Goanna He waddled through the bracken Cracking twigs beneath his claws, His serpentining tail with rings of gold Obediently followed Drawing esses in the dust. A dinosaur ten thousand years old. Two metres long he measured, His tongue flicked two span more. His glassy eye had settled on some prey. Then cautiously he circled Round the body of a bird. This carrion would feed him well today. He nosed among the maggots Wrenching putrid flesh away, And, head held high, he swallowed, with a grin. A quick examination, Of surrounding bush and sky, Then, feeling safe, he shoved his nose back in. When full to overflowing, Leaving bracken all pristine, He clawed his way to safety in the trees. Then climbed a black trunked wattle, Camoflauged by speckled shade, And rested and digested in the breeze. Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2008 TOP

THE KOOKABURRA Once I saw a kookaburra that had great intelligence. It flew repeatedly and at great speed into an old dead tree pecking a new niche in which to build its nest. Clearly the kookaburra knew that where there is a bill there is a bay. TOP

Gran'ma 'n me. Come on Grandma, down we go It’s rough but it’s good fun. I’ll help you now, we’ll walk real slow, Don't hurry, one by one. This track goes down then up some more. It comes out near a hill. So high that we can see the shore And the ocean if it’s full. We’ll look for whales and shout hello. The wind will blow our hat. The eagle flies just down below. So we’re going and that’s that. TOP

 

	Jonathan Quinn Jonathan Quinn Lived a life without sin. Spending fifty nine years doing good. His last was a riot. Now he lies here quite quiet, Like every dead Irishman should.   TOP
William Kiley Known as Bill “Smiley”, This gruff William Kiley, Built Spring Station homestead by hand. This toil brought him pleasure, No end was its measure, Now he’s here underneath clay and sand.   TOP

A Father's Role A pelican stood on a pole An hour after dawn. “Hard life” he said,”this father’s role” Then gave a giant yawn. “I never get to take a rest, I’ve been up half the night. I catch and bring food to our nest, Then give up every bite.” “I guess it's what good fathers do To earn their honoured role. But now I’ll have my breakfast too, Alone, atop this pole.” “My kids” he said “would eat a cow. They’re appetites are steep. They eat too much. I’m tired now.” With that he went to sleep. TOP   A Mother's Role If you wander too close to a plover She’ll whistle and run away quick Taking you from her nest ‘Cos she thinks you’re a pest Who has come to do harm to her chick.   If you don’t follow soon she’ll get airborn, Then you’re in for a terrible time. For she’ll swoop at your face Till you find a new place To go walking. And there ends my rhyme. TOP The Eagle How swiftly he glides! How high can he go? The eagle decides. Only he needs to know. TOP The Crane When you wander up behind me while I’m feeding on the beach, I feel the need to fly away, to stay just out of reach. I know I’m lacking courage, I’m a timid kind of bird. In fact I’m just a chicken, to a point that’s quite absurd. I’ve learnt to take off quickly when you’re thirty steps away. And fly out over water while avoiding ocean spray, Then swing around behind you till I find a patch of sand Thirty paces back behind you, clear of weed, where I can land. The life I lead is crazy but it’s simple and it’s fun. I eat, I sleep, and fly around beach hikers, every one. But when it comes to fishing I’m a clever little crane. No hook, no line, no sinker 'cos I've got a fishing brain. TOP   A Bee Called Elvis I walked along a footpath near a honeysuckle vine And thought I heard a hint of happy song. I reckoned it was Elvis.  He’s a favourite of mine So I joined in with a smile while walking on. We were half way through a chorus with our voices loud and free When I heard the other singer make a blue. He flew in crazy circles.  Yes, you’re right he was a bee, But a bee that sings like Elvis. What a coup! He’d finished “Love Bee Tender” without any kind of thought For the proper words the writer put in place. So I found a jar with lid on and when the bee was caught I put him in to keep him safe, in case. Then sure enough my chance to make a fortune came along, When my bee competed bravely on the telly. On a show called “You’ve Got Talent” he sang an Elvis song Yes, his “Don’t Bee Cruel” turned judges hearts to jelly. Now he’s a National Idol, winning fame and fortune fast. I manage all his gigs and always smile When I smell the honeysuckle as I‘m walking slowly past. Promoting bees that sing like Elvis, that's my style. TOP

 

The Black Cocky Knows When you’re stressed about the weather and you don’t know what to wear, Just cast your eyes up high amongst the trees. You’ll see us chewing nurckles, on our own or in a pair, And skwarking when the pollen makes us sneeze. If our appetite is endless and we skip from twig to twig Chewing everything in sight that shows a flower, You can bet the sun will shine aloft to brighten up our gig So T shirts, shorts and sandals win the hour. If we climb about impatient for the next one, you can know That there’s something in the air to make us wonder How much time we’ve got to chew away on nurkles or to go Home to our nests, safe from the rain and thunder. When we fly in any numbers you should heed our message clear Stay at home, sit by the fire keeping warm Wear winter woolies, scarf and gloves, put muffs on every ear Be smart, stay dry like us, wait out the storm. TOP

 

It's All In The Name It’s Magpie Lark I’ll have you know. Not any other name. For Wickapeadia tells me so. Download it if you're game. Those folk who live down south will tell I’m called a Mud Lark there, And in the north, a Pee Wee.  Hell! That’s more than I can bear. Though smaller than a Magpie and With less orchestral voice I make a contribution grand To nature’s endless choice. While colourless I seem quite large In harsh Australian light Yet in the shade my camoflauge Gives refuge from your sight. Please call me by my proper name When next you see me prance. Say Magpie Lark, that’s if you’re game To take a knowing stance. TOP

Rumsfeld's Butterflies Beware! The humble butterfly, so fragile yet so fast Is honing new capacities this spring. From Donald Rumsfeld’s notebook lessons issue from the past Promoting insect power on the wing. Now those who construct missiles, laser guided and the rest Had a double barrelled product to devise. To clone Danaus plexippus, called the Monarch, their first test, Then launching drone survellance in our skies. Young Donald saw his chance to make a fortune with this gig. He’d been a GM student as a boy. As a teenaged sat-nav techno no job ever seemed too big. So inspired he designed his viscious toy Working nights beside a candle with its smokey yellow flame, He jotted notes while cauldrons simmered low, His sepia concoction from a recipe of shame Would host both changes needed in one blow. A master race of insects with the power to seek out crime On the street, or in a perpetrator’s mind, And relay information down to hard drives any time Was the outcome of his dark and grisley grind. It worked and in one session Mrs Rumsfeld’s clever tot Set to marketing his butterflies world wide. In London they spot speeding, reckless drivers and that lot From high up where all felons can be spied. Now if you don’t believe me Google "ASTRAEA" and read How Simon Jewel has got his UAVs To single out each culprit with an entrenched love of speed And butterfly them, quick as shelling peas. In Houston too the Rumsfeld bugs have caught on in a rush. As officers advance with guns ablaze The butterflies zap perps before the cops have time to blush. It’s a deadly cartoon mad-cap kind of craze. Beware indeed, the butterfly has new and awesome roles. They’re small but have a most effective sting. They never shirk instructions, in fact they’d walk on coals. And Rumsfeld is the power behind the thing. TOP

Ants It’s tiny and it’s going fast. Hello you. What’s your name? There’s more ahead. You’re not the last. You all look just the same. Just then one stopped to say g’day To others going back. They never seem to stop or play While marching on their track.

I wonder, does my mummy know What makes them go so far. “Hey Mum, where do these fellas go?” “Let’s keep one in a jar.”

I tried to pick one up just then He didn’t want me to He’s underneath my thumb right now Not knowing what to do. It’s been a really happy day I found those little things We didn’t take one home to play. I’d rather one with wings. TOP

Charlie Nimmo I knew young Charlie Nimmo, he could wield a mighty stroke, He was never one to whimper in a frey. He bowled more quick and curly than any other bloke While honoring the essence of fair play. Country cricket was his forte. On the weekends he would play For Tumut - Mighty Tigers - Best of All. On weekdays he would train a lot and, waiting for the day He'd just oil up his bat or shine the ball. He could slip a schooner downward just as quick as any bloke, And shout the bar so long as he could pay. He’d celebrate successes with his team mates, mountain folk, And thank his opposition for the day. No better mannered giant on the cricket field.  No sport Deserved the kind of fate that Charlie copped. While running to the boundary for a ball he should have caught His eye beheld a maiden and he stopped. The Batlow Bugle headline and the Tumut Times report Proclaimed a tragic loss for country cricket. With eyes upon the maiden Charlie’s life was cut quite short. When he tripped and landed, skewered on a picket. In December nearing Christmas season eighteen eighty-five The Tumut Tiger players gathered round In memory of the day that Charlie Nimmo took a dive And ended his short innings under ground. TOP