Ardent Moon
November 21st 2007 07:07
Bagman's Gazette - Punctuation is Optional
Bullamakanka is a bent and twisted old man who does not have a cat. He does
have five goannas though and a possum who lives in the wall. None of them
help with the writing, the lazy buggers.
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Bagman's Gazette - November 2007
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Can't Bury the Tales, The Drover's Tale
November 17th 2007 20:25
He found himself, scarce knowing where, nor, even why,
A pilgrim upon a road of red dust near the town of Gundagai
It was a long road for the drovers quest
And longer still ere he could rest.
For it was a solemn oath that brought him here
Given to the love of his life, whom he held most dear.
The oath was given and love was troth
With a passion that burned bright in both
But the road that stretched between their passion
Held dangers of many and diverse fashion
Her green eyes and red hair at times, a few
Grew hazy, in memory, after a brew or two
But in the morn, dry of mouth with aching head
He would drag himself from guilty bed
And swear to God that never again
Would he mix beer with gin, nor sin
And promised to his love anew
That what she wanted, he would do
But under the relentless sun he did swoon
Only to find himself in another saloon
A beer between him and duty
Chatting to a dark haired beauty
Out of his true loves sight and hearing
Spent all his money and took a job shearing
Hard work it was but he did his best
Collected his wage and renewed his quest
Jobs he took when he could
Milking cows and chopping wood
All the time he was aware
Of his loves green eyes and red hair
And though it had been awhile
He thought he could remember her smile
Our pilgrim walked the road though weary he might be
Overland and on to the wide blue sea
Where he spent at least a month fishing
All the time fervently wishing
He could remember just one thing
His true loves first name
And when he reached the holy shrine
He knew it was surely time
Turned his feet in the direction of home did he
And left behind his Saints and the MCG
The drovers tale does not end here
For to get home took near a year
First was the massage and a rub
And every corner seemed to have a pub
Took a job droving goannas
From Geelong to Roseanna
Jobs he had from woe to go
And one took him to Bendigo
He arrived in a flash Volvo wagon
Then did a stint as legs for a dragon
All the while he did try
To return to his love in Gundagai
Finally one day his weary feet
Turned down his true loves street
And his heart was wont to soar
He gently knocked upon her door
His true love looked him up and down
Upon her face was a surly frown
Finally she uttered those fateful words `Jesus'
`Two bloody years and you still forgot the pizzas'
A pilgrim upon a road of red dust near the town of Gundagai
It was a long road for the drovers quest
And longer still ere he could rest.
For it was a solemn oath that brought him here
Given to the love of his life, whom he held most dear.
The oath was given and love was troth
With a passion that burned bright in both
But the road that stretched between their passion
Held dangers of many and diverse fashion
Her green eyes and red hair at times, a few
Grew hazy, in memory, after a brew or two
But in the morn, dry of mouth with aching head
And swear to God that never again
Would he mix beer with gin, nor sin
And promised to his love anew
That what she wanted, he would do
But under the relentless sun he did swoon
Only to find himself in another saloon
A beer between him and duty
Chatting to a dark haired beauty
Out of his true loves sight and hearing
Spent all his money and took a job shearing
Hard work it was but he did his best
Collected his wage and renewed his quest
Jobs he took when he could
Milking cows and chopping wood
All the time he was aware
Of his loves green eyes and red hair
And though it had been awhile
He thought he could remember her smile
Our pilgrim walked the road though weary he might be
Overland and on to the wide blue sea
Where he spent at least a month fishing
All the time fervently wishing
He could remember just one thing
His true loves first name
And when he reached the holy shrine
He knew it was surely time
Turned his feet in the direction of home did he
And left behind his Saints and the MCG
The drovers tale does not end here
For to get home took near a year
First was the massage and a rub
And every corner seemed to have a pub
Took a job droving goannas
From Geelong to Roseanna
Jobs he had from woe to go
And one took him to Bendigo
He arrived in a flash Volvo wagon
Then did a stint as legs for a dragon
All the while he did try
To return to his love in Gundagai
Finally one day his weary feet
Turned down his true loves street
And his heart was wont to soar
He gently knocked upon her door
His true love looked him up and down
Upon her face was a surly frown
Finally she uttered those fateful words `Jesus'
`Two bloody years and you still forgot the pizzas'
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Posted By: Bullamakanka - Category: Tales
The Sea
November 13th 2007 07:50
Writing poetry has been described as various things. From, ‘A gateway to the heart/soul to manic depression’.
Me, I’m a reluctant poet, probably because poetry is driven by life’s experiences. Not all are sweet and light. There are the dark, the things that eat at your soul, defile your inner being. And yet, these things from the darkest pits can inspire love poems.
Of course, what a poem means to the reader is totally subjective. They love it, hate it, rave about it.
So what! Do they understand what you felt? Do they smile and say ‘Oh, how clever you are’, then turn away and say the same thing to the bus boy?
Is it a complement, or, just not wishing to hurt you feelings? How can you tell when you have left a mark on a persons consciousness?
‘The Sea’ is a poem that I wrote some time ago. It has the distinction of the highest praise I have ever received for a poem. Not because the person raved about it, but, because she said, ‘That poem made me feel suicidal’. I had truly reached into a persons soul and twisted it.
Personally I like the poem, I can’t see anything suicidal about it. My family has a long history with the sea.
So you have been warned. Love it or loath it, tell me what you think.
The Sea mp3
Me, I’m a reluctant poet, probably because poetry is driven by life’s experiences. Not all are sweet and light. There are the dark, the things that eat at your soul, defile your inner being. And yet, these things from the darkest pits can inspire love poems.
Of course, what a poem means to the reader is totally subjective. They love it, hate it, rave about it.
So what! Do they understand what you felt? Do they smile and say ‘Oh, how clever you are’, then turn away and say the same thing to the bus boy?
Is it a complement, or, just not wishing to hurt you feelings? How can you tell when you have left a mark on a persons consciousness?
‘The Sea’ is a poem that I wrote some time ago. It has the distinction of the highest praise I have ever received for a poem. Not because the person raved about it, but, because she said, ‘That poem made me feel suicidal’. I had truly reached into a persons soul and twisted it.
Personally I like the poem, I can’t see anything suicidal about it. My family has a long history with the sea.
So you have been warned. Love it or loath it, tell me what you think.
The Sea mp3
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Posted By: Bullamakanka - Category: Poetry
White Line
November 12th 2007 12:07
Slip on the leathers and wheel out the bike
turn the key the beast comes to life
the road sings its siren song
White line white line white line
It’s like a mantra as I pull on my gloves
slip on my helmet
Hit the road
White line white line white line
Out in the country
a good winding road
that siren song
White line white line white line
I twist the throttle
lean into the wind
and chant my mantra
White line white line white line
White lines beneath my wheels
pass ever faster
I am their master
White line white line white line
I know every turn
every hill
twist the throttle further
White line white line white line
Laying on the tank
I pass one-fifty
into a sweeping bend
White line white line white line
Down a hill
I back off
for a tight left
White line white line white line
A straight ahead
roll it on
one-sixty
White line white line white line
One-eighty
roll it on
two hundred
White line white line white line
Up the hill
backing off
for a sweeping S bend
White line white line white line
Find the line
roll it on
over the hill
White line white line kangaroo
Sky ground trees
sky again
road
White line white line flat line
White Line mp3
turn the key the beast comes to life
the road sings its siren song
White line white line white line
It’s like a mantra as I pull on my gloves
slip on my helmet
Hit the road
White line white line white line
Out in the country
a good winding road
that siren song
White line white line white line
I twist the throttle
lean into the wind
and chant my mantra
White line white line white line
White lines beneath my wheels
pass ever faster
I am their master
White line white line white line
I know every turn
every hill
twist the throttle further
White line white line white line
Laying on the tank
I pass one-fifty
into a sweeping bend
White line white line white line
Down a hill
I back off
for a tight left
White line white line white line
A straight ahead
roll it on
one-sixty
White line white line white line
One-eighty
roll it on
two hundred
White line white line white line
Up the hill
backing off
for a sweeping S bend
White line white line white line
Find the line
roll it on
over the hill
White line white line kangaroo
Sky ground trees
sky again
road
White line white line flat line
White Line mp3
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Posted By: Bullamakanka - Category: Poetry
Something else (LINK)
November 10th 2007 19:12
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Posted By: Bullamakanka - Category: Poetry
Goodby
November 9th 2007 12:41
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Posted By: Bullamakanka - Category: Poetry
Can’t Bury the Tales - The Politicians Tale
November 6th 2007 11:53
The politicians tale is one of woe and
A litany of promises written in sand
He journeys upon the election trail[ Click here to read more ]
A litany of promises written in sand
He journeys upon the election trail
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Read More[ Link ]
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