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.

IPSWICH - IT'S MY TOWN

… Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet ...

They worked because none wanted to play in the hunger games

and charity was thin and sparse they found.

They worked to bring earths riches to the daylight up above

and gleaned her wealth from deep beneath the ground.

The work was hot and dirty and every man was scarred

and every face was blackened when they surfaced in the yard

and every man and boy had calloused  hands  and arms as hard

as Ironbark, from pick and shovel work.

Here lives were caught between days long and nights of endless heat,

their days were spent in darkness underground

with nought  but just a carbide lamp to shed a gleam of light

and the endless ring of picks the only sound.

Railway Bridge over the Bremer

Beneath their feet were iron rails on which coal wagons ran,

a pit pony was in the shaft when each new shift began,

a padded cap on each small head to help avoid the pain

to furry heads bumping against rock ceilings.

The Rhonda Colliery at Ipswich had its share of these

small ponies with short thick legs like small trees,

though what they lacked in size they had in muscle so it seems

for they pulled the laden wagons with such ease.

And every pony had two men ministering to its needs,

two blokes who thought the world of their little valiant steed.

At knock off time each pony followed the one in the lead

up tunnels to daylight at the surface.

At times the Bremer River would have a hissy fit

and spread her muddy waters cross the town,

the brown and turgid waters would flood low lying shafts

Palais Hotel at Ipswich

in the Eclipse mine seven men were drowned.

The Bremer rose a foot an hour – rose more than thirty feet

it lapped the Palais balcony up there on Nicholas Street,

inundated the Railway station, man could not compete

with the floodwaters of 1893.

And now we still mine coal here but no longer underground.

The Rhondda colliery has long been gone,

and Aberdare and Prior’s Pit are merely names now heard

though few who hear them know where they belong

in the history of Ipswich, where our town is built on blood

of those hard men who defined us,  gave their lives to coal and flood,

and the Bremer still  can turn our red dust into viscid mud.

It’s a working town, it’s my town – this is Ipswich.

THE DILLADERRI TRYPTYCH

These are true stories - Dilladerri was our 2nd property and I named it for the tall timber there as the rough translation of that name is a place with a lot of tall timber. It carries mainly cypress but also a lot of Ironbark and Box which we cut and milled but very selectively. Just over 4000 acres with only the front 1000 acres ever cleared many years ago as it was originally a soldier’s settlement block, out the back of Texas/Inglewood. Because it was so secluded and you had to pass through 3 other properties to reach it - it was ideal for the Wildlife Land Trust who bought it.

http://www.wildlifelandtrust.org.au/ind... dilladerri

The property was originally known locally as Stone Fireplace as that was all that remained of an old hut built by Chinese prospectors who did have a gold mine on it. The old windlass was still over the shaft but there was no worthwhile gold there according to recent geological aerial surveys that were done. The area in its day did have gold taken from it but the discovery of rich gold fields in Gympie saw a rush of miners to that area and the gold fields throughout the Warwick, Stanthorpe and Inglewood areas were abandoned.

We had a caravan and a donga there and big machinery shed - bush style. It was a magical place. I wrote a lot of poetry about it – it was that kind of place – it moved one to write, sketch, or photograph it, and since writing was my thing – I did.

THE DILLADERRI TRYPTYCH

A PLACE TO HANG HIS HAT … Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet

‘twas miles away from nowhere but to somewhere was quite near,
a traprock block of shaly soil with history unclear.
That it was old was not in doubt - as old no doubt as time
and one time Chinese folk lived here – he’d found the old gold mine.

Along with stoppered bottles that now had opal sheen
and blackened kerosene tins where the ant-bed stove had been.
A pick head minus handle, plus a pan battered and worn,
a sluice for shale and gravel, which from upstream floods had torn.

A sudden shower of water, cold, had soaked him to the skin.
A drownpour unexpected, out of nowhere, caused a grin.
His Akubras brim poured water, in a steady downward stream
and mist rose o’er the paddock as hot soil turned rain to steam.

But everywhere around him there was beauty, there was peace
and up above two eagles soared. A skein of magpie geese
with honking cries were heading north in V formation, like
a well drilled air force squadron embarking out on a strike.

He thought this place would do quite well – a place to hang his hat.
His children’s children could run wild, unfettered and look at
the beauty nature offered in real life not on TV,
learn yesterdays old skills which he would teach them willingly.

He named it Dilladerri – from the language of the tribe
of Ancient ones who long ago in this place did reside.
A heavily timbered place was the translation of the name -
it was covered thick with cypress, good for timber not for grain.

And so it was – it came to pass –for a good while at least.
His hat hung on a hat rack in this place of blessed peace
until the winds came blowing through - his life to disarrange,
the land continued slumbering, oblivious to change.

POBBLEBONKING … Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet

Out past the first dam, just near the low hill

where the gums cast their shadows, and evenings are still

‘mongst the reeds and the rushes a sound can be heard

Bonk, plonk ,bonk,plonk -  is it frog or a bird?

His voice so insistent it echoes around

like a star picket being hammered into ground,

the evening concert is all he’ll attend,

my little star picket hammering friend.

I think technically he’s a Pobblebonk frog,

who hides in the mud or beneath a damp log,

where he feasts on the insects and grubs that abound

and hides very quickly if man comes around.

Some say Eastern Banjo is really his name

and like Banjo Paterson his claim to fame,

are his faithful renditions, delivered with spunk.

of a loud and explosive and resonant bonk.

At night when you’re drifting to sleep in the bush

you can hear my small mate in the night’s silent hush

calling to his mates in a demanding tone

‘I’m out here and bonking and I’m all alone.’

But soon the dark night’s serenaded with song.

There must be a hundred frogs bonking along.

And one hears an occasional sqwaaaaak as a snake

passes by and takes a frog as his dinner mate.

So just listen quietly, relax, close your eyes,

and be serenaded till morning’s sunrise.

As you drift off to sleep to the cacophony

of Pobblebonks bonking wherever they be.

https://soundcloud.com/maureen-clifford-scribblybark-poetry/pobblebonking-compr-file-129-mb-aaa

DILLADERRI DREAMING … Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet

Somewhere out in the country, somewhere out in the scrub

Is a block of land well hidden, far removed from prying eyes.

Whilst the track you need to find it, is rocky and quite rough

high above the wilderness the eagle flies.

No stock is running on it, unless you’re counting goat and pig.

In September when the wattle blooms it fills you with surprise.

For it’s just a rough scrub block, with Ironbark, Cyprus and wild Fig

but above this wilderness the Eagle flies.

This is 'Dilladerri ' dreaming in the warmth of summer sun

'neath a sky of azure blue and mare tails white.

It waits in isolation on a road where few do come

and holds a magic that enthrals in mornings light.

In its solitary splendour it has stood for many years,

where once bush was cleared it now is overgrown.

The feeble efforts made by man to tame its rampant growth

have been by nature mostly overthrown.

Its creeks are all dried up now; the water is long gone,

and in the manmade dams remaining water's low.

Strata soil is now eroded, by the harshness of the drought.

Up above the Eagle surveys all below.

This is 'Dilladerri' dreaming on a frosty winter morn

when a heavy mist is drifting through the bush.

And a wallaby or two with a mob of kangaroo

slowly graze on winter grasses without rush.

When the rains eventually fall, bringing greenness to it all

washing dust away from scrub, and bush and tree.

Filling dams and filling creeks, Spotted Marsh frog starts to speak

as earth regains her long lost vitality.

Little rills, become a trickle, joining up become a rush,

soon a brown and foamy torrent starts to flow.

And the sight of so much water, after years of drought or longer

is a wonder to behold, for those who know.

This is 'Dilladerri ' dreaming, as she’s once again reborn

as the water, precious water, soothes her heart.

Now she’ll rise in all her glory, no longer dry and careworn.

Joyful wedge-tail eagles soar a skyward path.

SKETCHES ON THE WALL

Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet

The grey and grainy texture showed faces from different times

though some things there were familiar to me.

I recognized the outline of the range of distant hills,

the gnarled twisted limbs of our old apple tree.

The photos showed a little boy in fancy pants and collar

with a sailors hat perched on his white blond hair.

A boy and dog together posing in their Sunday best

both spruced up a treat  - a much loved family pair.

The boy was my great uncle and the dog his faithful friend

who he often drew, which caused a bit of strife.

For his father thought that drawing was a sissy thing to do,

there’s no time for fripperies in farming life.

But the boy would never settle down to farming things and such

he planned to farm the world when he grew up.

He scribbled horses onto walls and drew on scraps of paper

and many, many times he sketched the pup.

And now, sitting here quietly with a fresh coffee in hand

and the scent of new mown grass around me drifting.

I turn the pages of his book and marvel at the drawings,

at their beauty and their style, truly uplifting.

Lorikeets, with plumage red and green, on nectar feasting

leap from the pages with such clarity

with every feather quite detailed, and every blossom drifting

downwards sketched with details  very clear to see .

But then I come across the sketch I really love the best

I have known it all my life - it’s an old friend.

An outline of a prancing horse, he scribbled on a wall

of the shearing shed, where still our sheep are penned.

And though we’ve never met in life – in spirit we are joined

and I feel his presence very close today .

I marvel at a talent that war cut short in its prime,

 leaving us with just photographs and sketches aged and grey.