|
|
The Driza-Bone Legend
He's camped in the middle of nowhere
The night is suffering cold,
The stars are sharp and the Dingo's eyes
Stare aghast from the big black hole.
Home comforts are somewhat forgotten
As he boils the Billy alone,
Then rolls out his swag by the fireside
And curls up in his `Driza-Bone'.
Behind in the dark are the mountains
Climbing high to snow covered peaks,
Where as a young lad he had galloped
Through rich Alpine forests and creeks.
And now though his old bones are grating
He has answered the call of home,
Returning the way he had left it
All wrapped up in his `Driza-Bone'.
He dreams of the trails he has travelled
While combing the outback for work,
Of droving with death on his doorstep
From the Kimberley through to Bourke.
Of fighting the busters and duststorms
And heartbreaking rains on his own,
But always secure in the knowledge
He was wrapped in his `Driza-Bone'.
On the backs of rusty old Rattlers
Or pushing along with the team,
From cattle yards up at the 'Curry
To Flemington races he's been -
With love he has shared with the ladies
But his heart they'd only have known,
To be true - when taken to fittings
For their very own `Driza-Bone'.
But now he is back where he started
When snowflakes start falling around,
When the crack of the whips are sounding
And cattle are keen to come down.
So tomorrow he'll join his old mates
They'll all saddle up for old times,
And with tattered old `Oilers' flying
They'll ride with the best of their kind.
And should he make one final muster
When angels come calling his name,
Forget the suits and razzamatazz
For he won't be there to complain.
You can lay him down where you fancy
But his ghost will grumble and groan,
Should you fail to grant his one last wish -
To be wrapped in his `Driza-Bone'.
©Marco Gliori reserves all rights
Top
|
THE AMWAY MAN
I met him down the footy club - he said his name was Stan,
and he told me, just in passing, of this `get rich quickly' plan
that could make a bloke a fortune, it was easier than sin,
and if I shouted him a beer, then he might just cut me in.
With a carton, we were headed back to my place in a flash.
I had visions of this penthouse, and me pockets oozing cash.
But no sooner had I let that rotten bludger through me doorway,
than he shoved me in the corner and uttered one word, Amway!
The next thing I remember was this mesmerizing spiel.
His mumbo jumbo spelling out fantastic Amway deals.
I didn't see it coming, he was ruthless through and through,
so by six o'clock next morning, I was selling Amway too.
Now here's a little tip should you ever want to try it,
"Don't bloody bother, `cause no-one wants to buy it!"
He told me it was easy, I'd be raking in the brass,
but the only thing I've noticed, is me friends are dropping fast.
Now everyone avoids me, and I've got blisters on me feet
from chasing after people crossing over down the street.
I've tried the `starving kids' routine, the tragic tales of sorrow,
and threats that if they didn't buy, I'd come again tomorrow.
But nothing seems to work, and at this reckless rate.
I'm odds on to be murdered by some really ticked off mate.
And that bloke who signed me up, is over in Fiji.
(I half suspect his holiday came courtesy of me).
Apparently, he's lecturing to some world-wide convention.
But I bet the sneaky mongrel still neglects to mention,
how anyone who signs up, and shakes his greasy hand,
just happens to contract the plague that afflicts the Amway Man!
I've got cartons in me kitchen, and bottles in me bed.
Me house is now a depot, and I'm living down the shed.
Me missus couldn't hack it. She bolted in disgrace.
(So as she left, I sold her a new cosmetic case).
Now you're probably wondering, "How much lower can he get?"
Well, I'm really quite pathetic, and you ain't seen nothing yet,
`cause on behalf of Amway, I'd like to make it known
that today I'm selling specials, on this very Amway poem.
With every product of mine that you choose to buy,
I'll throw in a copy of this Amway poem to try!
But I know you want more, so stay right where you are,
and I'll go and get those samples from the back seat of my car.
Aagh! Somebody stop me, I've lost my self control.
I'm the prince of proposition, but I've gone and sold me soul.
Well I'm sick of playing solitaire. Yin heading off tonight.
I'm dumping all this Amway stuff. I've booked a Qantas flight.
I'm gonna be re-programmed, by these gurus overseas
who are marketing a product, that should sell itself with ease....
and at least compared to Amway, there'll be fewer people shun me.
I'm off to join the Mormons, and I'll be 'round to see ya' Sund'y!
© Marco Gliori reserves all rights
Top
|
THE BOYS IN THE SHED
(A footballin' poem)
I'm a footballin' man and I'll always believe
that home's in ya' heart and ya' hearts on ya' sleeve.
So wherever I go, I'll always be true
to that legion of footballin' brothers I knew.
From Captain Courageous to that drunken slob,
once in the sheds we were one of the mob.
They threw us a jumper and gave us a start,
so together we went out and blew 'em apart.
I've rubbished some trainers and ticked off the coach.
but my mates on the field were beyond my reproach.
They've carried my load and rescued my pride.
Any praise that I got, I gave back to the side.
Those who don't know what it's like on the field,
will be smirking, no doubt, as I utter this spiel.
But bugger them all, I've got no regrets
As I honour an army of footballin' vets.
You know what I mean if you've. felt it like me.
That crack in your shoulder, that twist in your knee.
The only time there was no grimace of pain
was when some lousy mug dislocated your brain.
But I'd do it again at the drop of a hat,
with the ref up me nose and the wind at me back.
A freezing cold weekend. a bloody hot pie,
and football supporters with only one eye.
From heroes to yobbos, I'm singing your praise.
Are you out there tonight, having one for ol' days -
catching up with your mates, re-scoring great tries
that bring back the sting to an old boy's eyes?
I pray, if you are, then raise up your glass
to those that are living, and those that have passed.
You were not just a `player', they were not just a `team'.
You were footballin' Legends who lived for the dream.
© Marco Gliori reserves all rights
Top
|
Tough
( for Josh)
I grew up dreaming football and the style I played was rough.
The crunch of those collisions, had me longing to be tough.
At ev’ry waking moment I would rush outside and play –
running, passing, tackling, growing mightier each day.
I later took up boxing and I taught my fists to sting.
I fantasized of cheering crowds when sparring in the ring.
I could duck and dance and weave and almost win a fight with bluff,
but no matter what I did, I was never tough enough.
Cowboys were my heroes, and a bloke was never grand
till some legend’ry encounter saw him prove he was a man.
My father was a soldier, and my brother earned his score
when buried in a mine explosion back in ninety four.
But images of gallantry have changed for me of late.
I’ve met this little fella who I’m proud to call my mate.
They say that he’s got cancer and he’s running out of puff,
I say the kid’ll make it – and I simply call him ‘TOUGH’!
He has morphine for his breakfast, cause the pain is wearing thin.
His ghostly face ignites the room, but the boy’s not caving in.
His calipers, like anchors, drag up each and every stair,
yet with sheer determination, he assumes that they aren’t there.
He’s just got home from treatment and he’s hobbling down the hall.
His toys are growing dusty and his bike is way too small.
He thought he’d call a school mate, and maybe play some games,
but he hasn’t been for eighteen months and can’t remember names.
His heroes are the doctors and the nurses and the hordes
of selfless individuals who visit cancer wards,
where children cry in anguish as ‘Chemo’ struts its stuff,
and families, supporting, show us all what’s ‘tough’.
I love my sporting moments still, but they cannot compare
with memories of my young mate giggling from his chair
as I wheel him, racing madly for everything we’re worth,
stirring up the flocks of seagulls nestled by the surf.
They say , with age we mellow, and I know this to be true.
I once had felt invincible, as children often do.
This little boy’s no different, he’s just wandered off the track.
He’s living life in limbo, but God-willing, he’ll be back.
Don’t turn away in sorrow, don’t prematurely grieve.
These kids are bloody tougher than you ever could believe.
They’re racing for a future, and they’re leading by a length,
so cheer them, ride beside them, and share your inner strength.
Then maybe, late one evening, when life is feeling cheap.
When counting your achievements, you still can’t get to sleep.
When you’re searching for some torture to inflict upon yourself,
even though you know, tomorrow you’ll wake in decent health...
...spare a thought for children who are dreaming through the night
of homes and pets and lonely beds and cures to set them right.
And should you vow to help them as the tears flow to the brink…
...then maybe, you are just a little tougher than you think!
(Camp Quality is one of the most amazing support systems for
families of children suffering cancer. It is not only inspirational
but a ton of fun into the bargain. Lend a hand if you can)
© Marco Gliori reserves all rights.
Top
|
FEDERATION
For the sake of an ancient people's land and all her bounty sprawling.
For the sake of the new Australians who answered to her calling.
On behalf of the children, then unborn, across this fertile nation
The colonies began their voyage forth to Federation.
Born of a need for freedom and this country's validation
A welcome whisper caught the wind, "God bless the Federation!"
With the strength of a League united, and a visionary's remarks
In a stirring speech at Tenterfield by the late Sir Henry Parkes,
Momentum grew, and soon their cause now fuelled with inspiration
Caught sight of something grand as they set sail for Federation.
On podium and barstool - in the shed upon the station
Louder now the voices cried, "God bless the Federation!"
From the shackles of tradition - from the Monarchy's embrace -
Through clouds of skepticism and in opposition's face -
The delegates would soon proclaim to frenzied acclamation
That come the year 1901 we'd hail the Federation.
And thus it was across our land came fevered celebration
When all Australia cheered as one, "God bless the Federation!"
The Union Jack became our guide, the Commonwealth our bond.
Our vision now the Southern Cross and everything beyond.
With Dreaming in our spirits and fresh hope our destination,
The vehicle for our desires became the Federation.
Negotiating war and peace and local devastation
We bravely earned the right to ask, "God bless the Federation!"
Though time is sweeping onward, I still can hear the call -
From moist majestic forests to the twinkling urban sprawl -
From the red dirt to the white sand - each new-chum generation
Radiates with all the pride that fathered Federation.
Their flame burns bright, for justice and for reconciliation,
To prosper for the good of all, "God bless the Federation!"
Hold high the boxing Kangaroo - waltz past the Billabong.
Salute your nation's heroes - advance your country's song.
But look for faith beside you, when you rouse the congregation
In the children of tomorrow who will guard our federation.
And should you see the future bright, recharge your jubilation.
For we have much to offer yet, "God bless the Federation!"
©: 2000 Marco Gliori
Top
|
POLOCROSSE
Ridley World Cup 2007
- Morgan Park, Warwick Qld Australia -
|
On a misty autumn morning, long before first light appears,
In a horse yard stomps a gelding, eyes ablaze, attentive ears,
While his Rider, sleeping lightly, stirs there restless in the dark
From a dream that speaks of battle on a field at Morgan Park.
Now their destiny awakes them and they eagerly embrace
Every moment in the saddle; every second of the chase;
Riding waves of sheer commitment; over lusty seas they cross,
For their crack at domination in the world of Polocrosse.
Years of training, smoking embers now rekindled in each game,
As the challenge stokes the campfire, sparks of skill ignite the flame
And both horse and rider, blazing, charge off fearless to the fray;
It’s a Polocrosse inferno and it’s raging out our way!
Hear them rattle past, relentless, as they prime a fierce attack
Wielding sticks, they swarm opponents like a Mossy on your back,
Clinging on in wild abandon, turning quickly on their coins,
Hunting down escaping riders, aching legs and cramping loins.
Flying windmills on the paddock, dusty riders off the bit,
Spurring hardly even needed as these horses show their grit.
Team mates backing up and bumping; scooping balls, they’re on a roll!
And the climax comes when Number 1 lets fly and scores a goal
Catch the fever, running rampant through the veins of those who see
Something vital in this contest for the games supremacy,
Where respect, is earned regardless of a victory or a loss
By the characters who climb aboard to give us Polocrosse!
So join us on the sidelines, so damn close, we cringe and scheme
As we will our countries onwards, to the crest of one fine dream,
That is realized as the crowd stands for the presentation’s gloss
And the winner’s anthem echoes through the world of Polocrosse.
© Marco Gliori
Warwick Qld
saddlesaw.com
Top
You can download this Poem here
|
|
|
