"gritty" poems
Three Minute Warning
A messenger delivers
A three minute warning
As I lay in bed at 10:30 am
(Resting in preparation for,
not from, our oops, early morning hike).
Breakfast will be ready in 3,
Get your **** in gear or else
It will be cold, I'll be mad,
And you will answer to a
Higher Authority.
No problem cause I already know
All I need is two.
Splash water on my face
Now I'm presentable
enough to the human race,
current company probably won't be happy,
But I ain't telling her, are you?
Shave! You crazed?
It is a three day weekend,
Every day a July Fourth,
Celebrating freedom from the European tyranny,
Of shaving smooth every day!
Splash water on my head, count with me,
Five brush strokes as you can plainly see
Is a classic case of overcompensating
In my geling n' hair stylin'
Brush my teeth, well,
I hope 2 full minutes of rinsing with CVS
Green stuff, mouthwash, will have to suffice.
Blast my deodorant both sides,
Long and strong, wearin' now
My bold blue *** husk of musk,
Cause I am a very considerate fellow
Who happens to really have stunk.
Clean T- shirt and shorts,
Yes, clean underwear too,
Leaves me a whole minute to write this scribble.
My flip flop noises coming down the hallway,
Are the butler announcing our joint arrival,
Me and my poem.
Lest you think this is paean to men
Another grand male boast,
Be advised this ditty be writty
By a man who, while no longer gritty,
Just put jelly on his scrambled eggs
And ketchup on his toast!
Mmmmmmm there might be a poem
Lurking in that too...
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 11:50 AM UTC
Guess what day it is
That's right! It's Sunday!
That fun day of the week
That's very very unique
I can finally let my lustful fantasies loose
Basically today I can be a freak.
So let's down to the nitty gritty
What shall I lick first? Lips or T-ties?
Shall I kiss you gently? Teasing you all the while?
Or shall we jump to the chase
And we make love while you're wetter than the Nile?
What position first? Missionary or doggy style?
Or maybe something crazy
We haven't done this in awhile
Or maybe we can take notes
From a book called the Kama Sutra
Believe me, there's a lot of ways I wanna do ya
Sep 13, 2015
Sep 13, 2015 at 8:47 PM UTC
I see you, monster...
In your sockets bore dead, dark eyes
They hold the blackest of stares
Nebulous swirling pits of demise
Thin lips would spout the most sibilant of hisses
Every so often would curl into a snarl
Dry and chapped, almost unworthy of kisses
Large, rough snout, jutting out like a crag
You sniff around tirelessly for easy targets
Preying on the unsuspecting minds of those under your flag
Tapering chin, sprouting strands of coarse hair
Unkempt and gritty from your last meal
Decaying teeth, crooked due to little to no care
Your face is cratered; tales of trying adolescent years
Wearing a face only a mother could love
Expressionless but it screams out your fears
Ugly jointed limbs that grew out of sync
Disproportionate, misshapen, grotesque
Little noggin with sparse hair, packed within, a brain that thinks
I hear you, monster...
As you stalk your sleepless nights
Nocturnal ambience be your playground
Lurking in the dark; places with no light
Bulky, heavy feet but deft and silent
Can barely notice when you're up and about
As if cloaked yourself stealthy, with steps ever transient
Respire you do, exhaling breaths so gnarly
Ingesting good air, converting into fervid, loathsome notions
With which you paint a portrait so ghastly
I feel you monster...
Deep within the recesses of my heart
Destroying and distorting all that was pure
Testing my will till I should fall apart
You're but the twisted manifestation of conscience
Feeding on my trials and nurturing them into vile abominations
I despise that of you but I seem to have developed dependence
I see you, monster...
You're horrid and beastly, an embodiment of absolute horror
I await the day that you would finally dissolve
For I am weary of seeing you staring back in the mirror
Sep 18, 2014
Sep 18, 2014 at 9:23 PM UTC
***That Night by the ocean
The waves sung me a lullaby
Of palm tree silhouettes
And tropical sunsets
Of singing waves
And gritty white sand
Of lemonade sipped on the shore
Of nocturnal ukuleles singing a melody
Of sandy flip-flops left on the sand
Of little ocean seashells
And ocean treasures beneath the waves
Of hibiscus blossoms in bloom
Of tropical fruits
Of salty breezes stirring my brown hair
Of tropical Nights
And on and on their lullaby went
And hushed me to sleep***
~Marian~
Jul 12, 2013
Jul 12, 2013 at 6:15 PM UTC
Songs of Oregon: No. 1 “Gonna Make You Crazy, That Place”
nuts, crazy peeps
whomever wherever,
regardless of race creed color or gender (did I get ‘em all?)
current state of residence (geo-identified)
a poem - the very same recited,
as a disclaimer, a yellow finger wagging warning:
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
now kids, I’m a veteran of foreign travel,
many continents, cold and hot, rivers and seas,
some living, some dead,
some so big they named it Endless,
been to the great cities, Swiss villages,
pyramids, climbed Masada,
danced on grapes (why can’t I recall where)
skied the Alps, trekked the Sinai Desert,
clubbed in Rio, and danced till morn,
on a certain Greek Isle that rhymes with Mickey’s Nose
even been to L.A and San Fran, left poorer
but in sync,
always came home
with my mind decently reshaped
me/ a product of gritty unpretty grime,
streets of normal humans
acting like normal escaped mad persons,
this brutal city island instilled a
layer of fat and smog neath my skin,
a kind of migrating duck-like survival kit,
came with a homing beacon included
the those of you who know me,
perhaps too well, ken we citified islanders
love our beaches (fire hydrants)
cherish our sun dappled blessings
upon on farms (window sill herb gardens)
and sunning settlements (rooftops)
they say our tap water is secretly bottled,
sold in places where the springs purportedly
run crystalline
though we don’t got no pinot, just sweet concord grape,
so sweet, the wine of children and street nodders,
needy for instant sugar highs
so as we new Yorkers proudly
say on our license plates,
prove it or stfup!
so a first hand investigation for which
the taxpayers won’t be charged even a lousy mill,
deemed necessary to put to rest this crazy claiming warning
“Don’t go! If you go, you won’t come back”
guessing must be something in the water and the wine
Jun 5, 2018
Jun 5, 2018 at 9:00 AM UTC
Supposing that we lit some candles.
One for each person on this earth,
we would blow one out at a funeral
and light one up at a birth.
The world would grow darker
every time we lost a fighter
but with every new born baby
it gets just that bit brighter.
If you travelled into a city that was dark and gritty
you'd know that they didn't have many in their committee.
But.. If the light was brilliant and bright
it would send a beaming message throughout the night.
Saying "We are here! And we are alive!"
Not wanting to be alone we endeavor to collide
and form one giant, shining beacon
that burns so fierce we're sure it can't weaken
We sparkle and crackle and bend nature to our whim
the mighty fire so strong it just had to gave in.
With it we forged iron and buildings, cars and computers
and lit paths of lives to guide commuters
We lit up the universe as far as we could see
Improving our lives greatly with technology
obsessed with our professed fixture on practicality
we completely forgot about morality
Our fires forged weapons which we aimed next door
In one swift movement we saw the effects of war
6,000,000 candles extinguished
over arguments on which light is most distinguished
So fixated on this light we blinded our eyes
and the candle smoke filled the skies.
We thought candles were good, they elevated us higher
but now all we have is thick smoke and fire.
The fire consuming all in its route
the root of our lives follow suite.
It's eating the oxygen and burning the grass
the sand is melting and forming to glass.
The glass it shatters into a thousand pieces
more candles are lighting, the temperature increases
The resources decline, as do the candles
buried in ash a hundred thousand scandals.
Now only a few lit candles remain
as they slowly melt and fade away.
Nov 8, 2012
Nov 8, 2012 at 1:39 PM UTC
You have ripped bellbottoms a shaky smile,
The sandy curls that cascade down your back.
You smoke till your lungs go black,
You sit in the blazing sun meditating till you go tan.
You play the tunes of The Beatles and Jimi Hendrix,
That suede jacket you wear every Tuesday.
You decorate your room with blankets so the colors keep you company,
The daisies you wear in your hair till they go brown.
You let your cigarette dangle from your thin lips,
That gritty sound you make when you form words.
Your eyes are always clouded with memories,
You wear those circular shades to hide from people.
You wipe the tears off of people’s faces,
Smile when theres nothing to smile about.
Your hands are tatted with henna, and you wear the shirt of a tie-dye spider.
All you eat is trail-mix of pistachios and sun-dried apples.
You ride in a Volkswagen with windows down to feel the breeze.
Your peace sign is like “the healer” to all pain.
You take a pull off hookah and a bite of shrooms just to chase away the madness.
You create your own reality.
When the rain falls down you fling your head back and yell to the world,
The face you make when you see animals.
He’s like an eagle, ready to sore through the sky and bring positivity.
Don’t ever tell me you’re not a hippie, because I’ve never seen anyone as unique as you.
Jan 28, 2014
Jan 28, 2014 at 9:52 AM UTC
The rusted belt is tight
in our hometown city.
Black smoke masks the lights
In one gaseous setting;
the permenant fitting
Of our hometown city
Trees exchange steel
In our hometown city.
You’ve never seen the wheels
churn and the deals burnt
In the factories that take pity
On the nitty-gritty of our
Own hometown city.
The last laughs with us
In our hometown city
We don’t’ ride the Cali bus,
But yea, I'd say we are witty,
cause al'the prettiest girls
Live in our hometown city.
The river’s been burnt
In our hometown city.
Yea we’ve learned a lot
From our own ad(e)missions;
And now, clinics fill prescriptions
in ourown hometown city
In my own hometown city
We’re slicker than you,
Even though our York’s isn’t new…
Why? Watch my city revive in
Front of your eyes- then ask me;
Why is this your hometown city?
Jun 20, 2016
Jun 20, 2016 at 3:04 AM UTC
I hear the carve of oars,
I see your palms enfold the wood,
as shards of stars shred
a black and glistening wave.
I hear the carve of oars,
the shore is breached,
we reach dank granite stairs, climb
a tower in moon gritty light.
I hear the carve of oars,
you speak, your turgid cheek
blue-steel-gray, your gaze grates,
my salt raged eyes summon waves and stars.
I hear the carve of oars,
waves rattle a candle's flame,
chill the bed frame, the wet stony room ––
the door closes, it scrapes.
I hear the carve of oars.
I know your lurching gate,
the clank as oar lock’s turn.
You slip the shore.
I hear the carve of oars
Copyright © 2002 Gary Brocks
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC
Like a captive, I capture rapture wrapping around stakes that matter
Joan of Arc battered
Also tattered but, easily dismissive
Refracted from fractured prominent phrases people play with
Distinctly persuasive and evasive, dressed boyishly attractive, lax stature, dawning armor crafted by absence as if asked about it-
I’m drifted
Protection is principle prerequisite, when fire is lit
I sort of implore your aorta before it’s incinerated to ashes
Dethatched as a habit, with swords or hatchets crafted to singe heartstrings that attached it
While I slash slick Rick as a quick fix,
To fend for pretend pretenses or presumed tricks,
I can’t quit
Cause I hit lips against hash spliffs fashioned with dashes of passion all while rationing fireball cinnamon sips
Martyr to avoidance
I gaze at fabled dazed gossipers galvanizing grips on gritty grapevines while licking warning labels through smoke haze on blurred lines
Capably unstable
Other eyes attending scandal circles able to shout lies and rekindle handed arguments on tables with locked smiles stay boxed in
Avidly amiable
Searching for counterparts when combusted or branded
Toying with matches loses meaning when rules reseed
Those vagabonds claim love is some all end hard bent to mend what the same above can’t comprehend.
Breaking boredom, I pillage pillows with night terrors
And ardent arsonists yearn for flames that churn, turn, liquefy and learn learned thoughts and smoldered feelings
Completely complacent
Melting in one another they are completing each other like two candles tryst true at a wedding day
However later the blaze is severed, smoke sears, and charred black wick stands alone for them.
Aggressive and progressive.
As for me never pleading, fire forever fleets to streets between iron bars I built that cage in deep heat and seep dire dreams once desired
Suppose I’m a skeptic
Roasted or disconnected
Just jaded, just met you
Always over it too soon
Burnt but I’m amused.
I’m useful.
Jun 9, 2014
Jun 9, 2014 at 11:59 PM UTC
The chocolate digestive is a marvel of invention
Custard creams are sickly, but worthy of a mention
Shortbread can be gritty, steer clear of the cheap ones
For if you love your biscuits, your pockets must be deep ones
For perfect dunkability, the hobnob leads the field
But prone to going chewy if their packet isn't sealed
Bourbon creams can satisfy when nothing else is offered
Avert your eyes from pretzels, no matter how they're proffered
The lowly Garibaldi is an underrated treasure
A macaroon is excellent for eating at your leisure
Enjoy the home made cookies and the chocolate crispy nests
And save a pack of party rings for fobbing off on guests
But biscuits can be functional, with keen survival craft
A packet of pink wafers can be used to make a raft
Penguins can be hollowed out and used to smuggle crack
And if you throw a ginger nut, you'll always get it back
A Jaffa cake is handy as a snowboard for a spider
And flapjacks are a sustenance and energy provider
Wagon wheels are lethal when they're wielded by a ninja
Brandy snaps cure cancer with a tiny hint of ginger
Experiment with biscuits, they're a versatile thing
Try horizontal dunking or the highland shortbread fling
Keep a packet stashed away for when the end is nigh
And always have the kettle full, and milk in good supply
Nov 30, 2015
Nov 30, 2015 at 3:20 PM UTC
curled in bed
eyes pinched tight
whole body trembling,
sleep escaped hours ago
this is how it is trying to talk to you.
like pulling teeth with pliers
clenched in a small boy's fist
a wry grin on his determined face,
knotted eyebrows will ache for days
like being pulled by a speedboat
tossing and turning in the wake
skin on my palms already gone
taking a breath, giving up, letting go,
crashing hard onto cold water's surface
like my chest giving out
every breath catching on its way in
hands digging through a too messy bag
inhaler nowhere in sight, help nowhere in sight,
breathing is too hard to handle right now
like a beach beyond the caves
crawling through at low tide,
sand gritty under fingernails, sun stinging on flushed cheeks
lounging on sharp boulders that dig between shoulder blades,
then rushing back home to escape being trapped for the night
toes tickled with goodbye kisses from the dark, growing waves
through missing teeth and breath,
under wrinkled sheets, and sand and water,
I can't hear anything.
I never could.
Jun 9, 2015
Jun 9, 2015 at 5:49 PM UTC
Lemons- in fanfictions, a gritty or ****** scene.
I watched your Adam's apple bob
As you swallowed your arousal.
My head was swirling with the scent of lemons,
And I couldn't help myself
As I tottered towards you on my intoxication,
Inebriation.
My hands hit your chest,
And in our unsteadiness,
My extra push sent us tumbling...
Down onto the Citrus yellow sheets of your bed
My mouth on your neck,
Wanting only to taste your Lemon sweat.
Your eyes wandered freely,
And your hands soon followed.
Touching my *******
The perky *******
You put your mouth on one,
Extracting from it some sour mix of sweetness,
The lemon in my veins.
We mashed together,
Your member against my cavity,
Pictures of lemons in my mind.
Your hand round my throat,
You began to speak harshly,
Lemon tainting your soul.
The acid in your words,
Acid on your fingernails as they tore my skin...
It hurt,
But it hurt like the beautiful Lemons that brought me here.
You put yourself in me,
Again and again
You forced my body into submission.
My tears burned with the citrus,
My eyes now yellow,
Like the lemons.
In this lighting,
Your skin looked yellow too,
I could almost say your head was a lemon...
Pain resurfaces,
Blood,
The sensation that something was flowing into me,
I knew your lemon juice had filled my pitcher,
Now it was available for drinking.
And you did,
You drank your lemon juice with my sugar,
Lemonade of us two.
Pleasure rocked my body,
And I felt your lemon invading me.
But you yourself,
You were drawing it out of me.
My walls pulled in,
They clenched,
I let out a shrill.
The smell of our lemon sweat
Once again,
Pervading the room.
You collapsed beside me,
The drug wearing off,
Lemons exiting your mind already.
I wasn't done though.
I'm still obsessed.
Still obsessed with lemons.
Nov 15, 2013
Nov 15, 2013 at 6:26 AM UTC
What can you say about Pennsylvania
in regard to New England except that
it is slightly less cold, and less rocky,
or rather that the rocks are different?
Redder, and gritty, and piled up here and there,
whether as glacial moraine or collapsed springhouse
is not easy to tell, so quickly
are human efforts bundled back into nature.
In fall, the trees turn yellower-
hard maple, hickory, and oak
give way to tulip poplar, black walnut,
and locust. The woods are overgrown
with wild-grape vines, and with greenbrier
spreading its low net of anxious small claws.
In warm November, the mulching forest floor
smells like a rotting animal.
A genial pulpiness, in short: the sky
is soft with haze and paper-gray
even as the sun shines, and the rain
falls soft on the shoulders of farmers
while the children keep on playing,
their heads of hair beaded like spider webs.
A deep-dyed blur softens the bleak cities
whose people palaver in prolonged vowels.
There is a secret here, some death-defying joke
the eyes, the knuckles, the bellies imply-
a suet of consolation fetched straight
from the slaughterhouse and hung out
for chickadees to peck in the lee of the spruce,
where the husks of sunflower seeds
and the peace-signs of bird feet crowd
the snow that barely masks the still-green grass.
I knew that secret once, and have forgotten.
The death-defying secret-it rises
toward me like a dog's gaze, loving
but bewildered. When winter sits cold and black
slumped between its two polluted rivers,
warmth's shadow leans close to the wall
and gets the cement to deliver a kiss.
5.4k
The ocean booms and rages
And something inside me stirs
at the wild beauty,
ancient power,
and feeling,
that calls my name.
The warm salty breeze caresses
my face,
and as the sun slips into the sky
silhouettes of birds winging their way
amidst the glowing darkness
enter my mortal vision.
I lay in the soft sand,
and pull some into my open palm.
Are we like sand?
Soft and pretty at first,
but once rain falls
and the world throws hardship
at us,
we become harsh
coarse
and gritty.
If so, we must learn to
accept that there will
always be rain,
And learn to soften into the
person we are
deep down.
Strong,
and yet still soft enough to
experience life's joys.
-Esther L. Krenzin-
-Roguesong-
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 8:08 AM UTC
***The little snowdrops peeped through
Their bed of fresh white snow and ice
And the sign of spring lingers on the breeze
The heavenly scent of honeysuckles and lilacs
Mingle with that of lavender
And all the air holds
Heavenly scents and sounds
And the veil of celestial sky
Held birds flying in the air
On beautiful wings
And that green hill
Held a cloak
Of a thousand
Daisies and cotton blossoms
And the ocean's
Hibiscus flower
Unfurled it's wings
And sung a song of spring
With the birds that fly
Upon beautiful wings
Cool sand
Upon hot bare feet
Leaving footprints
All along the shore
We picked up
Our treasure box of
Sandy-gritty seashells
And headed back home
Looking back once or twice
At the singing waves
And the dancing palm trees
And the shore of sand
Holding countless footprints
And millions
Of dew-kissed
Hibiscus flowers
And we whispered
On the salty wind***
Goodbye
~Marian~
Jun 10, 2013
Jun 10, 2013 at 8:49 PM UTC
I hate censorship
if anyone asked me
I'd say
**** CENSORSHIP
Life is raw and gritty and bare
everywhere you look
and this ******* facade we put up
it's just ****
and anyone with a brain
can see right through it
thats why the smart ones
are usually con artists and crooks
because its a ******* joke
its just some game you made
out of living reality
babies see ghosts in mirrors
and demons at the windows
but we convince them they aren't there
and they become like us
they just stop seeing them
those magical things
have been censored from their lives
now dull
now hum drum
now fit to be enslaved
in school
by the rule
by the belt and fist
by the military academy
drum hit drum hit
by war
by tv
Sep 19, 2013
Sep 19, 2013 at 3:07 PM UTC
I do not want the sainthood you assign to those
who have never let you down
I want the ***** gritty scabs that come from falling
off of pedestals and landing in the mud
I am in no need of your righteous tongue
I am in need of your caring shoulder
of your love
of your grace moving through me as you kiss my thigh
Mar 26, 2017
Mar 26, 2017 at 2:24 AM UTC
Tossing and turning
In my bed –
A pebble.
Slowly I am rocked by
Waves of dreams
Until I am no more than sand
On the shore of my pillow,
Gritty between the sheets.
With the dawn
Tide rolls out.
All manner of sea creatures,
Each more complex than the last,
Rest on my chest as I breathe
Deeply and try to recall
What it was to be a stone.
Abandoned shells,
Beautiful but
Empty
Lay between my fingers.
Shards of glass fall into the depths and
Wash up
On my toes
Sharp edges gone.
I cannot decide if I like
These things
Or if I would rather return
To being a pebble
Jul 11, 2014
Jul 11, 2014 at 3:32 PM UTC
What if the voices I hear are from God?
Then I am Satan, and we’ll stay at war.
I’ll strike him so with my ruby rod.
And impale him down into the earth’s core.
What if the voices I hear are from space?
I’m an alien with horns and a spot.
No one believes these voices are my race.
They do comment and understand my thoughts.
What if the voices I hear are man-made?
I shall sail the seas like Columbus–
through the stormy nights where I greet afraid.
I’ll find the land this man encompasses.
And I’ll ask him why he made me this way.
Does this mean I’m special– brought to a curse?
These voices persecute me every day.
They have become the air that I breathe.
My mind is louder than New York City.
I tell it to shut up, and it’ll yell back.
I tell my story. Some say I’m gritty.
How can I be brave? I let them do this.
My mind dominates until I have none.
Some of them complain more than my grandma.
Voices play games with me till it’s no fun.
They nibble parts of my brain, and they gnaw.
Oh, voices, voices, why do you taunt me?
It is amusing. I don’t let others bully.
I let my mind become the enemy.
**** these voices! You have already won, you, see?
I watched “A Beautiful Mind” by John Nash.
How can this mind be beautiful when it’s all gone?
I do draw what I see throughout the day.
I realized these figures took my mind away.
Aug 24, 2022
Aug 24, 2022 at 1:25 PM UTC
Windex mice squeak through the windows,
biting newspaper as it scrapes across.
Soap from a new age fills the kitchen,
sheeps' fat long forgotten,
the sod-house of Laura Ingalls Wilder left behind
with its crumbling Lincoln logs,
the ceiling that drops dirt crumbs like a gritty pastry.
Our world is shiny,
so blinding that even the cough of newsprint makes it brighter.
A bottle sneezes across the counter, spurts those
bubbles of ammonia, gathers with the
rivers and tides that surge with ethanol,
it bursts the air with a neon smell and erases
everything that has come before.
Feb 28, 2012
Feb 28, 2012 at 1:01 AM UTC
I was born a mermaid.
Half divine fish,
Half human female.
My thoughts swam far and wide
taking no prisoners.
I did not know I was myself
until the age of six.
My life had seemed like
an extraordinary dream
up to that point.
I wasn't a girl bound by a name.
I was the queen of a world
of sea-kings and sea-nymphs.
The day I glimpsed myself in the mirror,
I rose from the waves,
and caught a whiff of reality.
It hit me so hard
I couldn't breathe anymore
amongst the fish I called friends.
I had to surface
but I couldn't leave the sea.
Land is too harsh
for a mermaid's glistening scales.
It roughs them up,
takes away their shine.
But the sea was also
inhospitable to those
who only halfway belonged.
I drifted between
the two worlds
always keeping my head upright
above the waves.
My skin grew sunburnt,
My wrists grew thinner,
My eyes grew dimmer,
with every appearance
of the moon's wistful face.
The two sides of me
were at war
and I was slated to be
the sole casualty.
I did the only thing I could
held my breath
sank under the waves.
I made a deal with the sea-witch,
tore my tail apart
til it made two legs.
Shed every single scale
til the skin underneath
wept red tears.
I made a deal with the sea-witch
I gave her what was left of my tail.
I made a deal with the sea-witch,
I didn't realize that
my rebirth from the waves
onto the gritty shore
would be the last time
I tasted the salt on my tongue
and the wind in my mermaid-hair.
I made a deal with the sea-witch
I gave her my soul.
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 12:23 AM UTC
Endless days of summer sun
Finally school is done
Picnic by the sea
With the dog and family
Toes dipped in salted pool
As dad acts the fool
Sand buried up to his head
As the tide edges to his bed
Then running with ball at play
Amongst the frothy tidal spray
Laughing until it hurt
As we rolled amongst the gritty dirt
My brothers, sister and me
A perfect day by the sea
Ended with a sun dipped in pink edged gold
As we headed home on a darkening road
Aug 26, 2018
Aug 26, 2018 at 9:23 AM UTC
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".
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