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Best Poems Written by Lindsay Laurie

Below are the all-time best Lindsay Laurie poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Lindsay Laurie Poem

In Lieu of the Rodeo

Oh cripes I’ve gotta tell yer of a horror ride I had,
	That beat any bronc or bull I’ve rode, and I must say I’m glad,
	I’ll never have to ride like that, again to hold me seat.
	Now rodeo is ‘kiddies’ stuff compared to what I beat.  

	I’d been knockin’ ‘round the circuit an’ was headin’ to the ‘Hill’.
	I was lookin’ out for action ‘cause I had some time to kill,
	So I called to see a mate o’ mine, an’ he turned on a spree,
	But grog, peanuts and pickled onions don’t agree with me.

	I s’pose it was ‘round midnight, I stirred in his shearers hut.
	I woke up hearing grumblin’ an’ it was comin’ from me gut,
	So I thought I better visit the house that’s up the back.
	Me head was pretty ‘woosy’ an’ it was a wobbly track.

	But I settled down to do the job contented on the throne;
	Suddenly the still was broke an’ trees began to moan,
	The flamin’ breeze began to roar into a mighty squall,
	An’ branches broke, an’ iron crashed against the dunny wall.

	The dunny started moving and was leaning to one side,
	Just like the chute gate opened and I’m goin’ for a ride,
	One second I was bolt upright, and now I’m on me head,	
	I was clinging on a winner, and then we hit the shed.

	The dunny spun a circle and the dunny roll shot free,
	An' wrapped itself around me neck an’ damn near strangled me.
	Bloody redbacks started flying from their secret hidin’ place,
	An' I reckon that a hundred were clingin’ to me face.

	Then a resident old taipan who’d been dozing in the rafter
	Was flamin’ blamin’ me for this creation of disaster,
	It was snapping in the turmoil at me hands and at me feet,  
	But let me tell you hear and now. I held on to that seat.

	For nothing on this flamin’ earth would ever get to throw,
	Me from this position, ‘cause I know what’s down below,
	So when the twisting dunny bounced off a coupla’ trees,
	I had me ankles ‘round me ears and me head between me knees.

	Even then above the din I could hear the constant hum,
	From a hundred thousand blowflies bouncing off me bum.
	But let me tell you once again, it’ll be a mighty feat,
	For just one of them blowies to get past me on the seat.

	An' then just like it started, the wind subsided in the night,
	But I’m further up the track in the dunny back upright.
	I’m battered, bruised and bitten, still clinging to the seat,
	So at the rodeo ‘tomorra’… I’ll still be smelling sweet.

Details | Lindsay Laurie Poem

A Need To Be Somewhere Else

I’m the one who needs to be somewhere else, 
I cannot stay in one place.
The grass is green where I’ve never been
and never have shown my face.
When I look back on every track
where there’s nothing to entice 
me to return to where I never yearn.
You won’t see my footsteps twice.

I’ve lived through drought and I’ve lived through flood,
I’ve been where a fire’s burnt black.
I’ve seen the curse where the locusts’ worse 
and the crops are all under attack.
I’ve been laid down in a cyclone town
when winds are a howling gale.
In the shearing shed when the markets dead
and the cheques bounced over the rail.

I’ve no good terms on the squatters land
for he’s never a man to talk,
and he can’t control his angry soul
when a restless man don’t walk.
If there’s sag in my tucker bag
near a campfire I’m content.
He’ll try to rule I’m a thieving fool
so my time with him is spent.

I’m the one who needs to be somewhere else;
each camp is a rainbows end,
where the only gold that I get to hold
is to wake in the morning again
to bear my load on the distant road
for ahead lies my clarity,
that with my charms in the need for alms,
there’s a world full of charity.

I’m the one who needs to be somewhere else,
in my chase for the know not what,
where time ahead guide the fearful dead,
something that I am not.
From coast to coast my eventual ghost
will tramp o’er the trail I made,
which can’t be denied is Australia wide
when I rest where my body is laid.

Details | Lindsay Laurie Poem

One Square Mile

In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
there are seven birds that I often get to see
as I walk on the tracks in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.

A Whipbird crack through ti-tree scrub,
a Lyrebird echo from Cascade Creek,
Red Browed Finch on the sword grass heads,
I’m watching close a Ground Thrush sneak.

Black Cockies feed on Blackwood wattle,
in heath Blue Wrens are a family, 
Yellow Robins perch on a paperbark trunk
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.

In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
are seven mammals sometimes I get to see,
as I walk on the tracks in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.

Echidnas forage in wood or litter
Wallabies graze on grass and weeds,
a burrowing wombat sleeps all day;
high in a manna gum, a Koala feeds.

Sugar Gliders doze in a hollow log, 
like Ring-tail Possums in a high ti-tree.
A Bandicoot scarps through the undergrowth
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.

In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
in Cascade Creek sometimes I get to see,
as I look at the water in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.

Flowing over sand, fishbone fern as cover,
lurk Blackfish and the Gippsland Cray.
Brown trout forage in the hiding place
where Mountain Galaxias are their prey.

In Cascade Creek; well the Platypus play,
in long deep holes, but are rare to see.
There’s Short Finned Eel, Yabbies and Shrimp,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.

In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
are a few reptiles I sometimes get to see,
if I look down at my feet in pristine forestry,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.

There are Blue Tongue Lizards and Three Lined Skinks;
Goanna’s up a tree and the Tiger Snake.
There’s Copperheads or Red-bellied Black, 
and treading on snakes is a big mistake.

In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
Growling Grass Frogs watch from water grass,
And the ‘pobblebonk’ croak is an Eastern Banjo,
in a swampy pool as I walk on past.

Skippers float over the canopy blooms;
Mosquito, March Fly, Bush Fly blight;
Jezebel Caterpillars feed on mistletoe;
Stag Beetles hover in the fading light.

In one square mile, northeast of Noojee,
on walking tracks there is much to see,
where I’m  just a link that don’t belong,
in one square mile, northeast of Noojee.

Details | Lindsay Laurie Poem

Outback Shearing Shed

I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams mirrored lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.

I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story often told,
in optimistic mirages where water is pure as gold,
and living quarters offered would barely shield the moon
in stifling heat of summer, or bitter cold in June.

All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
There's hand-made nails, broken rails, memories that are spread,
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.

I feel like I'm intruding out here on the western plains,
standing here in a ghostly wind where it hardly ever rains,
imagining I lived the life that these shearers led,
in the ruins with the ghosts of an outback shearing shed.

All that's left is one wall teasing, the wind to blow it down.
Mustering yards are overgrown; mulga posts lie on the ground.
Oil tins and sharpening stone, broken glass is widely spread
here among the ruins of an outback shearing shed.

I'll bet this set of rusty shears have a story they could tell,
of the loneliness and broken backs in a land that's hot as hell,
where hopes and dreams preceded lives that these shearers led,
here among the ruins of an outback-shearing shed.

Details | Lindsay Laurie Poem

The Billabong

There’s an old river course with beginning and end,
now the river runs straight without this river bend,
where the water is still and the reeds do grow strong.
New life has taken over in a billabong.

The mat rush is spreading replacing the sedge,
and old fallen gum trees lean in from the edge
creating a haven in the shelter below
for smelt or gudgeon, and the common minnow.

There’s a ring on the water, so danger is nigh,
and life is now over for one caddis fly.
Dragonflies hover on their predator flight, 
so mosquito and midges best keep out of sight.

There is many a song around a billabong 
to break up the still with an assembly throng
from birds of the forest, and wading birds too,
so the billabong offer is there to pursue...

... for blue heron and egret, coot and the teal,
and for the banded rail that the bulrush conceal.
In the billabong shadowed by gum and ti-tree, 
bellbirds are tinkling; wattlebirds disagree.

An oft-diving grebe keeps on searching for food
for the striped downy chicks of its latest brood,
and a hunting kingfisher waits keen for its prey 
from a twig of a gum tree it frequents all day.

There is many a scent around a billabong, 
filling the air with the perfume quite strong,
from black wattle and mint bush, or mistletoe
cascading from gum trees where only they grow.

Painted lady butterfly flit upon flowers,
and blue banded bees keep on working for hours
on lilies and orchids, heath, sweet appleberry
and clusters of flowers on a native cherry.

Ribbon weed, nardoo spread out in the shallow,
with buttercup, duckweed; an introduced mallow,
struggling for survival near the water line,
aiding coral pea that does lightly entwine.

The banks of a billabong are dangerous too
with predator snakes not so often in view,
but they are aware, that the growling grass frog 
will climb from the water onto an old log.

But tigers and copperhead, red-bellied black
often lay in the sun on an overgrown track,
where the wombat or wallaby travel along
to graze on native grasses near the billabong.

So life still carries on around the billabong
where water looks stagnant, a bond is still strong
with a river now rushing it’s way to the sea,
past the billabong living, where the course used to be.

Details | Lindsay Laurie Poem

Five Senses In Spring

The wood smoke is rising,
there’s a chill in the air,
the valley’s in shadow,
with the pear tree still bare,
but I know by morning,
what the new day will bring...
It’s the last day of winter;
yes, here comes the spring.

I feel the warmth growing, 
with winter veggies to share.
The sweet smell of jasmine,
now wafts through the air.
The call of a currawong,
does melodically ring,
I am so pleased to have,
my five senses in spring.

The last hawthorn berries,
have dropped to the ground,
a scavenging blackbird,
and they’re quickly found.
On cherry plum blossom,
I hear bees on the wing,
I am so pleased to have,
my five senses in spring.

I taste a warm cup of milk, 
close to the milking machine.
See the grasses all flourish,
lush in their greenest of green.
I feel a thunderstorm coming,
and smell the rain it will bring,
with my five senses acute,
as days warm up in the spring.

Bird song is now rising,
‘long the course of the creek.
Twin lambs in the meadow, 
and a new calf next week.
Hens are back on the lay,
the rooster is crowing.
I am so pleased to have, 
my five senses in spring.

Scarlet red is a sunset,
now a day’s work is done.
As frogs chorus the air,
say goodbye to the sun.
Farm life is rewarding,
with the challenges faced.
Each day I test my senses...
Sight hearing smell touch and taste.

Details | Lindsay Laurie Poem

Sunrise Breaks On a Morning Camp

It’s been a long day beneath hot sun,
with sunset looming and daylight done,
came across water with a stand of trees,
deep in shadow with a zephyr breeze;
a perfect place to camp for the night, 
joined by galahs in the fading light,
with swag rolled out near a cooking fire,
heating up a damper and then retire.

Stars like crystal light the outback sky,
way out here they don’t seem so high,
Dingoes howl beyond a red sand dune, 
a mopoke hoots ‘neath a silver moon.
And through the night as I try to sleep,
the night feeders either call or creep,
could there be a pig or a kangaroo?
maybe a camel or an old emu.

Sunrise breaks on my morning camp,
The sky is lemon and leaves are damp.
I poke the ash and I grass the fire,
add kindling and the flames reach higher.
I hear the call of a warbling wren,
a butcherbird and a water hen.
There’s nothing better than bird song,
by a campfire near a billabong.

The billy boils for a cup of tea,
bacon and eggs sit upon my knee,
already the thermals are in the sky,
a wedge-tailed eagle is soaring high…
passing by with babbling words,
is a feeding  family of apostle birds,
all quite content to stop for a chat,
as long as I feed them bacon fat.

Sunrise has lifted on my morning camp,
the suns’ in the sky, now nothing damp, 
I roll my swag and I douse the fire,
with the campsite left as it was prior
for the budgerigar and the cockatoo,
or a flock of redrumps passing through.
I won’t see them for I’m on my way;
perhaps next year on another day.

Details | Lindsay Laurie Poem

He's Just a Dog

He’s just a dog, a mongrel pup that fitted in me hand,
short haired, tan and white, with needs of high demand,
he’s whingy and he’s whiny, I s’pose he misses Mum,
but now his Mum and Dad are what me wife and I become.

And the recommending is that we must take him to the vet,
to have all his virus shots with rates that put us into debt,
we had to have him micro-chipped in case of getting lost,
and then de-sexing and to register all added to the cost.

We made a fuss of him and spoilt him rotten to the core,
even after peeing on the carpet on the lounge room floor,
we fed him ‘smackos’, munchies, and tins of high-class meat,
and let him lick our plates for a special little treat.

We knew we shouldn’t feed him sitting at the dinner table,
but when those eyes stared through me, I just wasn’t able
to ignore the little blighter who was pleading for a crust,
and of course I’m feeling guilty, so ignoring is unjust.

He mightn’t talk, but body language gets his tale across,
by demanding his intentions with a bark “I am the boss!”
That can mean our double bed, becomes one of his beds,
it’s a God given right to scratch a pillow into shreds.

He’s just a dog, but as he grew from pup to fully grown,
there are more human aspects that our little dog has shown.
He’s believing in his own mind, we are not his Dad and Mum,
because now he is the King, and slaves we’re now become.

Dogs shouldn’t have to take a bath; a chain should be denied,
and a dog definitely should never have to sleep outside,
to prove his point before its dawn our actions are defied,
he’s barking at the back door demanding to be let inside.

He’s just a dog with habits that does reimburse our training,
he licks his bum and then me face, and thinks it’s entertaining,
then rubs his bum along the carpet, so we have to come to terms,
that we have to medicate him… ‘oh my God it’s bloody worms!’

The more we tried to train him, then the more he’s training us,
for he always gets his own way when he’s kicking up a fuss,
his wicker chair and blanket are for him and him alone,
and every week on shopping day he gets a king size bone.

And doesn’t he love visitors; it’s all ‘welcome to my joint,’
wagging tail and somersaults, but to get more to the point,
if he can’t grab the sole attention when he sits up and begs,
then it becomes acceptable to go humping people’s legs.

It took him very little time to claim the television set,
he’s the closest to the heater, and he does get quite upset
if we don’t take him in the car… and now when being fed,
he’s expecting us to feed him, his brekkie in our bed.

The house is rearranged these days to suit his every need,
each day by his insistence he is walked upon the lead,
we bow to all his wishes, to his commands and dialogue,
but for anyone who drops in… they only see a bloody dog.

Details | Lindsay Laurie Poem

Campfire

If ever there’s a campfire, rekindled as the sun goes down,
where ghosts of articulated writers, return and gather ‘round;
raise their glasses to a toast to commemorate their rhyme,
I wish that I could be there if they gathered just one time.

The awe would be amazing, as they recalled our young country,
as we grew out of ‘childhood’ at the end of the last century,
where man and horse immortalized, would blaze our new frontier.
I would disregard the ‘here and now’ for their writings then to hear.

So stoke the fire ‘Banjo’ mate, lift the hair upon my neck.
Let me ride with you your dashing steed, flared nostrils and unchecked.
So graceful burns your outback; I urge the blaze reach higher,
so ‘Banjo’, won’t you be a mate and put another log upon the fire.

And as you do the flame will lift; only your voice will be heard.
I’ll sit here amongst your peers and imitate you word for word,
for you breathe the outback into laughter, rhyme and bubbling mirth,
and draft the patriotic feelings for the hands that toil the earth.

And if that campfire should burn low, for time often turns it’s back,
and we let the weeds grow thick and tall. We might lose our walking track.
History repeats itself surely; there is constant conflict on the land,
so we must turn the pages back and read from the people’s hand.
 
So stoke the fire Henry mate; read us all another verse.
Incite the flames inside my mind for those who feel much worse.
Cast your light to ‘edge the sword’. Pen your class desire.
So Henry won’t you be a mate and put another log upon the fire.

Then sparks shall fly and burn the flesh, of they who’d down-tread the poor,
and warm the hearts of the striking men who defy the corporate corps.
Fill the stomachs of the wretched souls, where hunger is so real.
Put faith back into broken hearts and return their backs to steel. 

As the night grows deeper and the Southern Cross grows brighter,
more logs are thrown upon the fire, as up steps every writer.
McKellar, Gilmore, Gordon, paint with words of bush-land hues.
Dennis, Kendell, Ogalvie, add heritage and humour to these views.

There’s all those other balladeers who may have added just one twig,
and so they keep the campfire burning, although not quite as big,
but their feelings are as real; they’ve lashed out and struck the core,
of Australia and Australians, fighting drought, flood, fire and war.

With the waking from my dreaming, there’s the book still on my knees,
and I can feel the lore still with us with the movement in the trees,
There’s still enough of us Australians who can keep the legend growing …
so come on put your pens to paper, and keep the ‘campfire’ glowing.

Details | Lindsay Laurie Poem

Carpet of Colour

The long years are harsh where the hot sun does burn
on the sand hills and plains when seasons won’t turn
where saltbush and samphire do somehow survive
and through these hot days there seems little alive.

But shade in the she-oaks can offer relief
for creatures surviving who still hold belief
the outback’s not dying though is tinder dry…
then cotton-wool clouds start to build in the sky.

And when it gets humid and balmy at night
the sunrise is red with the new dawning light
and leaves get up dancing and float on the breeze
ants start to scurry and thunder does tease.

There’s change on the way and a scent in the air
and storm birds are singing to make all aware
that drought may be over and soon there’ll be rain
the outback will flourish ‘til drought comes again.

Now pastel pink earth starts to darken to red
as it quenches it’s thirst on the deluge ahead
the creek beds awake from their slumber for years
and billabongs form behind quick rising weirs.

The pans and the lowlands are holding their fill
and outstation tanks are now starting to spill
so comes a new dawn from a heartbreaking scene
when almost like magic the land turns to green.

Where a land is vindictive and can be unkind
where water is life, and with man undermined
where vastness is changing from sleeping repose
the buds are now bursting and now they disclose…

…a rainbow that travels so long with the eye
in a landscape rebirth, to thanks from the sky
I’m taking a stroll through a live daisy chain 
in a carpet of colour that follows the rain.