Scraps of rhyme .....

[Thorgrimm Halfdane]

One more for the kids


THE KOALA UNDER THE STAIR.

If there was a house, just down the Street,
Where all the different animals meet.

If you could go in and be as quiet as can be,
Think of all the wonderful sights you might see.

Down in the Kitchen, would you jump through a hoop,
If you saw a Wallaby making vegetable soup.

Out into the Garden and there, just by chance,
A group of Numbats are watering the plants.

Up in the Music Room, there’s a great hullabaloo,
Made by the singing of a Black Cockatoo.

In the Laundry, there is a whole lot of sploshing,
A couple of Magpies are doing the washing.

You had better stay out of the Living Room,
There’s a Kangaroo in there with a vacuum.

So to the Bedroom is where you should head,
And watch a Wombat making his bed.

Walk down the Hallway, if you’re quite trusting,
But watch out for the Dingo doing the dusting.

Into the Library and take a look,
That Platypus there is reading a book.

Go into the Dining Room, if you are able,
There are some Emus setting the table.

Now go to the Parlour and peek through the door,
There is an Echidna inside sweeping the floor.

Over in the Ballroom, that’s just the thing,
A party of Buffalo are having a fling.

Now take a quick look, but do have a care,
There is a Koala asleep, under the stair.



Some of these animals may be unfamiliar to non-Australian readers but I assure you, they do exist ;D


:)T.

[Lady Edfeil]

awww... just... awww SWEET!!

I must say this thread has become a personal favorite of mine!

[Dream Loxley]

Indeed...... that was lovely! ... I said before..... I like it here

[Thorgrimm Halfdane]

Thank you both

One of my favourite, and probably one of Australia's best known, authors is A.B (Banjo) Paterson. The following poem is one of his.

BLACK HARRY'S TEAM.

No soft-skinned Durham steers are they,
No Devons plump and red,
But brindled, black, and iron-grey
That mark the mountain-bred;
For mountain-bred and mountain-broke,
With sullen eyes agleam,
No stranger’s hand could put a yoke
On old Black Harry’s team.

Pull out, pull out, at break of morn
The creeks are running white,
And Tiger, Spot, and Snailey-horn
Must bend their bows by night;
And axles, wheels and flooring boards
Are swept with flying spray
As shoulder-deep, through mountain fords
The leaders feel their way.

He needs no sign of cross or kirn
To guide him as he goes,
For every twist and every turn
That old black leader knows.
Up mountains steep they heave and strain
Where never wheel has rolled,
And what the toiling leaders gain
The body-bullocks hold.

Where eaglehawks their eyries make,
On sidelings steep and blind,
He rigs the good old-fashioned brake—
A tree tied on behind.
Up mountains, straining to the full,
Each poler plays his part—
The sullen, stubborn, bullock-pull
That breaks a horse’s heart.

Beyond the furthest bridle track
His wheels have blazed the way;
The forest giants, burnt and black,
Are earmarked by his dray.
Through belts of scrub where messmates grow
His juggernaut has rolled,
For stumps and saplings have to go
When Harry’s team takes hold.
. . . . .
On easy grade and rubber tyre
The tourist car goes through;
They halt a moment and admire
The far-flung mountain view.
The tourist folk would be amazed
If they could get to know
They take the track Black Harry blazed
A hundred years ago.



Did anyone see the film "The Man from Snowy River"?
It was based on a poem of the same name which was written by Banjo Paterson.
There are a few websites on him if anyone wants to read more of his writings.

:)T.

[Thorgrimm Halfdane]

This is one of my longer ones .....


MORNING RUN.

She is waiting for me.

In the hush of the pre - dawn dark,
She bides.
Patient, silent, powerful.
I know she’s there.
Drawn to her siren call,
Rising,
I prepare myself.
This is something I must do.

Stepping outside.
She is there,
In black and chrome symmetry.
Glistening with dew,
As if sweating on my arrival.
Yet cold, so cold.

I ease into the seat.
Telltales flare, their greens and reds
Reflect in my visor.
Starter whines away the silence,
As tentative,
The engine stutters to life.
Settling to a steady pulse,
As she warms to me.

Rolling into the street.
Headlight wakes the shadows,
They flick and tilt.
Gears mesh chunkily, as the clutch
Eases out against my hand.
Moving away
We thread the early traffic.
Wage slaves cocooned in their stereos.

Eschewing this congestion.
We break out onto the highway,
Speed increases.
Moving smoothly through the gears,
Running now,
Our wheels track cleanly.
As the road flows beneath us.

We become weightless.
Merging together,
As our rhapsody begins.
Footpegs skimming the asphalt,
We sweep through wide curves.
Showers of sparks play round my boots,
Then fall back, left behind
In the boom of our exhausts.

Sun crests the horizon.
Its bright fingers, strike chords
Which add their highlights,
To our three part harmony.

The bike, the road and me.


T.

[Dream Loxley]

Ooooohhh... a biker Great description... enjoyed it as always

[Thorgrimm Halfdane]

Sure was! ;D ... and still one at heart ...


To be With You

To be with you this evening,
rarest of evenings all,
And listen to the whispering leaves
and to the night bird's call
The silvery moonlight on your face -
To be with you in some still place.

To be with you somewhere within
this evening's mystic shade,
To hear your plans and hopes
and tell you mine, all unafraid
That you'd forget to hold them dear,
When I'm away and you're not here,

To be somewhere alone with you
and watch the myriad stars,
Far golden worlds beyond the noisy
earth's unkindly jars,
As quietly they sail night's sea
Above the world and you and me.

Max Ehrmann


:)T.

[Thorgrimm Halfdane]

... and now, a slight change of pace



LETHARGY.

Cloaked in a veil of dull torpidity,
Infused with morbid drowsiness,
Intention dissipates.
Snared in a web of numb vapidity,
Engulfed by sly insidiousness,
Energy evaporates.

Limbs leaden,
Movement becomes glutinous,
The mind pervaded by morpheus inertia.
Thoughts deaden,
Time drags gelatinous,
The senses invaded by stagnant dementia.

In this treacherous stasis, monotony abounds,
Resolve withers,
Distraction.
Within the sluggish vacuum, apathy resounds,
Impetus dithers,
Inaction.

All is overcome with an unnatural sleepiness.


:)T.

[Thorgrimm Halfdane]

Just thinking ....


LANGUAGE DIFFERENCES.

It is fascinating how different circumstances seem to dictate the way in which we speak.
There are those very formal occasions, often requiring the written word - the best suit and tie language, with everything brushed, polished and in its proper place.
Then there is our out-and-about language - a more comfortable suit, less formal but still respectable. There’s a language for close friends - a jeans and T-shirt casual language.
Also there is the family language, even more relaxed, full of family slang, echoes of old jokes and grammatical shortcuts that form part of an intimate shorthand - the language of pyjamas and uncombed hair.
Then finally, there is the language with no clothes at all, the language of couples - all murmurs and sighs - an open and vulnerable language, at its least self-conscious.



:)T.

[Dream Loxley]

Oh my! ........ You really do have a wonderful way with words.

[Halethala]

Mmmmmm . . each one a jewel, Thorgrimm . . I LOVE Black Harry's Team, haven't read it in years (Yes, I saw the Man from Snowy River, but long ago)

Morning Run ~ what an exquisite portrait of your affection for that bike! . . and I love the way the words to Lethargy tumble over my mental tongue . .

*Just huggles the romantic ones and sighs wistfully*

[Thorgrimm Halfdane]

Thank you 'Letha
Have you heard there are now plans to make Paterson's "Clancy of the Overflow" into a movie?


Fireside Feelings

The firelight glows,
The embers sigh,
We dream and doze ~
The cat and I,
The kittens purrs,
The kettle sings,
The heart remembers
Little things.

Marguerite Klugman


:)T.

[Thorgrimm Halfdane]

This is another of my favourite poems, it's by Henry Lawson, another Australian poet (naturally ) ...


ON THE NIGHT TRAIN.

Have you seen the Bush by moonlight, from the train, go rushing by,
Here a patch of glassy water, there a glimpse of mystic sky?
Have you heard the still voice calling, yet so warm, and yet so cold:
"I am the Mother-Bush that bore you! Come to me when you are old?"

Did you see the Bush below you sweeping darkly to the range,
All unchanged and all unchanging, yet so very old and strange!
Did you hear the the Bush a-calling, when your heart was young and bold;
"I'm the Mother-Bush that nursed you! Come to me when you are old?"

Through the long, vociferous cutting as the night train swiftly sped,
Did you hear the grey Bush calling from the pine ridge overhead:
"You have seen the seas and cities; all seems done and all seems told:
I'm the Mother-Bush that loves you, Come to me now, you are old?"



I sometimes used to travel down to my grandparent's farm by train. I would read this poem, look out into the night and watch the countryside race past.


:)T.

[Thorgrimm Halfdane]

It's strange how small, seemingly insignificant events can bring inspiration........


THE QUESTION.

Intense,
A sudden pain lances along her arm.
Acute spasms rack her limbs,
As the agony throbs through her body.
Vast waves of red and black,
Swirl behind her tightly shut eyelids,
Tears roll unchecked down her cheeks,
Her teeth clench,
Her lips are drawn in a thin white line,
As the pain washes over her.
Quietly, the Surgeon approaches,
Transfixed,
She watches him with pleading eyes.
He moves slowly, almost caressingly,
His hand descends.
There is the sharp prick of a needle,
Then - blessed relief.
The Surgeon steps back and smiles gently,
Tenderly he wipes away her tears.
Gratefully she looks up at him,
And asks -
“Daddy, why do such little splinters hurt so much?”


...... but sometimes, happily they do.


:)T.

[Dream Loxley]

*Reads and enjoys as always*