A few poems by Charlee Marshall
The Pontiff's Eyes
by Charlee MarshallThangool P.O., Queensland, Australia
I was in the barber's shop one day, (there's only one back home).
So I said,"It might sound boastful, and a trifle trite to you,
And foolishly I mentioned then that all good Catholics hope
"What a silly dream," he sniggered. "Has religion turned your head?
There'll be fifty thousand pilgrims breathing garlic in your ear
You've been struck with mob hysteria, it's really made you blind,
You'll strut around the pubs back home, and every day you'll skite
Well he nicked me with the razor, and he would have whinged some more,
And, in spite of what he told me, and however strange it looked,
So I went and I enjoyed myself - a real fantastic trip -
"Ha! Here's the great world-traveller!", he chortled with a bow;
How did you find His Eminence? Come on, don't leave us guessing...
I know it sounds unlikely, but he saw me standing there -
And his piercing eyes dwelt on me; I couldn't turn away
Well, we said our PATER NOSTRAS and the crowd began to rise
And I stiffened to attention - if I started to relax
The crowd before me parted like the billows of the sea
He checked his progress now and then, some sinner to embrace,
I sank upon the cobblestones, my breath began to wheeze...
This is no idle fantasy - Ten thousand people saw me -
And he placed his hands upon my head and said, (I kid you not)
"WHAT A BLOODY ROTTEN HAIRCUT-THAT BARBER SHOULD BE SHOT!"
Another Song
Thangool P.O., Queensland, Australia
I had fashioned a song of the bushland -
A mirage of rythym and rhyme;
Every word held the sob of the southwind
Blown sad o'er the abyss of time.
I had caught the soft purl of the waters
Caressing the curve of the creek,
And I wrote of the morn's pearly dewdrops,
Clinging still to the night's swarthy cheek.
Sure I thought as I read through the lyrics
No finer song ever was planned,
Then a butcher bird sang in the gully,
And I crumpled the page in my hand.
Cold Hard Facts
Thangool P.O., Queensland, Australia
"Move closer to the wall, my son, and speak into the grille,
"Let's see if I have got it straight - Your wife, her name is Liza,
"Now I know you're newly married,(since you made your vows before us);
"Then go, my son, I find no blame; your actions may be kinky -
Confession is the savior of the soul.
If there's something on your conscience, if you're feeling weak or ill,
Confess and ye shall once again be whole!
Ask the Lord for his salvation, it is waiting for your call-"
"I'm afraid I've sinned too greatly," said the voice behind the wall.
She's inclined to wear her dresses rather short...
She was bending over looking for an ice cream in the freezer,
When you, behind her, had this lustful thought.
She had to lean way over for she isn't very tall..."
"And I wanted chocolate brickle," said the voice behind the wall.
But married people sometimes act up thus;
It sometimes spoils the pleasure if the sex is too decorous,
So I see no reason why to make a fuss...
Perhaps your wife objected...Did she try to start a brawl?"
"No, I think she rather liked it!", said the voice behind the wall.
Tell Liza to be careful with her dress
Next time she looks for ice cream, to wear something long and slinky;
Then her husband will have nothing to confess.
We will not throw you out of church - I find no sin at all..."
"Well, they threw us out of Woolworths," said the voice behind the wall.
Return to Charlee's verse index
Across the Condamine
Thangool P.O., Queensland, Australia
There's an old grey-headed stockman
There's a blue-eyed girl he married
There's a creaking of the saddle
There's a nurse comes every Friday
In a unit over town -
He seldom smiles or finds a word to say,
His hands are worn and calloused,
His face is thin and brown
And his eyes burn with the fire of yesterday.
Sometimes the grandkids visit
When they have the time to spare,
They kiss his cheek and say he's looking fine,
But he seldom hears their chatter
For he isn't really there...
He's riding herd across the Condamine.
Comes smiling through his dreams,
She's buried in a sleepy country town.
For she couldn't bear the lonliness
of western droving teams
And the Phantom of the Outback struck her down.
Now the welfare lady calls in,
She brings him all his meals,
With now and then a pension cheque to sign -
But she'll never know the hunger
And the longing that he feels
For the taste of dust across the Condamine.
And a twitching of the rein
The smell of sweat and horses on the trail,
And his eye is on the leaders
As he checks the drive again
And whistles to old Bluey at the tail.
He grips the ragged cushions
Of the lounge between his knees,
His waving hand is counting one to nine;
But he's ridden many 'jumpers
With a better turn than these
At rodeos across the Condamine.
To listen to his heart;
How can she know it's roaming far away
From that frail and tired body
Where once it was a part -
A host that it will beckon to one day
.
On some misty summer morning
He will heed the call to go
Where skies are blue and stars will always shine,
And a smile upon his waxen lips
Will let the neighbours know
He's home at last across the Condamine.
Click - Click
Thangool P.O., Queensland, Australia
"I'm knitting a shawl for my son", she says.
"A shawl for my boy...", and her memory fades,
And the golden yarn tumbles down and down,
She dreams in a pattern of plains and purls,
"He's a nice young feller, my son", she says
Does it matter her labour is cast in vain?
Ah no! It's the warmth of her love that counts,
Click; click. Slow...then quick;
The fingers stiff and the eyes grown old -
"It's autumn now and it might turn cold..."
And the needles click and click.
Click; click. Slow...then quick;
To the years of her youth and the rising sun,
And the dare of the dance when the harvest's done,
And the needles click and click.
Click; click. Slow...then quick;
Forging a bond from this present day
To the time-warp filching her mind away,
And the needles click and click.
Click; click. Slow...then quick;
Her eyes not seeing the darkened room,
Her ears not hearing the drums of doom,
And the needles click and click.
Click; click. Slow...then quick;
And the smile on her face seems to glow and fade,
Like the final clue of some grim charade,
And the needles click and click.
Click; click. Slow...then quick;
Should I whisper again that her son is dead
As I straighten the cushions behind her head,
And the needles click and click.
Click; click. Slow...then quick;
So I say it looks cosy and stroke her hair,
"How pleased he will be", and I leave her there,
And the needles click and click.
The Mosquito Trap
Thangool P.O., Queensland, Australia
In the far-off north of Queensland - a nostalgic, might-have-been's land
Round the swamps in late December it can easily dismember
When the cattle hear it coming with a sort of distant humming
Now, one night when we were goin' through the jungle east of Coen,
I was writing at the table (just as well as I was able
Well, a trap to catch an otter, her friend Gwen in Mudgee got her -
Let's forget about the mozzie, he was just a dream; (or was he?
His passion makes him bolder, so he taps a sleeping shoulder,
The last pages of his journal fill with agony eternal
o0o
Return to Frank's Poetry index
There's a wild ferocious creature roams the sultry tropic night,
Making frequent depredation on each lonely outback station
And creating consternation by the fierceness of its bite.
Any tourist that is fool enough to stumble in its way
And it's not a crocogitter or the fabled bunyip critter
But the true Queensland moskeeter that you have to keep at bay.
They rush down to the river and they roll themselves in mud;
Through a rubber boot or Blutcher will the creature persecute ya
It will ruin your flamin' future if it gets to suck your blood.
We pitched our tent at twilight on a little grassy flat;
It was supper I was getting as the sun was quickly setting
And my wife put up the netting - for you must remember that.
For the page was damp and soggy and the pen was losing ink)
When my love discerned a bitee buzzing round her shortee nightee
And she thought in ghastly fright he may be looking for a drink.
It was lying near the pillow, so she quickly set the teeth,
Latched the bar across to crank it, then she folded down the blanket,
And with tender touch she sank it in the bedclothes underneath.
Is he up there in the ceiling laughing off his rotten head?)
But just focus on the writer who's a horny sort of blighter
And who shortly thought he mighter liked a snuggle-up in bed!
And he moves a little closer lest his chances should escape,
When there comes a crash like thunder and a crunching sound downunder,
And his screams created wonder from the Fitzroy to the Cape!
As his dictionary is plundered for superlatives of pain -
Not of bruising or of swelling, or the leap from bed he's telling,
But the hot tears slowly welling - when that trap ran out of chain!
Return to Charlee's verse index