| Merv Webster ~
Bargara, Queensland
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Good Thinking Joan!
Way out beyond the old black stump where life is pretty tough,
a Cattleman who's name was Blue was living pretty rough.
But Joan his wife was of a breed that now you seldom find;
as scarce as hen�s teeth, you might say; not many of her kind.
Old Blue he had the brawn you see, though never went to school
and lacked the three R�s that they taught, but still nobody�s fool.
A plodder�s what you�d call old Blue, though thorough all the same
and after raising stock for years he�d learned to play the game.
His Joan possessed the business brain and she had all the know,
so she�d kept all the books for years and handled all the dough.
Despite the harsh, cruel elements their Stud had done quite well,
but Ferdinand their fav�rite bull was now due for a spell.
There was a bloke at �Brigalow�, five hundred K due East,
that advertised a bull for sale; a handsome looking beast.
Joan did her sums and ascertained the budget could allow
six hundred dollars �twards the deal; at least that�s all for now.
It�s best they thought that Joan should go and check the old mate out
and if the bull and price were right they�d buy him without doubt.
Then Joan would telegraph old Blue and with a bit of luck
he�d come to pick the old mate up in his old cattle truck.
Joan checked the bull from head to tail and felt he passed the test
so asked the owner, �What�s he worth?� and hoped now for the best.
�Five ninety-nine is what I ask and that my dear�s a steal.�
Joan felt a sigh of great relief and said, �Mate, that�s a deal.�
Joan then went to the Post 0ffice to get in touch would Blue
and asked how much per word it cost to send a message through.
�A dollar for each word, my dear � the desk clerk then advised.
Poor Joan was taken back a bit and surely was surprised.
She told the Clerk about the deal and how that all she had
was just a single dollar and the Clerk felt rather bad.
�Don�t worry Sir, send COMFORTABLE and that will be the go.
Old Blue will get the drift of it cause he reads pretty slow.�
�2008, Bush Poet Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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I Understand Matilda
There's a Cairn beside the highway near the creek in Drillham town
where I stopped to rest a moment and to lay my body down.
How the silence soothed my tiredness and it helped me to unwind
when the sound of children's laughter seemed to echo through my mind.
But the laughter turned to silence, followed by a young boy's cry,
then a mother's constant weeping and I sat up wond'ring why.
Soon the answer lay before me on the plaque set there in stone
and the sad and tragic story well it cut me to the bone.
Now I understand Matilda why you weep the tears you do
as four children drowned that evening and they all belonged to you.
You would lose your three sweet daughters and your eldest son in play
'neath the cold and muddy waters of the creek that fateful day.
You had left your home in Germany to start a brand new life
and then Charles F. Roehrig asked you if you might became his wife.
You would purchase land in Drillham back in eighteen eighty four
as your man worked on the railway to keep hunger from your door.
It took place that day in Janu'ry of eighteen ninety three,
after lunching with your husband and your growing family,
Who'd have guessed the sound of laughter could destroy a mother's soul
and the weir that sunny evening how it played a luring role.
Now I understand Matilda why you weep the tears you do
as four children drowned that evening and they all belonged to you.
You would lose your three sweet daughters and your eldest son in play
'neath the cold and muddy waters of the creek that fateful day.
�2007, Bush Poet Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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What Do I Tell My Children?
If you've lived in outback Queensland just as I have,
you must've faced at times the scourge of drought.
You'd have watched the senseless dying of your livestock
and felt completely drained and numb no doubt.
Did you ponder on why life can bring such sorrow,
when other times you�re dealt a joyful hand?
Though the bitterest of blows is when the children
express, "Dear Daddy, we don't understand."
How I hate to see the hurt upon their faces,
but more so when they give your hand a squeeze.
And the question that forever haunts my thinking,
"What do I tell my children? Tell me, please!"
Then one balmy morn way back there in September,
my children settled down upon the floor,
as they planned to watch Play School on television,
but little did we know what was in store.
How they sat perplexed at seeing the explosions
of buildings there upon the tele screen
and the aftermath then left the children reeling -
left wond'ring at the images they'd seen.
Though I sensed the children's minds took on the notion,
that things they viewed were happening overseas,
how that question still forever haunts my thinking,
"What do I tell my children? Tell me, please!"
Hosts of men, who searched the mountainous piles of rubble,
live vividly within each young child's mind,
plus the endless walls of pictures of lost loved ones,
placed there by anxious folk now left behind.
In their classrooms children talk about the horror
and can man stop the threat of war somehow?
Though our home is miles away from New York City,
our children know that life is altered now.
As my children leave the light on in their bedrooms,
lock windows which exclude a nightly breeze,
yes, that question still forever haunts my thinking,
"What do I tell my children? Tell me, please!"
We had planned to fly the children to their grandma�s,
who lives just north of Brisbane on the coast,
but the thought of going on a 'plane is not on,
as flying is the thing they fear the most.
So as parents we have organised this summer,
a camping trip with some of their close friends,
but I fear the world will never be the same place,
though live in hope the terrorism ends.
All I wish is for my children to be happy,
that innocent young minds can be at ease.
Though that question still forever haunts my thinking,
"What do I tell my children? Tell me, please!"
�2007, Bush Poet Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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Sarah
Head stockman for Ned Price her father worked on Magnet Downs;
A loner and a bushman who'd a phobia of towns.
He loved the isolation of the far north station runs,
While Sarah she played carer to his motherless three sons.
Year in, year out she kept his house, though yearned a female friend;
The long hot nights and lonesome days, they never seemed to end.
For sixteen years she played that role her childhood passed her by,
Instead of girlish laughter Sarah sought somewhere to cry.
Her clothes were men's fare ... shirt and pants ... her hands were callused too;
Oh how she longed to get away and live like townsfolk do.
She dreamed of dresses, dances and the company of friends,
But morning light would render all her dreams to dreary ends.
A stranger stopped to stay a while for Ned had found him work,
His ways were flash and carefree, while his smile was more a smirk.
He sensed the insecurity which plagued poor Sarah's life,
Then played upon her heartstrings, though his song was penned with strife.
So masterful the melodies, they stole sweet Sarah�s heart,
Within the month she�d left with him; this man she called ... her Bart.
For near nine months they lived as swells and tasted town delights;
Till deep in debt and desperate they fled like frightened kites.
Bart headed for the Bloomfield, where he'd mined for tin before,
And home would be a shanty isolated from the law.
Exhausted and her child near due poor Sarah lived in dread
Of life in isolation and the gloom which lay ahead.
She raised her first born daughter by the Bloomfield's Upper Arm
And Bart the artful lover ... well ... he�d lost his luring charm.
He'd fossick for their livelihood, which sometimes paid quite well,
But Bart would go on drunken sprees and leave them in that hell.
So often left with little food, bush tucker was their fare
Until her demon reappeared. Complain? She did not dare.
She'd been the subject of his rage on more than one account,
So for her little daughter's sake, this ploy was paramount.
Her lot was further burdened for within her womb there lay,
The miracle of life once more; a son now on his way.
'Twas just another mouth to feed ... was what filled Sarah's head,
No sparkle filled this mother's eyes; salt water welled instead.
Most fathers would be jubilant to have a new born son,
But love was some forsaken thing and Bart had room for none.
He often binged in China Camp for rum had claimed his brain,
While Sarah's isolation slowly sent the girl insane.
Like feral creatures of the bush her infants roamed at will
And Sarah's soul just pined away till slowly she grew ill.
'Twas in the early part of June, the day she turned eighteen,
That drunken creature known as Bart returned upon the scene.
He found the shanty empty and devoid of human form,
The silence ... like a deathly calm which comes before the storm.
From constant bingeing on the rum Bart thought his head would burst,
So staggered down towards the creek to quench his fiery thirst.
Then as he cupped its contents, which was cold and crystal clear,
Bart's face became so ghostly white, his eyes were filled with fear.
For in its depths he saw three forms all pale and void of life;
The family he'd never known ... his children and his wife.
He buried them beside its bank, then simply walked away
And where Bart went ... well no one cared ... not even to this day.
It seems poor Sarah lost her mind and did what she thought best;
She drowned her infants, then herself. She found eternal rest.
An old man just some months ago recalled this tale to me,
I know it made me cry a lot. Did it do that to thee?
And LORD ... when it comes time to judge the living and the dead ...
Please think of Sarah and her kids ... you saw the life they led.
�2007, Bush Poet Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey
This poem may not be reprinted or reposted without written permission.
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