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The Mallee Fire

I SUPPOSE it just depends on where you’re raised,
Once I met a cove as swore by green belar!
Couldn’t sight the good old mallee-stump I praised;
Well!—I couldn’t sight belar, and there you are!
But the faces in the fire where the mallee stump’s a-blinking
Are the friendliest I ever seen, to my way o’ thinking!

In the city where the fires is mostly coal—
There! I can’t a-bear to go and warm my feet!
Spitting, fizzing things as hasn’t got no soul!
Things as puffs out yaller smoke instead of heat!
But at home—well, it is home when the mallee-stump’s a-burning,
And the evenin’s drawing chilly and the season is a-turning.

And there’s some as runs ’em down because they’re tough.
Well? And what’s the good of anythink as ain’t?
No. It’s nary use to serve ’em any bluff,
For they’d use up all the patience of a saint.
But they’ll split as sweet as sugar if you know the way to take ’em;
If you don’t, there isn’t nothink in the world as’ll make ’em.

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poem by Charles Henry Souter
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One Leg Anne and the Kid

Anne poked Monica
the girl with burn scars
with one of her crutches

and said
Scam scar face
me and the skinny kid

want to be alone
and Monica moved off
and said

I'm going to tell
Sister Bridget about you
Anne indicated for you

to sit in one of the chairs
on the lawn
and said to Monica

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poem by Terry Collett
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James K. Polk

in 1844, the democrats were split
The three nominees for the presidential candidate
Were martin van buren, a former president and an abolitionist
James buchanan, a moderate
Louis cass, a general and expansionist
From nashville came a dark horse riding up
He was james k. polk, napoleon of the stump
Austere, severe, he held few people dear
His oratory filled his foes with fear
The factions soon agreed
He's just the man we need
To bring about victory
Fulfill our manifest destiny
And annex the land the mexicans command
And when the vote was cast the winner was
Mister james k. polk, napoleon of the stump
In four short years he met his every goal
He seized the whole southwest from mexico
Made sure the tarriffs fell
And made the english sell the oregon territory

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song performed by They Might Be Giants
Added by Lucian Velea
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The episode of love

The stump of friendship across grows
Into a canopy of love,
And duly pruned by the tempest
Returns to the stump of friendship.
03.08.2006

poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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Bert Kessler

I winged my bird,
Though he flew toward the setting sun;
But just as the shot rang out, he soared
Up and up through the splinters of golden light,
Till he turned right over, feathers ruffled,
With some of the down of him floating near,
And fell like a plummet into the grass.
I tramped about, parting the tangles,
Till I saw a splash of blood on a stump,
And the quail lying close to the rotton roots.
I reached my hand, but saw no brier,
But something pricked and stung and numbed it.
And then, in a second, I spied the rattler--
The shutters wide in his yellow eyes,
The head of him arched, sunk back in the rings of him,
A circle of filth, the color of ashes,
Or oak leaves bleached under layers of leaves.
I stood like a stone as he shrank and uncoiled
And started to crawl beneath the stump,
When I fell limp in the grass.

poem by Edgar Lee Masters
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Woman In White

As I look out the window
from where I work
at the car park
about fifty yards away.
Near the fence that borders it
is a tree stump about five feet tall.
Bleached white by the sun
it resembles a woman in a cloak.
It seems to change daily
though I don’t know why.
One day it seems she is praying,
the next day she has what looks like
a basket in her hand.
When it rains, she changes colour
from white to grey.
Now the summers here
and the greenery surrounds her,
she looks like she is walking through a garden.
It is strange how my imagination
changes her from day to day

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poem by David Harris
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The Blue Tit's Nest

Some childhood memories with us seem to linger
And I recall when I was nine or so
Of seeing blue tit fly from hole in standing tree stump
One April day more than forty years ago.

I stood on tip toes and tried to look inside the tree stump
But all seemed dark in there I needed light
I hurried back home for to fetch a flash lamp
And what I saw a memorable sight.

A little nest of moss and hay and lined with feathers
And nine pale eggs with freckles brown to red
Laid by the little bird with yellow unders
Blue wings and tail and tiny blue cap on head.

I marvelled at this wondrous sight of Nature
How one small bird so many eggs could lay
The memory all those years has remained with me
And I still can picture what I see today.

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poem by Francis Duggan
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The Vine

The ugly stump, desolate, dead
and too deep to pull, waited for my saw,
but I, lazy and pre-occupied, lingered
as winter inundated
the mud and rock desert
outside our kitchen window.

Then spring came, and all excuses spent,
I slogged out, grim executioner,
ready to cut and pull,
when I beheld green, craggy fingers praying
for just one more chance;
so putting the saw back into our messy garage,
we began the project,

raking, hoeing, cutting, digging
(hard work for a lazy man)
and soon sod to lay
and bricks to haul for the patio,

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poem by Steven Federle
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Life Is Not a Ride That Glides

Ceasing feasting that increased,
A decreasing of most things...
Meant to many giving up false bling!
And showy shining flashing flings.

Lucky people who've striked out,
From a crowning top that slipped to drop...
Have come to a screeching stop.
With designer boots now knocking rocks.

But life is not a ride that glides.
And those that recognize this,
Have not gone into tantrums.
Or thrown fits.

Life is not a ride that slides into a glide.
Some rumps fall onto bumps that stump.
With a struggle not for chumps,
That disguises getting over humps.

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poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The boy and the apple tree

Once there was a boy who used to play under an apple tree
He played so happily that it was a joy to see
As he grew old, he got bore of playing alone
Toys and gadgets he desired to be his own

So, under the apple tree the boy muttered
‘Tree can you give me toys I now desire? ’
‘Toys I don’t have, my boy, ’ the tree replied
‘But my fruits you can sell to get your toys.’

So the boy took the fruits and went away
The tree waited for his return day after day
Many years had passed and the boy got older
He married a girl to be his wife and lover

The adult boy now needing a new house for his family
Went to the tree and asked for its advice earnestly
The tree glad to see him once again said
‘My branches will be sufficient to make your nest.’

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poem by Henry Chen
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