"drover" poems
I had written him a letter which I had, for want of better
Knowledge, sent to where I met him down the Lachlan, years ago,
He was shearing when I knew him, so I sent the letter to him,
Just "on spec", addressed as follows, "Clancy, of The Overflow".
And an answer came directed in a writing unexpected,
(And I think the same was written with a thumb-nail dipped in tar)
Twas his shearing mate who wrote it, and verbatim I will quote it:
"Clancy's gone to Queensland droving, and we don't know where he are."
In my wild erratic fancy visions come to me of Clancy
Gone a-droving "down the Cooper" where the Western drovers go;
As the stock are slowly stringing, Clancy rides behind them singing,
For the drover's life has pleasures that the townsfolk never know.
And the bush hath friends to meet him, and their kindly voices greet him
In the murmur of the breezes and the river on its bars,
And he sees the vision splendid of the sunlit plains extended,
And at night the wond'rous glory of the everlasting stars.
I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, ***** city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all
And in place of lowing cattle, I can hear the fiendish rattle
Of the tramways and the buses making hurry down the street,
And the language uninviting of the gutter children fighting,
Comes fitfully and faintly through the ceaseless ***** of feet.
And the hurrying people daunt me, and their pallid faces haunt me
As they shoulder one another in their rush and nervous haste,
With their eager eyes and greedy, and their stunted forms and weedy,
For townsfolk have no time to grow, they have no time to waste.
And I somehow rather fancy that I'd like to change with Clancy,
Like to take a turn at droving where the seasons come and go,
While he faced the round eternal of the cash-book and the journal —
But I doubt he'd suit the office, Clancy, of "The Overflow".
3.7k
I sit and watch a camel train go by and as it limps across the pale blue sky,shrouded in the clouds,I wonder if I could get upon a camels back and track along,could I learn the camel drover’s song?
A ditty,not so pretty,more a humpalong than any song I’ve ever heard with words that I can’t understand,though familiar in the camels land up in the sky,
Where I watch them going by.
Hip ,hop, clop, clump being a camel gives me the hump,how I wish to be a fish deep in the sea,like a whale.
I like a scale,a doh, ray, me,as far as I can see I’ll be a camel all my days and wander through a desert haze but my gaze is fixed as I roam free, on a cool and clear deep ocean sea.
Once,
I was a little thing until I grew and learnt to sing and now I don’t know anything,except
I want to be free,a fish in the sea,won’t some kind body please untie me,slip the noose and then un-sky me,set me on the coastal road,with my hump,without my load and let me smell the ocean breeze and slip into those lovely seas.
I want to be free and this you can see,before the clouds all break apart and with them goes my breaking heart and you could at least pretend to start to set me free.
Sep 16, 2013
Sep 16, 2013 at 6:11 AM UTC
Across the road
A J-K girl,
Skipped and laughed
On her way to school.
She was strapped
To a big back-pack,
Looking like
A pink pack mule.
Behind her strove
Her drover,
Directing her to quarry
All the stones of learning.
By three o'clock
My minature mule,
A little slower
Trudged from school.
The pack was filled
With rules and tools.
She had panned
The ores of knowledge;
She'll assay them
In days to follow.
Each day my mule
Will turn the grindstone,
Crunching numbers,
Sifting fine poems.
She's mining all the hidden gems
To fill her back-pack
Once again.
Sep 9, 2015
Sep 9, 2015 at 9:54 AM UTC
down south you forget the ripening leaves
and chilly mornings of bright october
no matter for redly a dying time grieves
sunlight on water fair smiling deceives
at dawn the frost shone hard on grass and clover
down south you forget the ripening leaves
yet clock there remains the swiftest of thieves
treating the same way both stayer and rover
no matter for redly a dying time grieves
telling each young one that what he believes
is false never true and patience is over
down south you forget the ripening leaves
slowly to slaughter we marched off the beeves
a suitable task for the youthful drover
no matter how redly a dying time grieves
the adult must measure how much he achieves
in calm acquiescence knowingly sober
down south you forget the ripening leaves
no matter how redly a dying time grieves
Feb 24, 2010
Feb 24, 2010 at 3:46 AM UTC
Time doesn't exist
but for mankind's presence
it's amoral, heartless and nonchalant
though it doesn't utter a single sentence.
Wielding a whip over everyone's head
like a cattle-drover
none would it leave alone
it's a bully and a dictator.
The day is bleeding
men and women are in frenzy
work must be done--deals must go through-
everyone needs the money
too eager to push a competitor down
it's survival of the fittest
it's a jungle out there
pity the weakest.
Many would be the day's losers
hopes will be dashed, tears will flow
hearts will be broken, promises unfulfilled
that's the way the world does go.
This is the bleeding of day
and a heavy toll it has taken on so many
the evening and night offer little rest or comfort
while time is watching without the slightest sympathy.
Feb 18, 2016
Feb 18, 2016 at 1:28 AM UTC
a drover rolled a smoke
under a shady gum tree
while the herd of Angus cattle
supped at the creek
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 9:23 PM UTC
I heard the coyote cry
lonesome sound
& the fire crackle
imaginary harmonica,
telling lies about peace.
There is no law out here,
out here on the prairie,
moving doggies,
where men die
with red-eye whiskey
broken dreams.
May 10, 2014
May 10, 2014 at 12:21 AM UTC
When what's in the the mirror is satisfying
When what's in a head is finished growing
When what the tongue does is mostly lying
It's better off to just get going
When the palms have callused over
When the billfold is filled completely
When the lifestyle is of a drover
Nothing ever tastes as sweetly
Feb 25, 2014
Feb 25, 2014 at 12:39 AM UTC
Hear the voice of the speaker
Does it sound like a drover
Be ready to out-manoeuvre
And join the out-sider
A lot of lesson’s learner
Do you have an honest teacher?
Deterrents handed down from nurturer
Knowledge taught by academic master
As a youth thats your understructure
Additional conversations provide an idea
Helps construct a future vision
As we ‘re living dreams of ancestry’s generation
Of accomplished objectives and vocation
We are evolutionary foundation from inspiration
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 5:22 PM UTC
the drover sat on a log
neath the shade of the gum trees
he partook of a water
from his old quart ***
Oct 7, 2013
Oct 7, 2013 at 6:05 AM UTC
the drover sat neath a tree
he partook of a cool drink
as the cattle did lightly graze
on green pasture pick
May 7, 2014
May 7, 2014 at 8:07 AM UTC