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The Wargeilah Handicap

Wargeilah town is very small,
There's no cathedral nor a club,
In fact the township, all in all,
Is just one unpretentious pub;
And there, from all the stations round,
The local sportsmen can be found.

The sportsmen of Wargeilah-side
Are very few but very fit;
There's scarcely any sport been tried
But they can hold their own at it;
In fact, to search their records o'er,
They hold their own and something more.

The precincts of Wargeilah town
An English new-chum did infest:
He used to wander up and down
In baggy English breeches drest;
His mental aspect seemed to be
Just stolid self-sufficiency.

[...] Read more

poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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I don't smoke marijuana anymore. I don't drink. Marijuana is a handicap. So is alcohol. Alcohol is a terrible handicap. But in spite of being a handicap, it shouldn't be criminal.

quote by Gary Johnson
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Handicap Access

I have often been told, when I get to heaven I won't need my
wheelchair. That got me a wondering. If it's true that God don't
make mistakes, and He created me with s disability, then why won't
I need my wheelchair when I get to heaven? If I'm not a mistake
then there's nothing God needs to do to heal me. I have heard there's
a stairway to heaven, and my faith let's me believe that heaven
also got handicap access. Furthermore, I'm not worry whether or not
heaven's got handicap access. I just hope to get their when I pass
on. I was born with this disability and I'm going to die with it.
And if God allows me into heaven I have faith that the pearly gates
got handicap access.

poem by Lore Me34
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Dependence

Standing on his foot, I first stepped
Holding on his thumb, I passed each cleft
I’m his piece, that my name reveals
Whatever I have, he has given me.

He’s who first saw me,
He’s under who I grew,
He’s my life’s pillar,
He’s without who life’s incomplete,
He’s who pays for my laughters,
He’s who escapes me from cruel slaughteres,
He’s my mom’s colourful world,
He’s who I can never give anything,
Except “thankyou(s) ” and “sorry(s) ”
And my truly true love,
He’s who bears all my drama,
He’s who I call “my papa”.

For everything I do
From writing to buckling my shoe

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poem by Jaya Mishra
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Our New Horse

The boys had come back from the races
All silent and down on their luck;
They'd backed 'em, straight out and for places,
But never a winner they's struck.
They lost their good money on Slogan,
And fell most uncommonly flat
When Partner, the pride of the Bogan,
Was beaten by Aristocrat.
And one said, "I move that instanter
We sell out our horses and quit;
The brutes ought to win in a canter,
Such trials they do when they're fit.
The last one they ran was a snorter --
A gallop to gladden one's heart --
Two-twelve for a mile and a quarter,
And finished as straight as a dart.

"And then when I think that they're ready
To win me a nice little swag,
They are licked like the veriest neddy --

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poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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Babs Malone

Babs Malone Now the squatters and the cockies,
Shearers, trainers, and their jockeys
Had gathered them together for a meeting on the flat;
They had mustered all their forces,
Owners brought their fastest horses,
Monaro-bred—I couldn't give them greater praise than that.

'Twas a lovely day in Summer—
What the blacksmith called a hummer—
The swelling ears of wheat and oats had lost their tender green,
And breezes made them shiver,
Trending westward to the river—
The river of the golden sands, the moaning Eucumbene.

If you cared to take the trouble
You could watch the misty double,
The shadow of the flying clouds that skimmed the Boogong's brow,
Throwing light and shade incessant
On the Bull Peaks' ragged crescent,
Upon whose gloomy forehead lay a patch of winter's snow.

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poem by Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
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How Babs Malone cut Down the Field

Now the squatters and the “cockies,”
Shearers, trainers and their jockeys
Had gathered them together for a meeting on
the flat;
They had mustered all their forces,
Owners brought their fastest horses,
Monaro-bred - I couldn't give them greater praise
than that.

"Twas a lovely day in Summer -
What the blacksmith called “a hummer,”
The swelling ears of wheat and oats had lost
their tender green,
And breezes made them shiver,
Trending westward to the river -
The river of the golden sands, the moaning
Eucumbene.

[...] Read more

poem by Barcroft Henry Thomas Boake
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In a Bustle That We Haste

Like a brisk fresh brook,
Through a forest flows...
Unstoppable and clear,
When one is near it they can hear.

And taking hikes in the woods,
Does a city dweller good...
Without the handicap of bricks,
To sit with sentiments lamented.

So much can be advantaged,
If we managed to rid limits.
And giving Mother Nature more,
Than just a few minutes.

So much of life is wasted,
In a bustle that we haste.
As if there is a purpose in a rush anticipated,
Everyday.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Reflections Of A Stroke Survivor

I look in the mirror,
And what I see
Is a stranger looking back at me
He does look like me
But something's not right

He looks like he's had a bit of a fright

He walks with a stick and he looks like hell

He doesn't seem happy from what I can tell

One of his arms hangs limp by his side

A condition that's meant

He often has cried

But at least he survived, should be thankful for that

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poem by David Francis Carter
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In politics, absurdity is not a handicap.

quote by Napoleon Bonaparte
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