Rebirth

Rebirth by Essae Scott

Curling, rolling, the old skin sloughs away
Tender, newly exposed,
Unwrinkled, unweathered, carefully nurtured
Delicately spreading an untested covering
To facing life in the elements
Grows a theory, as yet untried.

Old concepts and ideas are replaced by the new.
Past thoughts thrust into view,
Re-hashed, altered, oft disposed.
The challenge of a magnificent future
Resisted by deeply held fears
Struggling from the darkness of eternal night.

Resisting new growth leads to decay
As thoughts stunted by dark, dismal memories
Struggle to hide from the glorious light of day.
Toadstools, mosses, lichens and rotting debris,
Cast-off twigs and leaves smothering growth
Carpet the stagnant mind.

High in the canopy fat-bellied pigeons sit.
Around the rooftop a friendly fantail flits,
Each caroling a song of sunshine and cheer;
Coaxing, cajoling their musical entreaty
“Join us, join us, cast out your fear,
Enjoy a new life of freedom and reality.”

The Solitary Tree

The Solitary Tree by Neroli Roberts

A solitary tree
floats in a whispering sea of grass.
A shoal of pelicans drift by
along the ocean of the sky.

The tree by day
is a castaway,
by night
a coral form bleached white
by timeless tides of lunar light.

But night or day
in some strange way
it stands enshrined
becalmed and tranquil
in an isolated by
of my mind ...

We went to a garage sale recently and picked up a wonderful illustrated book, The Kimberley, Australia's Unique North-west, by Jocelyn Burt. The text is well written and entices the reader to visit The Kimberley. Each chapter had a poem by Neroli Roberts ... the poems vividly illustrated in words the landscape of The Kimberley. An enchanting book to pick up and read a little here or there, put down, and return to later.

We'all All Be Rooned, Said Hanrahan

We’all All Be Rooned, Said Hanrahan

Taken from an Anthology called “Around The Boree Log:, by John O’Brien, whch was first published in 1921. “John O’Brien” was the pen-name of Patrick Joseph Hartigan [1879 - 1952]. He published only one book of verse, Around The Boree Log, written while he was parish priest of Narrandera, New South Wales.

Thus it is, that about one hundred years ago, somewhere in Outback Australia.

“We’all all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
In accents most forlorn,
Outside the church, ere Mass began,
One frosty Sunday morn.

The congregation stood about,
Coat collars to the ears,
And talked of stock, and crops, and drought,
As it had done for years.

“It’s lookin’ crook,” said Daniel Croke,
“Bedad, it’s cruke, me lad,
For never since the banks went broke
Has seasons been so bad.”

“It’s dry, all right,” said young O’Neill,
With which astute remark
He squatted down upon his heel
And chewed a piece of bark.

And so around the chorus ran
“It’s keepin’ dry, no doubt.”
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan
Before the year is out.

“The crops are done; ye’ll have your work
To save one bag of grain;
From here way out to Back-‘o-Bourke
They’re singing out for rain.

“They’re singing out for rain,” he said,
“And all the tanks are dry.”
The congregation scratched its head,
And gazed around the sky.

“There wont be grass, in any case,
Enough to feed an ass;
“There’s not a blade on Casey’s place
As I came down to Mass.”

“If rain don’t come this month,” said Dan,
And cleared his throat to speak ..
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“If rain don’t come this week.”


A heavy silence seed to steal
On all at this remark;
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.



“We want an inch of rain, we do.”
O’Neill observed at last;
But Croke “maintained” we wanted two
To put the danger past.

“If we don’t get three inches, man,
Or four to break this drought,
We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“Before the year is out.”

In God’s good time down came the rain;
And all the afternoon
On iron roof and window-pane
It drummed a homely tune.

And through the night it pattered still,
And lightsome, glidesome elves
On dripping spout and window-sill
Kept talking to themselves.

It pelted, pelted, all day long,
a-singing at it’s work,
Till every heart took up the song
Way out to Back-o’-Bourke.

And every creek a banker ran,
And dams filled overtop;
“We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanrahan,
“If this rain doesn’t stop.”

And stop it did, in God’s good time;
And spring came in to fold
A mantle o’er the hills sublime
Of green and pink and gold.

And days went by on dancing feet;
With harvest-hopes immense,
And happy eyes beheld the wheat
Nid-nodding o’er the fence.

And, oh, the smiles on every face;
As happy lad and lass
Through grass knee-deep, on Casey’s place
Went riding down to Mass.

While round the church in clothes genteel
Discoursed the men of mark,
And each man squatted on his heel,
And chewed a piece of bark.

“There’ll be bush-fires for sure, me man,
There will, without a doubt;
We’ll all be rooned,” said Hanraham,
“Before the year is out.”

Is Your Ego in Bloom?

Some time when you're feeling important,

Some time when your ego's in bloom,

Some time when you take it for granted,

You're the best qualified in the room,

Some time when you feel that your going,

Would leave an unfillable hole,

Just follow this simple instruction,

And see how it humbles your soul.

Take a bucket and fill it with water,

Put your hand in it up to your wrist,

Pull it out and thehole that's remaining

Is the measure of how much you'll be missed.

You may splash all you please when you enter,

You can stir up the water galore,

But stop, and you'll find in a minute,

That it looks quite the same as before.

The moral in this quaint example,

Is ... do just the best you can,

Be proud of yourself, but remember,

There is no indispensable man.

Monkey Business

Three monkeys sat in a coconut tree

Discussing things as they're meant to be;

Said one to the others, "Now listen you two,

There's a certain rumour that can't be true,

That man descended from our noble race;

The very idea! ~ it's a dire disgrace;

No monkey ever deserted his wife,

Starved her baby, or ruined her life,

And you've never known a mother monk

to leave her babies with others to bunk

Or pass them on from one to another,

Till they scarcely know who is their mother,

And another thing. You'll never see

A monk build a fence around a coconut tree,

And let the coconuts go to waste,

Forbidding all other monks a taste.

Why, if I put a fence around this tree

Starvation would force you to steal from me.

Here's another thing a monk won't do;

Go out at night and get in a stew;

Or use a club, a gun, a knife

To take some other monkey's life.

Yes man descended, the ornery cuss,

But brother, he didn't descend from us!"

I have had these words of wisdom pasted into a book for over a decade, but sorry, do not know who the author is.

A New Adventure

Each day begins with good intentions; this blog, hopefully, concentrates on GOOD, whether they be intentions or ideas, or wishes, or deeds remains to be seen.

Raindrop on a rose is an image ripe in good, the sweet perfume, the wonderful texture of the petals, with just a touch of wonderment in the prickle, while a raindrop brings live to not only the rose, but to all life.

Of course Raindrop on a rose is almost the title of a song sung by Julie Andrews, a ditty that conveys to the senses all that is wonderful, all that is bright, and all that is good.