I personally enjoy the challenge of using the prompts and endeavouring to write a poem in under 30 minutes ... doesn't have to be too perfect at that point of time you can go back and fine tune it later - but for me anyway I find it focuses the mind and keeps it sharp - just trying to keep the old timers at bay.
What do you think???? Feel free to add your two bobs worth
MARKED FOR LIFE .. 1
We are only young – mere babies. Going nowhere now.
Running in circles – unsure as to why we are here.
There are familiar faces in these worn out places
and yet the fear is tangible and uncertainty makes us restless
and the dry earth is covered with a fury of scouring.
We see the stone man – he who never smiles,
whose face, in the dark shadows beneath his sweat stained hat
has more furrows than a ploughed paddock.
He holds a branding iron – and that does not bode well.
Where are our mothers? We can hear them calling.
Is this a lesson we have to learn? We run through the race
till our way is blocked. Iron gates close behind us, there is no escape.
We smell the burning hair and flesh – the red of catastrophe.
Hear the pitiful cries. Feel the pain. We cry, and the gate opens
and we are free and we flee to our Mothers who wait patiently.
We huddle shocked and hurting beside their massive sides,
their warmth and size comforting, their bovine tongues soothing.
We suckle, feel the warm fresh milk slake our thirsts
hear the familiar chuckle rumbling deep in their chests.
We are young – only babies and already have been marked by your scowl.
Maureen Clifford © 03/11
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MARKED FOR LIFE .. 2
They’d been mustered from the paddocks at the very start of day
before the sun got hot and heavy on their hide.
Trotted beside their Mothers – through the scrub and gullies deep
and behind them fast a young ringer did ride.
Into the yards they scrambled and then the big melee
as the calves were separated from their Mums,
all around was noise and flurry a cacophony of sound
and you could see fear in the eyes of every one.
They were still only babies - they’d not left their Mums before
and though they saw some old familiar faces,
it was a new experience to be here in the yards
with the dogs behind pushing them up the races.
The air was dry and dusty with an odour somewhat sour
for the air was full of fear and trepidation.
Fifty tiny baby bowels from fear started to scour,
which just added to the stench and aggravation.
And then the man without a smile, beneath his battered hat
thrust something hot and heavy on their hide,
as they bucked and squealed in terror trying to escape the sting
they could hear their Mothers calling from outside.
The race gate opens, out they fly – hurry to Mothers side
her big bulk and warm soft hide is reassuring.
They suckle thirstily – she licks with bovine tongue so gentle
as her young calf moans with the pain he’s enduring.
So this is welcome to the world? What did they do to earn it?
Now marked for life forever, on their skin.
No doubt their life’s a short one for they’re just steak on the hoof
but mans actions now their joy for life has dimmed.
And the stone man is there watching – his face full of corrugations.
He’s more furrows than a paddock under plough.
To him they represent just purely dollars on the hoof,
as to their feelings he’s indifferent anyhow.
He’s not a cruel or vicious man, just doing what he knows
and trying to make a quid from off the land.
He’d never hurt an animal with malice that’s for sure
in his way he cares – but some don’t understand.
A farmer’s life’s a hard one. Hard on beast, woman and man
and a farmers day is often filled with strife.
You can pick them, like their animals in any place or town
for this country marks it’s country folk for life.
Maureen Clifford © 03/11
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