The Wayward Chook


Traveling by night in rural Australia we are vigilant for the sight of kangaroos. Little did I suspect it would be a black chook that would have me breaking my speed.

The Wayward Chook

Look, look! Look, look!

It’s a wayward chook

Crossing my way

Oh, I do say,

This is crook

In my book

To stop for a chook!
We worry about the kangaroos

On our nightly driving rendezvous – 

Behind the tree

Can you see

A macropod bounding absently?
But I’m astounded

As my wheels rounded

A little town

After the sun went down

Crossing the road

Carefree of load

A black chook passed my bow.
All is well that ends up well

And the tale I tell

Meant none of us fell.

For both the chook on the wander

And this writer here yonder

Lived on to ponder

The eventful meeting

However fleeting 

At the close of this day.
Simon C.J. Falk 25 May 2016

 

From Naked Nell (Barellan) to Moombooldool

From Naked Nell (Barellan) to Moombooldool

Another retro post of a poem written some years back on other towns in my part of the world.  Naked Nell is the nickname of Barellan.  The Wiggles refers to bright coloured Police Highway Patrol cars.

From Naked Nell (Barellan) to Moombooldool

From Naked Nell to Moombooldool

Is not many speedo clicks,

As you traverse Burley Griffin Way

Dodging the ‘Wiggles’ tricks.
And Moombooldool noted late

Some of their sporting pride,

As you drive through Burnley’s Village

A plaque’s fitted by the roadside.
On a great plinth of granite stone 

A plaque sits there attached,

For traveling onlookers to cast their eye

On others who’ve been dispatched.
Dispatched persons who from times back then

When footy, tennis and cricket

Fielded sides from Moombooldool

And held their own on the wicket.
Good on the people of Erin Village

As Moombooldool once was known,

For remembering those who shaped their history

And the humble pride they’d shown.
So when you dash from Naked Nell

Towards the Kamarah straight,

Pause a moment in Moombooldool

The history is worth your wait.
Simon C.J. Falk

9 April 2013.

‘Ardly Anythin at Ardlethan – a retro post

Ardly Anythin at Ardlethan

At times I have been moved to write poems about the places I work in.  Ardlethan is a small town of around 500 people.  Comment had been made that there is hardly anything there. However, at the time of writing, as now, I saw much there of interest. 

Ardly Anythin’ at Ardlethan
There’s ‘ardly anythin’ at Ardlethan!

In a statement once was said;

So can we find an answer?

To put the matter to its bed.
True there’s ‘ardly any traffic

To be managed at traffic lights;

But there’s ‘ardly any smog around,

To dim the stars during our nights.
There’s ‘ardly a sniff of round-a-bout,

And ‘ardly a court, crescent or cul ‘d sac;

But there’s creek and scrub and birdsong

As you take the cemetery track.
There’s ‘ardly any carriage way

With exits to this and that;

But there is the Newell Highway,

With trucks pelting along the flat!
Then there’s Burley Griffin Way

Taking cars to western plains;

And parallel, the graincorp load

Is borne along by trains.
There’s the mighty London Pub,

Which has stood up to the floods;

Where a schooner’s yours to grip upon,

As you taste it’s kitchen’s grub.
There is no huge cathedral

To dominate the street;

But where can you find a place

To wash exactly twelve pairs of feet?
Now the story of the feet

Is a story worth a tell;

Given I was there that night,

I remember it quite well.
It was a Holy Thursday,

Twelve were gathered on that day;

So in our Church at Ardlethan,

Twelve were washed in Jesus’ way.
It touched something deep within me,

And though I’m not really one to bet;

I’ll wager many tomorrows

It’s an event I won’t forget.
Now back to our original question,

Seems there’s ‘ardly any doubt;

There’s as much to amuse in Ardlethan,

As any little town about.

Simon C.J. Falk 6 January 2013

Thought I Saw David Gilmour

Thought I Saw David Gilmour

I have been captivated by music longer than I have been taken by poetry.  ‘Yellow Submarine’, ‘Crocodile Rock,’ ‘Telephone Line’, ‘Tusk’ – are among my earliest, and happiest, memories.  To think I saw Pink Floyd’s guitar master in a supermarket is a peak experience.  I was mistaken.

Thought I saw David Gilmour

Thought I saw David Gilmour

In Woolies

In amongst the fruit n’ veg.

Well,

Not in them…

But…

In the aisles

Fondling the fruit.

Oh

How I wish you were here!

Momentarily

I assessed the risk

Of approach.

What are the chances?

Thought I.

Were it truly he

Ahh!

I’d be

Comfortably numb.

Echoes

And images

Remain.

Resonances

Shine on

Like a crazy diamond,

Or a crazy dream.

 

 

Simon C.J. Falk  22 May 2016

Moonlight – Random words of verse

Moonlight

IMG_0001

Moonlight

 

Moon light

Too bright

For phone lenses

This night.

Bed down

Sleep tight

By the moon

This night.

 

 

Simon C.J. Falk 22 May 2016

Encounters in Holiday Time – Rodos or Rhodes

Encounters in Holiday Time – Rodos or Rhodes

For the lady in the markets

She seemed serious at first

But then helpful

Her face more concentrated, focused

Than serious.

“No, I’m not the boss

“I cannot make it cheaper

“But then maybe I can be boss.”

We joked then

About the responsibilities

Of being boss.

She may not have seen the subtext

That I have been a ‘boss’.

We chatted away about exchange rates 

Etcetera, etcetera

But focused on each

Her furrowed brow, strong eyes.

There was another subtext.

Might it be attraction?
Simon C.J. Falk 9 May 2016

Encounters on Holidays – Samos

Encounters in Holiday Time
(for Electra)
Smiling face

In a Samos scene

Her big eyes

Bulbous in welcome

Serving coffees and frappes with care

And

Allowing us her dream

To share

That she might leave the island 

And let the world faraway

Experience her welcome countenance.
Simon C.J. Falk 9 May 2016

Accent

Accent
Crackling PA system

Cackling passengers

And engine

noise fill

The cabin 

And our ears.

An accented voice

Friendly and helpful

Tries to send

Its message to passengers.

I cannot decipher 

The message from the din

Of what resounds

On my ears within.

Now I grasp –  

But barely – 

How those who migrate

Have to cope

In understanding 

The message

In the cacophony of noise.

Simon C.J. Falk 4 May 2016