Go for it Skip. I understand it better than Shakesphere
LogFire

Yep I love Australian Verse.  New and old.  I have a great book here by Hugh Sawrey.  he is an artist and has drawn art to go with many old poems of the likes of Lawson, Goodchild, Evans, Foott, Gordon and Kendell.

I also like reading the sort of things that Furph does and of course old The Grey.

LK I remember that poem about that you started but for the life of me cannot find it.

OK then, it's no secret that my favourite at this stage in time is Mark Kleinschmidt. He can be found at the Stockman's Hall of Fame working & also has a large cattle station there as well. If you ever get to Longreach and  stay at Gunnadoo Caravan Park - he does some great shows there also.

This one is pretty long but stay with me it's worth it I reckon.

THE DAMP EYED BLOKE

They laughed at him & his teary eye
As he read of tragic days gone by.
Clean-nailed hands laid down the book
And he met their eyes with a misty look,
"There's many a man with a core of steel
That goes to water when tough's the deal,
And many a cove with a soft, soft heart, Who comes to the fore when the rough stuff starts."
They laughed again at the words he spoke
And shook their heads at the damp-eyed bloke.

Those rough tough men of the mustering camp
Had no time at all for an eye that's damp.
And that first-day fella with the fresh-shaved look,
The neat rolled swag and the bag of books,
Was opportune for a spot of jest
And they wagered high he'd fail the test.
Only the cook,with a contrary nod,
Said, "I'll put a fiver on the hapless sod."
They chuckled, almost fit to choke,
They'd crucify that damp-eyed bloke.

The dawning saw the ringers grin
As they caught the horse to suck him in.
Old Charcoal's gentle when first he's rode,
But when clear of the camp, he's wont to explode;
He'll rattle your teeth as he bucks around
And jar your spine when he hits the ground.
But they didn't let on to the new-chum there
As they threw him aboard with never a care.
Then charcoal was lashed with the end of a rope
And they laughed at the back of the damp-eyed bloke.

The horse shot off straight into the trees,
Hooves churning dust through a flurry of leaves.
The ringers rolled round, their sides set to bust,
But their mirth was cut short when out of the dust
Came charcoal and rider, unable to steer,
Smack bang through the middle of all the camp gear.
Blankets and wraps flung this way and that,
Clothes were trampled all over the flat.
The only two spots those hooves never smote
Were the swags of the cook and the damp-eyed bloke.

Cookie just smiled and raked in the dough
As the new-chum dismounted that rough so n so.
The ringers stared round, dismay in their eyes,
Mouths dropping open to welcome the flies.
They knew that it must be beginner's good luck,
How else could it be, old Charcoal could buck.
They planned and they schemed, and agreed on a way
To fix the new man, they'd lose him today
Out there in the bush, and have time to gloat
While waiting in camp for the damp-eyed bloke.

They swept through the scrub and 'round through the rough,
Checked out the creek flats and down by the bluff.
Not once was he sighted, that object of scorn,
They chuckled with feeling and thought him forlorn.
By the end of the day he still hadn't shown
So they started the mob of cattle for home,
And entered the camp with eyes all agog;
The "lost" man had beaten them home with a mob
About twice the size, but he didn't gloat,
They just copped a wink from the damp-eyed bloke.

Now the ringers were smart; at least they weren't dumb,
By now they had twigged he was no new-chum,
But they still hadn't learnt, you just cannot guess
A book by it's cover, a man till the test.
And what did they see as they took a fresh look,
A man who could muster, yet cry at a book
And where would he be when the bull tried to gore?
He'd probably "snatch it" straight out the back door.
Would be wiser by far to look like a goat
Than depend on the likes of the damp-eyed bloke.

The first watch was taken, so close was the air
that the men all looked up to the clouds brewing there.
By the way they had gathered, some rain looked a chance,
Then lightning began to flicker and dance.
Across from the distance the thunder rolled low,
And wind off a storm had started to blow.
"Get everyone mounted, don't spare the time,
If the mob rushes now ther'll be life on the line."
They all knew the tone when experience spoke,
And it came from none less than the damp-eyed bloke.

The horsemen rode off as the mob stirred in fright
At the lightning flash close that lit up the night.
They circled and crooned to soothe the unease,
But fear, once felt, is hard to appease.
Then a thunderbolt struck with a crack and a boom
And terrified cattle rushed fast through the gloom,
If ever a cool head, then now was the need
As the ringers spurred hard to get to the lead.
And right to the fore as the took on a slope
Was bloody old Charcoal and the damp-eyed bloke.

The lead of the mob was nearing the bluff,
For most of the ringers, well that was enough.
They reined in their horses and quietly withdrew,
And looked on in fear at the last silly two
Who battled to turn them, to make the mob veer,
Then Curly went down in front of a steer.
The ringers withdrawn were still as a post,
Their faces downcast and white as a ghost.
And the cry from poor Curly came out like a croak
When he screamed for the help of the damp-eyed bloke.

Old Charcoal responded to the stab of the steel,
Shouldered the steer, sent him head over heel.
The rider plucked Curly from the path of the rush
And set him down safely, no fanfare or fuss.
Then he spurred on ahead and uncurled his lash
And worked 'mongst the leaders with a crack and a slash.
From this way and that he worried the lead,
Bodies bounced off his galloping steed.
He worked like a thresher, drew blood with each stroke,
Till they turned from the fury of the damp-eyed bloke.

He circled them tight till they came to a halt,
Old Charcoal still prancing like a fresh-broken colt.
The ringers were sheepish as they took up the herd,
From the man on the black,there wasn't a word.
And none from them either,they knew they mistook
For weakness the fact that he cried at a book.
And Curly was greatful to just be alive
He knew he'd seen death in the very next stride.
And those ringers,as they settled the cattle,had hope
To,one day, be just like the damp-eyed bloke.

How's that for Bush Poetry
All the Best
Skip

G'day All,
LK wants ME to post a poem eh!

There once was this dude his name was Skip
He loved nothing more than to skinny dip 
His wife had said "Dear your early too bed"
Yeah that's because I've had too much bloody red.

Can't think of anything at the moment LK
But I'll see if I can think of something today
I'll post it tonight after some Rum
When I'll spend some time  on my Bum!

Gee this writing poetry is easy
I'm sitting here typing with a smile that's cheesy
I'll see you all later my trusted Kemo Sabe
My troops want breaky - cooked on the barby.

All the best
Skip

Poetry is words in pattern.

Haiku pattern,

Line 1 5 syllables
Line 2 7 syllables
Line 3 5 syllables.

Ok to try.

Skip to my roosel
With coals over under
Shoulder in oven




(How many syllables in shoulder?)