I Am A Silo Grain Dump – In Defense of A Silo

I Am A Silo Grain Dump – In Defense Of A Silo

At times people use the image of “silo” or “silos” to describe people working independently and for their own ends.  It has never sat well with me as an image. For reasons shown by the poem in this post.

This could be because I spent many years of childhood in the sheep and wheat belt.  Later I would return there again (twice) to live and work.

Perhaps the disparaging image of “silos” comes from the Christian parable of Luke 12:13-23, where a greedy land owner was seeking more and more profits for himself. The image is not a good one for many of us and can increase a misunderstanding between city and country, rural and urban lives. In times of drought and bush fire we are best not to fuel any city-country enmities.

So, before bringing the “silo” image from our metaphorical storehouse, we might spare a thought and dig deeper into our imagination.



Picture: Ardlink Grain Dump just West of Ardlethan NSW a few years ago.


I Am A Silo Grain Dump – In Defense Of A Silo

I am a silo grain dump,

And live on the edge of village and of town,

I often have a fuel pump,

And dot the plains or down.


Sometimes graffiti coats me,

Or I’m adorned with mural art,

But in harvest time they come to me,

And trucks and trains then dart.


They come to me in many trucks,

From farms big and farms small,

And now with massive agribusiness,

I struggle to fit them all!


So scattered near my concrete side,

On specially prepared ground,

Tarpaulin covered grains dumps,

Keep grain stored safe and sound.


I’ve witnessed many tragic times,

And lots of moments of young love,

Of busy and of fruitful times,

Or when no rain falls from above.


School leavers find some work with me,

And uni students do the same,

I’ve taken on some newcomers,

Or those of long time known family name.


Yes, some approach me greedily,

Thinking of number one,

Others come skidding speedily,

To get that fast job done.


I hear some make an image of me,

To talk of people and of teams,

Who keep things cut off separately,

And store isolated dreams.


Before they talk of silos roughly,

They need to come and visit me,

Then they’ll get the message toughly,

That does not describe me.


I don’t hide away people or ideas,

I network the city and country,

And stage people’s tears and fears,

The locals catch up by me.


They may see someone not seen for weeks,

They may see for frequent visits then,

And as harvest season peaks,

They may not be seen again.


Before you use me as an image,

Of some isolated or greedy lot,

Come pay me a visit,

And then you’ll get the plot.


Simon C.J. Falk     17 December 2019


Picture from the Australian Silo Art Trail. More here.  Accessed 17 December 2019






Raspberries Ripe and Ready

Raspberries Ripe and Ready

Raspberries Ripe and Ready


Ripe and ready


Lingering lusciously

For the picking

Oh, it will be

A delight to free

Them from the bowl

There is no self-control

To be had

Before raspberries

Ripe and ready

Ready… steady…


They’re gone



Simon C.J. Falk 29 January 2018



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A Last Time

Leaving and moving means goodbyes. This is an oft repeated scene.


A Last Time

A last moment

A last reverie

Sharing the trivial


Saying little

Yet, saying much

Sharing outwardly

Such and such.

Almost gruff

Instructions to part

Do we ever learn the art?

Of goodbyes

In this place.

Last look

Upon that face

Last firm and desperate


Now the memories

Leave a trace

Inscribed on the heart

In a special place.


Simon C.J. Falk 24 December 2017

You Are Where Your Mind Wanders

You Are Where Your Mind Wanders


In a peaceful garden

Soundings of


Enter in

Interjected intermittently

By automobiles

Rolling on by

Under a warming blue


But, the inner eye is


Harbouring another care.


You are

Where your mind wanders

Where your heart ponders,

Regardless of the place

Occupied by your face.


Be still

Allow the sound to fill

You, with present concerns

Here and now.

Furrow not your brow

In troubles elsewhere

You cannot be there.

Let the scampering ants

Scarper away your troubles

And chance

Yourself here

Mind and heart clear.


In a peaceful garden

Breathing free within

Allowing solar rays

To fall upon the skin

And sounds of birds on ear

Just hear


Simon C.J. Falk 2 November 2017

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Blossoms in Sight

Blossoms in Sight

Blossoms in sight

Covered by cloud

With a tinge of light

Inviting you to come

From winter

To spring

Where the birds will

Sing a song

As we long

For a moment of peace


Blossoms are a way

For us to hope.

Simon C.J. Falk 2 September 2017
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Spinning As You Go


JamberooRainforestVineSpinning As You Go




As you go.

When will it stop?

Who can know?

Round and round




Thoughts, demands, detritus

And on

Goes the flow.



Scattered across,

No wonder we experience

Memory loss.

Or did we attend

The first time around?

Do we hear the harmony

Amid the cacophony of sound?


So spin on

As for rhythm we hope,

A way through the darkness

We reach for and grope.

In busyness and badness,

Something calls out within,

A voice for the way

To focus the din,

To bring chaos in,

To our centre therein.

Simon C.J. Falk 12 April 2017


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For Those Who Could Not Be Here Now – #WATWB

For Those Who Could Not Be Here Now

When Belinda and Damyanti were calling us all together for this ongoing blogfest, there was quite the group.  For various reasons along the way, some have not been able to continue as part of the active group. But, they have supported us in vision and we carry their presence with us. They know who they are.

So… this post is a thank you to those who have been on the way with us, and, who are taking a break from active involvement.  Thanks not only to the ever valiant Belinda and Damyanti, but, on this occasion to Michelle, those post, F is for Fragmented , jolted me out of my procrastination towards this note of thanks.

For Those Who Could Not Be Here Now

You were there in the inviting,

When the summons came our way,

To gather in our writing,

And pledge to make the day

better for others reading, 

So with us still you stay.

Your titles might not sit upon

a linky-list adorning screens,

Although your names from rolls are gone,

We know you share our dreams.

Certain you will rejoin us,

As our blogs towards goodness tend,

Your absence causes little fuss,

As you’ll be with us by the end.

So we keep on collecting stories, 

From the fragments of many lives,

Of the greater and lesser glories,

Of famous or less known strives.

Newsfeeds we’ll light with gladness,

Away from trifles we’ll steer,

We’ll tell of peace and of compassion,

And imbue it all with cheer.

Do not feel at all remiss,

Towards our life, blogging friend,

For we carry your presence with us,

From now until the end.

 Simon C.J Falk 8 April 2017


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In My Hand – #WATWB

It seemed fitting to include a copy actually written in my hand.

In My Hand


In My Hand


In my hand,

I have a choice.

By my hand,

I can express a voice.

With my hand,

I might strike out in hate.

I can hold back my hand,

And sit to wait.

With fisted hand,

I can pound a blow.

With an open palm,

Myself I show.

With tumbling fingers,

I might tap a rant or rave.

With a lighter touch,

Some grief I may save.

As friend or foe,

I decide to take a stand.

To offer peace,

And stretch out my hand.


Simon C.J. Falk 25 March 2017



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Scribbles in the Margins

Scribbles in the Margins



In the margins

Of our lives.


To minute




Our strives.


Of gibberish,

In poetry or prose.

How we fit them in

Only creativity


For life,

And creativity,

Cannot be stopped.

Its tubers and runners

May well be lopped,

But spring out again,

In another way,

Shooting from our soul

On any given day.

No matter how busy,


Or between,

Our creative lives

Will enter a scene,

And stage themselves

Down corridors of our day.

I give thanks for those moments.

They illumine my way.


Simon C.J Falk 11 March 2017


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Another Day We Greet

Another Day We Greet


Another day we greet,

Shake off the sleep,

And arise

Upon our feet,

To where

The day may go.

Planned to a degree,

And altered in course,

In what ways?

We are yet to know.


Begin we do.

We breathe in

the air,

and soak up

the sun’s rays,

warmed within.

What calls

The birds make

Upon our ear,

We can barely

Hear, amidst

The shssssh

Of the shower.

But call they do,

Sounding through,

Calling us,

To be



Before later schedules

Are due.



Simon C.J. Falk 11 March 2017


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