WRITING GALLERY - FEBRUARY- MARCH 2025

Old Mrs Otto lived alone, once her hubby’s life expired.
They’d owned a working dairy farm, nicknamed Never Tired.
Daily toil from dawn to dusk, was performed to make ends meet,
with cream produced for butter; small crops: cotton, oats and wheat.
But that became her history. At the age of eighty-three,
She retired into a village that was built, down by the sea.

The farm was sold and all her goods and chattels shared around
with family, friends, collectors and investors, with a pound.
When the herd was purchased with the farm, there was one thing left to do:
Departure from her dearest mate – a talking cockatoo.
She’d fed him seeds and berries, and grains still on the stalk.
For hours she’d sat beside him and encouraged him to talk.

He had a repertoire of words and phrases he could use.
Some for sounding warnings, and others to amuse:
“Cocky wants a cracker”, often scored some tasty food;
“Would you like a cup of tea?” meant that smoko had been brewed,
or visitors were at the gate. “Snake Ma. Bloody snake!”
resulted in a reptile being ambushed, with a rake.

“Cocky wants a scratch”, invited folk to scratch his head.
Censorship precludes repeating other words he said.
Performing antics of a clown, this feathered acrobat
could mimic, like a lyre bird, and meow just like a cat.
NO PETS ALLOWED, meant Mrs Otto had to give away
her talkative companion. With Nancy Jones he’d stay.

Nancy was a neighbour who knew the cocky well,
but he really couldn’t take to her. He truly gave her hell.
His swearing was atrocious. He’d screech and squawk, all night.
When she tried to feed him, he’d attack and try to bite.
She conjured a solution to this malady and strife:
she left the cage door opened. Told him, “Get. Go find a wife.”

So Cocky joined a local flock of *Biloela birds
that roosted in some eucalypts, on the farm of Lionel Jurds.
He learned the ways of cockies living freely, in the wild,
with the words of Mrs Otto, in his memory, firmly filed.
Occasionally, he would make a slip that terrified his brood
by asking for a cracker, or saying something rude and crude.

Now, it happened that the weather broke, and Lionel got some rain.
It was time to plough the paddocks, get them ready to sow grain.
Fill the tractor’s tank with diesel; grease the points; top up the oil.
Then, around the cultivation, steel discs spewing moistened soil.
It happened as he drove around, far away and deep in thought,
that a message from his innards, warned him he could get caught short.

When this happened, he was ploughing by a stand of eucalypts,
from where, sulphur-crested cockatoos began their daily trips,
exploring for new feeding grounds, dams and troughs and tanks.
Lionel thought he’d found a refuge, so he quietly prayed his thanks,
to the pioneers who cleared this land, but left this grove of trees.
He undid his belt and zipper … let his pants drop past his knees.

“Snake, Ma! Bloody snake!” Cocky screeched from overhead.
Lionel shot bolt upright, his body pumping dread.
“Cocky wants a cracker. Cocky wants a scratch.”
The only thought in Lionel’s mind: escape this gumtree patch.
He pulled his pants up, wedgy tight and, turning ‘round to flee,
saw Cocky perched upon a root. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Mrs Otto’s bloody bird! He cursed poor Nancy Jones.
The hairs still stood up on his neck. A chill ran through his bones.
His urge for bodily relief had, somehow, been allayed.
Laughing uncontrollably, he exited the glade.
He ploughed the straightest furrow ever witnessed, through his loam
and finished off his business, in the comfort of his home.

Now, Lionel shared the story of his encounter with the bird,
Though he edited bits and pieces that no other soul has heard.
Nancy‘s been forgiven, for kicking Cocky out.
The locals keep reporting that the bird is still about.
If you want to see poor Lionel blush, and enjoy true repartee –
just ask him, in a cracking voice, “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Some people have homes on the harbour,
where the views are really grand.
Others dwell near the beaches,
and enjoy the surf and the sand.
We're out in the western suburbs,
the centre of the urban sprawl.
The city's away in the distance,
an hours drive in the rush hour crawl.
We built a home on two acres,
With a duck pond and beautiful appeal .
I think it's a fair assessment
That we’ve got the better deal
Yet there's something that really annoys me.
In fact I'm as mad as hell.
It's been bugging me for ages,
it probably riles others as well
In a city that's rapidly expanding
we're the region that's growing the most.
Yet we're not given equal billing
when it comes to playing the host.
It's the city, the beaches, the harbour,
all touted as being the best;
but one thing they never mention,
that's us peasants out in the west.
So forget about Sydney Harbour,
we've got bushland and wildlife galore.
We’re living in natural surroundings
You really can’t ask for more.
We don't need your cramped inner suburbs,
we've got our wide open spaces.
Filled with all that nature can offer,
and a lot of contented faces.