Thread: Know any good poems?

Banjo, again, Bob


On the Trek

Oh, the weary, weary journey on the trek, day after day,
With sun above and silent veldt below;
And our hearts keep turning homeward to the youngsters far away,
And the homestead where the climbing roses grow.
Shall we see the flats grow golden with the ripening of the grain?
Shall we hear the parrots calling on the bough?
Ah! the weary months of marching ere we hear them call again,
For we’re going on a long job now.
In the drowsy days on escort, riding slowly half asleep,
With the endless line of waggons stretching back,
While the khaki soldiers travel like a mob of travelling sheep,
Plodding silent on the never-ending track,
While the constant snap and sniping of the foe you never see
Makes you wonder will your turn come–when and how?
As the Mauser ball hums past you like a vicious kind of bee–
Oh! we’re going on a long job now.
When the dash and the excitement and the novelty are dead,
And you’ve seen a load of wounded once or twice,
Or you’ve watched your old mate dying–with the vultures overhead,
Well, you wonder if the war is worth the price.
And down along Monaro now they’re starting out to shear,
I can picture the excitement and the row;
But they’ll miss me on the Lachlan when they call the roll this year,
For we’re going on a long job now.

Originally Posted by bob10

That is so good, I am using it at my Sons upcoming wedding. thank you, Lebanon, Bob

Congratulations to your son and future daughter in law for their marriage.

When Girlie Goes Looking for Nuts
"The doctors tell us that our bones
To them a tale unfold,
Of how we're degenerating
From the usual human mould.

"For we are slipping back, they say,
To what we were before,
And by our tails will swing from trees
In a thousand years or more.

"But this to me seems passing strange,
'Tis laughable if true,
I pray my ghost will live to see
The troubles it will brew.

"How will a politician look
If monkey he must be?
Will he harangue the crowd for votes
While sitting on a tree?

"And will he promise them the nuts
Of others that he'll scatter,
And waste the precious fleeing hours
On things that do not matter?

"What tickles me, though, most of all
Is how will Girlie take it-
Will she quite spring up from her tail
Should a male monk strive to shake it?

"And will she comb her pretty fur
Then gaze upon a pool?
And will she fold her furry tail
When sitting on a stool?

"Or will she pass her time of day
In looking out for nuts,
Or coyly wander through the bush
A shyly meeting knuts?

"Or maybe she will climb a tree
And crack upon her knees,
The really choice collection
Of her daily catch of fleas.

"Oh joy 'twill be if I am there
To watch the pretty dears,
To watch their little antics
In another thousand years!"

"The Snake" by Edward Vance Palmer

I killed a snake this morning in the grass, A lovely, sinister thing of gleaming jet:
I see it yet!
Gliding across the place my feet would pass, In effortless motion, fluid as molten glass, Yet live as fire, and evilly aware
Of all the magic in its jewelled stare,
The founts of poison in its being set.

I struck with savage force, and now it lies
With small ants swarming round its mangled head,
Surely it’s dead!
Yet in the sunlight myriad shapes arise
And flow in rhythm before my dazzled eyes;
Each black stick melts in curves, each tussock holds Its crimson belly and its shining folds,
Till mind and sense recoil in nameless dread.

Who dragged this creature from the nether streams
And on an innocent world it's presence thrust?
It's eyes hold lust
And evil will beyond mans darkest dreams
Yet when it move a baleful beauty gleams
The shy birds flutter and shriek each lyric note
Turned to a bat's cry in a quivering throat
By this insidious dragon of the dusk

This is 3 verses of a poem I learnt a long time ago in high school. Sadly I don't remember the last verse. For some reason this poem by Australian writer/poet Vance Palmer really resonated with me and I have remembered most of it for 50 years

Petetheprinter, thank you for introducing me to Vance Palmer, I had never heard of him, but his poetry resonates with me. I couldn't find your last verse, but found this, Bob








The Road to Roma Jail

It's a long road, a cruel road, the road to Roma Jail,
birds in all the branches mocking as you pass,
the spiteful little soldier-bird, the stupid old jackass,
crying 'One, two three of them; riding head to tail'.
On the long road, the cruel road, the road to Roma Jail.

Crookedly the track runs beneath the grassy skies
silver shines the mulga, golden glows the plain,
Bullocks in the barley-grass start and stare again,
stockmen at the station-yards, watch the white dust rise,
but one man, jogging on, dare not raise his eyes.

Pride of life and wild blood, all must pay the toll,
stolen horses' mouths are hard as misers hearts
none knew where the end is once the journey starts,
and Steve rides a long ride to reach a bitter goal
where black imps, grinning imps, hover round his soul.

It's a long road, a cruel road the road to roma Jail,
a trooper rides behind you, a tracker rides before,
your hands are tied, your head bowed, your heart and body sore,
and high above you in the blue the homing wood-duck sail,
on the long road, the cruel road, the road to Roma Jail


Vance Palmer

And another from Palmer, Bob



The Pathfinders

Night, and a bitter sky, and strange birds crying,
The wan trees whisper and the winds make moan,
Here where in ultimate peace their bones are lying
In gaunt waste places that they made their own,
Beyond the ploughed lands where the corn is sown.

Death, and untrodden ways, and night before them,
From sheltering homes and friendly hearths they came;
Far from the mouldering dust of those that bore them
They rest in silence now and know no fame,
No proud stone speaks, no waters lip the name.

Brave and undaunted hearts, eyes lit with laughter,
Minds that outran the ancient doubts and fears,
They blazed the track for legions following after,
And bared new treasure to the hungry years,
Till spent with strife they sank amongst the spears.

Slow sinks the glowing flame and fades the ember,
No bright star flickers and the woods are stark,
But still our children's children will remember
The swift forerunners, bearers of the ark,
Who lit the beacons in the uncharted dark.

Rich towns shall flourish on the hills that hold them,
Bright dreams shall quicken from their wandering dust,
And till the end our reverent minds shall fold them
In storied chambers free from moth and rust:
The fealty pledged, the kingdom given in trust.


Vance Palmer

Last one, had to post this one, Bob . [Palmer was an interesting man, his biography can be read at www.PoemHunter.com, Vance Palmer, 1885-1959/Australia]

The Farmer remembers the Somme

Will they never fade or pass!
The mud, and the misty figures endlessly coming
In file through the foul morass,
And the grey flood-water ripping the reeds and grass,
And the steel wings drumming.

The hills are bright in the sun:
There's nothing changed or marred in the well-known places;
When work for the day is done
There's talk, and quiet laughter, and gleams of fun
On the old folks' faces.

I have returned to these:
The farm, and the kindly Bush, and the young calves lowing;
But all that my mind sees
Is a quaking bog in a mist - stark, snapped trees,
And the dark Somme flowing.



Vance Palmer

Can't forget Bill, Bob



All the World's a Stage

All the world's a stage,
And all the men and women merely players;
They have their exits and their entrances,
And one man in his time plays many parts,
His acts being seven ages. At first, the infant,
Mewling and puking in the nurse's arms.
Then the whining schoolboy, with his satchel
And shining morning face, creeping like snail
Unwillingly to school. And then the lover,
Sighing like furnace, with a woeful ballad
Made to his mistress' eyebrow. Then a soldier,
Full of strange oaths and bearded like the pard,
Jealous in honor, sudden and quick in quarrel,
Seeking the bubble reputation
Even in the cannon's mouth. And then the justice,
In fair round belly with good capon lined,
With eyes severe and beard of formal cut,
Full of wise saws and modern instances;
And so he plays his part. The sixth age shifts
Into the lean and slippered pantaloon,
With spectacles on nose and pouch on side;
His youthful hose, well saved, a world too wide
For his shrunk shank, and his big manly voice,
Turning again toward childish treble, pipes
And whistles in his sound. Last scene of all,
That ends this strange eventful history,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans everything.


William Shakespeare