The bushman, Gus Cigar

By Mick Martin

We didn't know his last name but he told us he was Gus.
His smile just a wrinkle, not a man to make a fuss

He said he'd lived with natives in the ranges way out West
And when it came to tracking, Gus Cigar was with the best.

The story goes that gus was blessed with extra sense to see

the trail of any creature from an emu to a flea

He followed through the bushland where he rarely missed a mark

A piece of moss, a stone askew, a little piece of bark

like when young Molly Dorkins thought she'd take a little walk.
She wouldn't last the night through, "she'll be dead" was all the talk.

but when they called on Gus he simply asked where was she last
and off he went to find her, tracking true and tracking fast.

So when at last, he found her it was dark and it was cold.
They hailed him as a hero, Molly saved, was three years old.

He always smoked an old cigar and wore a
tattered scarf
And if he had a drink at all, he’d simply order "half"

Like many in the region Gus had seen his share of strife

Three children back in England and a wicked, wanton wife

Fine  fettler for the railway, Gus was tough and he was fair

But seeing her like that was more than any man could bear

So rather than confront her Gus thought better he should go

To board a steamer called the rose to where? he did not know.

He lived alone and worked “ad hock” as jobs were awful rare

We figured him for sixty but he looked the worse for wear

But when that fateful day came when a child had turned up dead
They found an old cigar nearby, "it must be Gus! " they said.

But Gus was on the wander when some lads broke in his hut.
They all thought Gus was guilty and they labelled him a "nut".

Cigars the lads had stolen were enough to seal his fate.
good sense was out the window, in the door came fear and hate.

When Granny found the boys were smoking, she made such a scene.
The coppers grilled them one by one, they found out where they'd been.

The finger pointed squarely at the roughest youth they'd seen.
Past crimes were cruel and callous, he was bad and he was mean.

good luck is worth a fortune, Gus would never hear the tale

Of how they thought him guilty and they wanted him in jail

So next time when they need him and they put Gus to the test

They’ll pat him on the back again and tell him ; he’s the best!

.
Mick Martin 14/12/16 V7

All rights reserved

The stranger

Mick Martin

Old Dad was really honest and a clever bloke as well

And His Dad, same before him and that's how the apple fell

So when he found this stranger Mum was really quite surprised

In hindsight that decision then, would likely be revised

The truth is worse than fiction and he simply moved straight in.

We welcomed him with open arms, Mum took it on the chin

But as we grew, we loved him, he would sit with us each day

We listened, with our mouths agape, to every word he'd say

Now Dad was open minded to his view on this and that.

I often sat and listened, watching both during their chat.

The stranger made us laugh, oh, he was full of witty quips

He taught my older sister how a boy kissed on the lips.

I can't recall the words Mum used but she was not impressed

and all at once the family, then, seemed just a bit less blessed

The stranger swore, we gasped as one, but no one threw him out

And slowly, it took years I know, our values fell to doubt.

At Christmas time we used to sit and make each Chrissie card

Since he arrived a;; that has stopped, he told us that's too hard.

He told us where the sales are and he told us where to shop

That stranger told us, buy a car, but get the one that's top. 

I hardly see my Dad these days, he works from dawn till late

To pay for all those extra things, it seems a big mistake

I heard the stranger saying that if Mum should get a job

That we could buy a bigger house, I wished he'd shut his gob!

The stranger ruined everything, soon swearing was ok.

The things we owned weren't  good enough, he told us so each day.

He sure knew lots of stories, and he told us he was great

NOW, Mum and Dad are working, it's just him and us till late!

I think by now you've guessed it, that this stranger has a name

But wait there, just a minute, its a million dollar game !

Oh, I'm sorry, now the ads on, whats that look of indecision?

I'm just sitting with that stranger, have you guessed? 

he's television....

Mick Martin 

All rights reserved   27/3/2015  V14, 11/7/16

BE GLAD YOUR NOSE IS ON YOUR FACE

by Jack Prelutsky

Be glad your nose is on your face,
not pasted on some other place,
for if it were where it is not,
you might dislike your nose a lot.

Imagine if your precious nose
were sandwiched in between your toes,
that clearly would not be a treat,
for you'd be forced to smell your feet.

Your nose would be a source of dread
were it attached atop your head,
it soon would drive you to despair,
forever tickled by your hair.

Within your ear, your nose would be
an absolute catastrophe,
for when you were obliged to sneeze,
your brain would rattle from the breeze.

Your nose, instead, through thick and thin,
remains between your eyes and chin,
not pasted on some other place--
be glad your nose is on your face!

Lost and found

Our pup has gone said Lizzy, as she saw the the open gate

She closed it out of habit, thinking, it was all too late.

We'd better go out looking, make some signs and pin them up

"Please call us on this number, if you come across our pup"

They walked for miles round calling, found a cat and someone's keys

But not a sign of puppies, aching feet and aching knees

We'll go out after lunchtime, riding bikes and in the car

the hunt was now extended, called on friends from near and far.

Has someone seen our puppy? take a flyer, have a look.

This pup is oh so special, there's a picture that we took.

Your phone is ringing mummy, " "it was Dad, he's in a grouch,

He found the puppy sleeping, he's quite safe behind the couch."

Mick Martin

28/9/15. V1

 

The bushranger and Annie McGinnis

 

 

The bushranger and Annie McGinnis

It's a lonely road back from the hilltop                
There a cross waits beside open ground            
This  the saddest of treks on the gravel track
where the sullen dark notes may be found

There the sulkies with horses stand waiting
but  weeping the desolate sound
While the preacher walks slowly among them,
a wistful  look back at the mound

Cruel pain in the chests of the mourners
who loved the young girl from her birth
With  the hymns and the prayers spoken gently
their tears falling soft to the earth

So the songs are not rousing or joyous
there's an ache in the group as they sing
Though the sky lends an ear to their chorus
a shadow hangs low in the ring

There's a rider away on the hillside,
where he waits with a tear in his eye
For he held up the stage near Mildura
not thinking that someone would die

The coach carried Mary McGinnis
the mother with two little girls
Dressed up in their finest of dresses,
Long hair raven black in loose curls

The rider had bailed up the wagon,
demanding the gold from the bank
But the driver was quick with his rifle
and glanced the bushrangers right flank

As he struggled to stay in his saddle,
he let go a single dull round
When he looked at the scene in a moment
a child laying there on the ground

The mother held tight to her Annie
who slipped in a thrice to her fate
That rider took fright as he left them
and knew he was bound for hell,s gate

Now he knows that the gallows awaits him
and he knows that HIS mother will sing
and a thought haunts his mind with a rhythmic grind
, "I was born all along just to swing"

It's a lonely road back from the hilltop
where a cross waits beside open ground
This the saddest of treks  on the old gravel track
where the sullen dark notes make the sound

Mick Martin

20/7/13 version 7

All rights reserved

 

 

A Nurse

A nurse

As life go by we take our turns
At cuts, abrasions maybe burns
cancer, heart, a rebuilt knee
Or cataracts won't let you see

A twisted bowel, a wonky hip
A disc that half way had a slip
It's not confirmed but it's a rumour
Doctor thinks you have A tumor

Your chest has lots of scarlet spots
The waiting room with crying tots
So have your op, pee in that pan
A dressing on, another scan

Appendicitis , painful gout
Fix me up and let me out
The ward is full of folks in pain
A week in here I'll be insane

But when you think it can't get worse
The sun comes out, a smiling nurse
Amidst the pain and peoples cries
She's there to wipe those teary eyes

We hear the talk of budget cuts
Not pollies perks or golden bucks
The chauffeured cars all shining new
But nurses never get their due

I wonder when a pollies sick
Which hospital they think they'll picks
No matter which, the best or worst
There's none they'll find without a nurse

So in the dark of frightened night
Who'll come to ease their tortured plight
That nurse who's working day and nights
Will be the one to set things right

By then the power, pay and perks"
Won't help at all, but still pay clerks
Will send out pay checks to the cursed
Those underpaid, who've always nursed

So thank you nurses one and all
Thank God it's you who found your call
And know inside we love you so
For what you do, the care you show

Mick Martin
17/7/14 v2

The Fence

The fence

by Mick Martin



A band of men as joined by iron chains,
though older souls, now all but free or young.
These rocks of old, the weighty molten grains,
a laboured group with scant a smile among.
The fences rise from rolling ancient plains.


The molten lava fallen from up high,
rests soft on grass, a verdant fertile green,
as convict men, each heave and push then sigh.
A paddock cleared, so not one rock is seen,
work hard so hard they hope they may just die.

Through sadness night and blisters often tend
the songs of old may greet their longing ears.
A task so hard and yet no wretched end
and on and on through all these many years,
the mornings colder still their backs to bend.

What mother may have borne this wasted child?
Trod streets of rock not rough or scarred like these
and smile at father once as she beguiled.
One word from her, this pain to gently ease,
with mothers touch so soft and all too mild.

The guards who flail and crack their bloodied whip
care not, or little, for each ragged man,
unless at night, through darkness thence to slip
before attending fated silent clan
for freedoms drink, the briefest sacred sip!

The gentry ride and click a lofty tongue,
the fence reveals a crooked rocky chain.
"That's where the runaway was fatal hung"
"Then leave the fence to show the rebels pain"
and rumours labour spreads from tongue to tongue.

Will fences fall in time like men as built?
Or stand an epitaph in years to those
whose tears and often blood then flowing spilt.
No words in rock, no books or greater prose
for minor crimes have carried little guilt.

The fence of pain and rock, from here to there,
one hundred years or more and maybe three!
A statue long, theirs many years to bear.
Volcanic, rocky fence and hanging tree.
No don't forget, these men, no don't you dare!

- Mick Martin



Volcanic rock fences were built around Victoria by convict and forced labour