It’ll Cut For Hay

Some people may have noticed that I write Christmas poems around that time of the year. One morning, when I was thinking about such things, this poem appeared.

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It’ll Cut for Hay

 

A farmer pointed to his neighbour’s crop,

Said, “Mate, your crop will wilt way!”

The neighbour said,” Oh well, mate.”

“It’ll cut for hay.”

 

When the stripping came around,

And the header has its day,

They heard the threshing on the ground,

As it was cut for hay.

 

They bailed, and trucked and stowed it,

In the shed over by the way,

After bailing was all done,

The last bit was left for another day.

 

They left that bit in the corner,

Loose on the hay shed floor,

For a time of use later on,

Who would know what’s in store?

 

When as it might just happen,

The farmer of pessimistic bent,

After his wife died in tragedy,

His care for all was spent.

 

He hit the bottle hard,

And as the anger heaved inside,

He’d take it out upon his son,

And bash and flog his hide.

 

One day in a stupor,

As he reeled upon his feet,

The young bloke pushed him backwards,

And took off down the street.

 

The young bloke ran along the lane way,

He trudged across paddock and up road,

Finally after much moving,

He had to rest his load.

 

He staggered into their neighbour’s hay shed,

And in the corner by the way,

He spotted the bailing leftovers,

And then crashed in the hay.

 

Christmas Eve, it was, that night,

That he fled his Dad’s abode,

Searching for a place to rest,

He’d taken to the road.

 

It was reminiscent of another night,

On another day and station,

When a family travelling to Bethlehem,

Needed accommodation.

 

When morning came, the farmer went,

Out to the hay shed,

Surprise met him on the threshold,

With the neighbour’s son in bed.

 

He later told his preacher,

Who thought the story had deeper reach,

This plight reminded him of the first Christmas,

So, on it he did preach.

 

The boy’s father just got worse,

And ended up doing time,

In a drunken rage he robbed and assaulted,

And was caught red handed in the crime.

 

But his son looked after his father’s flock,

And worked on the neighbour’s land,

He took the wilted, bailed hay,

And fed the sheep by hand.

 

Then gathered with his ‘foster dad’,

They gave thanks for the wilted hay,

It had served a purpose,

On the needed day.

 

There is more story to be told,

As the prison door swung open wide,

The son and father ran to embrace,

And now work side by side.

 

Our life’s triumphs and failures,

Might grow or wilt like hay,

But even chaff has its day in the sun.

On that needed day.

True life will find a way.

 

 

Simon C.J. Falk 25 September 2017

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Check out some of the great blogfests like Cherished 2017 #CBF17 or We Are The World #WATWB

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Trapped

Trapped

 

A partial response to the Australian Story segment, ‘When the Call Comes’ 20 June 2016 http://www.abc.net.au/austory/ about a man referred to as ‘Mouse’ and his circle.

 

First strike

Trapped

By tragedy

A man trapped

By his painful past

A cycle

Of abuse and torment

Through his days.

Second strike

Trapped

By the ‘street scene’

The rounds

By the moment

Like a mouse

Cornered

Stabbed and

Struck

Gone.

Third strike

Trapped

By the memory

Two families broken

This is

No score.

The bystanders

We

In the background

Look

In sad horror

His place

Abandoned

Monument of memory

Of a life taken way.

 

* * *

 

Memoriam

May he find peace now

A true home forever

And peace for his family

May the torment

Become peace.

 

Simon C.J. Falk 20 June 2016

Distracted

Distracted

Australian politicians have maneuvered another leadership spill in recent days.  5 Prime Ministers in 5 years.  They wax about financial capital, while our social and cultural capital continues to break down.  Some of us are just over it.

Distracted

Distracted.

So easily

We are

Drawn away,

Our attention spans

Shrunk

By the squash and squeeze

Of

Passing data,

Data,

Data.

In it all

Might we miss

Some of the cries?

Of Syrians

Flowing like a haemorrhage

From their homeland,

Of families forced to

Flee home

Even here,

As the spectre

Of domestic violence

Shatters their serenity.

But,

We concocted, clever

Aren’t we?!

A heady cocktail

Of fluff and fizz,

As Australian politics

Lobs a #libspill

Into the lounge room.

Fanciers,

Taken by its offering,

Chase the red herring

from the reality of life.

Meanwhile

More

Homes house hurt,

Refugees run for asylum,

And,

Back home,

Weathered women and men

Sit –

On asphalts and pavements,

Hair-dressed by fingered grim

– And hand

Copies of ‘The Big Issue

To random passers-by

In all

Our major cities.

As each new day dawns,

Another

Contemplates suicide,

Yet another convulses –

‘amphetam-iced’ in emergency

– while a phalanx of staff

struggle to restrain the high.

We dissect none

Of these.

For our prime-time news

Dishes up #libspill,

And

The indigestion

Has riven our guts

In the place

Where compassion

Is felt.

Simon C.J. Falk 15 September 2015