Kookaburra Bird Of Prey
Hear the kookaburra calling at the dawning of the day
Laughing loudly on the gum trees in October morning gray
Little song birds screaming loudly kookaburra they all say
We don't want you on our gum trees from our valley clear away.
Scolding blackbird acting bravely kookaburra let us be
Last year you or else your kin bird killed and ate my family
But this year I'll protect my nestlings I'll protect them with my life
Don't you dare go near my children or their mother my dear wife.
But Kookaburra he laugh louder I am not afraid of you
I could kill you here this minute if I really wanted to
Getting tired of snakes and lizards need a tasty bite of meat
And a little pink skinned nestling would be very nice to eat.
Kookaburra laughing loudly monarch of all he survey
At daybreak in late October out in search of easy prey
Looking for nests on the gum trees out to fill his empty craw
With the flesh of little nestlings which he will eat warm and raw.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Related quotes
After 'To Joanna
In his company Joanna laughed:
Clear she thought that he was daft
When he heard the mountains laughing
In his ravishment of mind.
Now the vicar who'd upbraided him
For carving in the rock
Upon whose meditation
The ravishment occurred,
Instead of laughing loudly
At his loftiness of word,
Smiled and looked astonished
Thinking, 'Jackass of a bird.'
Realising that he'd lost him
The poet came to earth,
Told the vicar in plain language
Of Joanna's certain anguish
As she drew into his side
For fear of something that she heard
But to which could put no word.
Now she's gone back to the city,
I miss her laughter, that's the pity.
That's why 'JOANNA'S ROCK'
Is what he's chiseled,
This jackass of a bird.
I wrote this in October-November 2011 mainly in my bed in Adelaide
after reading Wordsworth's
'To Joanna'. The thought about the jackass (kookaburra) I put into
the mind of the vicar comes from an
experience in which I was camping with a friend. Our tent blew in on us one
night and we couldn't be bothered getting out to re-erect it. Instead my friend
laughed hysterically all night. Next morning I overheard the man in the
nearby caravan muttering that if he'd had an axe he'd have killed that
laughing jackass last night.
My friend was like the poet, I was like Joanna, amused by rapture, and
the guy in the caravan was the vicar.
poem by Douglas Scotney
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October In Kalorama
Those giant mountain ash trees they seem to touch the sky
And the white sulphur crested cockies squawking as from tree to tree they fly
A pleasant Spring day in October of around 20 degrees
And warmth in the sunshine and in the gentle breeze.
Down in the wooded gully the whip bird's call resound
The loud whip like cracking echo of his voice can be heard for acres around
In Spring in Kalorama such a lovely time of year
The soft pipings of the crimson rosellas such a lovely sound to hear.
Perhaps the largest non fishing kingfisher that one could wish to see
The harsh calls of the kookaburra echo in their territory
It is their breeding Season and with their young to defend
To their own family members only kookaburras are a friend.
October in Kalorama and the wood birds are in song
And there can be no mistaking the voice of the pied currawong
A high of twenty five degrees the weather forecaster say
And in the Yarra Ranges it is a lovely day.
poem by Francis Duggan
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In The Prime Of September
The paddocks looking yellow where the capeweed does bloom
And bright golden flowers on the gorse and the broom
And the flute of the shrike thrush is pleasant to hear
In the prime of September in the Spring of the year
At this time of year the musical magpies they sing day and night
How pleasant to hear them piping in the moonlight
And blackbird by his voice you cannot get wrong
He welcomes the dawn of the day with a song
Frisky lambs in the paddocks are frolicking about
When the Goddess of Spring is in the Land of the south
The laughter of the kookaburra the call of the weerloo
The big dark brown bird better known as yellow tail black cockatoo
Fruit bearing trees in blossom and nesting birds sing
In the prime of September in the southern Spring.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Bird Song
Crow
I detest the Carrion Crow!
(He's a raven, don't you know?)
He's a greedy glutton, also, and a ghoul,
And his sanctimonious caw
Rubs my temper on the raw.
He's a demon, and a most degraded fowl.
Blue Wren
I admire the pert Blue-wren
And his dainty little hen-
Though she hasn't got a trace of blue upon her;
But she's pleasing, and she's pretty,
And she sings a cheerful ditty;
While her husband is a gentleman of honour.
Cuckoo
I despise the Pallid Cuckoo,
A disreputable "crook" who
Shirks her duties for a lazy life of ease.
I abhor her mournful call,
Which is not a song at all
But a cross between a whimper and a wheeze.
Kookaburra
I suspect the Kookaburra,
For his methods are not thorough
In his highly-praised campaign against the snakes,
And the small birds, one and all,
Curse him for a cannibal -
Though he certainly is cheerful when he wakes.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Bird Song - Kookaburra
I suspect the Kookaburra,
For his methods are not thorough
In his highly-praised campaign against the snakes,
And the small birds, one and all,
Curse him for a cannibal
Though he certainly is cheerful when he wakes.
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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Mick Kissane From Kenmare
Though living far from Ireland he's still Irish to the core
And he still talks of Kerry and Kenmare and Inchamore
And he derive much pleasure knocking Thatcher and the Queen
And he feels ever faithful to the wearers of the green.
He's living in Mount Evelyn renowned for it's gum trees
Where currawong and magpie pipe their joyful melodies
Where kookaburra wake you at the dawning of the day
With his harsh like laugh that one can hear a half a mile away.
But he like it in Australia and he feel settled down
In the valley of the gum trees a short drive from Melbourne Town
And though he still loves his Ireland he's in Aussie Land to stay
But he will return to Kerry for a two month holiday.
He love Australian football and he barrack for Hawthorn
But he has no love for soccer wish that game were never born
He say soccer is a cissy game that the English popularized
But if he praised anything he consider English I for one would feel surprised.
He's a few years with the forty gray ribs through his raven hair
But he still looks young for his years Mick Kissane from Kenmare
And though he love it in Australia at heart he's still an Irishman
A patriotic, passive type Irish Republican.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Brooms Witches And Mothers
Witches have broom's
When i a child
Mother's had broom's
Mother's ran with broom's
Mother's ran fast with broom's
I was a very swift boy
I had to run from many broom's
Sometimes mother would strike with broom
Therefore throwing herself of balance
As i ran i would laugh
Like a kookaburra
She would become a angry mother with broom
She would call for me to stop running
So she could give me her broom
I would keep running
For i did not like broom's
Witches like broom's
Mother's like broom's
poem by Allan James Saywell
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A Showery October Afternoon
It is a showery afternoon water drips from the trees
But it's not cold a mild Spring day perhaps twenty degrees
In late October in the hills you do get days like these
When morning sun give way to showers though cool enough the breeze.
The black faced cuckoo shrike is back from places far away
A bird you never can mistake in cloak of silver gray
And in the wood the high pitched voice of the gray currawong
These birds you come to recognize by their distinctive song.
On the high gum tree in their nest young magpies chirp and call
And October in the Dandenongs the loveliest month of all
The high paddocks of Belgrave South are looking lush and green
And Mother Nature beautiful as lovely as I've seen.
The migratory welcome swallows back in the hills again
They fly low o'er the paddocks the flies are low in rain
My favourite Season of the year has always been the Spring
In storm and rain and sunshine the wild birds chirp and sing
This morning pretty butterflies flitted around the flowers
But the afternoon turned cloudy and sun gave way to showers
In October in the Dandenongs you do get days like these
A day of showers and sun shine water dripping off the trees.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Dew Drop
I lay my head doon
upon the cool red earth
in the distant, the lights o toon
but they offer nay warmth
Surroonded by darkness
and glow o', campfire burning
in this isolation and loneliness
o my desert, dreaming
Come dawn ray
kookaburra singing
as the sun shines on my face
I see a dew drop, glistening
poem by John Mcleish
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The Superb Lyrebird's Song
Amongst the songbirds of Australia with the superb lyrebird as a mimic there is none to compare
He can incorporate the songs of the local songbirds in his song something that is quite rare
The voices of the kookaburra, blackbird, butcherbird and currawong
Are just three of the many voices in the master mimic's song
With the World's best songbird mimics the lyrebird he does rate
The voices of the cockatoos, rosellas, whipbirds and shrike thrush he can easily imitate
The songs of the robins, magpies and scrubwrens in his song you can recognize
Yes the lyrebird is a mimic who never ceases to surprise,
His varied song is beauitiful and his voice it carries far
He can imitate the noise of a chainsaw or the horn of a motor car,
On his display mound with his lyre shaped tail feathers above his back fanned out in a great display
He imitates the songs of the other birds in the woodland every day
And in his breeding Season he gushes forth in miming song
And the notes of any local bird he never does get wrong.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Spring In Victoria
The bottlebrushes laden with crimson flowers
And there is warmth in the October breeze
And with her Spring has brought her blooms and greenery
And birds are singing on the sunlit trees.
Spring in Victoria my favourite time of year
The birds build their nests and raise their families
The weather not too cool or not too warm
A high today of 17 degrees.
The distinct call sounds of the magpie lark
And the Indian mynah sings his scratchy song
Some birds are easy to identify
And by their voices you never get them wrong.
Spring in Victoria is a time of bloom
And sun shines brightly after the brief showers
The fruit trees cloaked in blossoms of pale pink
And gardens look resplendent in their flowers.
My favourite season is always the spring
And spring in Victoria is now in her prime
The wild birds sing and gardens are in bloom
But Nature's beauty fades with the passage of time.
poem by Francis Duggan
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The Laugh Of The Dolorous
I am laughing loudly and walking the path
As if I am the happiest man in the earth.
But I secretly carry the dolor in a cart
My heart burns and my mind is torn apart.
Depth-less is my grief
Still I walk like a king, as if,
I am the owner of the sun and the moon
Life is to me a mirage, an illusion
Better senses make me the man of renunciation.
To cut a joke, to make a fun
I laugh out loudly …the laugh of the dolorous
Though the inner soul bleeds the delirium delirious.
I feel their foolishness
As they show me their faces
Without smile and full of sternness
Their helter- skelter movements are hilarious
With out any benefit and totally ridiculous
To taunt them, to make them ludicrous.
I laugh out loudly …..the laugh of the dolorous.
poem by Abdul Wahab
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For July A Rare Sunny Day
For July a rare sunny day
The sun peep through the clouds of gray
And the nest building magpie does sing
Five weeks from the first day of Spring.
Tiny frogs sing in the watery drain
Swollen by recent heavy rain
And the song of the blackbird I hear
Familiar, melodious and clear.
Late Winter a nice time of year
One knows that the Spring it is near
The birds know it is time to breed
And the call of Nature they do heed.
Mild sunshine with a gentle breeze
And magpies piping on the gum trees
And the magpie larks calling pee wee
In the sunlit park by the sea.
The sun shining in the gray sky
Such a pleasant day for July
The birds sense the coming of Spring
Nature is such an amazing thing.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Everybodys Laughing
Sammy lerner / ben oakland
Everybodys laughing
Yes everybodys laughing
They know that you and I are through
And everybodys laughing
I told the world you loved me
And bragged about it proudly
But since they know its over
Theyre laughing at me loudly.
People love to linger
So they can point a finger
And tear apart a gal whose heart
Was taken through the wringer
It we could start all over
The laugh might be on them
But meanwhile
Everybodys laughing
It we could start all over
The laugh might be on them
But meanwhile
Everybodys laughing
song performed by by Billie Holiday
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Australia With Any
The Nature and rugged beauty of this Southern Land
Is a thing one like me could never understand
A migrant from by old brown hills far away
Of Nature we learn something new every day.
How could one from the Land of the black and gray crow
Anything of the Nature of this Southern Country hope to know
The home of megapodes and marsupials and birds of beauty rare
Australia with any a Land to compare.
Australia the Land of the red and grey roo
Of emu, koala and wombat and many species of cockatoo
Of butcherbird, kookaburra, lyrebird, magpie and the pied currawong
The dark birds 'tis said who have rain in their song.
Of Australia's many beautiful parrots to name just a few
Rosellas, lorikeets and king parrots so lovely to view
The monoterenes egg laying mammals in Australia only found
The platypus and echidna mystery them does surround
The wonders of Nature have never been few
And each day from her we do learn something new
And I from the Land of the black and gray crow
So little of Australia's Nature does know.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Guess Who?
From billabong or pond
he serenades the moon
upon his small bassoon;
the moon does not respond
but in the hope she might
he keeps it up all night.
The meatworker in magpie suit
goes home and practices his flute
ten times on end he will begin
the Bridal March from Lohengrin,
or make the Kookaburra smile
by his attempts at Fairest Isle.
He needs both industry and skill
the satisfy his hunger
did he run up that monstrous bill
of his at the fishmonger?
In arrogance and outward show
but not in brains he's strong;
olive above and white below
with either eye a crimson glow
he's waiting here, for figs to grow
upon a currajong
in intellect no less than colour
the female bird is even duller.
1. Bull Frog
2. Butcher-Bird
3. Pelican
4. Fig Bird
poem by John Streeter Manifold
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The Dunnocks Nest
A memory from the past I still recall
In the box hedge by the old garden wall
I saw two male dunnocks and a hen
Fly out of hedge and then with food fly in.
I heard their little nestlings for food cry
And I with the curiosity of a boy
Peered in the hedge a moss built cup shaped nest I see
With pink skinned nestlings in it I counted three.
To the ways of Nature I was young and green
And I marvelled at the wonder I had seen
Three blind and pink skinned nestlings the shy dunnock's brood
Thought I too was a carer with some food.
With their tiny mouths wide open for food they did plead
And when I did not satisfy their greed
They slumped back in their nest as in a heap
And within a few minutes were asleep.
It must have been close to fifty years ago
Yet of Nature little I still seem to know
But such a precious memory bound to stay
With me until the reaper has his way.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Belgrave Town
Oh sing me the ballad of old Belgrave Town
The roads that lead to it they wind up and down
By huge mountain ash that dwarf all other trees
The giants on the high ground that sough in the breeze.
Belgrave east of Melbourne of Puffing Billy fame
The old Puffing steam engine who lives up to his name
From Belgrave to Gembrook and back at least twice a day
With his load of passengers he puffs all the way.
I lived in old Belgrave for a number of years
Knew happy and sad times there laughter and tears
The laughter of the kookaburra sounded so shrill
At dawn on a gum tree up by Terrys Hill.
In Belgrave and the Dandenong Ranges I still have friends there
Their great love of Nature a bond with them I share
The gateway to Sherbrooke the high wooded Countryside
The Dandenong Ranges National Park it is known Worldwide.
The squawk of the white cockies and the familiar song
Of those birds of the high woods the pied currawong
And the crimson rosellas sing as they fly up and down
Through the high wood that overlooks old Belgrave Town.
poem by Francis Duggan
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Song Of A Nature Loving Man
Were I a nature lyric poet my special gifts I'd share
With all who'd care to read my verse people from everywhere
But I don't have the gift of verse or so 'twould seem to me
So I can't share what I don't have with all humanity.
I'm just going back a few short months a pleasant memory
A koala with her baby on top branch of gum tree
On evening in mid april an evening bright though cool
At Tower hill just a short drive from the town of Warrnambool.
Were I a nature lyrist in words I'd celebrate
And my sense of joy at what I'd seen to all I would relate
A leaf eating nature mother with offspring on her back
Not unlike human mother with baby in knapsack.
To hear a yellow robin when spring is in her prime
On low down branch of wattle and shielded from sun shine
Sing his sad song of november his plaintive melody
Were I a bard I'd capture his song in poetry.
I find nature fascinating just look at simple honey bee
Whose ways are not so simple as they appear to be
Had I the gift of lyric of honeybees I'd write
A simple song of nature a song to give delight.
I see my God in Nature his creatures everywhere
The kangaroo with babe in pouch, the swallows of the air
The platypus and echidna, the wombat and emu
The lorikeet and rosella, the galah and cockatoo.
The laughing kookaburra whose laughter pierce quiet morn
A gold billed blackbird whistling at twilight on whitethorn
The noisy miner's cheerful song and wattlebird's hoarse like call
And bell magpie fluting notes of joy the sweetest sound of all.
A wallaby at forest edge in fading light of day
Standing almost statue like by quiet bush roadway
Were I a bard I'd capture this and on paper write it down
And bring the bush to living rooms of people in the town
And though I'm no bard I'm realist and I do know what I am
I'm one who comes from distant hills a 'Nature loving man'
And I feel happier of late happy and worry free
For I've found god after long search and nature's god to me.
poem by Francis Duggan
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On Hearing And Seeing A Goldfinch
The last day of October a balmy day of Spring
And on highest branch of a blackwood tree a sunlit goldfinch sing
His twittering notes unmistakeable so pleasant for to hear
One of the smaller songsters of the Springtime of the year.
With red around beak and of grey, brown and fawn and gold
A sunlit goldfinch in song is quite lovely to behold
You do not need to see him you know him by his song
One whose voice is familiar and you never can get wrong.
In a cup shaped nest of rootlets lined with down, lichen and bits of hay
Four to seven bluish white eggs the female bird she lay
Her mate he does the singing whilst she hatches her eggs to life
One cannot say about her that she is not a good wife.
The last day of October 'tis so breezy and bright
And a goldfinch is singing in the warm sunlight
Butterflies flit around the flower beds and the dark brown honey bees
Are buzzing whilst gathering nectar from the blossoming bushes and trees.
poem by Francis Duggan
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