The sound of silence is such a delight
As I sit and ponder and wait for a bite
I watch the sunset in all its glory
For a land that has an untold story
Of sailors, farmers who forged a path for us to follow.
I dips my lid to heroes untold
And wait to see the story unfold.
By Max Smith
Loathsome bloodsucker, vampire, oh
I do detest the mosquito.
Biting, stinging, I’m itching so
I do detest the mosquito.
…………
Late at night I hear her whine, oh
I do detest the mosquito.
She’s hard to see, but bites me so,
I do detest the mosquito.
………..
It’s not as if I’ve done her harm, oh
It’s hard to love the mosquito.
I don’t use Mortein or mozzie bombs, oh
It’s hard to love the mosquito.
…………
I’ve tried it all, cream, spray and rub, oh
I do not love the mosquito.
Eucalyptus mist, soothing gel aloe
I do not love the mosquito.
………….
So please little mozzie,
Let me be.
I’m red and lumpy and itchy you see.
I need a rest, a holiday,
So do me a favour fly away,
Oh, then I could love you mosquito.
Yes, then I could love you mosquito.
a day at the races
Teetering heels, thundering hooves
pink galahs in jockey colours, starting nerves
fascinators, orange, red, pink, fluorescent green
highly strung, horses and men, muscled and lean
pawing the sand, punching the air
cool water, cold beer.
Distorting PA, slurring speech
calls races in other states
emotions raw, thrills, loss and despair
winning, losing, dying, don’t care
whistling kite, cheering punter
warm hugs, a race down under.
Dancing girls, funky band,
keep to the beat, elbows, arms, hands
giants all, men and horses, sauna sweat
running, jumping, dancing, a bet
whistling train, fire cracker
men at work, land down under.
Queuing for coffee, laying low
eyes are open, brain is slow
plastic chairs, cups, plates, glasses all litter
showering, sitting, still sleeping, some fitter
starting engine, packing up tent
let’s do it next year, time well spent.
By Christine Smith
The softness of a dressing gown
Dyed in the hues of the desert
Suzanne, yes I did notice
Your nurturing hands releasing
Our survival kits to adventure
“Bon Voyage would-be Diggers”.
The Prison of Warwick weeps
Across lushness, green
Who invented the bars of exclusion?
Autumn leaves scatter with tourists roaming
That extra H of Hahndorf
Echoes the bells of Europe
The gulping of beer,
The ode to holidays
Tempts the thirst
Across hills of vineyards
As the Pen folds onto the
Chalice of Cab Sav and twisted sheets
Lutheran dreams and Hans Heysen landscapes
Where knarled Herbnick eyes gaze hollowed,
as the Cornish leave rugged cliffs for
Their burrows to copper as we
Would be Diggers are lulled by giant wind gods
While McCartney unplugged harmonises
With Ulolooloo, Orroroo and Wallaway hey hey,
Cupp’d or cocktails? Hey hey hey!
Yes, I am serious
The hub of the Flinders
Is not the Hawker of barking dogs and whinging toms
But Jeff Morgan’s palette of
Sharpened ridges and smokey grey ranges
Compared with undies drying on the dash
Framing a landscape
Is this the moon?
Roads forget their fences as
I breathe in wilderness
Brachina gorge collects 520 million
Years of existence as trees
Line the hills like Sydney bridge climbers
No wilderness
Back on track
The land flattens like a
Giant pancake to laughing skies
Red gibbers shine their tongues to
The ancestors of rivers and wind
Farina beckons an ancient oven
Of cream buns and
Hollowed corridors embrace ceilings of stars
A heart broken mother in the loss of your son
Beloved sons and daughters
This is the wilderness
The breath of the Outback.
Christine Smith
Legs of the desert
by Max Smith
Over the rolling sand dunes
In a land that’s deemed so harsh
With a band of intrepid travellers
That all came from Deans Marsh
Through grit and determination
And working as a team
The achievement of these people
Was something to be seen
From dodging rutting camels
And eating such hard cakes
The lifting of ones spirits
Is what this land doth make
While sitting round the camp fire
When all of us are at rest
The joy of meeting new faces
And being put to a test
Will always be a memory
Until I’m laid to rest.
May 2014
Poetry around the camp fire
I’m in the desert
The Simpson Desert
We’ve travelled many miles
I’m sitting in the sand
Red sand
Big red is in the distance
It seems it must be conquered
And conquer it we did
Clumps of grass and acacia dot the dunes
Flies annoy my eyes
The sky is blue and goes on forever
Horizon too seems far away
I gather up my sticks and play.
by Beryl Bush
Big Red Bit 