Cowboy's

        The introduction to this poem is probably longer than the actual verse but is basically necessary for anyone who listens from overseas and does not know what some of the terms used mean.

   We were walking up to the cattle yard one day when Dick in his blunt fashion said to one of the jackeroo's who looked to be dressed more for the beach than the stockyard `You might not be much bloody use but you could at least dress the part.`
There again another fella turned up at Moola Bulla in his Akubra hat, R.M Williams cuban (high heel) heel riding boots and a silver buckle on his belt, as the mechanic at the time said to me `New fella looks the part.`
`We''ll see.` was my grunted response.  And see we did.
      The only stipulation to him being given the job was that he could ride a horse he had assured those in Perth he could.  But when given a horse and told to try him out his stirrup leathers were so long he could hardly touch the irons, on the suggestion that he shorten them his knees were then under his chin somewhat like a jockey.  When told to canter his horse round the yard his riding skills became obvious as the horse broke into a trot his hands grabbed the front of the saddle to prevent him falling off, I think the finger indentations would be there to this day.  Dick suggested I make him camp cook, I wanted to bush him straight away, he ended up costing us a lot of lost cattle during the short period he was in the camp.  He was definitely one of those who suffered from the affliction mentioned in the last line of this poem.

COWBOYS

He thought he was a cowboy but he couldn’t ride his swag,

He’d never thrown his leg across a real equine nag.

A ball bearing cowboy the worst sort of course,

Yeah, he thought he was a cowboy but where’s his bloody horse.

He may have been a little slow but he was a happy sort of bloke,

And in the attire that he wore he looked a real cowpoke.

His belt buckle was shiny and his hat was jet black,

But in a yard with cattle there’s a yellow streak down his back.

He’d make a real good cowboy milking cows and feeding chooks,

Mowing the lawn, clipping the edges and weeding all the little nooks.

He used to watch Bonanza and other old yippee shows,

Wagon Train and Rawhide and his face fairly glows.

Well he’s showing all the symptoms, it’s a classic case it seems,

Of a bloke that’s had too many, John Wayne wet dreams.

© Corin Linch 19/1/04

Music and sound effects

Much of the music and sound effects for my poems in this blog came from:

Royalty Free Music.com offers a comprehensive music library of production music for your various royalty free music needs including full albums, tracks and free music clips, loops, and beats available for download.
and 
SoundBible.com
And was mixed by Nick Hopkins ...... thank you Nick.

Innocence Stolen

If you have been following this blog please don't give up on it because of this one poem.  I have put it up in the sincere hope that it will help someone else who has been through a similar ordeal.



        I am well aware that this is way off my usual beaten track, however it is perhaps the most important poem (especially from my own point of view) that I have ever written.  It is believed that 10% of Australians have been abused as a child in one form or another, this is over 2 million people a staggering number I think you will agree.  Most like myself are silent for years, some never speak up.  It has taken me the best part of 50 years to be open and admit that I was sexually abused as a boy and on through my teenage years by various men.
You may well ask why I did not speak out earlier.  The answer is simple, shame and guilt.  Both misplaced feelings I have finally learned but they have eaten away at me for years and I believe affected the person I became.
Depression has dogged me for years but I truly believe I have beaten it, I have survived and I am proud of that fact.
The perpetrators of abuse when caught and if convicted get what is relatively a slap on the wrist and very little jail time compared to the life sentence which their victims such as myself receive from them.


Audio and pictures via YouTube is at the end of the poem please have a listen.

INNOCENCE STOLEN

I’m told that I’m a survivor, if so I survived in my own way,

You know I’ve been to Hell, but I hope to arrive back any day,

I had my naiveté torn away when I was less than ten,

By someone less than human not fit to walk with men.

He warned me to be silent or else I would die,

Was that the day a young child, lost the ability to cry?

The threat was real; my child’s mind imagined death,

As in silence I cowered, trying to catch my breath.

But my innocence was stolen, by more than one man,

Now nearly half a century later I think it’s time I took a stand,

Because for all that time I’ve lived with shame and disgust,

Built a wall around me because I felt there was no one I could trust.

Raised by my mother I looked for a father figure in my world,

Never realizing the degradation that was about to be unfurled,

I thought these men were leaders as my childhood was trampled in the dirt,

I came to believe their behavior normal, but in my heart of heart’s I hurt.

My dreams at night were haunted I knew not what they meant,

I would wake in fear and sweating, my body tired and spent,

As an adult I have often thought the future was very bleak,

I often doubted I had the strength to survive another week.

Now I’m told I am a victim; I struggle to believe that this is true,

But if I am a victim then my wife became a victim too,

Withstanding temper and mood swings, she tried to break down my wall,

A thankless task, she suffered rejection as I headed for a fall.

If people got too close to me I’d turn away and close a door,

Wanting too be near to me always bought my anger to the fore,

Despair was eating me like a cancer, from the inside out,

Even my own skills and abilities I began to doubt.

I have struggled through my days trying not to show my pain,

I would refuse to reveal my thoughts as I put up the wall again,

But now I’m beginning to learn that I don’t need to feel any shame,

There’s no reason for me to hang my head; I was not the one to blame.

So it seems the time has come for me to exorcise the demon,

Yes, now has come the time to give my life a new meanin’,

For to give in now would mean that the scumbags had won,

It’s time to push away the thunder clouds, time to see the sun.

To ride out like Saint George when he went to face the Dragon,

Tear down my wall and place the bricks upon a wagon,

For sake of wife and family I must face the world anew,

Although I won’t forget lost innocence and a child that never grew.

I must beat the demons that haunt me; I know the past is gone,

Spew out all the sordid thoughts, that I had buried for so long,

Let the woman who loves me near, let her breach my wall,

So we can stand together, and muffle the Devil’s call.

And yes the battle will be ongoing; the war is far from won,

But there is light at the end of the tunnel, I think I can see the sun,

And the ones who stole my innocence will be defeated in the end,

And I thank God for the people who I can truly call my friends.

And if you read or hear this verse spare not a thought for me,

But think of lost innocence and a child that will never be,

Protect and love your children the most valuable asset on this earth,

So they may reach their full potential and realize their true worth,

And if you once were a victim may you grow forever stronger,

Face and beat your demons and you will be a victim no longer,

Look towards the future and see the rainbow in the sky,

And fellas know and remember its okay for a man to cry.

Thank you!

© Corin Linch 13/5/08

The Jackeroos New Whip

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This poem is based on an event that happened at Moola Bulla some years ago.

THE JACKEROOS NEW WHIP

The noise rang around the station and echoed through the creek,

When you were having a yarn you couldn’t hear yourself speak.

There were jackeroos with stock whips, learning all the cracks,

But they never used them when astride their horse’s backs.

All this blooming whip cracking was driving Dick insane,

He’d get minute or two of peace then mongrels started up again.

That’s it he thought I’ve had enough, so to the quarters he did drive,

And a jackeroo perfected the Sydney Flash, just as he did arrive.

The boss pulled up in a cloud of dust, got out and slammed the door,

His anger was obvious, and his look chilled me to the core.

But he just asked "Is that a good whip?" in a quiet friendly tone,

"To right" said the jackeroo clutching it like a dog would a bone.

But the boss just smiled and nodded, then asked if he could take a look,

As he reached out and the kangaroo hide whip, he calmly took.

Now the jackeroo was proud of his brand new seven foot whip,

It had a nice long cane handle, and a fancy plaited grip.

Every night outside the quarters, he'd practise with that thing,

With all manner of different cracks he'd make those ranges ring.

Sixteen Kangaroo hide strands a master craftsman piece of work,

Normally if anyone else touched his whip the young bloke went berserk.

This was different; shortly Dick would say that his whip was the best,

And that to own such a whip, well he must be truly blessed

But Dick now with whip in hand, he quickly turned his back.

Boy oh boy, was he ever sick to death of listening to it crack?

With pocket knife in hand he proceeded to turn seven foot into one,

The kangaroo hide whip was seven pieces, when he'd cut and done.

And the young bloke was dreaming of flicking flies off the back of a cow,

When the boss threw the pieces over his shoulder, and said,

”Crack the Bloody thing now!"

 © Corin Linch (Rewrite) 12/11/07

Black Caviar #21

Well the mighty mare did it under a strangle hold win number 21 and group one number 11 ........ now if all goes well it is off to England to race before Her Majesty the Queen.

                   BLACK CAVIAR #21

They came to Morphettville in their thousands; they’d come to see the star,

Thirty thousand strong packed in to cheer, the champion Black Caviar.

Only eight other horses lined up beside her to test this great mare out,

At a fifty to one on or tighter the bookmakers were in no doubt.

Well she won the race in a canter; Nolen never touched her with the whip,

Although We’re Gonna Rock tried his heart out, he certainly had a dip.

Surely though the best is yet to come, she hasn’t been extended thus far,

One day they’ll scorch the turf beneath the mighty Black Caviar.

Some British scribe was sceptical and stated that she hasn’t beaten much,

Now I presume this man is educated, but wow, he’s certainly out of touch.

Eleven group one’s to her credit, come on, she’s the best you’ve ever seen,

And she is heading your way mate, to parade and race before the Queen.

And you expect her to go to you but I wonder why won’t you come to us?

Okay it’s off to Royal Ascot where she’s bound to cause a fuss.

On the 23^rd of June our Nellie is scheduled step out and take on the world,

In the Diamond Jubilee you’ll see Australia’s excitement machine unfurled.

But it’s sure a hell of a plane trip for her to get from here to over there,

So Australian fans are hoping she is relaxed and calm while in the air.

Because we want her to arrive healthy and fit the English turf then to grace,

And leave the naysayers speechless once they’ve seen her race.

Yeah your prize-money and trophies she will come and plunder,

She’ll definitely leave you breathless this champion from down under.

The salmon and black colours she has made famous on racetracks over here,

And it will be a privilege for you folk to see her in the Northern hemisphere.

                                                            © Corin Linch 13/5/12

Tuesday 1st May Dawn Patrol Poem

  This mornings ABC Dawn Patrol poem was inspired by a story told to me by someone from Tennessee.......Thanks Alicia and hopefully Tom from Delaware will send the audio through and I'll have learned how to put up on here before to much time passes.             

                ANA’s MUSHROOM PATCH

Winter was as good as over, almost gone the cold and gloom,

Spring time in Tennessee and the flowers were out in bloom.

The smell of new mown hay was wafting through the air,

And high up in the trees birds were nesting everywhere.

A young woman walked the fields marveling at natures show,

At all the wondrous flowers and how quickly they did grow.

Her name was Ana and in her left hand she carried a bowl,

She picked the odd mushroom while out for her spring time stroll.

Looking up her smile vanished and her body began to tense,

For there as happened every year, a car was parked beside the fence.

A group of townies always came and her mushrooms they would steal,

The thought that they were here again almost made Ana squeal.

It was the same people as last year and most likely the year before,

There was no doubt in Ana’s mind this was a declaration of war.

Her Dad had tried to catch these people just to give them a talking to,

But they’d see him coming; jump in the car and quickly they’d shoot through.

Ana knew what was required here, a little stealth and cunning,

It would do no good for her to go towards them running.

Like a hunter in the woods she began to carefully stalk her prey,

This time they would not avoid a talking to; they would not get away.

A large man was reaching through the fence when he got a sharp surprise,

For suddenly a teenage girl from nowhere seemingly appeared before his eyes.

She a lectured him on trespass, she gave him a real dressing down,

Then politely suggested he get in their car and return to blooming town.

Well the man he was indignant and a brief argument did commence,

As he righteously maintained he stood the correct side of the fence.

Well Ana could not contradict this statement obviously it was true,

But then he leaned up against the fence as though right on queue.

Ana immediately saw the gaping hole in this large man’s defense,

So politely pointed out that his belly, now hung on her side of the fence.

Well the man turned bright red; mumbled something she couldn’t hear,

To his departing back she said `And don’t come back next year!`

                                                                        © Corin Linch 30/3/2012

The Ultimate Luxury

            Anybody who has spent time in the bush can sympathise with this poem. Written purely for a laugh but has more than a grain of fact in it.  When I first started in the stock camp toilet paper was not part of the stores taken bush, so you make use of what you got newspaper if available, rocks and leaves. Grass was not much good; imagine having grass seeds left behind getting back on your horse and sitting on them for an hour or so. Hygiene in the camps was rudimentary to say the least; sure we washed our hands etc. before eating and after a walk over the flat, but the beef we ate was often beginning to turn. Curry powder was a favourite with camp cooks to disguise the taste of sour meat and the old stand-by Worcestershire Sauce was always in the tucker box.

  Gut aches were common place , in hindsight I reckon it was probably food poisoning, some water also caused upset stomachs. I was never able to handle the water at Cattle Creek a dam on Moola Bulla, within a few hours of drinking that water I’d be constantly bolting down the flat, it was at these times the ultimate luxury would have been a porcelain dunny. Although speaking to one bloke who spent some time in stock camps back in the 60’s he thought a tin of pears would have been the ultimate in luxury for him.

THE ULTIMATE IN LUXURY

I smoke my pipe, stoke the fire then I wander from the camp,

There’s dew about this morning and the ground is rather damp.

But I feel an urge upon me, as my belly gives a rumbling sound,

I shall have to wander out and bare my backside to the ground.

So I’ll take a shovel with me, so I can bury what I do,

After all no-one wants to know where you’ve been to pooh.

I’ll be squatting on my heels somewhere deep in the Aussie bush,

And I’m a little bit uncomfortable as I give me bowels a push.

There was times when I bruised me leg, so I was jacked up on a stone

That’s when I started thinking, gee; it would be nice to be at home.

Then with newspaper in hand, I’d be seated, reading all the news,

And quietly arguing with meself; about all those journalistic views.

Sitting there warm and comfortable, I may hum a quiet refrain,

Instead I’m here swotting flies, as I squat here and strain.

I tell yer it’s not real pleasant with your britches round your knees;

With a winter easterly blowing and yer what’s its, swinging in the breeze.

And I have no tissue paper that’s soft, strong and very tough,

We make use of things on hand; in the bush we’re pretty rough.

Now I know this tale is strange but just imagine if you were me;

Quietly going about your business while beneath a giant Carbeen tree.

You are nearly finished and you are about to wipe your bum;

A King Brown is slithering past, then your way decides to come.

When that happens you wouldn’t think it strange; and you wouldn’t think it very funny,

No mate, you’d reckon the ultimate in luxury;

was a bloody inside Porcelain dunny.

                                                      © Corin Linch

Neither snake in these photos is a King Brown although in the dark we thought the one in the top photo was  sadly he turned out to be a Rock Python the other photo is a Black headed Python.  Audio of this poem hopefully coming soon..

        Australian rhyming poetry or as it is commonly known Bush Poetry goes back to the time of the first fleet and is a way of telling stories both true and false so as to hold the listeners interest.
Bush poetry is a generic term for poetry told with both rhythm and rhyme, it should flow with an almost musical cadence.  Of course one of the best known, if not the best known Australian poem is A.B. (Banjo) Paterson's `The Man From Snowy River`  The Banjo's work along with `The Ballad of the Drover` by Henry Lawson and  P.J.Hartigan (John O'Brien) poem `Said Hanrahan` were standard fare to be learned in English classes back in the sixties.  These poems are part of Australia's heritage and help recall our history but sadly there importance seems to have been forgotten by today's education system.
Bush poetry does not have to be about the bush (country-side) for those who don't know what the bush is, it can be about the city as Lawson wrote in `Faces in the Street` and many Aussie troops wrote poetry in the trenches of Gallipoli and the Somme in fact every conflict that Australia has been involved in somewhere a serviceman wrote a rhymed verse you can almost bet on it.

My interest in poetry developed in school where I suppose I imagined that I was the Man from Snowy River racing down the mountain with not a care in the world, reading and reciting that poem would give me goose bumps.  For the annual school magazine I would try and write a verse or two some of which made it and some did not.   During the 70's while in the stock-camp at Moola Bulla I occasionally tried penning a verse or two generally on scrap paper or in diaries all of which is now lost or thrown away.

In the 1990's though I began writing again and this time saving what I had written and in about August 2002 I began reciting my work on Early morning ABC radio here in Western Australia and have become a regular now for 10 years.  The response from early morning listeners was to me very humbling and because of that response I have had the good fortune to be able to self publish 4 books of my writings and have enough poems put aside for number five.
Most of the poems I write are about things I had seen or experienced in my time as a stockman and head-stockman working in the Kimberley and Pilbara area of West Australia and yes I will admit the old favorite, poetic license is used at times.

Through this blog I hope to restore interest in the Aussie way of telling a yarn or three with written and audio poetry going up, once I learn how to do it.