On Line Poetry Magazine

Have you checked out our latest ‪#‎TATPoetryMag‬ yet? Packed full of‪#‎poetry‬ a video clip titled 'The Keeper of the Stones', upcoming events and more! ‪#‎theaustraliatimes‬ http://ow.ly/BTpwq

THOSE HORRIBLE HAIRY HERBIVORES FROM HARRY’S HYDROPONICS.

Maureen Clifford © The Scribbly Bark Poet

That horrid hairy herbivore from Harry’s hydroponics

was want to eat most anything - it had tastes gastronomic.

‘Twas gimlet eyed and known to drive the ladies to hysterics

some folks around would have pink fits and some would turn choleric.

Now Harry grew lettuce and strawberries hydroponically

all safe encased in glasshouses, but plain they were to see.

The lettuces were big. Iceberg and Cos, Rocket, Mizuna

but Billy could not get to them.  They did not need a pruner.

In sheer frustration Billy learnt how to unlatch the gate

and wander off in search of things to eat.  And how he ate.

He’d decimate tomatoes, and green beans he thought a treat.

Cared not a jot where he did feast, favoured no single street.

He’s trampled over my clean sheets and  been chewing my undies.

He’s terrorised the dog and chooks.  Look at my Joe’s Reg Grundies.

Those snow peas were my pride and those blue roses a show winner.

 Now Harry’s horrid herbivore has eaten them for dinner.

The local copper shook his head for he had no solution

but seems the whole town now was crying out for retribution.

The town’s horrible herbivore was Harry’s much loved pet

a bullet straight between the eyes was the most oft heard threat.

There was no fence could keep him in nor gate would keep him out

across the town at random times one would hear someone shout,

Shoo, go away you hairy beast I’ll kill you in a minute,

 then the Police Station phone would ring and Harry was dropped in it.

It was a problem; one which Harry was now forced to ponder.

Cash paid out in recompense was cash he’d not to squander.

He didn’t want to shoot his mate or see him sent away,

there must be a solution to get King Billy to stay.

He thought about it long and hard, weighed up the pros and cons.

He juggled figures, measured lengths, walked back and forth and from

one corner of his property and back out to the road

and these days always wore a frown and looked quite indisposed.

Time passed and nothing much had changed though Harry had been busy,

then bright and early Tuesday morn a man arrived with Lizzie.

Lizzie was quite the femme fatale, a rare beauty was she

who batted her long eyelashes when she saw King Billy.

Lizzie was a small Boer doe – shaded in white and brown

who wore her little nubby horns like a Queen wears her crown.

She flirted - her good genes showed in each dainty step she took.

King Billy stood there drooling, like a pole axed leghorn chook.

In dulcet tones she muttered low – her words were indistinct

but sounded like ‘Come here big boy’ – ( I was the worse for drink.)

King Billy cocked his head and shook his ears, rattled his horns

and ambled over our way, looked at Lizzie,  gave a yawn;

then ambled nonchalant and slow down to the running creek

and Lizzie followed docile as a lamb – I heard her speak.

You stick with me big fellow and I’ll show you such delight

you’ll never leave your home again to wander, day or night.

And though I thought ‘twas just the drink making me hear these voices,

King Billy’s not been seen in town since offered other choices.

I noticed last time that I passed by Harry’s place to town,

two kids now shared the paddock and Billy was lying down.

He looked a tad exhausted as if life was now too much

to handle, although Lizzie grazed oblivious to such

rude rambunctious goat behaviour, as her kids tormented Dad,

by both climbing onto his back.  They were cheeky and bad.

Six months have passed how time has flown.  Now there is consternation

throughout our town as vandalism causes indignation.

With flowers disappearing from gardens on several streets,

and underwear gone missing, which is somewhat indiscreet.

Strange noises and loud footsteps have often been heard at night

on some ladies verandahs.  Said ladies then faint with fright.

No strangers have been noticed, I’ve no inside information

but suspect the horrible herbivores are part of the equation.

NEVER STOP DREAMING

Maureen Clifford © The Scribbly Bark Poet

He dreamt of growing big and tall

 and travelling from town to town

and riding on a bucking horse

 with cheering shouting crowds around.

He dreamt of silver buckles bright

 with shiny spurs and fancy shirts,

old showgrounds where the dirt was red 

and hard packed.  Wondered - Did it hurt

when one was thrown onto the ground 

from off a bull or bucking horse?

He thought it would but he was tough  -

 a little pain par for the course.

He rode his pony made of wood 

around the paddock all day long

His Dad had promised him a pony,

 soon as he was big and strong

which should be soon ‘cause he was four 

and he had grown an inch this year

he'd also ridden Grandpa’s horse

 and never felt a bit of fear.

He knew the horse he wanted, 

a  sweet little mare coloured steel gray

with three white socks and soft dark eyes 

who he  had fed sweet lucerne hay.

Her name was Silver Sovereign -

 he’d told his Dad she was the one

and Dad had just said ‘ wait and see,

 after the Rodeo my son.’

WETTING THE DRY

Over 70% f the state of Queensland Australia has been drought declared even in coastal areas but right now we are receiving some widespread rain.  It won't end the drought and the grass is not going to grow quick enough to relieve the feed situation but it gives the farmers hope - something that has been in pretty short supply over the last 2 years.

WETTING THE DRY….Maureen Clifford ©  The Scribbly Bark Poet

It was dry and drear and dusty in those far off distant lands

and the drought was hitting hard and claiming souls

TV weather men had not the least bit of news to impart

regarding breaking rain or reaching monthly goals.

The shadow of the sun stretched wide across our sunburnt land

and folks out west would give their heart away

to hear the pitter-patter of some rain upon their roof

but it seems it wouldn’t happen – not today.

There were intermittent drizmals, scarce enough to lay the dust.

There were far more tears upon a windowpane

and raindrops on red roses were a distant memory now

the roses had died and would not bloom again.

There were prayers carried to heaven in the arms of angels fair

there were benedictions chanted in the church,

there were desperate pleas from farmers, but it seems all went unheard

for the weather Gods had left all in the lurch.

But then a change did happen and the Gods answered the call

sending weather wet and wild across the land

and the dirt, picked by the handful, that would blow away in dust

turned to rich red mud that squelched within his hand.

There was run off in the contours and the dams were filling slow

and the cattle and the horses seemed to rally

as a tinge of green appeared like a miracle over night

softly cloaking all the land from hill to valley.

One could hear the splish splash of the water dripping into tanks

and the splish and splosh as it leaked on the floor

from a dripping roof where tin had rusted out around a nail

but it mattered not – they rejoiced in the roar

drifting across the paddock from a dry creek now in flood

after months and months without a drop of rain

This country tears your heart out – she is harsh and she is hard

but how quickly she will give it back again.

WANDJINA

WANDJINA

Maureen Clifford © The Scribbly Bark Poet

The days before were hot and dry, the months before as well.

At times a bank of clouds appeared -but just as quickly disappeared

a misted mauve light bathed the land and in the paddock he would stand

talking to ghosts with spirit voices – not one bloke down here rejoices

we are walking dark pathways all leading straight to hell.

Long days continued hot and dry with no relief in sight.

He watched his money disappear along with hope and now his fear

was soon that he would lose it all and that would no way be his call.

He struggled daily with these things, perhaps his thoughts had paper wings…

 his night-time dreams offered  no rest and little in respite.

The land wilted beneath the heat, and now paddocks were bare.

Dark spirits from primordial times were in each rock and tree,

he felt himself held in their arms.  Land – you belong to me

and though clouds came to tantalize not one drop fell from out the skies -

he saw grey cloud crevasses drifting by on the thin air.

He now recalled his father’s voice – it rains at end of drought.

He rubbed the sacred rain stone on a boulder ancestors had known

and drew the dreamtime serpents curves in dust, the rituals he observed.

He threw his boomerang up high to cut the clouds and let the sky

release the rain.  But had they heard?  An element of doubt.

That night he slept a dreamless sleep, beaten and out of choices.

And in the distance thunder rolled, the hot air cooled, the night turned cold.

The gum leaves rustled, turned their faces as the storm fronts wind outpaces

rain that fell vertically down to parched earths arms, dusty and brown;

as he slept on exhausted, soothed in sleep by spirit voices.

HEADING FOR THE CHOP

Heading for the Chop

Maureen Clifford ©  The Scribbly Bark Poet

It appears that sadly the time is coming when this beauty will be saying her goodbyes and it is with regret I have to say.  She is an old girl, grown spindly and leggy, who has a hissy fit every time the wind blows a bit harder than normal, and throws her branches down willy- nilly.  I am in fear for my neighbours chooks, whose grandiose villa rests beneath her shade.

I've tried taming this girl, had her pruned a few times at great cost, but she sprouts away again in rampant fury, and comes back taller and crankier than before.  I can see her ending her days mulched and scattered to feed her mates - those she outgrew and then selfishly robbed of light and nutriments. But she has had a kind side.  Her lacy leaves grow in abundance, the sheer weight of her greenery adding to the burden of her brittle boughs. She is resplendent in summer in her rich robes of green and purple.  She is truly a regal queen this old Jacaranda tree. When winter comes and she sheds her green garb, they supply a thick layer of mulch to the more tender and delicate plants growing in the understory where they have been protected from harsh rain and hail and hot sun by her leaves.

There were many days when I also took advantage of her shade.  Hours spent lazing, reading a book beneath her purple cape, but she took umbrage at my slothfulness and hurled a wooden spear in my direction.  I can no longer trust her to behave.

I wonder if she suspects that this winter will likely be the winter of her discontent.

LETS  PLANT  A  JACARANDA   
  Maureen Clifford  ©  The Scribbly Bark Poet

Life tends to go full circle, and I ‘m back here once again

after drifting forty years from town to town.

Driving past my old home, the one that we once shared

my Jacaranda I see wears her purple gown.

The purple blossom softly drifts across the lawn and walls

and creates a carpet shaded blue and green.

When  planted  as a sapling it was slender frail and small,

but now she’s beautiful, a regal Queen.

They say that life will always go full circle given time.

I lived here once with love and family.

But now that moments gone, kids have grown and loves moved on.

Feels like time to plant a Jacaranda tree.

Though I may not live long enough to sit beneath its shade

watching as purple blossoms softly fall.

Still my memories return across bridges now long burned

and forty years seems like no time at all.

So I’ll plant a Jacaranda tree tomorrow

Plant it gently, with my hopes and secret vows.

For memories are recalled as Jacaranda blossoms fall

‘neath the green and lacy canopy of boughs.

Delighted with this issue of TAT Poetry - thanks to my Poetry friends it is chock a block full of some great poetry and a fabulous front cover courtesy of Miss Grey Photographyhttp://www.theaustraliatimes.com/emagazines/poetry/issue211/