National Post a Poem Week.

[Irene]

You forgot Kymmie!!!!!!! That's not good!!!!

[Bob Pacey]

Still debatable if that , whatever, is acceptable ? I think she can do better.


Bob

[thestoryteller]

A BUSH KID'S PLEA

A certain air of confidence hung on to ev'ry word;
her smile though spelt sincerity and each word that you heard,
beside the pride so evident cried out - "Please do give ear!
I represent our small town's youth; they all could not be here."

How quaint, the politicians thought as each one forced a smile.
They've chosen this young lass it seems, and true she does have style,
to welcome us to this here town, oh what's its name again,
some place outback of God knows where... thank God we leave by plane.

"Back when the world was wide good sirs, my people roamed this ground,
Custodians of life and land, as you were not around.
They tried to work as one with it, to keep the status quo,
but when your people came along, you said our ways must go.

My people bore the scars of change as white folk built their dreams,
creation of their stations, their towns and other schemes.
Grandad he left the tribal ways ... assimilate they said;
so worked for flour and ‘baccy on the properties instead.

Then came the boom years of the bush and Grandad watched things grow;
his son, my dad, went droving stock, but saved his hard earnt dough.
He married mum and moved to town - assimilate I s'pose,
and cared for both his mum and dad, he loved them both, God knows.

As progress killed the droving game, my dad worked on the shire,
while mum she was a gentle soul, the kind all kids admire.
Whenever kids were out of sort, they always sought her out.
as mum would listen, give them hugs, she was a bonzer scout.

The town kids often came to gramps and listened as he told
those dreamtimes stories of the past, but as they would unfold,
you’d see a tear well in his eye, for in the old man's heart,
he wondered what the future held, it tore his soul apart.

So our roots in this, district sirs, they go back quite a spell,
I've grown up in this little town and other kids as well.
My school mates they are black and white with stories of their own,
but one thing were all proud of is - this town in which we've grown.

Our forbears forged a life out here and helped this nation shine.
We've grandpas, fathers, uncles whose proud names are on the shrine
that stands as a memorial to those who gave their lives,
to make sure each Australian can reach for what they strive.

My grandpa always told me that the elders of their tribe
were chosen for their wisdom and their lot was to inscribe,
within the hearts of all their folk, the law which would unite,
a bond of caring for your kind. I think that he was right.

So welcome to our town good sirs, I'm sure, you too, are wise
and as you make your policies, do hear the bush kid's cries.
Don't take the infrastructure which keeps outback towns afloat,
for soon we will be old enough to cast our voice and vote."

While attending a function in a small Queensland outback town where political dignitaries were present, I was very impressed by the welcome extended by a young Aboriginal school girl chosen to represent the youth of the District. Her speech was clear, confident and expressed sincerity as she pleaded her case for a fair go for kids futures in the bush. It inspired me to write the above poem, not based entirely based on this young lady’s thoughts, but a more broader plea for all bush kids.

[Bob Pacey]

So true in every word and most of these kids if given half a chance can succeed.


Bob

[thestoryteller]

Too true Bob.

[Maureen K Clifford]

Oh I do like this - how wonderful that you captured that moment in your words - I do hope you have sent a copy of this off to the local town/school/paper involved....I think the young lass concerned would be absolutely thrilled to receive such a high accolade.

I like the way you captured the cynicism and boredom the sense of looking down on the town as being of no account that the pollies depicted and then the complete turn around, sitting up and taking notice as the young lass laid it on the line. Well done.

That last line is something that all pollies would be well advised to take note of when dealing with our country towns. They might be small and sometimes off the beaten track but country people do vote and they do have long memories and they are not as gullible as some pollies like to think either.

Thoroughly enjoyed reading this poem

Cheers

Maureen

[thestoryteller]

The night I listened to this young girl speak, she really impressed me, I guess you've sensed that by its content. Thanks for sharing it Maureen.

The Storyteller

[Bob Pacey]

Only one day to go if anyone else has a contribution ????


Hope this has inspired someone to have a go.

Bob

[vwalla]

I wrote this poem a few years ago but is now as relevant as it was then Val W
DARFURS DISGRACE“
©
“I can do cartwheels with only one hand! Watch me! “ my Granddaughter cried
Her brother did two somersaults on the lounge. Attention, could not be denied.
In unison both made requests for a snack. “Some Orange Juice, crackers and cheese?”
“Also some strawberries or olives as well. Could you get them now, Granny please?”

I set to the task they requested of me, my mind took a quite different path
of pictures I’d seen on the telly last eve, results of a war’s aftermath.
The programme was showing the depths of despair as families fought not to die
I couldn’t help thinking as my two played there -For the Grace of God there goeth I!

Those who’d survived, they had travelled all day, to reach what they thought was respite.
A camp faraway from the war’s savagery, rewarding their hazardous flight.
At least to be given a slight glimpse of hope on reaching the Red Crescent Camp
A faint flickering flame for them now maybe would, glow in humanities’ lamp.

No visible shelter to keep them from harm, exposed to the sun’s desert rays
The flies playing havoc in mouth and in eyes, no sign of clean water for days.
The Granny surrendered to dust and to heat and sorrow enveloped her soul,
the only subsistence on offer that day - a few grains of corn in a bowl.

Beside her, these two little children were cowered, a shadow of what they should be
Their gaunt and disease ridden bodies so frail, a shock for most carers to see.
Their eyes were the windows to pain and despair, quite useless for one to ignore
The flame of life quickly receding from them- the horror too harsh to endure.

The old lady sighed a deep sigh of resign, the promise she’d made to her son
to keep both his children from horror and harm – The task a most onerous one.
Her demeanor of pride, heart wrenching indeed, would make the most hardened man cry
but she’d never give up on the task now at hand. Duty forbade her to die!

The chopper flew low with its doors opened wide, the charter to distribute aid
The airmen aghast at the scene which they faced, a human disaster parade.
She scratched and she scrabbled, food parcel her prize, battling life’s last desperate breath
Dredging the ultimate strength that she could , she fought her last fight to the death.

It doesn’t seem fair in the big scheme of things, that children all over the planet
Should not be entitled to love and to peace. It can’t be impossible. Can it?
Then out in the desert, in grim, dark Darfur, where they struggle for water and meals
A Granny from Heaven might look down and see –
HER Grandchildren trying Cartwheels!

[Kym]

Hmmm, so that little , whatever , wasn't good enough for ya, hey Bob?

Okey dokey, you want something serious, here ya go ...

Nails In The Mango Tree
by Kym Eitel

Beneath the giant mango tree, a young boy sadly stood.
A patch of shining nail heads scarred the mango’s trunk of wood.
The young boy held a hammer and a single, silver nail.
He added one more nail head to the bumpy metal Braille.

He dropped the hammer to the ground and stared at what he’d done.
A hundred times at least before, he’d struck the nail, then run.
He’d run till he could run no more, with tear streaks down his cheek,
then hide beneath the ghost gums, throwing rocks across the creek.

Today though, he felt calmer and he didn’t want to hide.
He stood and studied all those nails, felt sadness deep inside.
Each nail had been his punishment. Each angry, hate-filled word
resulted in a hammered nail through vision teared and blurred.

Behind the boy, his Grandad stood. The young boy slowly turned.
“I’ve said a lot of hurtful things.” At last the child had learned.
The old man nodded slowly, he had waited for this day.
Perhaps the boy would understand the words he had to say.

“Angry words are weapons, son, they’re poison, they’re a knife.
They hurt your loved ones’ tender hearts and leave them scarred for life.
Although words are invisible, just sounds that we can hear
and though they are intangible, we feel them, right in here.

Harsh words become indelible when placed inside a heart.
Those hateful words can grow and spread, rip friendships right apart.
Once spoken, words are permanent. They’re etched on someone’s mind -
eternal scars you can’t erase, so always, son, be kind.

Apologise. They might forgive, but never will forget.
Cruel words will haunt the two of you. You can’t undo regret.”
The old man hugged the young boy close, then touched each shining tack,
“Be sure to think before you speak, you cannot take words back.”

The young boy made apologies to Grandma, Mum and Dad,
the kids at school, his teacher and his brothers, Greg and Brad.
For each regret and insult, each offense and tattle-tale,
for each and every “sorry” said, he pulled out just one nail.

Yes, Grandad’s patient wisdom helped that very angry boy
to turn his gloomy life around, find laughter, fun and joy.
He’s grateful for that lesson, treasures ev’ry memory,
but knows there’ll always be those scars on Grandpa’s mango tree.