MY BOOK RELEASE IN AUSTRALIA ...AUSSIE TAILS AND AUSSIE MALES AND ONE OR TWO OTHER THINGS

A good start today - my books arrived from the publisher and they are beaut. The book's foreword was written by the founder of the The Australia Times Magazines David M. Abouav before he sadly passed away unexpectedly ...I will always treasure his words. The TAT group published this book and they have done an excellent job. I am truly delighted with it.

My book contains a poem of which I am particularly proud, dedicated to my Father in Law Tom Clifford who served in New Guinea and the Middle East with the AIF in WWII. This is in the section dedicated to the military.

There are also some Aussie yarns, some poems about my time out at 'Springdale' where names were changed to protect the innocent , and some poems about animals and one or two other things. 'Whose driving the rig?' is a humorous but true poem about Buster - our working Kelpie, 'Secrets of a working dog' another true story featuring Anushka Maree aka Fiesta Anna our Border Collie.

All in all it is a pretty good read and one things for sure - it is fair dinkum bloody Australian and I am very proud of that.

If you would like a copy let me know $29.95 mailed to you in Australia ...I will even autograph it for you.

Because of our high postage costs should anyone in UK or USA want one then the cost would be $36.95 USA and $39.95 UK 

SEND IN THE CLOWNS

This poem was written in response to this video clip which I found very moving - 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LH0igs4Bh00

SEND IN THE CLOWNS... Maureen Clifford © The ‪#‎ScribblyBark‬ Poet

A world gone mad - and devastation everywhere around

the centre ring is empty - none to see.

The carnival is over and the crowds are all long gone

and none left to recall festivity.

The bright lights are all shattered, now a tangled mass of wires

and shadows seem to shift and turn at whim.

He wanders, gun in hand, into the empty centre ring

and wonders just what has happened to him.

Send in the clowns, send in the clowns

they’ll make you laugh – might save a life.

They show no fear, make smiles from frowns.

Send in the clowns! Send in the clowns!

From high above a watcher watches, through a rifle sight

the man who once more graces centre stage.

He is a marksman in a war in which he had to play -

inside his heart is consumed with a rage.

He hears the music playing and he smells the greasepaint there,

he hears applause and cheers and yet no sound

at all is heard from where he is - it is all in his mind

and memories flood back of the fairground.

Send in the clowns, send in the clowns

they’ll make you laugh – might save a life.

They show no fear, make smiles from frowns.

Send in the clowns! Send in the clowns!

The watcher descends slowly, quietly - stands and gives applause

to the juggler all alone in centre ring.

Startled - the juggler cowers, fearing his death is at hand

yet he begs for mercy - hope a transient thing.

The watcher sits and from his uniform pocket appears

a red rubber nose - the kind that clowns still wear;

he placed the nose upon his face and struck a comic pose,

a big grin and he ruffled up his hair.

Send in the clowns, send in the clowns

they’ll make you laugh – might save a life.

They show no fear, make smiles from frowns.

Send in the clowns! Send in the clowns!

Then as quickly as it started the show ended - war returned

and the watcher turned and left the centre stage

as the magic of the moment that materialized was gone

when two men returned to a world mad with rage.

For a moment their humanity had surfaced from the mire,

for a moment each had recognized the worth

of a moment of hilarity in a world turned to dross

and two clowns enjoyed an interlude of mirth.

KHAMAH-D BLUE.

..Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet...

Khamah-D Blue is a red dog, he's a short dog I think you'll agree

Khamah-D Blue is a beaut happy chappy.  And yes!  He loves Elly and me.

Khamah-D Blue is quite cheeky, but that I am happy to see

'cause I know that it means he's settled - and can now live here happily.

Khamah-D Blue hates the mower and of motorbikes is not a fan.

My number one son has a motorbike and Khamah-D thinks that he can

kill it - not for want of trying.  When heard  Khamah-D cuts up rough

the minute they start, he howls and  barks regardless of my stern 'ENOUGH'.

Khamah-D Blue likes his tucker and likewise his green squeaky bone,

short he may be but when he's running free he's just like a mini cyclone.

Four short legs pumping like pistons, muscles as big as can be

power him flat-chat and Oh God!  Please not that, the little sods heading for me.

Life as we know it has changed now - gone are the days of sweet calm

there's thrust and parry almost akin to a battlefield out on the Somme.

Lucky for him he takes orders and shows no desire to roam

Lucky for him that we love him for he's now the heart of our home.

LITTLE BOY'S DREAMS

… Maureen Clifford © The #Scribbly Bark Poet ...

He took off on a mystery tour along the beaten track

three hours to head around the world – to get there and get back,

but first things first, ‘twas something new and he must be prepared …

the essence of a tuna hot pot drifted up the stairs.

He thought that he might sneak a bit and stash it in his pack

always good to have sustenance, a little midnight snack.

A mournful cardboard pig stood watching silent from his desk

its eyes appeared quite questioning. Would this bloke pass the test?

He showed enduring promise; he had spirit but was young

and typically as most kids do he thought this would be fun.

You can’t put ancient wisdom onto shoulders newly formed

MARKET DAY... painting by Edwin Lord Weekes

and bright ideas have never yet kept a cold body warmed.

His head was filled with pictures bright of vastly different shores,

bazaars and deserts, camels, mules and pyramids and more.

Rich red and tasselled carpets woven there in dusty streets

where men in jalabiya strolled and people meet and greet.

Arabian nights had filled his dreams more nights than he could count

and somewhere in those desert dunes galloped his Arab mount.

He was only a little bloke – but oh he dreamt big dreams

and who’s to say where they might lead – if taken to extremes.

Did Lawrence of Arabia whilst resting in his bed

have dreams of glory visualized and running through his head?

Each journey of discovery that has ever been made

perhaps began with little boys whose dreams, life’s path conveyed.

THEY WERE ONCE SOMEBODY'S DARLING

Every year here in Australia over 20,000 racehorses are destroyed because they couldn't run fast enough, don't have potential,  get injured or were unable to be sold for enough $'s ... they are the wastage of the racing industry, the side the racing industry would like to see 'hushed up' ... but a fact regardless.

Prunda - One of Harry Hattons top performers in the 60s

Some might get reclassified and used in steeplechasing, the end result often the same and a high risk of injury and death.  Some are taken for use by the mounted police - and some of course do find buyers in the private sector just looking for a good hacking or dressage horse,  a better outcome for these, but % wise the number is very small.

 As a kid I spent every spare minute strapping racehorses,  hanging out with the up and coming jockeys at the stables of Harry Hatton and Fred Best and only saw the glamour of the industry and the hard work put in by the strappers and other stable staff.  Was this wastage a problem back then?  I don't recall it.  I am thinking that today it is a greed driven factor for the $'s.  Chasing after another Phar Lap - in its way no different to puppy farming and our overcrowded animal shelters across this country.  Horses are now throw away animals.  Racehorses, brumbies, unwanted kids ponies, old stagers that have done the hard years - all treated as 'wasteage'  Very sad.

THEY WERE ONCE SOMEBODY’S DARLING
Maureen Clifford © The ‪#‎ScribblyBark‬ Poet

They were once somebody’s darling they were once somebody’s dream,
they were once feted by thousands urged on by whip, hands and scream.
Now they wait in dark – dejected and they’ll no more hear the call
of “they’re off” because tomorrow is the last day for them all.

They don’t sleep in stables stately, they don’t get the brush and gleam
of a fine thoroughbred warmblood – now it’s rough – they hear the scream
of the fallen gone before them, and they know not yet the foe
but they fear the fate awaiting – and they know. Oh yes! They know.

It is hard to be unwanted; it is hard when one falls short
It is hard when expectations don’t equate to dollars sought
So just turn your back and leave them – sell them off and let them go -
they were once somebody’s darlings but seems now none want to know.

As the rows of Flemington roses pale and drop confetti blooms
the champagne, chicken and chance crowd have departed in the gloom
leaving a trail of trashed tickets, and a divot speckled course.
It is doubtful if one punter gives a stuff about the horse.

COLOUR MY COUNTRY

… Maureen Clifford © The ‪#‎ScribblyBark‬ Poet ..

The Kookaburras chortled and called in the sun

as the legends tell us that they do

and the dark midnight sky faded out to soft grey

tinged with lilac, an interesting hue;

and old Mother Nature an artist apart

splashed her colours like paint on a canvas – her art

is breathtaking and always strikes right at the heart

of the people who live in God’s country .

All the colours of the rainbow are gathered here

there’s the soft pink of Sturt’s Desert Rose

and the yellow blossom of the wattle you see

whilst round Spinifex clumps tickle toes.

The Perentie display colours grey, green and brown.

Red grevillea share their sweet nectar around

after rain tiny daisies and ground flowers abound

each one adding colour to country.

She paints ancient deserts in rich golden hues

inland rivers she paints ochre brown ,

whilst her oceans are tinged in soft turquoise and cream

with their shorelines in silver, and down

in the depths she has coral in carmine and green

with clusters of pink brain coral to be seen,

sunlight penetrates through the watery sheen,

illuminating the depths of God’s country.

There’s a rock in the centre that’s bright fiery red

but it changes its colour at whim.

Sometimes it is purple at other times blue –

likewise Kata Tjuta her twin.

This is Anangu land and all are welcome here

but please show respect to the rock they hold dear

she is sacred to them – do not climb her for fear

of offending their Gods in their country.

 There are flocks of Piyar-Piyarpa wheeling round

 pink and white, bright against a blue sky.

And a Papa-Inura howls often at night

as he sits ‘neath the stars - hear his cry.

As Malu – the red kangaroo thumps on by

the ancient ones hear – and their voice is a sigh,

a mere whisper of breeze as they bid you goodbye

Palya Piranpa from God’s country.

THE WORDS OF A POET

… Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet ...

landscape by william Davies

His words were the words of a poet

His picture was the landscape of dreams.

The language of the landscape spoke through his pen.

His words captured the sunlit uplands,

portrayed the sheep longing to escape the cropped grass

for the green sward in the distance.

The pen is mightier than the brush sometimes.

His words portrayed the orphan’s tears,

that swirl of the kilt and the dark grey cobblestones,

where a stray cat sat, watching the shadows.

Rusting paintwork of a filigreed arch set in the old stone wall

where lovers said farewell was almost tangible.

Hidden gems of amber beads caressed an angora neckline

beneath a Scottish plaid.

Lowering clouds, fought envious feuds , tossed on the storm front

that promised rain – yet delivered nothing.

A redheaded woman walked a white Scotty dog

 on a tartan lead , along the cast iron shore.

His words were the words of a poet

His picture was the landscape of dreams.