony dark brown, and I gallop standing up on my toes.

Those wonderful days are like Xmas to me. I am as happy as can be.

The sun shines down so warm and so bright we can the far-off hills see.

For lunch we find a wide shady tree where we can demount and rest

We light a small fire to heat up the billy and fill up our pannikins with tea best.

‘Those monsters,’ my father shouted one day. ‘Those rotten, conniving thieves.’

I ducked for cover. I thought I was in trouble but for what I couldn’t believe.

‘Not you boy,’ he shouted, his voice he then softened. ‘It’s rustlers are doing us in.

It’s war boy, God help us to deal with this bunch, What they’ve done’s a mighty great sin.

Rustlers? I queried, not sure how he’d know that some of our cows had been taken.

Tell me Dad how you know? Our herds are so big, perhaps you are mistaken.

Its counting I do, boy, when we ride around. I know how many head I should see.

If I miss one or two, then that’s normal I know but thirty’s too many for it to be.

‘Let’s plan a revenge’, said my dad to his son,’ Let’s sort this lot out before feed.’

I sat there excited, this planning was fun, I wanted to see where it would lead,

‘Our old black bull is a dangerous sort, he’s just right to attack them, I say.’

I shivered inside. That black bull scares me so. I want to hide far away.

This bull is a killer, I shudder, and sweat. The thought of it makes me want to hide,

With its horns is could skewer an elephant or two, if they wandered too close to it’s side.

It’s head could butt a large gum to the moon, a mountain to the sea if it pleased.

I don’t want this murdering monster near me, I don’t want to be deceased.

We made a hide with small branches and trees where we could watch the action,

Dad lassoed the bull and brought him to mingle and hide in the herd for traction,

The sun disappeared and we hunkered down for the evening in our lair,

We brewed a cup of black and strong tea and chewed on some tasty fair.

Shh! whispered Dad, I think I can hear a number of hoof beats a-walking,

I listened too but kept my lips closed, this wasn’t the time to be talking.

The villains spread wide to separate from the herd the very best of our cattle,

The leader gave a shout, and they brought their whips out, louder and louder their prattle.

The black bull took exception to those who came close, so he snorted out louder and louder,

And he pawed the ground violently just to show all he was preparing for murder,

He charged the first of the thieves that he saw and skewered the rider’s leg with his horn,

The rider screamed and his horse took off. No waiting around for the morn.

The leader thought he could sort this out, so he faced up to the bull, whip cracking,

The bull, as we knew, took great exception to whips and soon sent the leader packing.

The rustlers then sensed they’d all better run as fast as they could far away.

As they raced up the track, they all agreed they’d find another herd the next day.

My Dad and me, we stood there and laughed. The plan had worked out just fine,

We reckoned those rustlers had shown so much speed, they’d be home in very good time.

The bull watched them go with a bloody great grin, ‘That was fun,’ he seemed to say.

We agreed that our plan had worked out a treat. It would make a great yarn next day.’

DAG HAMMARSKJOLD PLANE CRASH 1991 by Cindi

The drums those days a story told.

In those who heard it, blackly bold

Astonishment and awe instilled.

But strangers to the drumming sound

Were ignorant and walked around

Unknowing of tragedy and lives unfilled.

At last a break, typewriter sold

But computer recognised and told

The story of a broken plane

Peacekeeping mission, death of all.

World news in village indigenous and small

News hounds, so many screaming sabotage!

Dag Hammarskjold, a great man’s name

Loosed hatred, fear, and need to blame

Changed actors on the Congo stage

THE BEACH by Elaine O

WE LOVE QUEENSLAND by Malcolm W

I moved to sunny Queensland late in life,

following the footsteps of my roving wife.

“I’m going for a one-year job” she’d said,

Then signed on for a full time one instead.

My mates all asked “have you lost the plot?

The people are rednecks, and it’s much too hot.”

But I’m not one to listen to spiteful talk,

As a pommie immigrant I’d walked that walk.

I knew it was hot and cyclones were rife,

But I couldn’t abandon the love of my life.

I’d tolerate the heat, and the population,

they couldn’t be that much of an irritation.

We live on the coast, overlooking the sea,

There’s nowhere else that we’d rather be.

The people are great, I say with a grin.

We’ve made lots of friends, and fitted right in.

There are long dry spells, but then it pours.

It’s nice and warm until the temperature soars.

There are days when it’s windy and it blows all day

Peaking to extremes when a cyclone comes your way.

There are many places we’ve kicked off our boots,

thinking this is where we’ll put down roots.

We’ve found the place where we’ll finish our days,

There are only red necks when you take in the rays.

AT THE AIRPORT AGAIN by Melinda

I’m here, sitting and waiting yet again

Waiting, for yet another bloody plane

The gate closed a longtime  ago

Why the wait? Be blowed if I know

The plane is sitting on the tarmac, right out there

The hosties are chatting, they don’t much seem to care

KL airport doesn’t thrill me at all

Always waiting, waiting for that last call

Airport vehicles crisscrossing and baggage handlers busy outside

Luggage going slowly up the ramp to a plane and then inside

One bag falls far to the ground all the way from the top

But no one sees, the work of loading just doesn’t stop

The suitcase just sits there on the tarmac, all battered and bruised

I wonder where it was going, perhaps a flight or a cruise

My flight is boarding and then we’re airborne

Clear weather to start, but soon there’s a storm

Turbulence continues for 40 minutes or more

We’re all a little bit nervous about what’s in store

But soon enough we’re on the ground with luggage all collected from the carousel

A lady next to me is wailing, suitcase missing, cruise waiting. Sigh. Dare I tell?

SEACHANGE by Sallie