FEBRUARY/MARCH COMPETITION - POST ALL ENTRIES HERE

[Ric Raftis]

G'day all,

Well the year is marching on and speaking of marching, I thought it would be a good idea to have the topic for this bi-monthly competition as "What Anzac Day Means To Me".  Hopefully we will have some great pieces to add to the RSL section on the Forum and some nice new pieces that can be performed on Anzac Day at the various gatherings around the place.  If you aren't a member of an RSL, I would encourage you to join, even if it be on a social basis.  You can meet a lot of old diggers who have some wonderful stories that would translate well to bush verse.  They aren't all about the wars, some won't speak of that at all, but they do have some great yarns.

[zondrae]

Well someones got to go first. I've been up since 3.30 this morning. Here it is, unpolished. I may add a stanza or two after I speak with a dear old Grannie I know who was in the Land Army. But this little pest insisted to be written NOW. (Judge A Judy please disregard this first draft).

Ladies of The Land
© Zondrae King (Corrimal) 02/07

Their names were Glad and Dot and Kate
left standing at the garden gate.
Their men, as men have done before,
joined up and went off to the war. – to fight for

They pulled their boots on, as you would
and set to work as good folk should
to do the tasks of every day
regardless of the chance of pay – to hope for

On rural blocks with farms to run
the children had no time for fun.
Each had their duty, jobs to do
chooks, dogs and calves and siblings too. – to care for

The factories also needed hands
in uniforms, no marching bands,
the women came to take on trades
to turn the plough shears into blades. – to work for

As goods were rationed times were tough
these women, made of stronger stuff,
learned how to improvise each day
and had to find a smarter way – to do for

The mothers, daughters, sisters, wives
who led these strange, disjointed lives,
they also served, the ones who wait
still standing at the garden gate. – to pray for

And though we were not ‘over there’
we truly felt we did our share.
We kept the home fires burning bright
for men returning from the fight. – to live for

(OK can I sleep now?........)

then a few weeks later. the final revised version..

Ladies of The Land
© Zondrae King (Corrimal) 02/07

Their names were Glad and Dot and Kate
left standing at the garden gate.
Their men, as men have done before,
joined up and went off to the war.
Then, patiently, they had to wait.

They pulled their boots on, as you would
and set to work as good folk should
to do the tasks of every day
regardless of the Army pay.
They filled the gaps as best they could.

On rural blocks with farms to run
the children had no time for fun.
Each had their duty, jobs to do
chooks, dogs and calves and siblings too.
They helped and cared and things were done.

The factories also needed hands
in uniforms, no marching bands,
the women came to take on trades
to turn the plough shears into blades
drove tractors, welded, maintained brands.

The Land Army, the name they bore.
Another aspect of all war.
They drove the lorries, manned each post
and kept a lookout on the coast.
They mastered every tedious chore.

They packed the goods and stacked the stores
and sent out goods to foreign shores
to keep the soldiers morale high.
To try to keep them warm and dry,
when fighting Nippon, Hun, or Boars.

They pumped the fuel and baked the bread.
They bruised their hands and used their head.
Became plumbers, chippies, sparkies
wearing lace beneath their khakis.
Sometimes their hearts felt full of lead.

As goods were rationed times were tough
these women, made of stronger stuff,
learned how to improvise each day
and had to find a smarter way.
They passed each test, though things were rough.

They also serve, the ones who wait
and pray while in the hands of fate.
The mothers, daughters, sisters, wives
who led these strange, disjointed lives,
and stood beside the garden gate.

And though they were not ‘over there’
they truly felt they did their share.
They kept the home fires burning bright
for men returning from the fight,
A haven filled with those who care.

[therese]

Darwin 1942

in darwin february '42
the war came to our shores,
when bombing raids, not 1 but 2
claimed ships 8, aircraft, 34.

japanese bombers came in waves
one hundred and eighty-eight planes,
incredible damage ,and many graves
when bombs fell like monsoon rains.

more bombs dropped on darwin that day
than at pearl harbour, a month before,
and they continued, with many more raids
in twenty-one months, there was sixty-four.

off shore islands, gave early warning
but sadly, it fell on deaf ears,
and of the devastation that morning
the government, kept quiet for years

therese mitchell

[Bernard de Silva]

“DIGGER”…THAT’S WHAT ANZAC MEANS TO ME”.

In a theatre of battle, inhumanity runs rife,
then a khaki line, the brunt must often bear.
For when a rifle, along with a bayonet knife,
is your tool of trade…a Digger will be there.

The digger, a legend now, for so many years,
back to the times with Gordon, in the Sudan.
then fighting the Boer, with the ‘Carbineers’,
always the Digger, was essential to the plan.

If there’s oppression, or an underdog in sight,
Australia’s creed of fairness, stands to the fore.
Off to the ‘Boxer’ rebellion, the Chinese fight,
khaki clad Diggers again on the foreign shore.

Came the first big show…“The war to end War”,
again khaki ranks rallied, to the Empire’s call.
Light Horsemen, then first to leave our shore,
dispatched to the front, were those first to fall.

Our Navy and Airforce, never sell them short,
they too, swelled ranks of honour on demand.
Served with distinction, anywhere they fought,
but the frontline Digger, died upon command.

First at Gallipoli, the stalemate long and hard,
a landing slaughter, the Turk upon the height. 
‘Over the top’, to the wire…die to make a yard.
later, to Passchendale, a mongrel way to fight.

Egypt, Gaza, Bersheeba, to the Somme, between,
’til “The Great War” ended, diggers saw it all.
“The War To End Wars”, little did that mean,
conflict prevails, then ever, comes another call.

   
First a Spanish prelude, to Communism’s tide,
a minimal involvement, for volunteers to fight.
One’s politics or ideals, dictated on which side,
as Government supported neither left nor right.

Then an excursion into madness, war yet again,
a second global conflict, the baying dogs of war.
Atrocity and genocide…why, no one can explain.
human destruction, to a level, never seen before.

Deserts, the Mediterranean, Europe once again,
Africa, Greece, Italy, France…onward to Berlin.
The Digger fought each foe, every big campaign,
then came home to defend and triumph yet again.

New Guinea, then island hopping, finally Japan,
a just revenge upon the Emperor and rising sun.
And yet greater horror man now inflicts on man,
the atom devastated, nuclear warfare had begun.

Malaya, in the tropics, then Korea’s frozen land,
two vastly different theatres, each a different role.
Diggers answered, to the calls foreign in demand,
their actions too often dictated by others' control.

After Borneo, there came a folly we call ‘Vietnam’,
again the same story, killing fields and genocide.
Beardless drawn at ballot, to war for Uncle Sam,
returned to be condemned, bereft of all but pride.

Seems yet the march continues, strains the same,
midst smoke and sand, to the Persian Gulf again.
Was the Gulf War, War on Terror’s now the name,
same banner, star spangled…still the same refrain.

Seems men are still called, to die upon command,
the Digger best prepared… familiar with the stunt.
Decades run to centuries, but now all understand,
warfare may differ…naught changes, at the front.

Seems if I hear ‘Anzac’, or someone mentions war,
Khaki drill and legends, fill those visions that I find,
So, no offence to other services, now, or gone before,
“Anzac”, means Digger…that’s what comes to mind.

©. Copyright: Bernard de Silva. 2007.
 

[Irene]

Entries are a low this month!!!  Where is everyone? Therese, your poem called "Waiting" was lovely and would certainly qualify for the comp.

Anzac Day Recollections

© I.Conner 20/02/07

Another ANZAC day is here,
another year gone by.
Another time to ask again
Oh why, my Lord, why I?
In nineteen ten, we had three sons
all young, and fit and keen.
Three growing lads we loved so much –
no hatred they had seen.

They were but simple country boys,
they loved life on the farm.
We’d raised them with a guiding hand
and kept them safe from harm.
But four years on, the call went out –
our country went to war.
Our quiet life was shattered then
and peace we knew no more.

All three took up the call to arms -
I begged them not to go.
But they would serve their country now,
their courage they would show.
Their dad and I – we worked all day.
We had a farm to run.
We struggled hard to hide our fear
beneath the aussie sun.

But underneath the silv’ry moon,
beneath the stars so bright,
the fear would riot through my head –
I’d see my boys in fight.
I’d hear the sound of bullet rain,
the pounding cannon roar,
I’d smell the fear of boys who died
while fighting in our war.

One day there came a telegram
and this is what it said
‘We’re sorry to inform you that
your loving son is dead”
He died upon the battlefield,
a hero to his mate.
My heart was broken on that day,
the day I learned to hate.

I felt the pain that parents feel
when they cannot control
the things that put their child at risk -
it eats into your soul.
Their dad - he struggled hard to cope,
the road was just too hard.
One day he simply fell apart,
his mind forever scarred.

Our youngest, he survived the war,
but not without a cost.
Along with wounds that scarred his legs,
his hearing he has lost.
Our other son, the eldest boy,
was sent to Suvla Bay.
Each night he sees again the sights
he witnessed on that day.

In sleep he hears the screams of men,
he sees the sightless eyes.
In sleep he feels the fear again
and every night he cries.
To war we lost our middle son -
he lies on foreign land
But we have lost much more than that –
I hope you understand.

We lost that year our innocence,
our freedom and our joy.
We lost the chance to sleep in peace
the year we lost our boy.
They said that time will dull the grief,
that soon we’d feel again,
but thirty years have passed on by
and still we hold the pain.

The casualties of war, they say,
are those who passed away,
and those who suffered injury –
for these we’ll always pray.
But don’t forget the families
who waited for their men.
Please say a prayer for them as well
as April comes again.

[therese]

i've only just noticed your post here irene.  so have posted this for you. 
just disregard it ric if we can only have one, lol

To wait...

'The war to end all wars' they say
I'm sorry, I don't agree,
such fanfare on their leaving day
and then gallipoli.

My uncle, and my husband
both landed there, day one,
and died there on the headland
leaving me with our young son.

And I carried still another child
who never knew its dad,
they said "be strong," which made me wild
felt I was going mad.

"We're military people, girl
we've khaki in our veins,"
I didn't care about the world
just wanted my husband again.

A piece of papers' all it took
to shatter all our dreams,
twenty six years, and now tobruk
we never learned, it seems.

So once again, I'm left to wait
dread the mailman at the door,
one son runs the farm, thats great
but the others on some distant shore.

therese mitchell  '05 

 
 
 

[Ric Raftis]

G'day all,

Well it's that time again and A. Judi Cater has been hard at deliberating over the entries for the comp.  Here are the findings:-

Hello everyone.  Congratulations to everyone who entered this comp, as the topic was a serious and difficult one with no room for frivolity.  There were only five entries, but still it was a difficult decision. 
 
When judging a winner, I took a different approach this time.  I placed less value on rhythm and more importance on the content, as I believe education about our history is more critical than a beat here or there.
 
I have given a tie for First!  Bernie's "Digger - That's What Anzac Means To Me" and Zondrae's "Ladies Of The Land" were both so informative, I believe anyone hearing or reading them would learn something (I know I learned things that I was unaware of before) - not just about the mechanics of war in Bernie's, but also the hardships that the women left behind had to endure.  It was a terrible time all round, overseas or in Australia, men, women and children - everyone suffered and it wouldn't hurt for young people today to be aware of how lucky they are in comparison!  Congratulations and sincere thanks to Zondrae and Bernie!
 
As usual, Irene's rhythm was perfect in "Anzac Day Recollections", and took us on an emotional journey with a mother worrying for the safety of her sons.  Therese's poem "To Wait ..." was just as emotional, and were both wonderful efforts.  Thanks Irene and Therese.
 
You should all feel proud that you have done so well with such a challenging topic.

Well done Bernie and Zondrae 

[therese]

congratulations zondrae and bernie both well deserved honours

thanks for your kind words ric.

[the mad mare]

Good on ya' Zondrae, Bernie, Irene and Therese - you all made the effort to tackle a difficult subject.  Meanwhile I decided it was too hard.  Actually, that's not true, I did scribble some notes a about kids in a playground watching the parade, but I lost the bit of paper, and it was too hard to think it all through again. 

Bernie, your poem was very long and involved - how do you know so much?  I'm completely ignorant about wars and history.

Zondrae - I was glad to see your poem written from a woman's perspective (I still haven't finished reading that book about women during the war - where is that by the way?).

Irene and Therese - your poems were beautifully done too.

I admire you all for getting in and doing such a brilliant job!  Goodonyez!

Kym.

[Irene]

Well done, Bernie and Zondrae - well deserved win and great stories!!!
Therese - loved your poem 'To wait' - was really well done.

Like you KYm, I don't know as much about the war as I should do. However, as A.Judi Cater says - we can all learn from the wonderful info given in the poems. 

Kym, you think this topic was hard? I don't have a clue where to start on next months topics!!! 

Ah well, a bit of time left yet!!

Catchya
Irene

[zondrae]

Thanks Folks,

I try to get a different slant on every topic. But how do you get a different slant on Water.
mmm I'll do a task that requires little brain input and use the time to muse. Ah grocery shopping should do it!

A little insight into wartime rationing.

My Mum was going to a dance and wanted a new dress. No fabric available (no coupons) so down came the curtains. Not new you say..but how to replace the curtains?? She went to the bakery and asked for flour bags which she bleached and sewed together to make great sturdy curtains. She even went to the trouble of sewing frills along the bottom of the snowey white flour bags before hanging them. Then, as there was fabric left over from the dress, she made a table cloth after dying it a slightly different colour with onion skins. Her life long motto was "waste not, want not".

[zondrae]

morning Bernard,


I have been very remiss in not offering my congratulations for your success in the online comp. I use the excuse that I am still rather elated/deflated from an overdose of fun/music/poetry/laughter and tears over Easter. I catch up with some mates that I only get to see once or twice a year and there is such an onslaught of everything that I was exhausted.

Well done in the comp. But really, you do well almost every day, to post the profusion of poetry you manage. You have seen the poem I scribbled for you and in case you didn't get that it was you I'll put it up again--you Prolific Poet you!

[ncauser]

Bernie  Im new to bush poetry although i have been doing it for some time. Ithink the site is great in helpingother like minded people get started. I will send my latest written and sent to John Howard about our water problems and how to fix them. Noel causer


Water.

There was anguish in the nation, when the word was past around,
That the mighty Murray darling was bone dry.
Drought had hit the country, the worst we'd ever seen
There was not a drop of water from the sky.

Our fearless leader Johnny, said something must be done.
We can't blame global warming, or the blazing noonday sun.
We've have to get together friends, I've have a deal to make.
You'll have to all agree my friends, if you want a slice of cake.

All the tried and noted leaders, from the states so near and far.
Had mustered at the flagpole overnight.
For the polly's loved hard talking, when the ale was free to swill.
And a well-paid overnighter was in sight.

There was Peter from way up north, come down to have a chat
No better Polly ever had a go.
For few could talk against him, when his cholesterol was up.
He learnt a thing or two from Joe and Flo.

And one was there named Kevin, a new kid on the block
Said he was from Queensland, and born of farming stock.
Keen to upset Johnny before the crew were seated.
Kept yelling out , United “We won't be defeated.

And from the west and south they came, all keen to have their say.
And try and make a difference by the end of day.
Well Johnny made the deal real plain, those present felt the strain.
Ten Billion on the deck my friends, wont be water down the drain.

We'll fix our river systems, and make the water flow.
Pipe our irrigation, and make our pastures grow.
Twill be the best for all the nation, that you have ever seen.
And by the time we finish, the farmers will be keen.

Well Beattie spat the dummy, and Bracks just wanted more
Whilst all the rest just wandered back and forth across the floor.
We cant accept your offer John, our states will have no say.
And by the time your finished, Twill be us who'll have to pay.

“I'll run a pipe from outback, John! I'll drain the Diamentina.
I'll run it down the darling, John! And make our farmers keener.
Well Turnbull burst out laughing,”Pete” your a man that can't be trusted.
You've been in the scrub so long, We think your brains been dusted.



I think we all should recognize, said Rudd, the strength of Peter Beattie.
We wouldn't be here today, if you had signed the blessed treaty.
Global warming is our nemesis, that looms above our head.
If we don't change our ways today, we will all be dead.

Then from the blue a voice rang out, that echoed through the hall.
“You white fella,bugger up this land” through greed its plain too see.
“Let us blacks now fix this mess, to save the Gunya Tree.
I have a plan to fix this mess,so leave it up too me.

Mundine's the name I go by, I'm related to “The Man”
I'm here today to tell you, blacks spirits are at hand.
We'll get a roll of Poly pipe, and throw it in the Ord.
And suck some water right down south, a thing we can afford.


We'll cross the Sandy desert, and down past Ularu.
Skirt the Musgrave ranges, depending on the view.
Hop across to Oodnadatta, and down past Coopers creek.
Cross the line near Broken Hill, it will take about a week.

This come from Korri spirits, a black snake across the land.
And in outer orbit, you will see it in the sand.
By the time it hits the Darling, Twill hot hot enough to stew.
A Kanga, an Emu, or make a cup of brew.

John thanked all for coming, their suggestions he would comb.
Wandered off to find a flight, and a cup of tea back home.
No doubts lingered in his mind ,This was a sorry state!
And Twas up to him to fix it, before it was too late.

And down at Kirribilli, where the bottle-brush and palms.
Sweep and sway in the breezes, and the rolling lawns,
 Gleam in the noon day sun.
 John Howard sits and ponders, a better way of life.
Whilst the Labour boys in Canberra, reckons he's in strife.

Noel Causer
2007

[ncauser]

Ric I am new to this site hope my contribution is accepted. Noel causer




The Black Stump.

There are many mythical stories,
about a burnt-out tree.
A legend of the Aussie outback,
handed down to you and me.
Many claim to know the truth,
about this burnt out log.
And its told with more ambition,
When the tellers full of grog.

If we travel back in history,
to sort out myth from fact.
read the many stories written,
and the yarns from off the track.
a picture slowly does emerge,
 that all is not quite right.
this so called”Black Stump” legend,
is a ghost that haunts the night.

Now out the back of Coolah,
Governor Darling drew a line.
Said anyone that crosses,
will cop a hefty fine.
West of here is no-man's land,
you cannot live beyond.
The “Black Stump Run's” the border, 
You'll be jailed if you absconded.

But up north just west of Blackall,
a different story they do tell.
On a station they called, Astro!,
Surveyors cast their deadly spell.
It's here they used a black stump,
to mark their territory.
And the Blackall school today,
 has a monument that tells its history.

But wait a moment, there is more,
For down Merriwagga way.
They claim the Black stump legend,
theirs, and located north of Hay.
There, a teamsters wife, named Barbara,
lost her life one winter night.
Whilst sitting near the campsite fire,
her clothes were set alight.


“A black Stump” she resembled,
Was what the teamster said!.
And a “Black Stump” was the headline.
and what the locals papers, spread.     
This is where the legend started,
our story's just the best.
Merriwagga has the claim,
So please, let the matter rest.

But the claims, they just keep coming,
And the one I thinks the best.
May yet disclaim the others,
and put them to the test.
For out along the Darling,
Just near Menindee lakes.
an old squatter had a Station,
that housed, Korrie's, Roo's, and snakes.

 His warning to his kids each day,
Was never wander past the clump.
Don't go near the”The Koori Camp,
of which, he called a dump.
If you do they'll spear and eat you,
and hang your hide up in a tree.
and the rest of you, they'll cut up,
and have you for their tea.

 The kids grew up full well knowing,
 that if they crossed the line.
Their lives would be in danger,
and that stuck in their mind.
Never venture past the tree line,
and never out of view.
Don't go near the “Blacks Dump,”
or you'll end up in their stew.


Today black stumps are everywhere,
and everyone makes the claim.
that their black stump story,
will bring glory to their name.
But whatever we come up with,
There remains one little quirk.
The Black stump will be ever there,
and remain just, back of Bourke.
Noel Causer
12/12/07 ©