THE OLD SADDLE
I went back to the place where I worked as a lad
Just happened to be passing that way;
I saw a few fellas there with a young horse,
So I walked up and just said G'day.
They said they knew of me but only by name,
And stories passed down through the years,
How I could break in a tough one and hang on a rough one,
But I said, "Don't believe all you hear."
I took a stroll over to the old saddle shed
And there on a peg on the wall
Was the same old stock saddle I'd used years ago,
More years than I care to recall.
I knew it was mine but just to be sure
I lifted the flap up to see
Two initials I'd scratched with an old pocket knife
Just a plain "D" and a "P"
It had the same monkey strap that I'd plaited by hand
On a wet day with little to do,
A worn saddle bag, a quart pot and a case –
They were still hanging there too.
I said to the young fella who was running the camp,
"That old saddle – I don't think you'll find it much good."
But he looked at me straight and said, "You can have it old mate"
And I reckon he understood.
"Yes, you take it old timer," he said with a grin
"For I reckon it's yours anyway;
I found your initials scratched under the flap
And I said you'd be back here one day."
Now it hangs in my office all polished like new
And the stirrup irons sparkle and shine
If put to the test it would be good as the rest,
And I'm happy to say that it's mine.
Now I have a young grandson, he's just a small boy,
If like me he turns out a rover
I'll call him one day, there will be nothing to say –
I'll take it down and just hand it over.
© Don Pender
THE SECRET IS OUT
At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end,
The delicious story is ripe to tell to the intimate friend;
Over the tea-cups and in the square the tongue has its desire;
Still waters run deep, my dear, there’s never smoke without fire.
Behind the corpse in the reservoir, behind the ghost on the links
Behind the lady who dances and the man who madly drinks,
Under the look of fatigue, the attack of migraine and the sigh
There is always another story, there is more than meets the eye.
For the clear voice suddenly singing, high up on the cement wall,
The scent of the elder bushes, the sporting prints in the hall,
The croquet matches in summer, the handshake, the cough, the kiss,
There is always a wicked secret, a private reason for this.
© W.H. Auden
THE LITTLE BOY AND THE OLD MAN
Said the little boy, “Sometimes I drop my spoon.”
Said the little old man, “I do that too.”
The little boy whispered, “I wet my pants.”
“I do that too,” laughed the little old man.
Said the little boy, “I often cry.”
The old man nodded, “So do I.”
“But worst of all,” said the boy, “it seems
Grown-ups don’t pay attention to me.”
And he felt the warmth of a wrinkled old hand.
“I know what you mean,” said the little old man.
© Shel Silverstein
IN AN OLD STREET
The twilight gathers here like brooding thought,
Haunting each shadowed dooryard and its door,
With gone, forgotten beauty that was wrought
Of hands and hearts that come this way no more.
Here an intenser quiet stills the air
With old remembering of what is not:
Of silver slippers gone from every stair,
And silver laughter long and long forgot.
Deeper and deeper where this dusk is drifted,
Gathers a sense of waiting through the night,
About old doors whose latch is never lifted,
And dusty windows vacant of a light..
Deeper and deeper, till the grey turns blue,
And one by one the patient stars peer through.
© David Morton
SUNRISE SERVICE
I shall worship in my garden
When the grass is wet with dew,
In a special sunrise service
When the Easter skies are blue.
There will be no massive pulpit
And no richly vested choir;
Just an altar built by nature
And a towering maple spire.
There will be no organ playing
With its loud and vibrant notes;
But a hymn of praise will echo
From a hundred songbird throats.
There I’ll kneel in supplication
In a setting calm and still,
And sip lightly from the chalice
Of a golden daffodil.
© Reginald Holmes
FLUID FIFI
It's raining cats and dogs, they say.
Can't get it through my noodle,
Until one fateful, rainy day,
I step into a poodle.
© Bob Wombacher Jnr
THE ICE CREAM VAN
I listen, once a fortnight, for the ringing of the bell
that means the van is coming up the street.
He plays no music, yes, he leaves those sleeves of green alone
unlike most Ice cream sellers that you meet.
In place of music tink-er-ling that song that drives us mad,
he has a big brass bell that he can ring.
It is the same as those we used to hear so long ago,
when teacher called us and our books to bring.
Ca - lang, Ca - lang, it sounds so clear a most distinguished call,
that’s when I know the ice cream van is near.
There are so many different types and flavours in the van
If you compare his prices, he’s not dear.
How things have changed. When I was young it was a special treat
to have mum’s home made Ice cream Christmas Night.
With no refrigerator just an ice chest in that time.
She’d work for hours making it just right.
Now the van’s refrigerated and Ice Creams come in packs.
on every other Wednesday or so.
Ca-lang, Ca-lang Its here right now. Ca-lang Ca-lang ... oh dear!
Ca-lang Ca-lang - I’m sorry, I must go......
© Zondrae King
REVIVAL
Death passed by
plucking vibrant flowers
and bursting buds
to wither in his garden
beyond the vale
But here within my soul
those blooms live on
their memory
ever fresh and bright
not spent and pale
Death passed by
felling natue's bounty
with fiery wand
scattering whitened ash
like heaven's hail
But here on wounded paths
new shoots abound
young beaks chirp proudly
reminding melancholy souls
that life prevails
© Narelle Grace
THE LIFT MAN
In uniform behold me stand,
The lovely lift at my command.
I press the button: Pop,
And down I go below the town;
The walls rise up as I go down
And in the basement stop.
For weeks I've worked a morning shift
On this old Waygood-Otis lift.
And goodness, don't I love
To press the knob that shuts the gate
When customers are shouting 'Wait!'
And soar to floors above.
I see them from my iron cage,
Their faces looking up in rage,
And then I call 'First floor!'
'Perfume and ladies' underwear!
'No sir, Up only. Use the stair.'
And up again we soar.
The second floor for kiddie goods,
And kiddie-pantz and pixie-hoods,
The third floor, restaurant:
And here the people always try
To find one going down, so I
Am not the lift they want.
On the roof-garden floor alone
I wait for ages on my own
High, high above the crowds.
O let them rage and let them ring
,
For I am out of everything,
Alone among the clouds.
© John Betjeman
