Member's verse. Waxing poetic. Getting writing again.

[Irishbookish]

yeah...do send it. I'm always happy to proof.

I wondered if you might be doing that minimalist approach to tie in with the story.

I get it. Clever.

[Gurrier]

I thought I might try to fit as many stereotypically cryptic Aussie slang terminologies as I could think of into one piece of writing


Strewth! G'day mate. Don't come the raw prawn with me, bugalugs! I was just having a squiz at this bang on, fair dinkum, ridgy didge, brand spanker, you beaut ute. It was a goer! Nothing cactus about this shitbox. Needed someone to take a geez at it but didn't want a bodge job done. Took her for a spin and it handled like a dog on lino. Tried to tee up a dodgy, back hander rego check but this Joe Blake couldn't organise a root in a Polly Waffle. Should have just chucked him a Dunlop cheque. I ended up having a yarn with this deadset derro though who I hadn't seen in donkeys. He was a bit too figjam for my liking so I pretty much kicked him up his freckle and told him to go to buggery. This was all taking place out at a rissole carpark pretty much out the back of Bourke, somewhere beyond the black stump. Wasn't a cooee from where I was heading so I had to shoot the crow and ended up out the back blocks where old mate was apparently having a chunder. I just headed along to spark a few darts down the old razzle dazzle Sunday arvo. You know maybe have a few durries and a sanger with fried bum nuts and pig, you know googs and dead horse. Actually, I was so hungry I could eat a horse and chase the jockey at this point! Even was gonna have a go at the one armed bandits. Maybe even a few schooies (none of that middy shit) of Vitamin VB cause I was as dry as a dead dingo's donger. Ah, drinking with the flies! You know Pat Malone sitting like a shag on a rock. Blimey, you know I reckon it's the reason most pissheads have got the awning over the toy shop. Anyhow, howzat!? I was as full as fairy's phone book. Then, strike a light! This same drongo came a gutsa and had a technicolour yawn all down the arse end of my new ute. Must have been the robbers and thugs, and needless to say despite all the kafuffle I even think he cut the dog in half. Lucky he missed the slab in the back or I would have decked this gronk in the Gregory Peck. What a grot! He was crook as Rookwood. I went berko, pretty much did my block. Told him, "Ya goose! May ya Chooks turn into emus and kick ya shithouse down!". I don't think I've ever been that knotted, but then it was all pretty much right as rain. Mickey Mouse the lot of it. He must of had kangaroos loose in the top paddock. A few snags short of a barbie anyway. Mad as a cut snake!

Then all was not lost just before knockoff I just had a bit of a bo-peep at this glamour. This grouse sheila had me Cadbury! Never a bush pig if I've had a butchers at one. All done up with lippie, scrubbed up well, barely a scrubber though. Probably one of those birds who got the map of Tassie removed and all. Quite a cunning stunt if I ever got the leg over. Bloody oath I wouldn't mind crackin onto that, reckon she'd bang like a dunny door in a thunder storm!

Ken oath, so I chucked a yewie and went down past the servo on me smoko for a Chiko and Solo for Ocker Davo who was on compo, good-o!. He was waiting down the bowlo with Simo who had to get his missus who is up the spout some lolly waters and Winnie Blues at the bottlo. You know how preggers woozas can chuck wobblies. He grabbed some long necks, you know tallies for himself as well to dull the whinging when he got back to the club. He'd been on Kevin Rudd's surf team for yonks. In fact I don't know if this bludger had ever been off the rock n' roll. He's on a pretty good wicket. This one wouldn't shout in a shark attack. You know the type who'd give you the rough end of the pineapple. As slow as wet week to boot

Anyway bonza chinwagging with ya but I gotta shoot through. I'm gonna choof off and hit the frog and toad. Off like a bride's nightie. Off like a bucket of prawns even! Tah for that. Hoo roo, cobba! I'm knackered anyway

[jennylois]

Eeeek! I'm cringing! Only you could write this Gurrier!!!

[CraigBatty]

Strike a flamin' light, Bruce. Fair suck of the sav!

[Gurrier]

Strike a flamin' light, Bruce. Fair suck of the sav!

Ah how could I forget!!? "Fair suck of the sav"!! That's like the best one out of the lot of them

[Irishbookish]

The creaking gate always signalled the change.
She saw it in the slump of his shoulders; the heartbreaking resignation in his troubled, young face. So suddenly he seemed so much older. Haunted, pale blue eyes turned back and stared back at her – reproachful almost, and her knees weakend at the sight. She resisted the temptation to run to him, and pull him into her arms – her own child; to take him far away from this seemingly pleasant place of learning that for him held secrets. Things which kept him awake so many nights. That frightened him so much she would often find him sleeping fitfully on the cold floor next to her bed, calling out feebly from his place in far away dreams and memories where his demons ever plagued him; but where even she could not reach to save him.

Three noisy gulls flew over her head; their cry mournful and harsh which ended her rumination, and she watched powerlessly as he lifted his clear, tanned face towards her—such a beautiful child... The struggle to lift the corners of his mouth was evident only to her; saw it ever so slightly turn into a fragment of a smile – just for her, which sadly vanished even before it had truly been given any healing life.

Her gaze faltered for just a moment; not wanting to see the complete transformation of hopeless anguish in her young son. A fleeting moment of bleakness washed over her for the things she could not protect him from; a despair that coloured something that so many others found light and joy in. Sometimes it was flashing, pure anger. Fiercely strong was the compulsion to shovel past him and confront those menacing creatures hiding in the bodies of innocent children. Did a mother or father see wickedness in their own? She thought not.

The courage he had shown despite his own struggles to be like the others, to catch up, and prove he was worthy brought her raw pride in the face of his wretchedness. Worthy of what? Them? Of Life? If only he could see into the future, she thought raggedly as she watched his hand slide loosely down the iron gate, and heard the hollow click of the latch echoing across to her place near the tree across the road.

Steeling herself as if to fortify and thus protect him, she smiled brightly as his fair hair caught the gilded rays of morning sun, and drew a long breath. Lifting her arm, she opened her palm; a spring of delight to see his slender arm lift in recognition of that shared instant – that powerful bond shared; grateful though that he was too far away to see the tears rolling down her cheek, and the sadness for him weigh so heavily upon a mother’s own heart for her boy.

[Benno]

some haikus at work

To drop, like a stone;
This Earth does hear my Rupture;
Through our Solitude.

The glowing orb falls;
To frigid waters' embrace;
A red sand turns cold.

Sit, watch passing kings
O, that you know such wisdom;
We should seek a truth.

[Niall]

havent written anything in paper but im suppoesed to be entering a poetry competition this month so i may get cracking again

[Niall]

a link to some of my older efforts

http://www.poetry.com/Publications/search.asp

[Irishbookish]

Cool, Niall, I'll have a look.

I have some stuff published by Poetry,com and have since found out they are shysters and I will never submit anything to them again. There are a lot of Poetry Competitions on the Web, but do be wary of the ones who promise publication of your work in a bound 'Anthology.' They're a sales gimmick to have you not only buy your own copy but to buy some for your friends and family, or for you to encourage your friends to buy a copy. All a great idea - for their coffers since you make absolutely nothing out of it excpet that they keep asking you for Poetry. I was horrified to learn from a friend that they don't even put your poem in sometimes!!!

[Niall]

Cool, Niall, I'll have a look.

I have some stuff published by Poetry,com and have since found out they are shysters and I will never submit anything to them again. There are a lot of Poetry Competitions on the Web, but do be wary of the ones who promise publication of your work in a bound 'Anthology.' They're a sales gimmick to have you not only buy your own copy but to buy some for your friends and family, or for you to encourage your friends to buy a copy. All a great idea - for their coffers since you make absolutely nothing out of it excpet that they keep asking you for Poetry. I was horrified to learn from a friend that they don't even put your poem in sometimes!!!

the competion is to do with manchester library i think

[Irishbookish]

Oh I'm relieved. I was just worried when you mentioned poetry.com that they were asking you for more poetry, as that's what they do. I learned this concerning information from Barnes & Noble.

I clicked on your link to your older poems - but it needs either a full name or name of the poems. If you don't want to put your name up, maybe one day you can just copy your poems here.

Good luck with your new poem!! Do you do any other writing??

[moose]

Cool, Niall, I'll have a look.

I have some stuff published by Poetry,com and have since found out they are shysters and I will never submit anything to them again. There are a lot of Poetry Competitions on the Web, but do be wary of the ones who promise publication of your work in a bound 'Anthology.' They're a sales gimmick to have you not only buy your own copy but to buy some for your friends and family, or for you to encourage your friends to buy a copy. All a great idea - for their coffers since you make absolutely nothing out of it excpet that they keep asking you for Poetry. I was horrified to learn from a friend that they don't even put your poem in sometimes!!!

I was stitched up many years ago on the same scam, but as they say you live and you learn! I have not put pen to paper regularly for many many years, so some of my stuff may seem a bit dated, but what the hell, thats for others to decide. Here goes the first ione that i will share with you, i started to write it in he early 90's, i may decide to add others.....i hope you enjoy

Sex and Drugs
Rock and Roll
Used to be good
in days of old
This was a Myth
out to decieve
innocent children
who wanted to believe
that sex was good
and drugs were cool
but both will kill you
so don't be a fool
To dabble with drugs
it ain't no fun
like playing roulette
with a loaded gun
casual sex is the same
the pleasure comes first
and then the pain
all thats left is rock
without the roll
computerised musac
has no soul
the bands have gone
DJ's in control
using a mixer
he has a starring role
the fun is over
and the music fades
just like your life
when you have aids.

[Irishbookish]

Interesting stuff, Moose. I like reading a variety of people's stuff - everyone's so different, and has their own unique perspective on the world.
This is one I wrote to put in my book.

To the souls and that of those passed or yet to arrive
imperceptibly, the boundary of the veil shifts;
becomes almost corporeal.
People who walk are not from the now,
Her hands tremble, and mind reels.
Blurring portcullis; a neighing horse,
Clang of a Blacksmith's hammer on a newly forged sword.
Comes of a sudden the cry of a lone peregrine; the acrid smell of a peaty fire.
Ghostly touch of her ancestor,
Whisper of an answer faintly across a chill breeze.
The boundary shifts - the moment restored.
Birds sing as a jet plane passes overhead - her day returns.
She discerns the path; divides the lives,
To pass through the veils with with the Grace God,
Upon her shoulders,
All her days.

[Niall]

one of my more recent efforts

What price freedom?

People wandering, mingling
Along busy, crowded streets
A chorus of voices
Rises and falls
The loudest voice cries "freedom"

A blinding, flashing light
The roaring boom of thunder

Mangled, torn bodies
Litter the blood soaked streets
The scent of death lingers
A sweet and ghastly smell
A crumbling building falls
Echoing screams of despair
What price freedom?
What price freedom?