Poems by Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c) 2016, Mudgee. If you wish to use any of the poems, please email the author: dzsimmonds@bigpond.com Goldrush Woman: Letters to and from the goldfields. Dear William, Thank you for your letter. Mum is feeling so much better, I had a job in Turin Castle as a milkmaid. It was good. We got milk all through the autumn and made cheese, the neighbours bought ‘em; the money bought Mum medicine and wood. You say come to New South Wales, when the next ship from here sails; we can send gold home to Mum to keep her well. So I’ve packed up sons and daughters, left brothers, sisters, Mum, who taught us never sit and whine when life churns up a hell. When she can, my mum will come, with brothers, sisters, all will run to the land of opportunity and wealth, for with me your fate will rise, as together, if we’re wise, we can work and save and build our family’s health… Dear Mum, From the ship bound for the free land, New South Wales sure is the key and, I expect our new life surely will succeed. Will’s got a good claim at World’s End, and a shanty I defend with good tucker for the diggers mouths to feed. We walked here from Ballarat, where the good gold once was at, but the new rush took us north to find our treasure. Life was hard while moving on, with rain and sleet and snow upon the mountains, which in summer gave such pleasure. When at last we all arrived, gave God thanks that we survived. Found World’s End as literal as you like to take it. In deep bush along the Meroo, it’s so beautiful that you will gladly stay, when to this place you finally make it. There is work when you come here, selling food, supplies and beer. You’ll be healthy here and life is good, if rough. The sun shines every day and though it’s very hot, you’ll say we are fortunate; good food, good health – enough. Many folk around us swear, us tough females bravely bear the brunt of hardships in this savage place. But it’s not bad. We’ve suffered worse, back in Ireland where the curse of the famine and the overlords we face. We can work our way out here, be our own boss with good cheer. If our claim goes rich we’ll live a life of style and be equal to the lords, and the cavalry with swords cannot seize our wealth across the scattered mile. So we look to you to come; for we’re settled and we’ve won our honest place in this great southern land. It’s a new life and we’re free, it’s a hard life, but we’ll be our own masters. On our own good soil we stand. Mates
We sat there and yarned ‘neath the old gum tree ‘bout nothing in particular, or worse, ‘bout the days we meandered up dusty lanes And the day that we lost mum’s purse. Yes, we sat there and fiddled with blue gum leaves As we squashed their perfume to the air And we sniffed eucalyptus and we drew in the dust With the gumsticks decorating our hair. Distinct smell of ants as we squashed their trail When we stamped in the dust and leaves Gave a thirst for rain on the old homestead Where one mate to the other one cleaves. Yes, we sat there and yarned till dinner time Though what about I haven’t a clue But as the clear drought sky blazed a piercing eye I guess I just took comfort in you. For we’ve shared tough times since the day you were born Taken comfort, but given some pain Like the time I slipped with the practise whip And next day you got even again. But once come to terms with our sibling spats We were mates, stuck together like glue. We were mates, no matter what came our way Whether laughing or ‘having a blue’ You taught me to kick – I got keen and sharp And I beat you in a football match. You built good ‘cubbies; we’d play Mums and Dads, And as a ‘father’ none could hold a patch. Now our parenting’s real, our own kids kick balls When we visit the old homestead and folks And we sit and talk and enjoy a while As we laugh at mum’s corny jokes. The smell of the rain sweeps across the plains And excitement in our veins runs wild As we cooee and dance as raindrops kick the dust Safe to act, once again, like a little child.
The Blacksmith Steel rings, flint flies, His craft is old and true. The mingling sweat of horse and man: A battler, he’s true blue. With arms of steel, back like the trunk Of Stringybark gum trees The man and hot shod horse are mates; Mare snuffles; bellows wheeze.
The Shoemaker Smells of tanning reek the air. Mute rhythm taps a song. Leather creaks soprano’s tune: The cobbler’s lace and thong. Fine ladies dance and farmers trudge. Children skip and play In wares of humble cobbler skill, Feet walk this land each day.
The Alchemist The Alchemist’s mystical terrain Of pots and potions to cure all ills; A universal elixir to restore Eternal youth and life that fulfils Our wish to exist forever, To never let go – and yet The Alchemist’s esoteric secret Is those who give up life, life beget.
The Rough Rider He’s tough, alert, a daredevil. Life’s for now; quick thrills. He doesn’t mind a sprain or two He’s ready for some spills. The Rough Rider lives life that way. He’s cheery whate’re befall. Life’s ups and downs he rides with ease. Flat out he rides; gives all.
The Apple Seller Apples, apples Sir, two a penny’s cheap. Two a penny Sir, two pennies last a week For me and what’s mine. A baby and a toddler, and me man Whose doin’ fine On what I make with apples. Apples, apples, buy an apple now, Take it to your office, your lunch it will endow And think of me who grows it For two pennies a week.
The Stockman Dust and cattle, sweat and noise; Cows bawling, scorching sun; Whips are cracking; blue dogs bark; The long day’s work most done. The stockman yearns for grub and beer; A yarn by campfire bright. His swag unrolled, he’ll map the stars That wander through his night.
The Shearer Torn singlet shows his tanned strong arms That hold his sheep secure. His back is stooped, legs stand astride To make his strength endure The clip. Sheep number 89 Is scooted down the shute. The ringer hopes to keep his score And hear mates cheer, “You beaut!”
The Swaggie His old dog ‘Blue’ sits by his side; His only friend of late. He tramps from country town to town Accompanied by his mate. They share his swag, his billy tea, His meal of rabbit stew. The mateship of the Swaggie and His mate is known by few.
Another Swaggie Along the country track a mile Tramps slow and ragged feet. A stooped old man walks with his dog And asks all those he meets For work. A bit of work for food To keep the dog and man. A bit of work, and tucker To give a mate a hand.
The Gold Panner Out in the bush on the creek’s stony bank Sits a shed made of iron; inside’s dark and it’s dank. Open fire on one side heats a chimney of stone Where a stew brews all day beside a kettle’s soft moan. A table and chair flank an old wrought iron bed Where snoring his head off, sleeps wrinkly old Ned. Now Ned’s an old prospector looking for gold. He sits in the river sifting sand in the cold. He’s tattered and muddy; though holes poke his knees, Ned sits on a fortune that nobody sees. For under the floorboards in his rusty old shack Is hidden hold nuggets the size of your hat. They could buy him a castle with a view by the sea And a Rolls Royce to get there; where men strive to be But old Ned has no need of a castle in Spain ‘cause the lifestyle he leads leaves him nothing to gain. For he’s free in the mornings when sun touches the skies Till the starlight at evening shines on dreamy closed eyes With nature all ‘round him from moon’s skies to gum tree. You see, Ned doesn’t need gold that owns you and me.
by Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c)
The End of the World Dedicated to Count Rudy of Hill End NSW Do you dream of escaping To the end of the world Alone in the beauty Of nature unfurled? Where gum trees sigh peacefully Against a blue sky In the creek that’s nearby. And the butcher bird’s song Rings out through the trees. A song of the wilderness Your longings to please. The earth shimmers in silence From man’s problems which tease – Just the sun and the mountains And the whispering breeze. Do you dream of such longings? Does your soul long for peace? Then come to Hill End Let your problems all cease. Give your ear to the Bell Birds. Give your eyes to the sky. Let the breeze caress softly Nature’s healing draw nigh. Make friends with ‘old timers’. Draw from peace that is theirs. Learn to keep life so simple There’s no place for your cares. Absorb the contentment From the locals’ lives there. Learn nature’s values. Tranquillity wear. Never mind all the Joneses With their scurrying lives curled. Head straight for Hill End. To the end of the world.
Kling Wrap You pull at it and you tear at it And occasionally you swear at it And try your best to stick it – The product known as Kling Wrap. It crunches up together. With it a horse could tether. Its strength is undefeatable The product known as Kling Wrap. My Mum is quite good at it. She’ll smooth at it and pat it. For her it sticks just where it should. The product known as Kling Wrap. You should see Father try it. He tries to bend and tie it. And FATHER ends up gift wrapped with The product known as Kling Wrap. So before you end up divorcing it. Go to Uni for a course in it. You’ll end up wrapping the whole horse in it. The product known as Kling Wrap.
Eurunderee by Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c)
While driving through the country In the early morning light The sunshine’s warm rays touched me As I looked off to the right. And there before the mountains In the valley’s morning hue Were clouds of mystic beauty With soft tree shapes peeping through. Though I could not see behind the mist The valley’s gems of gold, I knew that they were there From experiences of old. And I thought how just like daily life Thos mystic clouds must be For they sometimes hide true beauty As they whisp around a tree. So in life when dreary clouds ahead Spread dread within our heart Remember misty valleys Of life’s joys are really part. And watch God’s light draw high the clouds And lift the valley’s veil To show the sparkling gems of faith Along each winding trail. The last tear by Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c)
She stood dressed scantily by the road, Grey clouds had gathered round Her last few leaves of gold and brown Like teardrops hit the ground. Her glorious branches stark, exposed Like naked arms in prayer Shafts of gold float down to earth: Foliage once her crown of hair. What more could harsh winds whip and shake What more could May gremlins steal, Her last hold on summer’s all but spent. Shed tresses round her feet in prayer kneel. But harsh winds’ winter storm is short For in springtime’s wakening breeze What once was dead brings forth new life Again on budding trees.
A Roadside Trip to Parkes Just out of town Where locals dump their rubbish Stinks And there beside the eyesore Shining in the sun A native pea Wandering... Brings beauty They bask on a warm spring day Side by side Giving balance to the world.
Winter Rain There’s been a bit of rain And around Yeoville, Parkes and Dubbo There’s green and gold canola As far as the eye can see. It was dry brown grass last trip. We must eat a lot of butter. Chapel in the Nursing Home We sang songs without music Led by a tone deaf lady And a jovial man Jumping around like a monkey. He preached the Gospel To those past caring And told them The best was yet to come. Maybe we will have music in heaven Everyone said It was good. So what was good :The gathering, The caring, The laughing And the hope that there is more. The Readers Festival Lots of people, Thousands, Grasping at every word And inspiring thought From the mouths and brains of writers: Preachers to the Western world, Giving food To the spiritual hungry. In a world That has shunned religion. Just words From man to man Like fishing in your own bathtub. It was all good, Inspiring, Enlightening, Fun, But the best thing was the children doting on Mem Fox, singing ‘If you’re happy and you know it’ reading words, grammar, spelling. In the beginning was the Word. Small Towns Small towns along a highway, Tomingley, Peak Hill, Stuart Town, Busy vehicles Passing the quiet life At 110kph Modern people with modern lifestyles Cars Semi’s Grey nomad vans Outpacing the ones they have left behind in tumble down houses and relics of yesteryears’ cars dumped around them. They sit on their verandahs watching the world go past with their cup of tea and home made ANZACs then feed the chooks, water the vegies and milk the goats before their afternoon nap. And we wonder who really has the good life? Highways of life Truck stops along a highway filled with grey nomad vans stopping the night.They have spent their life working, gathering, accumulating, seeking the good life in their spotless, minimalistic houses and stylish cars only to leave it all behind and live with nature in their spotless, minimalistic, swishy vans, drinking latte in small villages on the footpaths in the sun.
A Trip to the beach The ocean roars its mighty breath It heaves its powerful hands against the shores day in, day out, never stopping: watery turbines wasted as strong currents sweep over watery worlds below and natural air conditioning bathes earth’s summer shores where sweltering land lubbers come in hordes for relief from suburban heatwaves. Seagulls use the windy ocean currents to cool, to glide, to play, to eat. They know the power of the pristine tides Yet we still burn coal..
Fishing on the beach Spent $12 on frozen prawns bu catching nothing. Seagulls sit on the sand in the sun watching the sea heaving its mighty chest against the shores then breathing in its streams of foam to show again its timeless strength. Blue horizons gather a cloud or two and salty spray dances with the heavens complaining of its barrenness We pack up to go home and the sleeping seagulls swoop on discarded bait. Beach bums surviving on handouts.. The Saints of Malley’s Flat Published in ‘The Land’ Newspaper. Do you remember now my friend, Now we are old and grey, The ‘saints’ of our old Mallee’s Flat, When life was blithe and gay. Do you remember old man Bob, T’was thought he weren’t ‘all there’ Till he was heard reciting verse For hours without a care. When Rev. Jo the preacher came To show us all ‘god’s might’, We arranged a concert for Sunday School, And asked old Bob to recite. The verse went on and on my friend, For half an hour or more, Till Rev Jo, his face all red, Pushed Jo toward the door. We clapped and whistled loud applause, And stamped and yelled for more Poor Rev. Jo, confused, perplexed, Could not calm the roar. T’was Billy Hughes’ bright idea, A teaser through and through, The preacher marked him to repent, After another prank or two. And now my mind stays round the bend, And halfway down the hill, To where the row of pine trees grew, To May’s garden senten-ill And when I longed for peace and quiet I would come here for a rest, And talk with May, who though t’were old Was sure one of the best. T’was like a stay in heaven I thought, To stop and talk with May, In her oasis full of cheer, She worked in the sun all day. ‘Don’t mind my gardening dress,’ she’d say, Bent o’er to dig the land, And as she bent, her old dress showed, On her rear, a sun bleached band. But gnarled old hands, and tattered hat Above a dried brown face, Showed love and peace to all who came, Our May was full of grace. She was kind to Susie Grey, The Mallee’s own libertine, Who though the matrons looked down their nose, Their sons did contravene. And so to shock the town’s blue blood Or hold a trump-card, rather, Her eleven children’s surnames differed – According to the father. I smile at the thought of Ernie’s shop, Its door bell gently tinkling, To show the way to smells and delights Of which children now have no inkling. Those were the days my old, old friend, Smoking chimneys, the welcome mat, And friendly smiles, and knowing eyes, Of the ‘saints’ of Mallee’s Flat.
The Melbourne Cup in MudgeeWritten after visiting a Melbourne Cup 'do' and seeing a friend attacked by foolish snobbishness. The first Melbourne Cup dinner I attended Was glamorous. Eyes ran up and down When I arrived That said, “Who’s she?” That was ten years ago. Ten years of drought And recession. This year’s Cup Had lots of home-made hats Some a little crazy. Fertilizing troublesThis poem The old tree down the back was a terrible disgrace, When we first came to Mudgee, with its gnarled and battered face, And bare arms mutilated from the drought and scathing wind; Its twisted knobbed old body dripped its bark as though t’was skinned. We pondered on its future: what a shame to cut it down. If only we could save it and somehow restore its crown. We thought of it in days gone by when it was in its prime; Its hair all bathed in glory; boughs strong for kids to climb. Six drought years of settling in, our house now built upon Our land, where battles conquered foes; where victories have shone. Our tree it seems joined in our fight, its enemies it scorned, And aided by our battling plight, boughs stand with leaves adorned. When now I look at ‘standing grace’ sway gently in the breeze; Its arms outstretched to touch the sky, sun shining on its leaves. I think of how its battles won, it laughs in victory, And thanks us for excretion waste, we buried beneath our tree. The Shearing Cook’s baked dinner“Not stew again,” the men all cried, ‘We’ve had it up to ‘ere.’” “It’s different,” the camp Cooky lied, “to last night’s mince and beer. Tonight’s a specialty my friends, A rare delicious treat. Superb creation never ends; My menus are a feat.” “It’s stew again. Don’t cover up. It’s boring plain old stew. Why can’t we feast a different sup – roast beef, and baked spuds too?” “How can I get roast beef out here? Lamb meat the boss provides. A shearers’ cook can’t poach a steer, He’d tan our flamin’ hides.” “We’re sick of lamb, we’re sick of stew, We want some better tucker. We’d give our pay cheque for one ‘do’ of real home baked beef supper.” “I’ll try,” said Cook. “I’ll search my brain and risk to poach a steer. My reputations all in vain if my meal brings one jeer.” So Cook crept out later that night, His nerves were all ajitter. His sharpest blade he held fist tight And hoped the steer don’t twitter. The ‘job’ all done by early morn In silence of the moonlight, The sun rose stealthily e’re the dawn Found cook back from a dune hike. He’s searched and found rare native fruits For fruit pie of the century. “I’ll fix these flamin’ whinging brutes; This taste will test their dentury.” He fussed and clattered pans all day; He seasoned, sifted, walloped; Stuffed tender beef with scented hay; With his 'choppers' pie crust scalloped. The meal was served: a brandy baste on the beef men voted ‘different’. The pie, ‘superb’ A wondrous taste – None knew Cook’s false teeth crimp’d it! The Mudgee BlockieT’was from Sydney she came Country life in her veins Enthusiasm simply was ooz’n. The good life for me And the kids will be free From the smog and the rat race and booz’n. They moved into a shed, Enough room for the bed A table and chair and the kitten. “We don’t need much,” said she “Bush work’n we’ll be.” By the ‘build your own’ bug they’d been bitten. In just a month or two Our house will shine all new. Built with our own hands – and no mortgage. The garden’s all planned ‘Course chemicals are banned. You KNOW bugs don’t like garlic and borage. There’ll be water in excess, Waste not want not’s a success, With bathwater, dishwater and slops. And the veges will grow With the herbs in a row And the show judge will vote them the tops. Our own meat we will raise As o’er pastures we gaze, While on the verandah we sit gently rock’n. While MUM milks the cow Milky froth flowing, and now Fresh butter and cream bring us flock’n. Yes, life was just grand All reality banned The good thoughts were only worth think’n. Everything was so rosy Home and garden all cosy, Never realizing how quick they were sink’n. What a shock it was when To this dear little hen, Troubles came, and started multiply’n. The veges grew full To be eaten by the bull, But that didn’t stop her from try’n. Again and again She planted in vain, And always was someth’n against her She dug and she toiled, The sun merrily boiled, And troubles securely did fence her. Dam water dried up, Not even a cup Full could EVER be wasted. She longed for the rain, If it came she might gain, But it didn’t, and the veges all basted. The cattle all died, Couldn’t save even a hide, When they got in and ate her oleander. And as for the house, Boy didn’t she rouse, When in two years, all t’was built was the verandah. City slickers take warn’n, Or else you’ll be mourn’n Your fate, when you come to the country. Country life is just grand, In the MIND where it’s planned, It’s not really for all and sundry. HOW ABOUT THAT!!!!when everything's gone splat, from the time the cock crowed 'doodle doo' till dark, now how about that! When I got up, Jack Frost had been Cow's mooed 'my udder's fat' so warmed my fingers cuddling their hides: romantic? How about that! My tank went dry; the dam just mud; I divined, but smelled a rat when I dug down to a water pipe - Eureka! How about that! My chook business has gone astray; There's no eggs where they sat; An old tramp took my free range eggs for breakfast! How about that! And then it rained torrential rain, Leaked through the roof ' pit pat' They caught the rain drops in my boots - My new ones! How about that! So now I've 'ad it up to 'ere, My farm's for sale next Sat. I'll sell it for a 'hobby farm' A bargain! How about that! THE WATTLE TREE Don't forget in the winter gloom blooms the wattle tree. A silent testimony that defies the winter frosts; a promise of new birth in the spring. When all is bare and white, the frost burnt grass a brown sludge, stringently stretching to at least give an impression of covering and protecting the cold ground; when grey clouds loom every day and chill winds shriek through the storm tossed scrub, harassing the gums to huddle their olive gowns close to them; the wattle stands silently spilling its courage in sprays of golden hue; surprising the winter wind; meeting its teasing challenge with little puffs of golden delight; rather than cowering to the icy blast. And before long the winter wind gives up its fight and lays to rest its fierce aggression, melting in the face of this golden gown of glory. Yes, heed well, the wattle tree in winter. The Woman on the LandWon a first prize in The Land poetry competition. How much heartache can one woman bare at the sun's rise and fall on the day. In the scorching heat and the red dust plains, is it life - or is it life's way? Her family of young ones play round her knees. For them she will toil and bear the trials and the tears of the Aussie bush: but for them she'd be way past care. Is it love of a man or love of the land that keeps her slogging through? Or is it love of a life, or life's challenge? It depends on your point of view. For women are deep and mysterious, not shallow or surface beings and a real Aussie woman of the bush is a woman who real life is seeing. BOB'S TALE
Highly Commended in the Bronze Swagman Competition and printed and illustrated in their anthology. Buckaroo is a locality in the Mudgee region, about 8klms north of town with Mt Buckaroo its main feature. Based on a story told to me by the late Jim Freeman of Mudgee, locally known as 'the Mayor of Menah', who was our friend and mentor when we first came to Mudgee and told the stories many of my poems are based on.
Old Bob was a mate with a store of old tales of the bush and the scrub, all true blue. Round the campfire he caused howling laughter or wails, depending the tale on review. His eyes used to shine when he told of the times as a lad, with his ear to the wall, he would hear elders talking - such gossip and tales - as life's troubles, or fun, they'd recall. Old Bob had the knack of entwining the tales of his boyhood, and life in the scrub. He'd paint vivid pictures of life in the raw that delighted, from churchyard to pub. My favourite story, I often recall is a 'snake yarn'; the top one of all. For you know that the 'snake yarn' each blighter repeats gets embellished to taller than tall. Bob tells of a time, when he was a lad - swears on his Mum's grave that it's true - he was out in the bush with his Uncle Roy woodcutting - back of old Buckaroo. It was time for a 'smoko'; the black billy boiling, Roy reached to the swag for the tea. He disturbed a 'King Brown' all of nine foot in length, with a waist that was thick as his knee! He screamed for a shovel, Bob swished it around, but 'King Brown' was too crafty: slipped through. Exhausted and shocked from chasing the brute, old Roy sought a seat, and his brew. They sat on a near log, sipping murky black tea, as at ease as in armchairs at home. Refreshed, heart beats steadied, they got back to their job of woodcutting. The time had just flown! Roy looked at the log they'd been resting upon: its size would just finish their load. With the chainsaw blade roaring he sliced ten even rounds so quickly - he jumped like a toad. Roy picked up the first round; Bob carried the next: what they saw turned their faces snow white! From the first to the last block its hollow was stuffed with the 'King Brown' they had chased out of sight!
Alternative What?by Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c) Dear Mum, You can stop worrying about me now mum, I'm really alright you know. I know you'll miss me terribly, but I'm o.k. - here with Jo. I know the farm's run down and ragged, but the house is a handyman's dream. Though with six kids, the cat and canary it is busting apart at the seam. Yet it's cosy when you get used to it. The dirt floor is packed carpet smooth. An orchestra plays on the tin roof mum, when it rains - a sound to soothe. Although it's a little bit leaky I've buckets to catch all the drops. It's the most Aussie sound I have heard mum: the tin roof, and the rain dripping plops. My Joe's got conveniences streamlined: our old mini's parked by the back door to drive down the track to the loo mum, and just eight metres more to the bore. So we don't even waste a trip mum. Pay a visit, then on to the pump. The back seat holds three buckets full mum, we can bath - if we don't hit a bump. And the loo is quite picturesque mum: A big hole in the wall to look through and the times when there isn't a line-up we relax and enjoy the good view. I'm getting quite good at farming. Helped a calf to be born yesterday and I even taught it to suck mum - though my finger's sore now I must say. I had quite some bother to begin with: the cow kept deserting her calf, so I put the bub in a wheelbarrow and followed the mum down each path till she gave up, and stayed with her baby, fed it and licked it all clean. I can tell you, I was tired that night mum, I was tempted to let that calf wean. We aren't desperate for rain anymore mum. We have mud and slush up to our ears. But poor Joe had to go and get sick mum, plus it struck down three of my dears. The 'Jenny' then had to break down mum, so the washing by hand must be done. Chopping the wood in the rain mum ain't exactly what I call good fun. But like a good farmer's wife, I braved it. Got a skinned shin and bruised foot by the way. Still, the pink tracksuit you sent up for my birthday kept the mud and the slush all at bay. Oh mother, dear mother, don't panic. Me and my Joe will do fine. My dear children are blooming from farm life. Don't worry, dear mother of mine! The Dancing Chookby Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c) I'll tell you of the other night when my chook did the Rhumba. His name is Percy and he danced it true to beat - by gumba. We thought we'd make a ‘Percy Stew' to fill our growling tum-ba. "We'll wait for night to catch him: outsmart that chook adumb-ba." I crept up to old Percy’s perch but he saw me acome-ba. I grabbed his legs; he shot his spur in flesh of my poor thumb-ba! Still, held him tight and whacked him on my chopping block of lumb-ba. I swung the axe - but Percy ducked and he began to hum-ba In chicken tune, a beat that sound just like the rolling Rhumba. I swung and swung - he ducked and ducked (or chicked and chicked say some-ba) I got'im - then I fainted; (from the shock I went all numb-ba). I woke up thinking Percy’s dead!' but what a fright to come-ba: Old Perc was dancing round the yard - old fashioned, old time Rhumba! I chased him, grabbed him - in the pot made 'Chicken stew a Yum-ba'!
An Alternate Viewby Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c) Won a Highly Commended Certificate at the Henry Lawson Poetry Competition.
I need a man about the house. I said a man now, not a mouse. Someone who's willing to swing an axe. Someone to work hard, not one who's lax. I need a man about the house. Who'll say "I do" and be my spouse, And do the things a good man should - like cart the garbage and chop the wood. I had a man about the house. Unfortunately, he was a louse so I got mad and sent him packing. and now for company I'm lacking. I need a man about the house. Don't need good looks, nor body grouse. He needn't take me to wine and dine. If he'll empty the loo, he can be mine. I need a man about the house who loves a woman in a skirt and blous(e) A "he" man with muscles to mow my lawn; who's up and working at the crack of dawn. Have I made it clear now, who I'll espouse: someone to do things, someone with nous. Someone to help me in my strife. Someone who'll stay with me and make me his wife.
Mateship Boris and Suzie were eagles. They lived over Orana's farms. The smooth barked pink gum tree that housed them stretched its arms to the heavens above. They were a pair. They homed there as one. Now Boris thought Suzie was super. Her feathers so soft earthy brown. His big hearty chest swelled with love for her as he winged over Mudgee town. She was his girl. Their life just begun. Suzie was young and coquettish. She flirted and flounced through the trees. She circled round Boris and teased him as she glided on the springtime breeze. He was her man. Kept hot on the run. They built a big nest there together, of sticks: very classy shebang. They primmed and they primed it with love songs; of their pride in each other they sang. This was their home basking neat in the sun. Their home had a long, tarred verandah. Steel animals ran up and down. They swished and they squealed with their tyres and brought man to invade the land. And just for some practise, one shot off a gun. Suzie was flirting with Boris. She swooped and she swirled through the sky. Creating a challenging target for mankind with lust in his eye to shoot and destroy; to kill on the run. The lead pierced her heart and fine feathers. The shock on her face showed her pain. Her eyes locked in farewell to Boris as she swooned to the earth again - a flopped bag of feathers: man's trophy was won. Poor Boris' scream pierced the heavens. He screeched and he clawed at the sky, then perched on the bough of their love nest, gave a wounded and grief stricken cry: a target of sorrow for man's carnal fun.
A True SNAKE YARN This is said to have happened in the Wyaldra area of Mudgee. Out in the bush, round Willow Creek Glen Two emus were prancing round three working men. A kanga with joey tucked safe in her pouch All witnessed a snake yarn, for which they all vouch. The workman named Bill was a bit ‘green’ and dim The others thought they’d take the mickery out of him. In the old workman’s hut they were working upon Were some mouse holes in the dirt floor Their swags laid out on. Bill was nervous of snakes, spiders, lizards and rats, Jumped at things in the dark, like the screaming of bats. He’s never ‘been bush’ in his young life before And to initiate Bill, his two elders had swore. Now before he shut eye, Bill covered those holes With a plank and a brick, to keep snakes from bed roles. But by morning was shaken to wake up and see The plank and brick moved and the hole left quite free. ‘A snake! A snake!’ He yelled in the dawn And woke his two workmates who stretched with a yawn. ‘Don’t worry young Bill, there’s no snake in there, A snake out so early would be awfully rare.” But Bill was determined to make sure that was so And he poured petrol down the hole so he’d know. But the old shack belonged to some miners before And a shaft three miles long was under the floor. Bill poured ten gallons of petrol right down Then thought for a bit, and said with a frown, ‘That bugger’s gone deep, I’d better make sure.’ So he threw a match down the hole in the floor...! There WAS a big snake down that hole Now his head’s up in heaven; his tail’s with lost souls. The Ostrich WaltzStep, 2, 3, Step, 2, 3, Ruffle the wings. Step, 2, 3, Step, 2, 3, Bloated neck sings. Roaring and hooting and flapping a feather; Dancing and prancing, he thinks he's so clever. Step, 2, 3, Step, 2, 3 Look at him dance, Wooing and cooing, his eyes on romance IT'S SURPRISINGWHERE WATTLE TREES GROWInspired by wattle trees growing in the wilderness approaching Ilford twist and curl their agony as the windswept barren ridges bare red earth for all to see, and red clay bound scraggy mulga bows its face in windswept prayer as the queen of nature's glory flaunts her golden crown of hair. There she stands in crowning glory to surprise all who behold: how though in earth's poorest crust, she is gowned in purest gold. Though the fierce wind howls and gales there; drought bound trees all gnarl in pain; still the beauty of the wattle lends to earth its grace again to claim beauty in its landscape, though a harsh and barren land: yes, it's surprising how the wattle sheds its gold in God's wise plan. And it's true how in our own life, although poor and harsh may be we can learn a valued lesson from the humble wattle tree. When fierce troubles howl around us; drought bound friendships seem to be - don't twist and gnarl to fit your trouble - proudly be a wattle tree. DROUGHT WITHINDrought in my heart as I look across the sky: Clear azure blue - my pained heart questions "Why?" Drought in my family; in eyes so dark with pain With hearts that cry in secret and sharing thoughts refrain. Drought in my friendships: don't come and visit me. I can't afford a biscuit; I can't afford the tea. I just feel so embarrassed to talk about my trial. Please understand; have patience and walk with me a mile. Drought in my faith - can't go to church in town The petrol bowser's empty. I pray: no rain is found. Drought in understanding from the city living swell. "I'm apples mate; I don't care 'bout other people's hell." Drought in unity of spirit; drought in giving mates a hand. Drought in patriotic bondage; Drought in greatness for our land. Carbon TaxShe stands and argues All day long The press attentive A one note song On carbon tax Or carbon trading She’s not sure which Is the one that’s rating Her one tone voice And flaming hair Her face so pale Shows despair For all’s not well The polls all frown And carbon tax Is shouted down What’s in it for us The populace bought? What’s in it for me Her constant thought. Big eared opponent Takes the flack And churns it up And throws it back To score another Political point And cover the fact That he’s lost the point. The battle’s now This is the chance To win the victory A political dance But the fight began with global warming And there’s no action To heed the warning Of nature’s destruction And human mourning. Just a political pantomime With no end, and no morning. Past Caring Our hearts were heavy Henry, and life was black as hell, with a fiery furnace burning on the land we had to sell. The crows were pecking pebbles - their throats too dry to call. The kookas had stopped laughin’ and our banks had hit the wall. Sad faces in the street didn’t bother with g’day - they just hurried ‘round the grocery chain, ‘cause there was nothing left to say. They didn’t stop to taste and buy new products from the reps. They chose something cheap and filling and kept their change for debts. And even then the cost was high for cabbages and mince and a biscuit was a luxury and cordial out since the recession. The Missus grew tomatoes and spinach in the yard, but water for geraniums was definitely barred. Two inches in the bath tub did five people and the floor and the Simpson’s wash was rationed and the farm wife’s nerves were raw ‘cause she was working in the pub three days a week and shopped around – got another two days cleaning in a motel in the town to keep food on the table in the rotten, 10 year dry. “Ten years”, she said, “Its longer. Ten years is just a lie. I can’t remember when life seemed ‘normal’ around here; when our hearts were free and happy and our weekends beef and beer. The family farm is scarcer than hen’s teeth on the plain and the farmer doesn’t matter to the city stock exchange.” Old Banjo’s words still strut along the wealthy city streets. But your thoughts old Henry still reflect the bush dryness and the heat. She was scared to leave her husband On the days she went to town. She asked a friend to call and check ‘cause his mental health was down - and he was past carin’. But hey now, Henry, lift your heart. The rains have come and we can start to care again; new life begins. Bandaided spirit dumps drought’s sins. We see a green tinge on the hills and silver ribbons in the dells; the ute is gowned in glorious mud; the labour party - they’ve axed Rudd and made promises galore, for good things now in store. The recession’s back is broken and the rain is just a token of Australia’s wise and cunning move to keep afloat of fiscal doom and even loss of breeding stock; farm debts teetering at the top; banks foreclosing mortgages for Real Estate agent forages, the prime farmland to sell to city tree change dwellers don’t matter. ‘Cause banks will lend us money now, in spite of the recession row that blamed their profiteering, when the dollar signs were leering at reality. We’ll never be able to pay it back. But optimism’s the farmer’s knack and we are dancing in the rain. We’ll start once more in spite of pain. We’ll take a punt and buy the seed. We’ll keep the stock from saleyard greed. The years of drought, we’ve seen before. Our hearts are wounded, knees are sore from praying to almighty God, who at last has wet the sod with tears of joy and drops of hope and faith again to fit a Pope that life is good and life will heed our feeble efforts to succeed. And even though we hit rock bottom, those heavy black days are forgotten. The rains have come, new life is here. Henry shout and lift your beer. The doom and gloom is gone, it’s glarin’, that we’re in heaven and past carin’.
Happy Christmas Memories Christmas is a happy time For dancing in my mind Are people in my memories Of times I’ve left behind. When people just dropped in Kids cooling in the river In our boat of tar and tin We’d jumped in off a rope tied to A sprawling red gum tree Or play a game of roundas While the adults drank hot tea To make them sweat and cool them On a languid afternoon After eating a baked dinner And dipping silver spoons Into Grandma’s boiled fruit pudding Done in the copper out the back And laced with rum and threepences Saved up by Uncle Jack. Aunt Mary made her Christmas cake To a secret recipe Passed down to her own daughters And Uncle Bob made sure that he Brought lots of ginger beer He brew up back behind his shed And very ‘adult’ beer it was That went right to your head. It put the men into good cheer And by the evening meal Father played the piano and Jo next door began to spiel Off his jokes, and poems, and yarns., That sent us into laughing fits And Billy Boy began to fume And dance and raise his fists Till Mum would shout and clout his ears And send him down the back And cousins by the dozens Followed Bill along the track Looking for some fun and games In the dark and evening cool For Bill was our bright hero Though Mum thought him a fool Yes, these Christmas thoughts are company They still can make me smile And I still can hear their voices When they visit me a while In my memory. GLOVES (Oh for the days when ladies wore gloves) Once we wore gloves to cover our scratched, battered, gardening hands when playing 'ladies'. Now the fashion is acrylic nails on ring adorned fingers. So I drag out the glamorous stilts and throw a scarf around my little black dress put a smile upon a painted face and hide my hands under the table. Bats Bats around the belfry Bats around the bed Bats are flying everywhere Bats are in my head. Miles and miles of batwings Fly across the sky Heading for my orchard Makes a woman cry. I get a gun to shoot them I bang and clang – make noise I cover trees with netting But bats are naughty boys My fruit is growing grandly Soft peaches on the tree But bats come in and get them And nothing left for me. Each nectarine has bat bites Each peach is torn to shreds Each apricot has nibbles I’ll wring their bloomin’ heads. My environmental daughter Says, ‘No mum, please be kind The bats are nature’s servants The dread is in your mind’. I’ll give her nature’s servants, I’ll keep environment green I’ll put a great big sign up And bats will not be seen. ‘What sign my dearest mother Could keep those bats on high What sign could keep bats off our trees Floating in the sky?’ We know those pesky bat brains Outsmart the farmer’s war On them – they come out winners And fly around for more. But this big sign will trick them They’ll screech and scream with pain And cry ‘wasted environment’ Fruit’s ripened, but in vain. A use-by-date I’ll give them Neon letters bright and bold A use-by-stamp that’s out of date Will say my fruit’s too old! The Shearing Cook’s baked dinner“Not stew again,” the men all cried, ‘We’ve had it up to ‘ere.’” “It’s different,” the camp Cooky lied, “to last night’s mince and beer. Tonight’s a specialty my friends, A rare delicious treat. Superb creation never ends; My menus are a feat.” “It’s stew again. Don’t cover up. It’s boring plain old stew. Why can’t we feast a different sup – roast beef, and baked spuds too?” “How can I get roast beef out here? Lamb meat the boss provides. A shearers’ cook can’t poach a steer, He’d tan our flamin’ hides.” “We’re sick of lamb, we’re sick of stew, We want some better tucker. We’d give our pay cheque for one ‘do’ of real home baked beef supper.” “I’ll try,” said Cook. “I’ll search my brain and risk to poach a steer. My reputations all in vain if my meal brings one jeer.” So Cook crept out later that night, His nerves were all ajitter. His sharpest blade he held fist tight And hoped the steer don’t twitter. The ‘job’ all done by early morn In silence of the moonlight, The sun rose stealthily e’re the dawn Found cook back from a dune hike. He’s searched and found rare native fruits For fruit pie of the century. “I’ll fix these flamin’ whinging brutes; This taste will test their dentury.” He fussed and clattered pans all day; He seasoned, sifted, walloped; Stuffed tender beef with scented hay; With his 'choppers' pie crust scalloped. The meal was served: a brandy baste on the beef men voted ‘different’. The pie, ‘superb’ A wondrous taste – None knew Cook’s false teeth crimp’d it! THE WATTLE TREE Don't forget in the winter gloom blooms the wattle tree. A silent testimony that defies the winter frosts; a promise of new birth in the spring. When all is bare and white, the frost burnt grass a brown sludge, stringently stretching to at least give an impression of covering and protecting the cold ground; when grey clouds loom every day and chill winds shriek through the storm tossed scrub, harassing the gums to huddle their olive gowns close to them; the wattle stands silently spilling its courage in sprays of golden hue; surprising the winter wind; meeting its teasing challenge with little puffs of golden delight; rather than cowering to the icy blast. And before long the winter wind gives up its fight and lays to rest its fierce aggression, melting in the face of this golden gown of glory. Yes, heed well, the wattle tree in winter. Clouds of fireA sunset on a cloudless sky Is pretty, but quite bland. The colours gently mingle; Give an aura to the land. But sunset on a sky of clouds Is drama to behold: Sky mirrors prisms of jewel lights And clouds alight with gold. So too, if life were bland with ease; Untroubled, cloudless skies, We’d smile a sweet insipid faith That never reached our eyes. Yet those who’ve conquered mountains; Trail blazed drought and storms and mire, Stand on peaks ablaze with glory; Silhouetted by clouds of fire. Rock Fishing High tide. and washed ashore against the cliffs, a mermaid caught by her hair trailing over rocks sings night songs to the full moon. Tides lap beaches, smacking soft kisses on warm sands. Secrets of the sea pass through generations of sea nymphs. Oceans sigh and swell in waves of rising memories which fall to hidden currents and legends of deep waters. Mermaids laugh. Silver moonlight flashes on black green waters. Curling tresses sweep rock faces: soft, gentle, sultry songs, linger, drawing souls into the sea. Sirens calling fishermen – Who will catch whom? Silence Silence: my friend; my sanctuary; my strengthening. For in the silence I hear God speaking. In the silence I feel God's awakening to inner strengths. In the silence I see God's illumining to inner truths. For silence is the greatest communicator of all. In silence we find out about ourselves. In silence we discover what life is all about. In silence we see the sweet mysteries of life. In silence we unravel the perplexities of life. In silence we are aware of the spiritual realm that nurtures our world. In silence we find God. AUTUMN From dust I came surrealist realm of ochre rocks and blue tipped limbs ancient music throbs my veins I am earth and sea and sky From the rivers I came flowing, peaceful, laughing with pebbles on shallow days deep, turbulent, searching: my moody days. My still blue skies in autumn hushed bar the sun clipping the tips of flowered bells ringing magpie chimes across mellow breezes whispering in the ear of ghostly gums stretching, lazy in the noonday sun. I am dust as I sit and ponder bereft of soul for my soul is dancing in the wind with butterflies, my soul is flashing silver backed gum leaves in the sun my soul is singing and sighing in river caves; turning blue in ethereal eucalyptus gases It is autumn and I am dust. Bushfire Black burnt stumps and ashen ground for miles there is to see. Foliage gone; bare ghosts screech out where is earth's harmony? A stark gnarled scene devoid of sound, an eerie silence: stung. All life lays quiet, a smouldering haze across the valley's hung. What is this holocaust of earth? Has nature's God gone wild? How can such landscape procreate to give us earth's grandchild? Yet deep within the ash and soot a miracle begins. A marvellous phenomenon this fickle spirit wins. This land is one of contrast. Awesome challenges inspire and tough tenacious spirits handle heat and drought and fire. Expected devastation of the tumult; cruel terrain, simply stirs regeneration of life's best resources again and the pure and simple things spring up devoid of alien essence; the bonds of strength and grit and nerve producing lush frondescence till our beautiful Australia: land of the conquering soul once more dons her complex gown refined; united; whole. WHAT'S REAL? "What's real?" the little rabbit said to toy skin horse one day lying in the nursery where Nanna watched them play. "Is it having things inside of you that buzz and whirr and click, with handles for someone to hold, and beauty all would pick?" "Real isn't how or when you're made" said skin horse to toy bunny, "It's certain 'things' that happen; things some would class as 'funny'. It's not your eyes, your nose, your hair being perfectly in place. It's not your body perfect, nor a neat and pretty face. Real takes time and patience; and giving all you've got. It's when the children love you 'cause your cuddly, warm and soft. It's when they can't go beddy bye till they know you're safe and sound; and they laugh for hours at play with you, delighted you're around. Images, association and connotation Candle on a mantelpiece Light burning Fire burning Room aglow Forms a bow of light And an outer darkness. Mountain mist White clouds Wet on my face Soft on my eyes Swirling round the gum tips. My woolly jumper hugs me tight and you Brush misty drops with fingertips. Smell gum leaves Trampled underfoot – Soft, like you and I. We sit atop blue mountain heights And watch lost valleys far below. Swirling, misty Brigadoon. How long will we last? Ghost gums peeping through the mist Cold air, hot breath Hot hot breath Murmurs echo Mountains talk We are not alone You and I We are not alone. Justice The golden rule is politically incorrect And now it seems Anything goes. Is man bent on self destruction? Are we all Lemming mice Without courage to stand against Corruption and injustice? Is heaven so hard to reach That we resign ourselves to hell? Have we polluted the Dreamtime innocence By joining forces with the devil? If knowledge is a choice Between good and evil Christ and anti-Christ And purity is common to all humanity In seeking unity, One world peace, We must be sure to seek The bonding of a higher spirit. Reach for the stars Not ancient reptile wars World War III is in our own soul And those who refuse the cooee call Will see another holocaust Victory is an active verb Not a right. Peace is a synonym for justice. Class and poverty My mother sacrificed To buy me shoes A pretty dress And ribbons for my hair. She taught me manners Obedience Good speech But oh! If only She could have taught me The right accent! Poverty 2 She was very slim Dyed white hair And talked of ‘mummy’. Bangles clinked together On thin wrists. Diamond rings Adorned her painted fingers. “There’s a good café in Elizabeth Street” Her cultured British voice Echoed in the wind As I headed for MacDonalds. Cappuccino Café Waiting After work Time to waste Before a meeting Half an hour’s breath Time to think Find myself Before I become Someone else again. Unemployment He’s 55; has grey hair And sad blue eyes. When he was 20 He thought he owned the world. Social Security now owns him. Single mothers In grandma’s day She was a bastard And her mother a trollop. Now her mother gets A pension; Rent assistance; Many boyfriends More kids And more money To spend on drugs and booze And she's much better off… She just wishes she had A single father. Politicians When I was 10 I learnt fairies were untrue And Santa didn’t exist. When I was 20 The Uni taught God is dead. And only science is real. Now I’m 40 And politicians say “Trust me!” Alzeimers Nelson Mandela was gaoled because his passionate belief Was politically incorrect. And the world condemned in empathy And grief. Uncle Leo has been gaoled for life Because he forgets. He forgot to tell the Nursing Home He was going ‘out’ to visit his wife And arrived on her doorstep Unexpected. Last week my neighbour Had an unexpected visitor on her doorstep. He bashed her blue And robbed her. He’s not in gaol. Women’s lib Year 2,000, and women are liberated. The TV shows them every day: Doctors, lawyers, business executives, Jumping into bed With doctors, lawyers, business executives. What’s changed? Redfern Lonely streets Crowded with people Kicked out of home Kicked out of life. Boys holding boys Girls with spiked haircuts Hags in long tresses Old men who stare. Crazy dress Wanting attention Only can get it in lonely crowded cafes And booze. The Campbelltown train at midday Stale cigarette smells lingering, glued to sticky surfaces and no smoking signs. Empty seats, scarred and slashed All face the wrong way. An old man sits In crumpled, smelly garb And talks to everyone As they pass him by To a safe distance. A tattooed youth with greasy locks Lights up, Draws back Throws the fag To the eager faced old man. “Thanks mate,” he grabs, fumbling, sucking, happy. The youth thumbs up And lights again. Somber faces, Quiet, Click clack, slick clack, Thoughts race silver rails. Bag lady 1 She mumbled, muttered and rumbled And rummaged through her bag. The XPT swayed, smoothly through the night. The house lights freckle Her window image A pat here, a pat there - A hair is out of place. Rummaging, rummaging through the bag again. Muttering, worrying, Lengths of tatty braids Knotted, tangled, She swathes a length of blue cotton Around a chignon Perched like a pimple Atop her bony skull. Muttering, worrying, The XPT swaying, a soft click clack, click clack. Patting, prodding, Cuts a once bright tablecloth Into gingham bows And jams them into the tangled nest of cottons. Muttering, searching, Seeks her mirrored face, Blurred, in the window’s moving darkness. Removes her wig. A bald neurotic Wraps and cuts And remonstrates The XPY is roaring through the night. Bag Lady 2 She sits on Manly’s promenade And whistles while she works Sewing, sewing, Busy, busy, Seams across her skirt. Waves crash on the sands The wind whips her feeble dirge To blend with the seagulls Fighting for off cast chips And crumbs of bread. She sits and whistles Sewing And drags her skirt around Her ragged frame To sew another seam A seagull pecks At a knob of mouldy bread Protruding from her perished bag, Squawking, fighting, bickering. “Shoo” she says: The lyrics of her song. Bag lady 3 White powdered face Blue painted eyes And ruby lips Snow white whisps Of straggly hair Spring from a white straw brim Snow white dress And gloves White stockinged legs In snow white shoes That mince along the street. An angel of innocence Walks Sydney Night and day. Old Jack Old Jack they called him. Old Jack, but he is young when sober. Old Jack when drunk and smelly, crumpled. Singing, happy Old Jack. 60th Birthday Antique crystal Catches rainbows That colour my years. Wisdom in every hue. Nothing black and white. Eternal creator Reminds us every day The passing of time Holds beauty. Morning sunrise, Fragile, fresh and crisp; Evening sunsets, Colours strengthened by wisdom of the day. Royal North Shore’s Chapel It’s Easter 2009 And Royal North Shore Has thrown out its crosses In fear. Fear of offending others. And the cock crowed Ten thousand times To put them back.
|  Poems by Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c) 2016, Mudgee. If you wish to use any of the poems, please email the author: dzsimmonds@bigpond.com I don't mind you using them, but I would like to know about it. A one off public reading is permitted as long as my authorship is acknowledged at that reading. The general public may use a poem for their own personal Christmas greetings as long as my authorship is acknowledged on that greeting, but commercial publishers must gain written permissison from the author to publish. Christmas 2016 True Vision One night a shepherd sat on a hill And stared at the night, blue velvet and still, What is love? He said. A wave of bright stars; a milky clear light; A band of white angels sang in the dark night. Jesus is love. Three ancient wise men travelled deserts and sands On camels they rode over many strange lands. An answer to life, they sought. A star in the night sky guided their way. They travelled by night and rested by day. Thinking deeply. Found little babe Jesus, born to be king Not of a country, but a spiritual thing. The answer to life and love. God is love. Living is loving
CHRISTMAS IS ABOUT LOVE
One night a shepherd sat on a hill And stared at the night sky, blue velvet and still. A wave of bright stars twinkled gossamer white And a thousand winged angels sang in the night. God is love. He sends a new birth God’s son, baby Jesus, brings love down to earth. Three ancient wise men travelled afar Over deserts and strange lands they followed a star To herald a new life, a new idea bright A vision of love lighting earth’s darkest night. A babe in a manger, new birth, simple poor Confounded their wisdom and filled them with awe. The shepherds and wise men learnt a lesson that night It is simple, yet complex, but the formula’s right. Just use the KISS principle, keep it simple, you’ll see Let the star light your darkness; mankind can be free. For the truth is so simple, makes it hard to conceive,
Kids’ Christmas 2015 It’s half past one, the moon is bright, And Santa’s toys will come tonight He’s in his sleigh at the north pole He’s finished the top end, Down Under’s his goal But something is wrong, the reindeers all sneezes I’ve been up all night in the cold Rudolph wheezes My head hurts, my throat’s raw, my hooves are a mess Where the snow and the ice froze my toes, I guess. I can do no more. I’m worn out I’m afraid Please Santa find someone who’s heroic and brave. Cause Down Under’s a challenge, it’s hot, and bush flies Get into your ears, and your nose and your eyes. Old Santa got on his mobile at once, He dialled Dubbo Zoo, he had a big hunch, The Zookeeper said yes, please come straight away. And fifty big kangas met Santa – Hooray! Santa stuffed presents in each kangaroo’s pouch, He stuffed them so tight, some had to say, ‘Ouch!” He gave each a GPS map, then he said Give a nice gift to everyone tucked up in bed. He sent one to Darwin via the Alice Springs track, And one over to Broome ‘cross the desert outback, Two went to Melbourne, Adelaide and Perth, And one thumped up to Townsville for all he was worth. The kangaroo’s spread cross hills and the plains They bounded through drought lands, green forests and rains, They bounced in mud puddles, pranced hot sands on the beach Trod deep hidden valleys, every mountain’s grand reach. And the earth shook with joy as the kangas bounced by With a present for brolgas, emus, lizards, bush fly But the best ones were kept for the good girls and boys Who woke Christmas morning to wonderful toys. Christmas 2015 In a world of hate and fear We all need Christmas. For Christmas is about love. Goodwill. Kindness. Yes. We all need Christmas. In a world of war and turmoil We all need Christmas. For Christmas is about peace. Yes. We need Christmas. In a world lacking faith But high on politics and religious obsessions, We need the trust and simplicity Of Christmas. A little baby Born to a virgin Both symbolise a new beginning. A fresh start To a new idea in religion: Love. A baby; a virgin and a stable: Back to basics. Silent Night Silent night, holy night Not a bomb or gun in sight Just some shepherds on a green Minding sheep where stars are seen And in the beauty of the night Awe and wonder; angels bright Singing God’s own glory. Born to tell a story. Silent night, holy night No screaming TV causing fright, No paper headlines' sensational view Just simple truth: a baby’s due. Not king, or queen, or celebrity, Just a battler - Born in a humble stable. Silent night, holy night Wise men sought a source of light And found it in a stable. Christmas We all want wisdom... See the three wise men travel the earth to find a new birth, and embrace it honour it to refresh their ancient traditions. to refresh their ancient traditions... We all want peace... Oh silent night, holy night shepherds quaked at the sight glory streams in a milky way southern cross in a velvet sky lay stillness and peace contemplated within stillness and peace within... We all want joy... Happy happy happy talk between family and friends. Christmas time is time for giving Christmas time is pain forgiving. Families reconciled. Friends again... Christmas is time forgiving. Multicultural Santa Santa got an E-mail From Australia way down under That put him in a spin And sent his plans asunder. The message said, ‘Dear Santa Your reindeers can’t come here, It’s way too hot in summer For your ice-lan-dic reindeer. And our Southland’s multicultural So some reindeers have to go To make a place for zebras, And elephants, and Jo, Our kangaroo Who’s a thumper, she’s a peach, Who can lead you through the outback To the bush and then the beach. So Santa very carefully Selected for his sleigh An animal from every land – Half female by the way. And Christmas Eve he loaded up With Jo, the kangaroo. A grizzley bear, a zebra matched with reindeers - two by two. The sleigh was very difficult To get into the air An elephant from India Unbalanced every pair. The sleigh bumped over mountains And jerked all through the bush; Bogged in the crimson desert sands So Santa had to push for miles through our sticky, sunburnt land - He had to strip his red suit off and slip, slop, slap his tan. The joey jumped and bumped along And gifts flew everywhere – Toys bounced from the magic sleigh And tumbled through the air. And 20 million people Woke at dawn on Christmas day And scratched their heads and puzzled How their gifts got where they lay, In the tree tops, under bushes, At the front door – or out the back, Floating in the pool, quite soggy Where they tumbled from the sack On Santa’s multicultural sleigh, As Jo jumped across our land, And the elephant tried to jump like her, And the zebra, and eland. Santa said, “Next year I’ll use rabbits, Or sparrows, or snakes, At least the ride will be smoother, In the multicultural stakes.” By Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds © 2015
Slicing time He sliced time in two BC , AD, CE. Not a prince of this world. Simply born in a stable, his father a carpenter. He died on a cross between two thieves. Yet because of him, time ended and began anew. The world’s thinking turned upside down as he shouted ‘Father forgive them’ and gave up his life. Time stood still. The curtain between earth and heaven was rent in two and mankind glimpsed heaven in all its glory. By Diane de St Hilaire Simmonds (c) 2013
In My Memory Christmas is a happy time for dancing in my mind are people in my memories of times I've left behind. The days of true blue friendships when people 'just dropped in; kids cooling in the river in our boat of tar and tin. We'd jumped in off a rope tied to a sprawling Red Gum tree or play a game of roundas while the adults drank hot tea to make them sweat and cool them on a languid afternoon after eating a baked dinner and dipping silver spoons into Grandma's boiled fruit pudding done in the copper out the back and laced with rum and threepences saved up by Uncle Jack. Aunt Mary made her Christmas cake to a secret receipe passed down to her own daughters and Uncle Bob made sure that he brought lots of ginger beer he brew up back behind his shed and very 'adult' beer it was that went right to your head. It put the men into good cheer and by the evening meal Father played the piano and Jo next door began to spiel off his jokes, and poems, and yarns that sent us into laughing fits, and Billy boy began to fume and dance and raise his fists till Mum would shout and clout his ears and send him down the back and cousins by the dozens followed Bill along the track looking for some fun and games in the dark and evening cool for Bill was our bright hero though Mum thought him a fool. Yes, these Christmas thoughts are company. They still can make me smile and I still can hear their voices when they visit me a while in my memory. Aussie Christmas Air so stark and still; pressing expectation: hot earth, blanketed by a cool velvet sky, heavy with a milky wave of light; heralds the Christ Child's birth, beside a southern cross of destiny. 'Love' is born this summer night. Cicadas sing a welcome amongst crisp gum leaves and bark, composting. Spirit of 'Love' sweeps this great southern land; claiming souls for its own eternity. Didgeridoo throbs out a mystic welcome; its haunting rhythm wavering throughout the earth's intense heat; twitching the brolgas feet to dance a dusty welcome to the Christ Child. A hushed, hot land slumbers beneath the Southern Cross eclipsed by the Star of Bethlehem. Christmas Time In Australia The hot earth shimmers in silent heat, a brown parched land and blue sky meet at Christmas time in Australia. Cicadas sing a thirsty song and kookas' laughter rings out long at Christmas time in Australia. The family sentries search the skies for a streak of smoke that brings bush fires at Christmas time in Australia. Wet bags are ready near the tank and the firefighter claims first rank at Christmas time in Australia. Hot westerly winds bring dust and smoke and burnt out paddocks wear a black cloak at Christmas time in Australia. The heat from fires and heat from sun combine to cook our land round 1.00 at Christmas time in Australia. Still families swelter, gathered round a big baked dinner, in gravy gowned, at Christmas time in Australia. They wear crepe hats and bon bons pull and eat plum pudding till they're full at Christmas time in Australia. THE LITTLE CHRISTMAS SWAGGIE Years not long passed in Aussie land when times were tough and mean, our swaggies wandered through the hills their figures long and lean. A swag was humped upon their backs: their tucker bag and tea, and boots were cardboard lined for soles; they camped beneath a tree. Men laid beneath the Milky Way and brewed their billy tea; hoped for a shilling soon to earn to feed their family..... Long long ago in ancient times in a baby boy was born a King yet shared our swaggies' plight. Long way from home his parents trod the dusty country track; His mother laboured 'cross the miles, upon a donkey's back. They camped within the stable walls beneath a shining star, whose light caressed the new born babe and spread the news afar. A bed of straw the babe laid on and swaddling kept Him warm; this little Swaggie King was born with love this world to reform. And so the Swaggie King grew up in simple poverty; He stayed a swaggie in His heart true to His nativity. In adult days He roamed the hills: man born to be Messiah; no homely pillow for His head as other men desire. No worldly goods strapped to His waist His feet in sandals clad; but riches from His lips poured forth: how God's blessings man can have. As the Aussie swaggie worked and walked to save his family, so God's own Swaggie tramped this earth to rescue you and me. When next you see the Milky Way or brew a gum leaf tea, remember your past heritage: GOD'S LITTLE CHRISTMAS SWAGGIE.
Like a baby How can God Who has given the world To the care of humans Bring peace on earth? How can God Who has allowed mankind Freedom to choose Good or evil Save the world? How can God Midst war and confusion Create goodness When fighting and terrorism seems So close at hand How can the Christmas baby Humble and helpless Bring light to mankind I feel like that baby lord Born into a world I cannot control A world of poverty and terror. And yet, as I grow to adulthood I understand God can and did save the world By giving the freedom To choose. For everyone that chooses God Every act of kindness and love Every life given for others Is the re-creation Of God-ness in this world Like the Christmas baby I start out small And grow In understanding.
Little Boxes Little boxes sit around our tree wrapped in green and red and gold and on Christmas morning we'll all sit and open and unfold the gifts from those we love. We'll smile in sweet surprise that they've managed to keep secret their gift before our eyes. We'll laugh and kiss and cuddle and declare our love anew even though last week we quarrelled, yes, this year has had a few. The boxes wrapped beneath the tree are like my Christmas heart when I sit and dream and open little boxes holding part of my life. While angels sing a chorus of a silent holy night I lift the lid and peak inside at memories so bright of you. I open up my box and smile and sit and think of you a while - remember good times that we shared and sad times when you showed you cared and then I close the lid real tight and tuck my box right out of sight deep within the memories of my heart. Then I sit and write a Christmas card to you. The Joy of Giving The gifts we give at Christmas time are wondrous to behold We search our hearts and plague our minds for 'treasures' pure as gold. We think of those we love all year; our hearts go soft with yearning: we want to give them of our love; our mind to them is turning. And as it turns away from self and others try to please the joy we feel becomes so high a thought begins to tease." If every day I gave so much to ones I love and treasure - not 'much' in terms of money, but of the heart's true measure.... If I let go of my desires; thought deep and searched my heart and tried to serve for happiness the ones of whom I'm part.... I wonder if I'd feel the joy, the laughter and the cheer that I feel now at Christmas time each day throughout the year? Remember? 4am, its almost light, I wonder what he brought last night. I'll just creep out to where our tree is sitting near the brick chimney in the loungeroom. A bike!... My pride and joy. A bike!...one each, a girl and boy. With streamers falling from the bars and woven through the spokes and bars - a bike! I wake my sister, shout the news to Mum and Dad, who flat refuse to get up, come and see the bike for Sis and me. "Oh please get up, I want to ride, I want to play, to go outside and show the other kids my bike, that Santa brought, show Bill and Mike. Look! There's Susie wheeling by, Dad, come on Mum, please don't sigh, here, I'll help you, hold my hand, come on, it says from you and Gran and Pop. Yeah! Watch me! Look Mum, Dad - no hands, Hey, there goes Fred, hey, he's got bands around his trousers, Hah, that's for wowsers. My bike's got shields across the wheels, and I can't tell you how it feels so great! My bike's the best one in the street, Its green and purple and the seat is cushioned! It's perfect! Santa Clause is great and I'm so happy I can't wait till next Christmas.
Christmas: Memories of the Heart. There's a lot of little memories tucked away within my heart. Some are sad and poignant and some - from Cupid's dart are sweet, and soft and gentle; make me warm and young again, and some are mixed together, full of love and joy and pain. At Christmas time I view my life, my friends, my clan, and others who somehow along the way I've lost, though thought blood brothers. It's a time to sit, remember, savour tenderness and dream of the emotions of past loved ones and my eyes with tears oft gleam for the joy and pain of loving is what Christmas is about when we understand the Christ child, and our faith grows deep, devout for we hold the joy of living in the memories of our heart and we know the pain of loving is only a small part. For whatever sheds a tear and weighs our heart within our chest has also given so much joy, provided passion's best. Though memories within our heart may hold some loss, some pain, the Christ child's gift of peace and joy can turn our loss to gain for a heavy heart becomes like gold when given to the King and memories gain angel wings and soar to heaven and sing an Halleluia chorus, at Christmas time each year when we sit and dream of memories and people we hold dear. Christmas As Mary carried the Christ child within her womb may we also carry Him within the centre of our being. As the wise men travelled afar to discover where He lay so may we travel the galaxies of the Spirit to find a new birth - a new faith. As humble shepherds listen to the angels message so may we be humble enough to listen to the Spirit of God. As an innkeeper had given his best to the world and had no room for the Son of God but offered his tattered and soiled stable anyway so may we not falter to let Him convert our soiled and tattered hearts for the Birth of Christ within us.
SILENT NIGHT Silent night, Holy night, Nought but stars And hills in sight Shepherds rest upon the green Look into darkness, stare and dream And ponder. Quiet quiet quiet night Souls feel tiny at the sight Of moon and stars and endless lights Twinkling in the black of night. God whispers. Men see things they cannot dream Eternity comes close, is seen In visions bright against the night A band of angels, heavenly light Sing praises to a father And speak the heavenly birth. And simple shepherds know a truth They touch a wisdom in its youth That in the quietness of the night God comes down, and in that light Comes life. Cristmas Memories and friends from near and far are wrapped in our box of memories and gleam from the Christmas star atop our tree. Heaven above sings hymns of old on a silent night, and the past unfolds and we think of loved ones gone. Reassured that the Christ child we adore has passed through the veil and gone ashore on the other side of eternal seas where the angels sing, and our Christmas trees sparkle lights like stars at night, here on earth, we hold hope bright and remember dear ones that we've loved with us, sing 'Noel' from heaven above in an angel's robe, and with wings of gold and we know as nativity unfolds and our memories dance in a gleaming tear and we laugh and dream of yesteryear on this silent holy night, that the Christ Child's heavenly light and the angels chorus holds our dreams safe within the realm of those heavenly scenes And the treasured memories of our past Christ is in Christmas There’s proof all around There’s joy and there’s happiness And good will abounds. Christ is in Christmas There’s love shared with all - The poor and the lonely - To answer His call. Christ is in Christmas The tinsel; old Claus Families are celebrating Taking time out, a pause To remember the Christ child To teach children good will To seek faith and hope And hearts with love fill. My poem this year reflects the positive aspects of Australia celebrating Christmas in a world of seemingly ill will towards Christians. Even the tinsel and decorations, even the carols blaring through the shopping centres, is positive. It is a sign that we as a community hold Christmas as a time to celebrate. Give thanks for all the positives around you this year.
Contact Us Email: info@mudgeehistory.com.au Author/Administrator: Diane Simmonds Mudgee NSW Phone: 0488 065 456 |
 | Email: info@mudgeehistory.com.au Author/Administrator: Diane Simmonds Mudgee, NSW Phone: 0488 065 456 |  |
