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George Krokos Dec 2010
Aborigines and kangaroos
boomerangs and didjeridoos.
Leafy gum tree branch and koala bear
black stump in the middle of nowhere.
Jolly swagman camped by a billabong
in 'Waltzing Matilda' a favourite song.
The wild brumbies roaming free in the outback
a scruffy hobo living alone in a country shack.
Aboriginal myths called their dreamtime
the native Australians regard as sublime.
Ring-tailed possum and wombat
aussie bloke wearing akubra hat.
Alice Springs and Ayers Rock
outback stations and livestock.
Ned Kelly bushranger and his law brushes
the Eureka stockade during the gold rushes.
Laughing kookaburra and old man emu
platypus swimming in underwater view.
Banjo Patterson’s poem ‘The Man from Snowy River’
who went riding down mountain side without a quiver.
Surfers paradise and the Great Barrier reef
sixties rock ‘n roll legend: Johnny O’Keefe.
Anzac marches and the land of the Southern cross
old Cobb & Co. stagecoach used to travel across.
Glorious summer sunshine and winter rains
severe country drought and the desert plains.
Eucalyptus scent and Tea-tree oil
good health remedies from the soil.
Fresh water yabbies and the witchety grub
all make good tucker in the bush or scrub.
Crocodiles in the Kakadu national park
Burrumundi and the great white shark.
Sydney harbour bridge and the Opera House
Daintree rain forest and the kangaroo mouse.
Sheep wool farming and old shearing sheds
Melbourne Cup horse race for thoroughbreds.
Riverboat cruising up and down the Murray
passing border country towns not in a hurry.
Cradle mountain and the Tasmanian Devil
saying ‘fair dinkum’ means it’s on the level.
AFL rules football and big crowds at the MCG
playing one day cricket there is exciting to see.
The Fitzroy Gardens and Captain Cook’s cottage
are there for all to see as symbols of our heritage.
The Twelve Apostles standing along a rugged stretch of coast
a Ninety-Mile beach is something about which we can also boast.
The Glass House mountains are a sight to see and even to climb
by those who consider themselves fit enough and in their prime.
The great Australian Bight and the road on the Nullarbor plain
is a great feat to drive across and be able to come back again.
The local native wild dog known by name as the Dingo
has nothing to do with a game people play called Bingo.
There’s also a game called two-up that some people play
by which they gamble most of their weeks wages away.
Luna Park in St.Kilda and the annual Royal Melbourne Show
are places where you can take the kids to have fun people know.
There’s the local pub where you can go and have a drink with your mates
and is what many do all day long having a few too many in all the States.
This great southern land of Australia has so much to see and to offer
it would be a ****** shame if one didn’t give a **** or was a scoffer.
_________
Private Collection - written in 2002
Perig3e Aug 2010
Dare I say it,
The oasis,
More like a billabong,
Is love.
And every thirsty beast wants a drink.
The water hole is muddy and dangerous,
Nonetheless,
With mixed success,
Each will take their chances.
Some are killed outright
By a crouching tiger or hidden gator.
Others get a couple of quick sips
But are run off by fear.
And a lucky few
Drink deeply,
Sustaining them for years.
All rights reserved by the author
Oh there once was a swagman camped in the  billabong,
  Under the shade of a Coolabah tree;
And he sang as he looked at his old billy boiling
  "Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."

  Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
  Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

Down came a jumbuck to drink at the waterhole,
  Up jumped the swagman and grabbed him in glee;
And he sang as he stowed him away in his tucker-bag,
  "You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me."

  Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
  Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

Down came the squatter a-riding his thoroughbred;
  Down came policemen — one, two, and three.
"Whose is the jumbuck you've got in the tucker-bag?
  You'll come a-waltzing Matilda with we."

  Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
  Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag —
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.

But the swagman, he up and he jumped in the waterhole,
  Drowning himself by the Coolabah tree;
And his ghost may be heard as it sings in the billabong
  "Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me?"

  Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda, my darling.
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me.
  Waltzing Matilda and leading a water-bag.
    Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me
Ever still the billabong
As tranquill grasses move~
Seed falls from overhanging tree
In still water rings spread in circled groove~
Wider and yet wider still
A small duck has seen it all before~
As ripples travel out of sight
Till they don't exist there anymore~
No body will ever know on earth
That this seed in billabong it fell~
Forgotten soon under palest daytime moon
Those that saw it forgot as well~
Just a smallest frame of happening
In a second in a day~
Away out back in a billabong
But nature it will have its way~
So many of earths smallest things
Go un noticed in our time~
But to me this was as important as
And I felt should be put to rhyme~
All the tiny smallest little things
That happen every day~
Are to me as important as
Anything on earth that might occur here come what may~

Terrence Michael Sutton
Copyright 2007
though this sounds absurd
I do believe
I'm a bird
as many times
I've twittered a song
whilst perched in a tree
overlooking
a billabong
in the outback of austrailia lived a kangaroo a funny little chap and very happy too
one day when he was hopping merrily along suddenly he saw a little billabong
he stopped to take a look to see what he could see then he heard a noise from behind a tree
then out popped a wombat who had lost his way so behind the tree he thought that he would stay
jump in to my pouch said roo i will take you for a ride then the little wombat climbed his way inside
so back in to the outback off they both did roam  the wombat he was happy now he was going home
EOEO Mar 2011
The drunk is hanging still
from his father’s old shoelace
and the gentlemen are inside
below the starry billabong
hunching and flinching
and forgetting their prayers.

Cattle of darken faces stare at me
and all I see are diamonds
a dim reflection
of those sweet dreams
that belched a fire on a squall.

Her dark green eyes reminded me
of those few days the midnight shone
a moon clinging from her *******
and the leafed body that she wore
She told me to disappear
behind the prairie we both built
and then burned her luscious look
across the lamp lit afternoon.

A thrush died cowardly
and the soldier broke the rotten gun
well, no timber man could hold still
as the drunken old man drew on the wall
the memories of those born to kneel
before a pair of dark green eyes.

The blatant look stood astride me
but I could never felt a thing
so I dreamt of paradise
welling from the blazing riverside
And as the wind swelled cold
all I saw were her dark green eyes
–they dwindle swiftly to the night –.
I felt a dire shot
as the shoal of words I’d forgot
kindle the last midnight moon
and all I could do is sleep away
leave the pledging river to shine out
just before the aurora from her crown
shut down those dark green eyes.
Mike Essig May 2015
And the Band Played Waltzing Matilda**

When I was a young man I carried my pack
And I lived the free life of a rover
From the Murrays green basin to the dusty outback
I waltzed my Matilda all over
Then in nineteen fifteen my country said Son
It's time to stop rambling 'cause there's work to be done
So they gave me a tin hat and they gave me a gun
And they sent me away to the war
And the band played Waltzing Matilda
As we sailed away from the quay
And amidst all the tears and the shouts and the cheers
We sailed off to Gallipoli

How well I remember that terrible day
How the blood stained the sand and the water
And how in that hell that they called Suvla Bay
We were butchered like lambs at the slaughter
Johnny Turk he was ready, he primed himself well
He chased us with bullets, he rained us with shells
And in five minutes flat he'd blown us all to hell
Nearly blew us right back to Australia
But the band played Waltzing Matilda
As we stopped to bury our slain
We buried ours and the Turks buried theirs
Then we started all over again

Now those that were left, well we tried to survive
In a mad world of blood, death and fire
And for ten weary weeks I kept myself alive
But around me the corpses piled higher
Then a big Turkish shell knocked me **** over ***
And when I woke up in my hospital bed
And saw what it had done, I wished I was dead
Never knew there were worse things than dying
For no more I'll go waltzing Matilda
All around the green bush far and near
For to **** tent and pegs, a man needs two legs
No more waltzing Matilda for me

So they collected the cripples, the wounded, the maimed
And they shipped us back home to Australia
The armless, the legless, the blind, the insane
Those proud wounded heroes of Suvla
And as our ship pulled into Circular Quay
I looked at the place where my legs used to be
And thank Christ there was nobody waiting for me
To grieve and to mourn and to pity
And the band played Waltzing Matilda
As they carried us down the gangway
But nobody cheered, they just stood and stared
Then turned all their faces away

And now every April I sit on my porch
And I watch the parade pass before me
And I watch my old comrades, how proudly they march
Reliving old dreams of past glory
And the old men march slowly, all bent, stiff and sore
The forgotten heroes from a forgotten war
And the young people ask, "What are they marching for?"
And I ask myself the same question
And the band plays Waltzing Matilda
And the old men answer to the call
But year after year their numbers get fewer
Some day no one will march there at all

Waltzing Matilda, Waltzing Matilda
Who'll come a-waltzing Matilda with me
And their ghosts may be heard as you pass the Billabong
Who'll come-a-waltzing Matilda with me?
Best song about war. Listen to the Pogues' version.
Ashish Gupta Jan 2013
Demons of my past come and throng
My mind; query me of dreams forlorn:
“Isn't dwelling on redemption for the strong?”
But, I am a leaf on a rambunctious river, I reply,
My purpose is forever to be moving on.

Swept by wild winds off my grip on the tree,
Splash! Fallen! pressed on to the edge of me.
Flowing by, flowers and thorns, since I begun,
And though the current often swept me under,
I've always re-surfaced to look upon the Sun.

“But, life off the tree lacks meaning, dead wrong!”
“You may get swept to the wide open sea,
Or you might get struck in a forgotten billabong.”
Yes! Though perilous the Jungle may be
to the lone. I am still alive, and finally, forever me.
Copyright (c) 2013 Ashish Gupta
CC BY-NC-ND 3.0, www.ashishgupta.biz
in the outback of austrailia lived a kangaroo.
a funny little chap and very happy too
one day when he was hopping merrily along.
suddenly he saw a little billabong.

he stopped to take a look to see what he could see.
then he heard a noise from behind a tree
out popped a little wombat who had lost his way.
so behind the tree he thought that he would stay.

jump in to my pouch said roo i will take you for a ride.
then the little wombat climbed his way inside
so back in to the outback off they both did roam.
  the wombat he was happy now he was going home
David Nov 2014
Let's master the pipeline
Billabong brands my chest
Let me ride my dreams
On my board and your *******.
No plans past tomorrow
Gonna live loud today
Put on that wet suit
And let's make love to the waves.
betterdays Apr 2014
some days
the bunyip
comes
to
rip
tear
and rend
the
dreams
from
your
flesh
and
the
flesh
from
your
soul

somedays
the bunyip
just
comes
and takes
you whole

but most days
he sleeps
in the billabong
everdeep
in the stolen
lives he
has chosen
to keep.
napowrimo day 2
write a poem about
a non creco roman myth.

the bunyip, according to some dreamtime stories
came to take loved ones
in it ferocious jaws back
to the depths of  water places.
betterdays May 2014
for some reason,
unnown yet
i am sitting here
hot coffee in hand
transfixed by the
memory of a day
lifetimes ago.....

when i took a wrong turn
seeking a small town... and
a cobbler of  soft leather shoes...
instead i found myself
on a bush track, far too
narrow to turn my combi
van around
forced to travel on...
getting further and further
along

until, abruptly the track widened
and the most gorgeous vista
appeared
green grass, sedges and spinfex in waves,
led down to a billabong, eucalypt gums,
ghost and red,
large in size and old in years
dotted the irregular,
ameboic shape

and the water,
so clear, so clear, so clear
reflecting the cloud dusted sky,

to one side the face of a gorge, ochre red rusted
crazed weith black cracks
and green whiskery growths,
on which rock wallabies fed.
unafraid of the big lemoned
wedged combi, who sat
monolithically in their environs.

as  i disembarked,
up from the grass thicket, one thousand and one (i counted) budgerigars alight and took to the wing,
in a swirling mass of
god's whimsical glory.
the sound, a deafening
chirk-chatter and whoosh
as they, in sychron,
wheeled and turned flew over my head and back into  the bush.

needless to say, i never bothered to buy those soft
leather shoes.....
i stayed there for the whole
weekend... driving back to my job as a bank clerk at 4am on the monday morning....
they next time i got to go that way.. the track had grown over....as it should have.. that place was too pure to have me and the world destroy it...
but it is one of my most vivid memories. and come to comfort and inspire rarely but wonderfully....
Kevin Kennie Nov 2014
Down among the Zed men, lay a little lullaby,
Waiting to be sung; by the children of the sea.
And waiting in the billabong with a feather helmet on,
Was Willie of the three hearts, to see what he could see.

‘Well, lookie here’, said Willie, when he saw the little lullaby,
‘Who left you to lie around, unwanted and unsung?’
‘Bad boys, mad boys, they left me here to waste away,
Won’t you to take me across the sea, to shores far flung?’

So, Willie picked up lullaby and put him in his little sack.
‘I’d better take you home my love, it’s time for tea’.
‘Oh thank you” said the sweet refrain” I will be your friend,
For you have saved me from my fate, as well as you can see’.

So! Off they went with merry step, to find the way to *******’ home
And soon they heard the calling voice of Willie’s faithful mum.

‘Hello lad, where’ve you been now and who is that you’re carrying?’
You’ve both arrived in time for supper, jellied wasps and roses, and cream.
An hour later warm and fed, soft lullaby wished them many thanks

‘Think nothing of it’, said Willie’s mum, pouring another cup of steam
‘Come on said Willie, Let’s light a fire
Well lullaby, so happy now, living with his special friends,
Laid a spell upon them both and gave them the eternal dream.
This is how they dream,

Fairy cakes and shaggy dogs

        Washing lines and rainy days

                   Hammers, nails and rusty iron

                             Pretty dolls and mornings in May
Clouds that look like Ships of the line

Leviathan whales and teapot cosies

Skipping children and Waterfalls

Thunderstorms and sweet little posies


                                          Blues and reds and pinks and greens and

Black and red and black and blue and black and blue and black and blue...

Sweet dreams,

Remember,

                   Lullabies are forever.
James Court Apr 2018
There once was a codger from Sydney
who said, 'That bloke stole my sheep, didn' 'e!'
He chased him to Illawong,
pushed him in a billabong,
and stabbed him twelve times in the kidney.
J Fletcher Jun 2018
Life is a Bi-ach
Not a beach

Bring your mi-ti
Don't preach

Sing a song
Dream of Billabong

Corona and cabanas
Life is bananas
Shayla V Jul 2023
Idling in a wedding gown,
white on white skin reflecting in its paleness
the filth of what has been
and what is to be.
Slips of fabric tease hard lines of shoulder,
a wispy, hyaline veil cascades in reverence
about honeyed curls
and through the curtain, his lashes flutter
a boyish acquiesce.

Fruit trees sprout on the petticoats of the billabong:
desert figs and passionfruit
and currants thick with black flesh
who peel themselves back
to tumble into his wide-open mouth.

Tulle and silk bunch around his knees
soaking in juices from the feast.
Eyelids lower over two blissed out
messy half-moons,
while drool or puke or juice
drivel down his chin
in uneven, marbled strings.
[01-2020]

— The End —