CHERRY BLOSSOM

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CHERRY BLOSSOM TIME

Maureen Clifford ©  The#ScribblyBarkPoet

 

 

 

Cherry Blossoms bloom in contrast to dark pines against the sky.

Like flouncing petticoats they froth, white, red and pink.

A vision splendid they appear to jaded western eyes.

To their beauty one should raise a glass and drink.

 

There is a simple bamboo bench that just begs one - come and sit

and note reflections in the lakes cool glassy stare.

A rhythmic clack from near the water – the Shishi Odoshis song

though today it seems there are no deer to scare.

 

Then a heron white and elegant glides by as herons do

and he lands beside a sweetly running stream,

where the rushing sparkling waters travel on without a care

and in the peacefulness, there's time to rest and dream.

 

A path meanders nonchalant across a wooden bridge,

over water where some Mandarin ducks glide.

Widening ripples in the water slowly lap against the banks,

getting smaller, smaller, smaller - then subside.

 

Above festooned in blossoms white, I hear a small bird sing

his sweet aria suspended on the air.

Softly on gentle breezes one can hear temple bells ring

calling the faithful.  Now is the time for prayer.

 

On the bank beside the stream an artist sits to contemplate

with easel and oils and paper at the ready.

As she surveys so much beauty what will tempt her palette -

will her choice be good and will her hand be steady?

 

My choice would be the Cherry blossoms, contrasting with dark pines.

Flouncing and frothing - in colours soft.  White, red and pink.

            A vision splendid they appear to our jaded western eyes.

I toast the Cherry Blossom of Japan, and drink.

 

Kampai!

 

 

Maureen Clifford ©  05/10

  

 here is the poem I wrote for our Village ANZAC Day service. Per Ardua Ad Astra is the RAAF's motto and a literal translation, from the Latin, is: 'through adversity to the stars'.  

Villers-Bretonneux, France, is over 17,000 km from Perth, Australia, representing a profound distance between home and the WWI Western Front.

 PER ARDUA AD ASTRA – Through Adversity to the Stars Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBarkPoet

 “Why are you here midst the legions of dead and why are you crying?” the young soldier said …

 I saw but a shadow from out of my eye - there was no one there but I gave my reply.

 “My tears are for parents who’ve lost a loved son, for sweethearts and friends who now have no one 

to share with the memories of younger years, to talk to, confide in and share hopes and fears.

 My tears are for children that will not be born, who’ll never take breath nor celebrate dawn. 

A whole generation lost. We can’t repay the sacrifice they made. It’s for them I pray.”

 I said that my tears were for all of mankind, for a world that had changed, the blind leading the blind.

 A world where compassion seemed in short supply, where hatred and war, common sense did deny.

 Where prejudice festered, where discontent reigned. Countries blamed each other, landscapes were bloodstained.

Life had little value when caught in war’s maw. With innocents slaughtered – I asked, “And what for?”

 I heard him sigh softly and gently he said. “O’er centuries men fought, then buried their dead.

 And time’s taught us nothing, and I doubt it will. We all pray for peace but continue to kill.

 I’m one of its victims – I died all alone, and lie here in red dirt, far, far from my home.

 All the tears of a nation will never atone. I’m known only to God – hence my nameless gravestone.

 This is my resting place and here I rest For king and country, I gave of my best

 Loved ones back home have now all left this earth. Villers-Bretonneux is a long way from Perth.”

 He faded away. In his eyes I saw tears. His voice sadly whispered the truth of the years.

 I sat and reflected amongst legions of dead on how we and the world dishonoured their bloodshed. 

We have to do better – there’s no time to wait. Say no to violence, do not embrace hate.

 Pay homage on ANZAC Day – honour our dead… but fight for the living and world peace instead.

IN YPERS FIELDS

 

IN YPRES FIELDS …  Maureen Clifford ©  The #ScribblyBarkPoet

 The stinking mud, the rats, the flies,

all shaded in a drab grey hue,

as deadly gas contaminates.

the battlefields whilst drifting through.

A yellow cloud that covers all

a different shade indeed from grey.

It burned the skin and sent men blind.

None were immune …the gas held sway.

A sea of mud, with shell holes filled

with stinking water, filth and slime

Three years of shelling claiming back

the swamplands that man had defined

as farmland once – alas, no more

it swallowed men and horses too,

sucking them into its quagmire.

to quickly disappear from view.

 

The guns were stilled, birds once more sang –

one felt the land was gathering

her thoughts once more - it seemed unreal

to have sweet silence quietly steal

into the day, after such rage.

 Though time itself would not assuage

the memories of that damned war

that destroyed thousands in its maw.

 

An eerie silence crossed the land.

The western front guns ceased their fire.

Recalled at the eleventh hour.

Reprieve for those men in the mire.

The cost of war is far too high,

for thirteen million lives were lost.

Sixty-two thousand Aussies died

and still today – we count the cost.

On Flanders fields the poppies grew

in Belgian soil churned up by war

‘nourished by blood’ the soldiers claimed.

A thought that was hard to ignore.

The mother took them to her heart,

 and covered them with sheets of green

and o’er their bodies poppies bloomed -

remembrance of that war obscene.

 

Now every year around the world,

as nations flags fly proud, unfurled.

Red poppies decorate the scene

reminding us of what has been.

But sad to say, no lessons learnt

for still by wars nations are burnt,

until again weapons are stilled

and nations mourn those they have killed.

 

 

17.03.2026

 

Rose Coloured Glasses

Maureen Clifford The Scribbly Bark Poet

Maureen Clifford The Scribbly Bark Poet

Published Sep 3, 2015

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Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBark Poet

 

Beneath swirling clouds

the curved angles under the bridge

 can be seen reflected

 in the pewter coloured water

flowing on its journey to the coast.

At the riverside café

people sit chattering amongst themselves

 enjoying coffee and cake,

glasses of sangria and white wine -

whilst seagulls peck amongst cluttered surfaces

searching for sustenance

on uncleared tables. 

 Shades of Grey 

Maureen Clifford ©
The Scribbly Bark Poet



Until the end of time she knew her heart would still return
back to where her love child was created.
It mattered not if fetters held her now against her will.
It mattered not if she no longer heard the whippoorwill
or rested ‘neath the shade of Ironbarks high upon a hill
she knew that union was by Gods feted.

She’d live her days in this new place - the work was not so hard
at least she received kindness and respect
and soon all thoughts of escape seemed to leave her troubled mind
no longer did she plan to leave, for here she found life kind,
no worries about food or drink and those she’d left behind
she could in truth no longer recollect.

Except for one. She thought of him on nights moonlit and clear
when shadows shifted soundless in the breeze.
She thought then of the son she’d born just as day was dawning
when wraiths of grey mist cloaked the hills, in retreat as the morning
sent gold sunbeams to warm her foal, the brand new day adoring,
until the stockwhips echoed through the trees.

He galloped close beside her over snow gums over creeks.
His smoke grey hide was lathered in a sweat.
She couldn’t cut and run for he would never stand the pace,
she slowed to keep him near her, letting the other mares race
in a mad dash for freedom. It was not her time or place.
She was captured. No time then for regret.

They were part of the brumby cull though that they didn’t know.
Too many horses running wild and free
in national parks across the land – a hard hoofed equine band
destroying habitat ‘twas claimed and compacting the land.
Removal was the answer, and the cure...cull and be damned.
A single shot had bought him to his knees.

STOLEN

 

Alzheimer's disease is an absolute curse - one that is impacting my family every day.

STOLEN …. Maureen Clifford ©  The #ScribblyBarkPoet

 

Steal away, when did you steal away –

was it faeries came and stole you from our hearth?

Steal away, we watch you steal away

and there’s nothing seems to stop it when it starts.

Now we watch and fear for a sister held dear

The one that we have always loved and known

We watch her steal away, no way to make her stay

as this cursed disease has now its colours shown.

 

She slowly steals away, we see it day by day

Outwardly she just simply looks the same.

But her words now fade she finds it hard to say

what is on her mind, even her loved ones name.

Family fear for her, we love her.  We endure,

and try to hold to our reality

She’ll never need us more – this woman we adore

who’s been stolen … an unwilling detainee.

 

28.8.23

BILL AND THE BRUMBY

 

BILL AND THE BRUMBY ... Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBarkPoet

 He planned to be a cowboy - it had been his long-held dream,

he knew he would be happy with the life
and lifestyle - all he wanted was to make a move out west
away from city streets and big town strife.

 

He'd grown up reading westerns, and watched cowboy movies too,
he hankered for the lifestyle of the west.
He owned a few Akubras and a well-worn Driza-bone
he thought that he could cut it with the best.
He'd been down to the Gold Coast and he'd shelled a few bucks out
to see the Aussie Outback ANZAC show,
and had admired the horsemanship, the true stories reborn,
where death defying stunts were all the go.

 

So, he chased up Bush Recruitment to see what was out there...
they had a Jackaroos job yet to fill -
it was at Borroloola in the Territory they said -
was he interested? " Bloody Oath!" said Bill.
"You'll have to ride a horse and be keen to learn new jobs,
the bed and tucker's all part of the deal
for the male stockmen only - it's an isolated life,
but a good one." "Good-oh! Count me in,” cried Bill.

The first day on the job the boss took Bill to meet the blokes
he'd be working with - they were a motley crew.
Laconic, laid back, lanky larrikins without a doubt
all set to teach the new chum what to do.

That pony that they gave him was a plugger – placid, tame
and the fire had long departed from his soul,
Bill needed one with spirit, something curbed by snaffle rein ...
a stallion, an entire, hale and whole.

 So, they found for him a brumby one whose mettle was not curbed

and they told him ‘do not use the whip or spur’
but the cocky would-be jackaroo claimed this he had not heard
and never yet was mountain horse a cur.

They bought his stock horse over - he was saddled, right to go,
'bout fifteen hands, a lean and rangy bay
who 'd done the job for so long he could do it in his sleep
direction wasn't needed now - no way.

 

 

So he touched his spurs to flea bit hide and slapped the beamy rump,
the brumby gave an ear twitch and a nod,
Bill spurred a little harder and the brumby walked on out
'twas hardly brisk - it was more of a plod.
Dissatisfied, Bill dug in deep - he' d show them he could ride
the brumby flicked its tail and humped its back
erupting like a starburst on a bloody cracker night,
a sun fisher, now in full blown attack.

 

The stockmen whooped and hollered, the boss just stood and grinned
at Billy pulling leather as he plunged.
The brumby was an arm jerker, a tough and hardy beast
whose sole aim was to see young Bill expunged.
One more twist ... Bill began to fall ... waving his arms about,
then out the back door Billy was ejected.
The brumby stopped and looked at him, and slowly sauntered over
the look upon his face was quite dejected.

 

Bill planned to be a cowboy - 'twas his dream to work the land,
he'd learnt his first good lesson here today...
you treat your horses with respect - you're all on the same team.
Treat them with kindness - they'll meet you halfway.

 

***ARTWORK BY Frank Mahoney 1898