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Up North
Oh, Bill and Joe to the north have gone,
A green shirt on their back;
There are not many ewes and lambs
Along Kokoda track.
There are not many ewes and lambs,
But men in single file
Like sheep along a mountain pad
Walk mile on sweating mile;
And each half-hour they change the lead,
Though I have never read
Where any fat bell-whether was
Shot, in the mountains, dead.
The only sheep they muster there
Leap through the mind at night;
'Twould be as red as marking time
To change green shirt for white.
And though Bill dreams of droving now
On the drought-coloured plain,
There's little need to tap the glass
Or pray for it to rain.
They have no lack of water there
But there is a stinging tail,
For men lie dying in the grass
Along Kokoda trail.
poem by David Campbell
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That's as ill as the ewes in the yaird and nae dogs to hunt them.
True Origin of the Ewes
Some say that we come from old Tado
others say ancestral home is Notsie
but our traits point us to old Egypt
while our practices do depict Jews
in dorflefle, trekosi and homtodzo
does what we shroud now tritely aloft
secret dialects we speak in sacred shrines
do explain or not why it sounds Hebrew
on the lips of our stark illiterate priests
or a minority feared, envied this much?
if our open secrets we hide in silence
to explicate the prejudice we feel now
is our incurable idolatory from ages past
stoked the wrath of the Ancient of Days
to estrange us in pillage from the old fold?
what excuse then do we have as curators
to our perplexed progeny in strange lands
why we are demonized to whip hate sentiment
just as before the holocaust the other fold
who now look white while we look this black?
today our hearts will find serene moorings
when we look within and beyond this self
jettison taints of traditions of anachronism
keep societal ship buoyant in humane waters
at where our freedom ends starts another’s
when our affinity is seen as selfish herd
when they say Ewes only stick to Ewes
indictment of kinship, mystery and nepotism
“How many Ewes have you been nice to? ”
more fingers point at their manifest flaws
how would brothers who now sow discord
see us as heathen and themselves as gentiles
know the real story of the lost ten kingdom
that the doors of salvation will soon close
when Jews retrace steps the redeemer accept?
Written by
Dela Bobobee©
poem by Dela Bobobee
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The Two Devines
It was shearing time at the Myall Lake,
And then rose the sound through the livelong day
Of the constant clash that the shear-blades make
When the fastest shearers are making play;
But there wasn't a man in the shearers' lines
That could shear a sheep with the two Devines.
They had rung the sheds of the east and west,
Had beaten the cracks of the Walgett side,
And the Cooma shearers had given them best --
When they saw them shear, they were satisfied.
From the southern slopes to the western pines
They were noted men, were the two Devines.
'Twas a wether flock that had come to hand,
Great struggling brutes, that shearers shirk,
For the fleece was filled with the grass and sand,
And seventy sheep was a big day's work.
"At a pound a hundred it's dashed hard lines
To shear such sheep," said the two Devines.
But the shearers knew that they's make a cheque
When they came to deal with the station ewes;
They were bare of belly and bare of neck
With a fleece as light as a kangaroo's.
"We will show the boss how a shear-blade shines
When we reach those ewes," said the two Devines.
But it chanced next day, when the stunted pines
Were swayed and stirred by the dawn-wind's breath,
That a message came for the two Devines
That their father lay at the point of death.
So away at speed through the whispering pines
Down the bridle-track rode the two Devines.
It was fifty miles to their father's hut,
And the dawn was bright when they rode away;
At the fall of night, when the shed was shut
And the men had rest from the toilsome day,
To the shed once more through the darkening pines
On their weary steeds came the two Devines.
"Well, you're back right sudden,"the super said;
"Is the old man dead and the funeral done?"
"Well, no sir, he ain't not exactly dead,
But as good as dead," said the eldest son --
"And we couldn't bear such a chance to lose,
So we came straight back to tackle the ewes."
*
They are shearing ewes at the Myall Lake,
And the shed is merry the livelong day
With the clashing sound that the shear-blades make
When the fastest shearers are making play;
And a couple of "hundred and ninety-nines"
Are the tallies made by the two Devines.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Sheep-Killer
The sheep farmer's old black collie
had a ebony-tipped nose
that was turning grey,
as the specks on its paws
from the years under the elements
and a fog was hanging on the hill
when he undid the chain
and the far off bleating of the ewes
could be heard from the hill
and the farmer told the dog to gather them in,
to round them up and bring them down
to the corral
and with its normal pace,
no hurry in its trot the old hound
went off to do its task
disappearing in the mist,
past the paddocks
on it's way to the trees
and the farmer heard it barking
rounding up and gathering
and then suddenly the old dog growled,
barked, snarled furious, before giving
a long drawn out whining howl
and then it cried out in pain
and the ewes were bleating, bleating
as if in sheer terror
and their bells ringing
as if they were running
and the farmer got his shotgun,
a carton of shells
and an old torch
and went to the hedge calling
the dog's name, calling at the sheep
and he passed to the trees
walking up the ridge of the hillock
and only his voice resounded
while he kept calling.
At one point he saw the broken rails
with the footprints of the ewes
and the old black collie
crawled, in pain dragged her body along
and he thought good Lord, what had happened here?
The dog was in great pain and bleeding badly
ripped open and in his peripheral vision,
the farmer saw a shadow moving,
coming in with a big limp
and he turned to meet it
and pulled off both barrels simultaneously
shattering the head of a wounded leopard
and his dog was too far gone to be helped,
to be saved
and there was great pain in him
to do the proper thing, to stops its agony
and with trusting dark brown eyes
it looked at him, still whimpering
and the farmer took an old.45 pistol from his belt
cocked it and tears were in his eyes
when he put a bullet through its head
and shot it dead
and that night he said his things to God,
could not close an eye.
poem by Gert Strydom
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On A Mistake In His Translation Of Homer
Cowper had sinned with some excuse,
If, bound in rhyming tethers,
He had committed this abuse
Of changing ewes for wethers;
But, male for female is a trope,
Or rather bold misnomer,
That would have startled even Pope,
When he translated Homer.
poem by William Cowper
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Das Lied von einer Sommernacht
Hell schien der Mond in dieser Nacht
Als meine Liebe neu erwacht
Das Blut wie Wein durch meine Adern floß
Und Pfeile in mein Herze rein schoß
Meine Seele voll verlangen barst
Ihn zu erwarten hier am Horst
Der einzige Zeuge unserer Liebe war
Die Sommernacht so hell und klar
Der Fluß sein Lied uns leise sang
Und wie Musik dann in the Ästen hang
Laß niemals enden diese Nacht
Bis blaß der Sternenhimmel in all seiner Pracht
Ich musste gehn von diesem Ort
Geblieben ist ein kleines Wort
Gemeiselt in den großen Stein
Meine Liebe ist für immer dein.
poem by Ingeborg von Finsterwalde
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Two Methods
To bucks and ewes by the Good Shepherd fed
The Priest delivers masses for the dead,
And even from estrays outside the fold
Death for the masses he would not withhold.
The Parson, loth alike to free or kill,
Forsakes the souls already on the grill,
And, God's prerogative of mercy shamming,
Spares living sinners for a harder damning.
poem by Ambrose Bierce
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The Weather Prophet
Ow can it rain.' the old man said, 'with things the way they are?
You've got to learn off ant and bee, and jackaroo and galah;
And no man never saw it rain, for fifty years at least,
Not when the blessed parakeets are flyinn' to the east!'
The weeks went by, the squatter wrote to tell his bank the news.
'It's still as dry as dust,' he said, 'I'm feeding all the ewes;
The overdraft would sink a ship, but make your mind at rest,
It's all right now, the parakeets are flyin' to the west!'
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Praise me not.
Here they come, in low tones,
Eagle eyed, prey in hearts, concealed
He is our son, bring him up! Only ram for our ewes.
The ‘Our Son, oblivious, in innocence
Dance in a tune, made of them, in them not
Goodies gone, in hearts, they laugh in mirth
Praise me not, the ‘Our son ‘
Pitied against our other sons
In anxiety waited for a cast dice,
To his home coming was non, in high tones sang
One other son, crown assumed!
Curse me, praise me not, myself I'm captain.
poem by Charles Jagongo Ogola
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Sonnet- God, We Seek Thy Aid
In life, we see a war 'tween good and bad,
Between our conscience and science of man;
The joys of sin enticing us are sad,
And from the devils escape, how men can?
If living is a struggle right from birth,
And suffering's the way for men on earth
And forces of goodness appear a dearth;
How can the Righteous ever gain His Mirth?
So, hasten Lord to help the suff'ring souls;
The world has turned unbearable for most;
The devilized men keep changing their roles;
Triumph of Truth appears almost a ghost.
0 pour thy grace 0 God on men who seek;
Lest Wolves devor the Lambs and Ewes so meek.
poem by John Celes
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The Passing of Gundagai
"I'll introduce a friend!" he said,
"And if you've got a vacant pen
You'd better take him in the shed
And start him shearing straight ahead;
He's one of these here quiet men.
"He never strikes -- that ain't his game;
No matter what the others try
He goes on shearing just the same.
I never rightly knew his name --
We always call him 'Gundagai!'"
Our flashest shearer then had gone
To train a racehorse for a race;
And, while his sporting fit was on
He couldn't be relied upon,
So Gundagai shore in his place.
Alas for man's veracity!
For reputations false and true!
This Gundagai turned out to be
For strife and all-round villainy
The very worst I ever knew!
He started racing Jack Devine,
And grumbled when I made him stop.
The pace he showed was extra fine,
But all those pure-bred ewes of mine
Were bleeding like a butcher's shop.
He cursed the sheep, he cursed the shed,
From roof to rafter, floor to shelf:
As for my mongrel ewes, he said,
I ought to get a razor-blade
And shave the blooming things myself.
On Sundays he controlled a "school",
And played "two-up" the livelong day;
And many a young confiding fool
He shore of his financial wool;
And when he lost he would not pay.
He organised a shearers' race,
And "touched" me to provide the prize.
His pack-horse showed surprising pace
And won hands down -- he was The Ace,
A well-known racehorse in disguise.
Next day the bruiser of the shed
Displayed an opal-tinted eye,
With large contusions on his head,
He smiled a sickly smile, and said
He's "had a cut at Gundagai!"
But, just as we were getting full
Of Gundagai and all his ways,
A telgram for "Henry Bull"
Arrived. Said he, "That's me -- all wool!
Let's see what this here message says."
He opened it; his face grew white,
He dropped the shears and turned away
It ran, "Your wife took bad last night;
Come home at once -- no time to write,
We fear she may not last the day."
He got his cheque -- I didn't care
To dock him for my mangled ewes;
His store account, we called it square,
Poor wretch! he had enough to bear,
Confronted by such dreadful news.
The shearers raised a little purse
To help a mate, as shearers will.
"To pay the doctor and the nurse.
And, if there should be something worse,
To pay the undertaker's bill."
They wrung his hand in sympathy,
He rode away without a word,
His head hung down in misery . . .
A wandering hawker passing by
Was told of what had just occurred.
"Well! that's a curious thing," he siad,
"I've known that feller all his life --
He's had the loan of this here shed!
I know his wife ain't nearly dead,
Because he hasn't got a wife!"
You should have heard the whipcord crack
As angry shearers galloped by;
In vain they tried to fetch him back --
A little dust along the track
Was all they saw of "Gundagai".
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Albi ne doleus...
What good does it to fret and kick
over the latest indiscretions of a thoughtless girl
Albi, or churn out strophes on love's labor
lost to a younger man?
Behind her bangs Lycorida
burns with lust for Cyrus-himself unashamed
to worship Pholean, that slut, who claims
'Sooner will Apulian wolves
Shag Coan ewes than I that snake! '
Suchwise is brazen Venus pleased to vex us
yoking disparate souls in twain, then laughing
cruelly at her joke.
Why. I myself was wooed by a highborn lass
once, but fell to the charms of Myrtle, who in fact,
purchased her bonds, turned 'round and slipped
them smoothly on me.
poem by Morgan Michaels
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Sonnet: Clouds of Changes!
Great clouds of changes loom upon the earth;
Like hungry lions, pow’rful nations prowl,
In search of newer prey of recent birth,
To devour by tactics always foul!
But, lions are not always courageous!
They threaten new-born ewes and kids and foals;
They dare not hunt adult beasts treacherous;
At times, they stoop to eat wild-dogs in holes!
Should not such lions question their valor?
Should they not choose equals to challenge then?
Should they keep roaring at beasts in dolor?
A lion should not live out of its den!
Yet, Wild dogs too can chase lions away!
Though powerful, a fool must lose some day.
Copyright by Dr John Celes 1-15-2007
poem by John Celes
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Thanks Happenstance
I sat counting up all the blackeyes
i'd ever got
All the broken bones bloody noses
from all the battles i'd ever fought
Then I looked down at the top of my hands
With all their scars and scrapes
subway system of veins
Worn out skin from washing someone else's
greasy dish pans
And I laughed 'till I cried
cried 'till I laughed
Either way its all the same
for I was neither happy nor sad
Just thankful for all I'd ever had
And even though
I've not done much with it
I'm just thankful for the chance
So thank you God, thanks Allah
Thank you Buddah
Thanks Dad and Mom
Thanks luck, thank you chance
Thanks timing
Thank you kindly happenstance
Thank you all for a shot
I thank you all
I thank you so much for the chance
I sat counting up all the broken hearts
I'd ever got
All the broken dreams unrealized things
I'd ever sought
Then with my fingertips
I gently touched my face
I could feel the lines of worry, wrinkles of time
that no potion could ever hope to erase
And I laughed 'till I cried
cried 'till I laughed
Either way its all the same
for I was neither happy nor sad
Just thankful for all I'd ever had
And even though
I've not done much with it
I'm just thankful for the chance
So thank you God, thanks Allah
Thank you Buddah
Thanks Dad and Mom
Thanks luck, thank you chance
Thanks timing
Thank you kindly happenstance
Thank you all for a shot
I thank you all
I thank you so much for the chance
I sat counting up all the bad news
i'd ever got
All the losing hands flus and colds
i'd ever caught
Then I reached down
put my hand upon my heart
And though battered tattered broken
sometimes torn apart
I was just thankful through it all
Never once did it ever just give up
and stop
And I laughed 'till I cried
cried 'till I laughed
Either way its all the same
for I was neither happy nor sad
Just thankful for all I'd ever had
And even though
I've not done much with it
I'm just so thankful for the chance
So thank you God, thanks Allah
Thank you Buddah
Thanks Dad and Mom
Thanks luck thank you chance
Thanks timing
Thank you kindly happenstance
Thank you all for a shot
I thank you all
I thank you so much for the chance
poem by Cin Sweet Fields
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Spring
Soft-littered is the new-year's lambing fold,
And in the hollowed haystack at its side
The shepherd lies o' night now, wakeful-eyed
At the ewes' travailing call through the dark cold.
The young rooks cheep 'mid the thick caw o' the old:
And near unpeopled stream-sides, on the ground,
By her Spring cry the moorhen's nest is found,
Where the drained flood-lands flaunt their marigold.
Chill are the gusts to which the pastures cower,
And chill the current where the young reeds stand
As green and close as the young wheat on land
Yet here the cuckoo and cuckoo-flower
Plight to the heart Spring's perfect imminent hour
Whose breath shall soothe you like your dear one's hand.
poem by Dante Gabriel Rossetti
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Villanelle
Apollo left the golden Muse
And shepherded a mortal's sheep,
Theocritus of Syracuse!
To mock the giant swain that woo's
The sea-nymph in the sunny deep,
Apollo left the golden Muse.
Afield he drove his lambs and ewes,
Where Milon and where Battus reap,
Theocritus of Syracuse!
To watch thy tunny-fishers cruise
Below the dim Sicilian steep
Apollo left the golden Muse.
Ye twain did loiter in the dews,
Ye slept the swain's unfever'd sleep,
Theocritus of Syracuse!
That Time might half with HIS confuse
Thy songs,--like his, that laugh and leap, -
Theocritus of Syracuse,
Apollo left the golden Muse!
poem by Andrew Lang
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Another Spring
If I might see another Spring
I'd not plant summer flowers and wait:
I'd have my crocuses at once
My leafless pink mezereons,
My chill-veined snow-drops, choicer yet
My white or azure violet,
Leaf-nested primrose; anything
To blow at once, not late.
If I might see another Spring
I'd listen to the daylight birds
That build their nests and pair and sing,
Nor wait for mateless nightingale;
I'd listen to the lusty herds,
The ewes with lambs as white as snow,
I'd find out music in the hail
And all the winds that blow.
If I might see another Spring -
Oh stinging comment on my past
That all my past results in ‘if’ -
If I might see another Spring
I'd laugh today, today is brief
I would not wait for anything:
I'd use today that cannot last,
Be glad today and sing.
poem by Christina Georgina Rossetti
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Fareweel, ye bughts
*
1. Fareweel, ye bughts, an' all your ewes,
An' fields whare bIoomin' heather grows;
Nae mair the sportin' lambs I'll see
Since my true love's forsaken me.
CHORUS.
Nae mair I'll hear wi' pleasure sing
The cheerfu' lav'rock in the Spring,
But sad in grief now I maun mourn,
Far, far frae her, o'er Logan-burn.
2. Alas! nae mair we'll meetings keep
At bughts, whan herds ca' in their sheep;
Nae mair amang the threshes green
We'll row, where we hae aften been.
CHORUS
3. Nae mair for me , ye vi'lets blaw,
Or lilies whiter than the snaw;
Nae mair your pleasures I can bear,
While I am absent frae my dear.
CHORUS
4. I ken the cause of my hard fate;
In courtin' her I was too blate;
I never kiss'd my lass at a'
But when we met an' gaed awa'.
CHORUS
5. Oh could my tears again bring back
The days now past, I'd no' be slack
For ev'ry kiss she got before
I wad gie to her now a score.
CHORUS
6. O fortune I wad you favour me
In some snug corner her to see.
My heart I wad to her reveal,
An' in her arms my pardon seal.
CHORUS
*
poem by James Thomson
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