Sunday 28 December 2014

Wandoo Reserve








WANDOO RESERVE

Just over the road from my place is a reserve called Wandoo,
Many people want to camp there as the district they pass on through.
It’s always chockers on long week-ends, some even stay for a week,
There is no ablution block, so facilities are rudimentary so to speak.

People occasionally ask me for assistance they must think I’m the RAC,
Some demand immediate help and some expect everything for free.
Others are very genuine, like older people needing help with a tyre,
Perhaps I may have a compressor or something else they may require.

But it’s the long term campers and picnickers, who really fascinate me,
Because it’s not the most hygienic place to sit and barbeque your tea.
For everywhere around this camp-site is where people drop their faeces,
There bum fodder is everywhere blowing round in dirty bits and pieces.

Why they don’t go along the firebreak with a shovel has got me at a loss,
Their lack of hygiene and bush etiquette really makes me cross.
I mean just dig a hole and bury your crap and bury the paper too?
It’s kind of similar to a flushing when using the bush as your loo.

But no most will just crap anywhere like the animals they are,
To take a shovel down the firebreak is taking things a step to far.
The scrub beside the road must also be an utterly terrifying place,
With no thought for cleanliness these people are a true disgrace.

I wonder do they wash their hands after their stroll amongst the turds,
And the flies swarm around their food stuffs like gigantic flocks of birds.
But still they come and camp and cook and then eat their tucker here,
Of the things that lie on the clearings edge they do not know or fear.

The fly upon your sandwich do you care where he might have been,
Perhaps ignorance is bliss if the surrounding shit you haven’t seen.
Meanwhile I’ll just be careful where I ride and my horses put their feet,
And I hope I dodge the spot where they bared their bums to secrete.

                                    © Corin Linch 28/12/14

Wednesday 17 December 2014

Christmas Day at Parron Place or Anywhere else in the Bush







            This was my first attempt at writing a Christmas poem.  Christmas Day at Parron Place I would always do the water run first thing Christmas morning I believed as the manager it was my responsibility and no-one else’s.  We always made the effort there to have all the tanks chock a block full Christmas Eve but every now and again disaster would strike and sure enough on that day of days one would find a leak and an empty tank  Of course when Dani and Ryan were very small they could not understand the necessity of the water run but as they got older they came to understand.  There biggest bug bear was the fact that they could not open there presents until the water run was done and I’d cooked up and eaten breakfast.  As they got older they would come with me and open the gates for me in the hope that we would get back to the house and the Christmas presents a little quicker.  I never realised at the time how precious those hours doing the Christmas Day water run with the kids were.  There were those that told me I should learn to delegate responsibility and still others who said that the stock will be right for one day.  I’ve yet to find a cow that can tell me it’s Christmas Day, they still need a drink and if the tank is empty thirsty cattle can do a lot of damage and the water run only took a couple of hours if everything was okay.

CHRISTMAS DAY at PARRON PLACE

Someone once told me I should learn how to delegate responsibility,
Then perhaps I could relax and take things easy during the Nativity.
But on Christmas Day at Parron Place I’d always do the water run,
The kids knew that no presents could be had until all the tanks were done.

Dani and Ryan weren’t best pleased there were times they would cry,
“What you got to check the water for Dad please won’t you tell us why?”
I’d tell them about stock, how they never knew it was Christmas Day,
Besides looking after the animals is how your father earns his pay.

I told them about the three wise men, and of peace and good will,
About the animals in the stable all wanting to eat and drink their fill.
Debbie told me worrying would give me ulcers or even send me grey,
But once every thing was checked I could relax and maybe enjoy the day.

If I didn’t check the stock I’d worry as I tried to eat my Christmas feast,
But by checking them, I’d know all was well with both man and beast.
While driving around the water tanks it gave me a chance to think,
So I’d try and come up with a story that would make both kids blink.

I told them I’d seen Santa’s reindeer eating some of the Tagasaste once,
“Don’t be silly Dad; you’re just kidding us and being a stupid dunce.”
As the years past and they grew older, I think they began to understand,
About the importance of looking after your stock and life on the land.

And as they grew and got big enough they’d come and open gates,
It was all part of their cunning plan to make sure Santa wasn’t late.
Once we got home I would tell them that first I have to break my fast,
Then we would dole out the presents and they could open them at last.

Sometimes it wasn’t all plain sailing, especially if I found a water leak,
More than likely it would be on tank we’d been battling to fill for a week.
Or maybe late in the afternoon Christmas day I might have to start a bore,
No gate openers then, they’d be playing with their toys upon the floor.

“Who is going to keep me company?” I’d ask hoping to get a reaction,
But accompanying Dad and opening gates had sure lost its attraction.
Those days are long gone and the kids are both grown up adults now,
But the tanks still need checking everyday so there’s water for the cows.

Rewritten  17/12/14 © Corin Linch  14/11/05

Wednesday 10 December 2014

Moola Bulla (Part Two)







          Moola Bulla part 2

You took frightened immature boys and turned them into men,
You showed no fear or favour as you welcomed us to the den.
Not all were frightened, some were brash that much I will admit,
But if they did not mould to you they were considered to be unfit.

The lessons learned came thick and fast and none of them were easy,
You pummelled youthful bodies and made some feel a trifle queasy.
You taught us how to work, that time really meant nothing here,
And the best way to accomplish things was in a team like atmosphere.

Loyalty and pride were perhaps the most important lessons learned,
As our muscles ached and beneath Kimberley’s brutal sun we burned.
There were times when we cursed you, believing you to be too tough,
As we crawled into our swags saying to ourselves we’d had enough.

In the morning when the sun came up, we were saddled and away,
Thoughtful and excited about the challenges that we would meet today.
Your beauty was there for all to see, be it black soil plains or ranges,
The flooded wet season rivers and all the vast seasonal changes.

No-one could ever tame you; your spirit should remain forever intact,
No doubt some will leave you abused and feeling raped, ransacked.
But once again Moola Bulla will rise like a Phoenix from the ashes,
Pride and loyalty will return no longer to be reminiscent flashes.

                                                            © Corin Linch 27/11/2014

Monday 8 December 2014

Experts an over used term by over-rated people






EXPERTS
   (An extremely overused and overrated term)

One day I saw this, `Ask the Experts`, section in a magazine,
Solving all your problems, including getting your clothes clean.
Now their advice was offered freely, you can take it if you will,
And all these so called experts possess some kind of skill.

Now me, I figure this word expert is an overused and overrated term,
Whenever I hear it I always shake my head and feel my body squirm.
But these days it seems everyone is an expert in some shape or form,
From fellas fighting fires, to weather men who predict a coming storm.

Experts’ advice isn’t always correct; no matter how resolute they seem,
After all no-one is right all the time; to think so is just a dream.
Amateurs can achieve success even when the obstacles seem massive,
But they rarely skite and carry on; you’ll find most are pretty passive.

Cast your mind back to the Bible and the story of Noah and the Ark,
How he built this giant ship, which caused the experts to remark.
It was to be a livestock carrier with pens above and below the deck,
The experts assembled and scorned; said it was destined to be a wreck.

The animals were gathered and then were loaded two by two,
The line just stretched for ever, a thousand mile was the queue.
And when at last the loading was finished the rain began to fall,
For forty days and forty nights, this was no passing squall.

The Ark floated on the flood until at last the waters did recede,
Then the animals in ones and twos were released to go and breed.
A giant ship built by an amateur that many said would not float,
The chances of success had been extreme, in fact almost remote.

Now to the twentieth century and the pride of the Cunard fleet,
As a luxury ocean going liner the Titanic could not be beat.
She was designed by the world’s finest shipwrights; experts that’s a fact,
She had nearly everything; but there was one key thing that she lacked.

Life boat numbers were sacrificed to enhance the view from the deck,
After all there was no way this beauty could ever become a wreck.
It was 1912 when she sailed from Southampton on her maiden trip,
The passengers were awe struck at her luxury and her workmanship.


Just off the coast of Newfoundland in the dark a giant iceberg loomed,
With not enough lifeboats; twelve hundred human lives were doomed.
Experts designed the Titanic, but now she lies at the bottom of the seas,
They thought she was unsinkable but there were no guarantees.

These experts are everywhere; even commentating the cricket on TV,
Or they may be a failed footy coach who will give their advice for free.
Experts, specialists, connoisseurs, past masters call them what you like,
Whatever the subject there is a critic, an authority, someone to dislike.

Next time you hear someone say he’s an expert as part of their remark,
Close your eyes and count to ten and remember the Titanic and the Ark.
Now a spurt is just a drip under pressure and X is a factor unknown,
So is it any wonder that when I hear the word it chills me to the bone.

                                                                        © Corin Linch 26/2/2012


This is a rewrite of a poem written about 15 years ago to the day 23/2/97.
I was at Wyloo when I tried reciting this poem on the A.B.C. Early Morning programme and the phone dropped out half way through. Mark Bunting told me it was divine intervention, who’s to say he’s not right?