Category Archives: Poetry

Written by Dick Roberts With a wrinkled grin and old dark skin, He sat on the river bank, Dreaming of days long since gone, He has his memories to thank. He remembers the big old stockcamps, And the droving days now gone. Dusty days and forgotten ways, And the night riders songs. The smell ofContinue reading “A Country He Calls His Own”

One Christmas-time, when months of droughtHad parched the western creeks,The bush-fires started in the northAnd travelled south for weeks.At night, along the river side,The scene was grand and strange ;The hill-fires looked like lighted streetsOf cities in the range.Tho cattle tracks between the treesWere like long, dusty aisles,And, on a sudden breeze, the fireWould sweepContinue reading “AN AUSTRALIAN CHRISTMAS POEM FROM 1911 ‘A BUSH FIRE’ by HENRY LAWSON”

  · Written by Dick Roberts As the moon rises over the mountains, And starts to glistens on the frost, We all gather here in springtime, To remember those we’ve lost. We remember the pioneers, That in this place we all call home, That built an industry out of nothing, Their names now carved inContinue reading “Batlow Pioneers”

This is my land I love it so Just as much as you. But you say I don’t belong here That I can never be true blue. You tell me this is your land it’s beauty yours to claim. my ancestry you disregard but isn’t yours the same. This land was once a barren placeContinue reading “My Land”

odroSnepts5r4638mtf1l1iAame8p3503ag 6 6 g:Se13eimi7115Mth00b   · THEY ARE PART OF OUR HISTORY … Maureen Clifford © The #ScribblyBarkPoet They were part of the history that shaped this old land, a part of a vanishing breed, strong, young Aussie blokes, handsome and brave, and their brumby bred tough mountain steeds;. they answered the call when the call to arms came,Continue reading “The Scribblybarkpoet”

  · THE SPIRIT OF PALEFACE – KOSCIUSZKO’S KING .. Maureen Clifford © The #Scribblybarkpoet No sighting at all not a skerrick of hair it’s as if they have disappeared into thin air. No worn tracks festooned with hoofprints or dung and the hills do not echo with songs they have sung They have vanishedContinue reading “The Scribblybarkpoet”

Written by Dick Roberts The bush has gotten smaller, There’s nowhere left to ride. Nowhere left to dissappear, And nowhere left to hide. Behind the march of progress, There’s something left behind, Something lost forever, Yet there’s nothing more to find. The creeks have all been mapped out, The mountain ranges crossed. No more undiscoveredContinue reading “Underneath the Winter Snow”