THE CONSTIPATED DOG..

Poor ol' dog was crouching there

pained expression on her face.

Ma was in the kitchen,

with a potion taking place.

This will fix that mongrel up,

mumbling as she stirred the brew.

Epsom salts, Cod liver oil, a Laxet or maybe two.

Well I would not be that poor ol' dog,

not for all the gold round here.

No sooner had she downed the stuff,

the shit it flowed like beer.

The paddocks looked like a Pro Hart canvas,

sprayed brown and running thick.

Then the dog she turned and spotted Ma,

and too the bush she headed quick.

Then Ma let out an evil cackle,

her potion had done the trick..



PATERSON V STOCKTON 03/06/2003

PATERSON v STOCKTON 2003.

Bloody hell mate, its Overseas,

a slab wont get us through.

Pack a keg and carton of fags,

Maybe some Burbon.

Ye mate that will do.

Shit mate its said their looney,

thats been said from way far back.

No brains and no dam feeling.

Their strange, this Stockton pack.

Now its the overseas that puts me off.

Still its my bloody team n all.

So lets suck some booze and kick their arse.

Then lets end it with a brawl....

ITGONDAWINDYDAY

Standing at the Servo, just the other day.

my mate called in as oft he does,

just to say gid-day.

soon our conversation turned to that bloody wind.

mind you it rattled rafters,

eve tore off sheets of tin.

Yep it blew his faithful Mare off heat

Twas the tale my mate he told.

Did it blow right up her arse then mate?

The retort from a local old.

Well we laughed and laughed.

Still laughing now,

about that poor ol Grey.

The day she stood and lost her heat.

ITGONDAWINDYDAY.....

MY LOVER. MY SEASONS

The leaves are gone now..

Your once boa like green that draped you,

a skeletal remain of branches and twigs.

You stand still in a new season before me.

So still.

So beautiful as ever.

Like a lover who has died and the melancholy that has set in,

takes me back to who you once were.

My ever present companion that soothes my soul...



SPIRIT DREAMING

Lifting from the river in a gossamer weave the fog come in,

whilst the moon shines in all her majesty,

bushed ever so gently by a passing cloud that shadows the land briefly.

Silhouetted against this back drop, trees that have stood witness to the rivers changing moods.

Paddocks sculptured by man and time.

One wonders of what the SPIRIT DREAMS.

The weave grows thicker and encases the hill,

yet as quickly as it does cascades away and rolls across the pastures.

One can almost hear it whisper to the soul.

One can almost feel this SPIRIT DREAMING.

Sounds fill the body in restful tones,

thoughts become as lazy as the night itself.

One watches as for the first time at the wonders that stand.

Dressing and undressing before eyes and spirits that once were..

Spirits that once rested upon the land and in a time of

SPIRITS DREAMING.



MY JEWEL RUNNING PATERSON

IT IS...

As everything, something from nothing.

Riches found within one fool rubbish..

Beside her, my Paterson river dances, cascading

awaiting eyes that see her play,

feeling souls beside her as change comes across the seasons..

The daily textures of movement and colour.

Rock faces that give no hint to the violence that carved them.

Or within our own being.

Chains of time in the nexus revealed by my

Jeweled running Paterson





AIN'T IT THE TRUTH.....

She has come to peek,

stimulated only by natures tears now rested.

She moves and glows like lava as the sky clears to a setting sun..

How terrifying she is..

But.

How gracefully she seems to move in this lighting.

Such an actress.

Such a stage to dance life across.

AINT'T IT THE TRUTH.....



PATERSON RIVER EMBRACE

She is flowing.

Her freshness and moisture has engulfed the land.

She is not at peek, yet you can hear her breathing to climax.

Brave fools attempt entry, spraying her soul and power as they move through her being.

I too made the same penetration and lie trapped as an island.

She does not engulf me, she flows caressing from a distance, entrapping and seducing.

She even has a voice too call, enticing as laying beside a waterfall.

She calls, and to the romantic she is...

To the farmer, she is lover of passion and violence.

She encourages you to love her, yet with the same love will destroy your being.

You will love her.

Hate her.

For she is, afterall YOUR river.

PATERSON RIVER RISING

The ever persisting rain comes, showering the land with life giving tears,

silently encroaching upon the plains.

As the Paterson River rises, one watches, she is on the move.

Giving two sides to her soul.

One of giving life to the land.
One of taking life from those who do not respect her.

Both in her beauty and her rage.

From the back of the house one watches as the Paterson swirls and swells.
She is not at peak.

We wait