Australians.

The mournful scream of a whistle that pierced the morning air
Awoke in me a memory, from the distant past somewhere
A memory I had tried to hide ...... in the darkness of my mind
Now that mournful whistle wakes again, the memory of my crime.

How many years have passed me by? How many nights have I sat and cried?
The tears I’ve shed in guilt’s despair, but forgiveness ..... I could find nowhere.
I see her face in all my dreams, and recoil each time I hear those screams
All ye who read this.... pity me....who must carry this guilt through eternity.... The Anointed.

The Anzacs
They were dumped there at Gallipoli
And before the sun was set
Those men,
Recorded in our history lest we ever should forget
Were strewn along the surf and sand
A tragic waste of men
But proud they fought beneath our flag
And they did it all again
When we went into Korea
Again, in Vietnam
Our Navy in the gulf war
East Timor, Afghanistan
And they were out there in the desert
Fighting somewhere in Iraq
And every war is filled with terror mate
Which haunts brave men in the dark
So on the twenty fifth of April
The Anzac spirit do we praise
Not just the boys of world war one
But even those who fight today
For every one who gives their life
Who face death with Aussie pride;
Walks out into those fields of blood
With an ANZAC by their side…… The Anointed.

THE SONG OF THE THONG BIRDS.

On the old Barcoo River, where Banjo Paterson wrote his poem "The Bush Christening," at a bush camp site, there is a tree upon which, many visitors over the years have hung their old discarded thongs. One morning while sipping my first cup of steaming hot tea, I listened to this song that the throng birds sang to me..

I heard the Thong Birds in the tree
As they sang their foot sore song to me
They'd been replaced by brand new shoes
And abandoned here by the old Barcoo.

They had served their masters, Oh so well
Now in their song I hear them tell
How their masters walked them o'er this land,
Through scorching dust and burning sand
And never once did their feet get sore,
Now hung and abandoned----They'll walk no more.

Come back! Come back! I heard them cry.
Come back once more before you die,
And sit with us by the old Barcoo
And remember the days, we walked with you..... The Anointed.

THE LIE

Defiantly
He stood his ground
Surprisingly
He made no sound
His feet were free
His hands still bound
This now would be
The finale round.

Standing there
With death so near
Amazingly
He showed no fear
He turned his head
As if to hear
The barking dogs
Still at his rear.

Before him shone
The searchers lights
Torches flashing
Oh so bright
Exhausted
He had run all night
Now came the time
To stand and fight.

Prepared for death
He heaved a sigh
Why had they all
Believed the lie
For mercy
He would never cry
His former friends
Must watch him die.

That stranger
Smooth as he could be
Convinced the crowd
That it was he
The child lay there
For all to see
As they bound him
‘neath the hanging tree.

Warmed by the sun’s
First morning ray
Why did he have
To die this way
His friends
Like hungry lions at play
Would tear him
Limb from limb this day.

He wonders
What they’ll tell his son
When they realize
What they have done
For D.N.A
Will prove them wrong
But by then the stranger
Will be gone............ The Anointed/

OLD TIMERS

Here you go old mate, ”I’m buying”
Can’t have you sitting here and crying
Have a beer and tell me why you look so sad
Hell, you must be nigh on eighty
Have another drink old matey
Lighten up a bit, things can’t be all that bad.

You said you just got married
To a girl of thirty three
And last night it was your honeymoon
You was as happy as could be
In the cot she was a demon
And she could cook a mighty feed.

So what’s your flamin problem mate?
You’ve got more than most men need
If I could have what you got now
A thousand quid------ I’d give

Hey mate he said, “I’m ----- crying
Cos I’ve forgotten where I live”..... The Anointed

THE CROC SLIDE

Did I tell you ‘bout me father? He took us fishing way out west
He loved to catch them Barras and reckons western creeks are best
We was fishing on the Flinders in the drought when banks are steep
And the waterholes remaining were muddy dark and deep

Dad was fishing by the waters edge with his foot against a rock
When that waterhole explodes old mate, a ten foot flaming croc
Well me dad he’s flying backwards, his bum cheeks working like his feet
While that croc keeps lunging at him, then sliding back into the creek

When he finally got to safety with the bum worn from his strides
He just sat wild eyed and staring, his fear he couldn’t hide
And me? I couldn’t say a word, me mouth was locked up in a grin
The smell and colour of that water, told, what the croc was sliding in ….The Anointed

THE STOLEN BIKE

Preaching from the pulpit
Was a local parish priest
A Parson by the name of Patrick Sykes
And he preached a fiery sermon
He was absolutely sure
Someone in the congregation stole his bike
Going through the Ten Commandments
And having said, “Thou shalt not steal”
He looked around to find the guilty face
But all were pure as angels
No one even blushed
There weren’t a guilty person in the place
So he had to keep on going
Though he knew he’d lost his bike
And when he finally said
“Adultery is sin”
The sermon stopped abruptly
And as calmly as you like
He said,
“ I just remembered where I left the bluudy ting.” ..... The Anointed.

AN ILL WIND
I found the place where wild winds go to breed and then to rest
Where women winds all whirl and swirl while tending to their nest
There the bitter biting blizzard wind of monkey’s brass balls fame
Bore twenty torrential breezes to the mighty hurricane
And there the mother of all cyclones, mated with the thunder storm
And ten tiny twirling twisters from her stormy womb were born.
While way out in the distance, where the misfits congregate
The ill wind who blows no one no good, was there with her old mate
The political wind in labour, who let out a plaintive call
Then gave birth to six state premiers, the greatest blowhards of them all.
The Anointed,

B]THE DUSTS OF TIME[/b]

Ah! The droving days are over
And no more will we see
The dusty pads worn deep by droving teams
They’ve long ago been blown away
By scorching western winds
And big mobs on the move, are now but dreams.

Men such as Arthur Hollins
Walter Cowan and Jack swan
Old drovers names blazed on the trees of time
Yet I somehow seem to see them
Shadowy figures on the plains
With the dust clouds of the cattle close behind.

As I read and hear the stories
Of these legends from the past
On stock routes now forgotten I would ride
A star studded roof above me
Blazing from a moonless sky
By a camp fire near a river dry and wide.

Just to be there with those men of iron
And round the camp-fire hear their yarns
Firelight dancing on their rough and weathered skin
To share their whole existence
Their good times and their bad
Droving on the outback stock-routes once agin.

Along the beef roads and the highways
Of this unforgiving land
The rough diamonds now are driving cattle trains
AH, we must accept the world is changing
But my heart aches deep inside
For the droving days will not be seen again..... The Anointed

THE BIRD IN THE SNOW
It was late, too late, the snows were here and all the birds had gone
They’d heeded natures warnings and had flown to countries warm
But one young bird, for reasons that cannot be explained
Left her departure far too late, now with cold blood in her veins
Her wings were beating feebly, the ice and snow had chilled her through
And although she struggled gamely, she couldn’t make it, I think she knew
As down she came in an open field of grass and snow and slush
And as she lay there freezing, there came a sudden rush
Of steaming hot manure, from a bull which grazed that ground
And it covered her completely, for awhile she thought she’d drown
Then calling on some hidden strength, she fought to struggle free
With head exposed she gasped for air, sweet air fresh and clear
Within that warm moist mound she lay, until her strength returned
Her little heart was pumping fast, as she chirped her species tune
When an old tom cat who worked that patch, heard her song of joy
And he dug her up and ate her, now she’ll sing her songs no more
So next time someone poops on you, they may just be your friend
While the one who tries to get you out, could be doing it--- for evil ends.

The Anointed,