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 

 

PER ARDUA AD ASTRA – Through Adversity to the Stars

 

.  Per Ardua Ad Astra is the RAAF's motto and a literal translation, from the Latin, is: 'through adversity to the stars'.

 

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.

 

7.4.2025

AND THE LIVING WEEP .

 

AND THE LIVING WEEP ... Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBarkPoet

Beneath the dust and clutter

a constant chocolate stream of tears

washes cheeks.  You can hear

the sob and wail of a million voices

echoing around the world

from the mouths of

fragile, anxious, and frightened people.

Distraught and motherless children,

confused aged, heartbroken lovers,

the injured, the maimed, the broken.

 

Time has no meaning here.

No northern lights brighten the skies,

only shellbursts, and flames.

The music of the glaciers doesn't play here,

only the gurgle of water from broken pipes and mains

washing the mingled blood of mixed races

 down shattered gutters and into Mother Earth.

We bleed!  We bleed! ...

and still the living weep.

A YARD MADE OF MALLEE

 

A YARD MADE OF MALLEE ... Maureen Clifford © The #Scribbly Bark Poet

 She was hungry and penniless, not without means

though to cash in her chips meant some time at 'Devenes'

which was not what she wanted, but hell she could do it

although in later years doubtless she would rue it ...

It was just a job, just a small space in time.

It wouldn't define her nor mess with her mind

lest she let it, and knowing herself to be smart,

she gave up her dreams and let go of her heart.

 

A circle of diamonds her hand didn't wear

and no soft chiffon veil was attached to her hair,

and the gown she had cherished of parchment and gold

hung unworn in her cupboard, as sweet love turned cold.

And the web that once bound her was tattered and torn

though the babe she held in her was cherished and warm.

She could sell her soul dearly and clearly she must

It would be just a job and in none would she trust.

 

She cast her mind back to the sweet hills of home,

that she'd left many years back to go it alone.

She'd succumbed to the stories and sweet lies he fed,

enamored and captured by love's golden thread,

which she realized now was a tissue of lies,

but too late, she had fallen, from grace - and the prize

disappeared just as quickly. Ah well - such is life

and it wasn't the first time that she'd been in strife.

 

She felt the babe moving, a fluttery dance,

and somewhere she recalled that a second chance

was an option that everyone deserved Mum said

and she wondered if perhaps that entered her head

as a sign.  Should she risk it?  Should she make a call?

And again, that voice answered - "I won't let you fall"

So, she took up her courage and shrugged off her pride

and spoke to her mother.  They both laughed and cried.

 

There's a yard made of mallee out there in the west,

with acres of blue sky and folks know they're blessed

to live close to nature, working side by side

with a mutual respect that won't be denied.

Here the distant horizon is free of the taint

of the big city precincts.  A subtle restraint

which is calming and restful, lies over the land.

Here folks take the time to acknowledge God's hand

 

And painted in colours of parchment and gold

were the paddocks and wheat fields - a joy to behold,

where a little bloke rides on his grandfather’s knee

as he helps steer the tractor and shouts out in glee.

And two women sit watching both bursting with pride,

by a yard made of mallee.  A dog at their side

on the old front Verandah, beneath an old tree

that casts afternoon shadows from leaves feathery.

 

A LOSING BATTLE

 Australia's average land and sea temperatures have increased and continue to rise. Our rainfall patterns are changing and fire weather is increasing.

A LOSING BATTLE ... Maureen Clifford ©  The #ScribblyBarkPoet

 Now Thor the thunder god he smote his Anvil, and the sound

reverberated through the hills and gullies all around,

whilst clouds were tossed like fairy dust and scattered far and near and far

and jagged spears of lightning hurtled earthward, causing fear.

The birds were tossed like powder puffs their feathers all awry -

then those below trembled and cast their eyes towards the sky

 

A change in substance, felt by all, caused haste and worried frowns,

farmers were worried 'bout their crops, and in cities and towns,

commuters picked their pace up as they hurried to and fro.

Striation clouds were gathering - that forecasted a blow

The terrible twins had been and gone - all thought hope was in sight

but now precipitation warned that they'd get hail tonight

 

Some say it's greenhouse gases, others - they claim climate change.

Still more claim it's a cycle of the earth and nothing strange,

but those who are impacted and each day it seems there's more

whose lives and homes are threatened both on the sea and shore,

speak with one tongue of terror, how they all feared for their lives;

when nature threw down ice and sleet and stabbed with jagged knives.

 

Man thinks himself superior and also pretty smart.

Man's modified the crops we grow, ripped out the Mother's heart.

Exploded weapons 'cross the world, polluted streams and seas.

Managed to cause extinction in our wildlife and now bees.

Oh yes!  We are the smart ones - we are fuelled by power and greed

but the Mother she is smarter - we are fools ... we take no heed.

A DRIZMAL DAY

 

A DRIZMAL DAY ...

  Maureen Clifford © 

The #ScribblyBarkPoet

 

 

 

This morning, I awoke to a world wrapped in velvet

soft and grey ... a drizmal day,

where pregnant clouds still full of promise

hung heavy after the rain

and lowering clouds offered hope.

 

Scudding squalls turned

black bitumen ribbons and red dirt roads

into slick slippery dips

that caught the unwary

in maniacal maneuvers.

 

What happened to us?

Once we awoke wrapped in each other's arms,

speaking without words - love our silent companion.

But now we are tongue tied,

our broken pieces like fallen rose petals

decaying around what was once beautiful.

 

Jumping in puddles is no fun alone.

This morning, I awoke to a world wrapped in velvet

soft and grey ... a drizmal day.

 

 

 

A LITTLE SOUL GARDENING

 

Soul gardening is the practice of nurturing inner well-being, spiritual growth, and emotional health by treating one's life as a garden to be tended, often emphasizing mindfulness, slowing down, and connecting with nature

A LITTLE SOUL GARDENING - Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBarkPoet.

 

When we escape the narrow cage, pull up our roots

and head for that distant hill

old memories take a walk back in time.

 

We were never good at forecasting history,

we received to many mixed messages,

to many random thoughts,

and we unleashed pain daily onto our 'inner child'.

 

Music makes memories

but now that loving feeling has up and left,

and the music has stopped.

Perhaps in truth it was

for all that time merely an impersonator.

 

Things unknown await.

The sighing trees echo the sounds of my departing dreams.

The fallen garden leaves mimic my hopes -

 discarded from the old

but hopefully replenishing the new.

FHINA AND SAM

 

Fhina and Sam  ..  Maureen Clifford ©  The#ScribblyBarkPoet

 

 

Found in a cave ‘neath a willow’s bent roots,
a child lived with foxes, vermin farmers shoot.
Curled on the fleece of what was a prize lamb
a shepherd who heard his weak cries – named him Sam.

He wrapped the child up in a blanket of wool

and took him away to the town Warrnambool,

then raised him to be the son he never had

taught him his letters and taught good from bad.

 

Sam would remember his old fox lair home

always through life, in the bush he would roam.

Tom who had found him could understand why.

Sam had now become the apple of his eye.

Never to foxes did Sam raise a gun, for

reared as their cub he was their human son.

One vixen always came straight to his call.

One he called Fhina he loved best of all.

 

Fhina had fur flaming red like the sun.

Brush thick as bracken, and brown eyes that shone.

Fhina the fox was a huntress with flair

‘twas Fhina who’d carried Sam into her lair.

Sams hair in sunlight had a reddish sheen,

sometimes those early days seemed like a dream.

Always he held a great affinity

with all animals as anyone could see.

 

Fhina passed on, young Sam found her one day

curled at caves entrance – life had slipped away.

Gently he cradled her in his strong arms.

Buried her deep to keep her safe from harm.

Sam sat for a while staring at sky of blue

wondering now what he really should do.

Thought conservation would answer his call.

Veterinary science would let him help all.

 

 

 

Tom saw the wisdom, he would help the lad

always he’d given the best that he had.

Old now himself and with bones stiff and sore

here was a chance for one man to do more.

Decades have passed and old Tom now has gone.

Lies beside Fhina – placed there by his son.

On land now owned and managed by Sam,

his green paddocks home to the ewe and the lamb.

 

Sam’s known as ‘silver fox ‘– known all around

as a caring young vet who will travel from town 

out to your property, daytime or night.

Animal welfare is strong in his sight.

Sam’s flock has never been threatened by fox,

sometimes at night he sits there on the rocks

by Fhina‘s grave and the grave of old Tom

waiting in moonlight for fox cubs to come.

 

They play contented around old Sam’s feet.

Vixen has rubbed up against him to greet.

Sam has some leftover meat from his tea

and shares it with her beneath the old tree

that now shades the gravesite of Fhina and Tom

filtering sunlight through days hot and long.

There’s an affinity ‘tween fox and Sam

‘twas Fhina who saved him.  Tom made him a man

 

I OWE HIM LIFE

 In 2012 my son David rescued a turtle enmeshed in fishing line and rope.  I was never more proud of him, for he too spoke for the animals.  They have no voice but ours.

I OWE HIM LIFE .. Maureen Clifford ©  The #ScribblyBarkPoet

 

 

The world embraces green or so they claim.

But I am green no one embraces me

apart from Mother Earth who always has.

Her warmth nurtures my eggs. I swim her sea.

 

Around my neck are twisted fetters blue,

this dragging weight has cut into my flesh.

The trailing tendrils rob me of my strength

and threaten flailing flippers to enmesh.

 

I seek nothing other than to be free

to swim the ocean shores across the world.

Endangered I’ve become because of man

as his pollution through oceans has swirled.

 

Today a saviour cut loose my restraints.

At first I feared.  I saw the sharpened knife.

But soon the cursed ropes from me he cleared.

I know not who he is.  I owe him life.

FINDING PEACE.

 

FINDING PEACE.

Maureen Clifford  ©  The #ScribblyBarkPoet  

Listen to the Plover's call, sharp, raucous and alarming

those tiny birds with bravest hearts look so sweet and disarming.

They feign a broken wing to draw the predators away

from fragile nest with un-hatched eggs that in grass tussocks lay.

 

Beneath the harvest moon the dingo hunts with tawny mate.

Beware this hunter, fast of foot – a cur, who speculates

for just a moment fleeting as the curlew nest he spies,

 he knows full well they're armed with spurs – and knows to watch his eyes.

 

The steamy heat of summer days at nighttime cloaks the land

in stifling embrace.  No cooling breeze.  We understand

our country with its sunburnt plains and azure skies above.

Our country’s full of contrast – It’s a country that we love.

 

All by myself I sit and watch the land in contemplation,

in night-time stillness, far away from city conflagration.

No city malls, designer stores or sushi shops and bars.

Out here it's just the land and me, beneath a million stars.

 

The gentle murmur of the creek, the soft mutter of ewes.

The sharp staccato rattle of the stock horse’s hooves.

Majestic owl silently snatches small marsupial things.

His evening meal.  A hunter quiet - a stealth bomber on wings.

 

Here, five hours from the city lights at peace in my domain

without the fripperies. Most city folks would loudly claim

they are deprived – no phone, no I -Pod, all here’s quiet and calm.

The peace and the serenity – a soft and healing balm.

 

FERAL

 

FERAL … Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBarkPoet

 

He had a set of wicked horns – that topped his battered face

the sweep of them was wide and curved – he fought with no disgrace

and saw off the defeated with a bellow loud and long.

He pawed the earth with cloven hoof, still defiant and strong.

 

The young stud sad, defeated – lived to fight another day

his strength had been o’erridden by the tactics put in play

by the old bull who’d been round a while and knew a trick or two

to protect his herd, of usurpers he took quite a dim view.

 

But sad to say he had no chance when mustering time came.

He ran through scrub and gidgee with the helicopters aim

right upon him – driving him relentlessly into the clear

where the bull catchers were waiting – with their evil grasping gear.

 

One hit him in the left side hard enough to knock him down

where he tumbled in a cloud of dust skidding along the ground.

Dazed and tired to exhaustion – lolling tongue swollen by thirst

he had not the strength to get up and his heart beat fit to burst.

 

Two ringers then jumped on him – tied his legs with leather hide

sawed his horns off and then roped him to a pulley.  To a slide

they dragged his massive body to the waiting cattle truck

now his fate was sad decided – One scrub bull – right out of luck.

 

His life would soon be over – torture and sadness the game

he was beaten and downtrodden, his cunning they overcame.

He was trucked along with others to the meatworks in the town

and no doubt his final moments were not worthy of his crown.

 

Just one more captured for slaughter, just one for the killing floor.

Just a beast without a name who no one cared for – none there saw

in his eyes the fear and terror and none cared about his pain

he was one, just one of many that were part of our food chain.

 

 

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