xxx Just Updated August 2008 xxx
Something To Write About!
 One of the many discoveries I made during the time I worked on the printed magazine version of Rick Rutherford's Country was the enormous talent of readers who delighted to write in and express their views … in verse! And so I offered the opportunity for all to send in their original poetry and prose, with a view to publishing it for the enjoyment of other readers. As more and more respondents took up the challenge, a whole chapter within the magazine evolved.
And now, translating the magazine to the world wide web offers ever greater opportunities for budding poets to have their work viewed by the widest possible audience … across the globe. So if you have a piece of poetry or prose that you have penned – or want to give the process of writing a go – and would like to share it with the thousands of viewers who are already a part of the Rick Rutherford's Country family (not to mention the thousands more yet to hook up), all you need to do is drop me a message, together with a copy of your original verse. You can email it in to rick@rickrutherford.com or post it in the old fashioned way to PO Box 27, Lawson 2783.
Following are just a few examples of the beautiful verse recently received from readers.
Firstly, our latest contribution is by Helen Woodward. It's a moving and powerful story of love I'm sure will inspire all. It's called ...
The Eagle and the Dove
The Eagle stood proud beside his copious nest
While the Dove sat quietly at her mountain base
She knew he was there by the call
She had not answered him
Was it her he was summoning?
Surely not…but then…
All at once she knew with certainty
That her delayed response was for him and no other
With wings puffed and eyes steady
She flew half way
She waited for him to urge her on
And did not have long to gather her thoughts
His call was strong…beckoning…longing
She wondered if she had a right to love
One so gallant and imposing
Her heart took her the rest of the way
Then, as his large wings stretched out before her
She succumbed with awe
His advance powerful…his love true
Her heart swelled at his captivating touch
Love had been born and valued
All others left exempt from opinions
It was their miracle…she was home
A proud descendent of eight Irish grandparents, Clare Milesi of Hepburn Springs, Victoria, took the opportunity afforded by the Poetry and Prose section of the eMag to pay tribute to the legacy of her forebares. As she states " In my poem I have tried to pay tribute to the great legacy and tradition of Irish spirituality that has survived so many centuries; a spirituality that is not separate from, but rather, integrated into, all aspects of the great circle of life. In particular, I appreciate the beautiful work of Irish poet and philosopher, John O'Donohue (sadly now deceased) who inspired so many with his writing, and is a present-day example of how much Ireland has to offer a world that is becoming more and more secular, yet where there is a greater need than ever before to find that place in ourselves where our treasure lies ... and be at home there."
Soul Searching
Some say our soul lies deep inside us
I know that we are inside our soul
Always searching for that something that is missing
With a burning yearning to be whole
Standing in the forest on a summer's day
Underneath a canopy of green
Listening to the branches as they bend and sway
Knowing how truly blessed your day has been
And when you take some time to listen for the quiet time
There's a still time between each rustling leaf
That's the time you'll grow a little closer to the mystery
That's silent time
That's sacred time
That's soul
A mother holds her baby for the very first time
Precious body warm against her skin
Every heatbeat helps her to discover
The link between divine and divine within
And when she takes some time to listen for the quiet time
There's a still time between each vibrant beat
That's the time she'll grow a little closer to the mystery
That's silent time
That's sacred time
That's soul
Two lovers lying in the early morn
Longing, belonging, soul meets soul
Each one reaching out with love for the other
Two halves aching to be whole
And when they take some time to listen for the quiet time
There's a still time between each whispered word
That's the time they'll grow a little closer to the mystery
That's silent time
That's sacred time
That's soul
Some say our soul lies deep inside us
I know that we are inside our soul
Always searching for that something that is missing
With a burning yearning to be whole
And when our life on earth is done
And we've moved back where we started from
All the pieces of the mystery
will unfold
No more seeking, no more turning
No more searching, no more yearning
For our souls have come full circle
And we are whole.
 When Mary Beness discovered that the printed version of Rick Rutherford's Country was to come to an end, and that the transition was about to occur into the world of ‘cyberspace', she took the opportunity to pen the following words which wonderfully embrace the transition of the seasons. In her message Mary said that she felt that the new version of the magazine online not only represented a major shift in the life of yours truly, but also hoped that it embodied a new ‘spiritual spring' where life is fresher, more calm and filled with contentment. I can but join Mary in sincerely hoping that such will be true as the season moves on and the work progresses to create what I pray will be our collective ‘country place in the sun … in cyberspace'. Mary's delightful, original prose follows:
For All There Is A Season
Birds sweetly sing to welcome spring,
The daffodils are blooming.
Our spirits lift, we make a list,
Dreams they are awaking.
When summer's new and lilies blue,
Busy hands are toiling.
But rising heat, ensures defeat,
Ambitions now are fading.
The winds of change are here again,
Autumn days are dawning.
They pause to play, but cannot stay,
The hands of time are ticking.
Come the cold, the dreams we hold,
Safely now are sleeping.
When winter's gone, they'll be reborn,
Sunny days are coming.
It's time again for spring dear friend
Within there is a stirring
In earth and soul, let life unfold
Warmth it is returning.
When F. Young of the NSW Central Coast moved to her own little bastion of peace and calm in the country in order to, as she says, “escape some pretty awful stuff”, the experience ultimately moved her to pen the following which, in many ways, sums up the way many of us feel about our own humble little home and all that it represents: safety and peace, a sanctuary from the world beyond.
Keeper Of The Key
I am the Keeper of the Key
This little house belongs to me
It's far away from all I know
But soon the peace and love will show.
Its olde-world days are long gone now
Surrounded by green grass, brown cow
I wonder what lives used to be
Entwined within these walls to see.
Its soul is here and I can tell
This house has served its tenants well
So hear my prayers for peace and love
I send to you, my Lord, above.
I'm asking not for gain nor wealth
I'm asking not for fame nor health
But give me room to grow and mend
Hope, peace and rest, I beg you send.
You are the Keeper of the Key
Lord, to my soul, my sanity
But to this house, my sanctuary,
I am the Keeper of the Key.
To the challenge of sending in a piece of original verse, Leanne Kuczma of Sunbury (Vic) decided that she would not only try her hand at creating her own piece of prose, but would also use the opportunity to send a message of hope and encouragement for, as she stated in her accompanying letter, “life is so precious and unfortunately short, so why not share knowledge, love, conversation, jokes and poems with one another.” Leanne's very special offering, called ‘Life's Too Short' follows:
Life's Too Short
Life's too short
So stop and smile,
Watch some children
Play for a while.
Really look at your garden
And knick-knacks too,
Remember the fun things
You love to do.
Walk the dog
Pet the cat
Call someone
Just to have a chat.
And when life gets you down
Remember to smile
And not to frown.
Take some tea with a friend
And wish the day would never end.
Because life's too short
For worries or strife.
Live it right.
After all
It's your life.
Venturing Forward In Verse
A book of verses underneath the bough,
A jug of wine, a loaf of bread,
and thou beside me singing in the wilderness -
On, Wilderness were paradise enow!
(Omar Khayyam 1048 - 1122)
 It really is amazing the numbers! It seems that country followers in their hoards are avid lovers of verse! It’s an assessment that I’ve made as a consequence of the many wonderful submissions I’ve received to the Poetry and Prose section of the online magazine. Maybe it’s because prose and poetic expression allows one to be more intimate about one’s thoughts and feelings than the normal written word. Maybe the lyrical rhyming so typical of much poetry allows one to convey a message more easily and succinctly. Maybe traditional prose and poetry helps make a direct link with the past and the ways of old when such styles of writing were a much more essential part of common communication.
Whatever the reason, the great delight is that more and more people are taking up the challenge to ‘venture forward in verse’, as the following latest offerings reveal. If you too have a piece of poetry or prose that you have penned – or want to give the process of writing a go – and would like to share it with the thousands of viewers who are already a part of the Rick Rutherford’s Country family (not to mention the thousands more yet to hook up), all you need to do is drop me a message, together with a copy of your original verse. You can email it in to rick@rickritherford.com or post it in the old fashioned way to PO Box 27, Lawson 2783.
The first submission following comes from Debbie Young of Greenslopes (Qld) who took up the opportunity to send in a piece she penned in memory of her grandmother’s kitchen. It’s like a lyrical reminiscence. As Debbie states “As so many people would attest I am sure, the memory of one’s grandmother’s house is ever etched in the memory and is probably – in many instances – more defined than one’s own home.” The following is Debbie’s piece, entitled:
My Grandmother’s Kitchen
In my grandmother’s kitchen were all the ingredients for a perfect adventure.
The room was large on the southern side of the big colonial wooden house. Dominating the room was the very long rounded oblong table conveniently topped with linoleum. From left to right around the walls ran the banks of cupboards with thumb-press metal handles; the sink – a favoured site for play not least, of course, because of the sweet tank water served in the little ETA peanut paste company glasses decorated with native birds; the wood box – a true treasure trove filled with empty grocery packets with which one could play shop by lining them up on top of the box; the wood stove complete with its own decorative summer doily made from lino.
More built-in cupboards; a small electric stove for hot water; finally and especially the free-standing dresser with its variety of special and different compartments in which were such luxuries as a wad of folded paper packets; bundles of wound string, Minties for anyone who was good; and a wonderful red plastic tomato contraption which held the sauce for the saveloys always eaten for lunch.
The treadle sewing machine, for me, reigned in the last corner of the room. As grandma sewed we sat under her table and caught the scraps of material as they fell and played shapes with them.
Last came the ice chest, forerunner of the refrigerator, which had a weekly appetite for a large block of ice – 12ins by 9ins by 6ins – to cool the food in the lower compartments. It was, of course, always important to remember to empty the drip tray!
Not only were the room’s contents magical but the fact that everything always remained as it always was gave great stability and reassurance.
On the cupboards to the left stood a number of favoured glass dishes. My father remembered early visits to the house when he was served pickles on one those dishes by my great grandmother. He was perplexed to discover in his food … pen nibs!
Grandma’s whole house had adventures in each of its rooms but none so loved as those in the heart of the home, her kitchen.
Despite her self-confessed computer illiteracy, Cathy Robson ‘logged on’ to “get a country fix and receive kind encouraging words” and in so doing submitted the following:
He Knows The Seasons
Summer, a memory of happier times
of laughter and picnics and bubbly wines.
Our hearts were warm and our spirits high
and sometimes it felt like our love could fly.
I gazed at the sunset, with its magical glow,
and peace came over me, as I thought –
"He knows".
Autumn soon came with a chill in the air,
Alone I stood wondering, does anyone care?
The leaves so bright soon faded away
as I held on so tightly and begged them to stay.
The gentle cool breeze knew they were to go,
and tears flooded my heart with the thought –
"He knows".
Winter, the season for snow, rain and frost.
The silence reminds me of all that I’ve lost.
I stare at the embers and breathe out a sigh.
Yes, deep down inside I still wonder why.
So where is the love I knew long ago?
Its all turned so cold as I cry out –
"He knows".
Spring comes with the hope of a brighter tomorrow.
Forgiveness like jonquils can heal the sorrow
with fragrance so sweet, you soon will see,
that the river of life isn’t up to me.
So I trust in the one who controls the flow
of the streams of love – you see –
"He knows".
Last time around I featured a beautiful piece by Frances Young of Karangi (NSW) entitled ‘The Keeper of The Key’. This time I’m delighted to include another wonderful submission by Frances which is so profound as it tells of moving on, of change and new directions. It’s filled with notions of bravery and simple things, of optimism, new beginnings and a sense of serenity for future days … a very impacting poem that I am sure will resonate deeply with many.
Had To Go
For the very first time in my up and down life
I’m just being me – not a daughter nor wife.
Not a teacher nor guide – not needing to hide;
Just sitting here, gazing at life.
It’s selfish, they say, to while away time,
Doing nothing but relaxing here.
Do you think that it’s wrong, a heart full of song,
‘Cause I’m free of my worry and fear?
It’s not that I’m ready to party and sing
I’m happy not doing so much
One day when I’m ready, I’ll do something steady
For now it’s just gazing and such.
You say to me now “All is lost – tell us how
You can give up the places you know?”
I’ll say “back to you – You haven’t a clue –
Sometimes you just have to go!”
It won’t be forever – or maybe it will –
I haven’t a clue where it’ll end.
But somehow I know it will work out and so
“not to worry – it’s all right, my friend.”
So don’t shed a tear or hang onto the fear
I know what I’m doing is weird
But it has to be done and sometimes it’s fun
And that’s nothing at all to be feared.
‘Cause I’m safe and I’m glad. And that can’t be all bad.
Surely peace is its own reward.
I’m gone – I’m here – and I still hold you dear
But my face is now turning toward …
… The sun and the moon, the stars in the sky,
I’ve finished my needing to cry.
The rest – I don’t know – I’ll see how I go –
But it’s time to stop asking me why.
Nancy Boyd also embraced the opportunity offered by this section of the magazine to put her thoughts into poetic verse, her piece – entitled ‘Tribute To A Treasure’ – presenting a very special mark of respect to an Australian icon: the swaggie. Can’t you see him? There, trudging wearily along the dusty track, his shoulders bowed under the weight of his swag, looking for a place to rest for the night? Swaggies first called the swag 'bluey', then they became 'Matilda'– much more romantic! 'Waltzing Matilda' is thus surely far more evocative than 'humping bluey' when you’re carrying all of your belongings along the dusty track!
Tribute To A Treasure
Now there surely was a swagman there beside that billabong
a’boiling his old billy, just as happy as could be;
but bein’ very jolly, he committed one big folly
– an unsuspectin’ jumbuck he was known to grab for tea.
Then his gladsome song was heard: nearby trooper said “my word,
you can’t be thievin’ jumbucks so you’d better come with me!”
But our swagman took a dive: “You’re not takin’ me alive!”
and quickly submerged himself to keep his spirit free.
Eerie sounds still waft up high to all the passers-by
who happen to be strollin’ by the waters merrily,
for the swagman’s restless ghost is ever acting as a host
and invites “Who’ll come a’ Waltzing Matilda with me?”
And we’ll be singing of his fate till two thousand eighty eight:
now click your glasses to Banjo through one hundred years of time,
– Christina’s tune was great – we should really celebrate
and lustily proclaim to all our much-loved Aussie rhyme!
As we gather neath the coolibah, hear my constant plea
“Will you come a’ Waltzing Matilda with me?”
Matters of Life
The first submissions following are from Daniel Larsson – an avid supporter of Rick Rutherford’s Country who, together with wife Dee, has offered many words of encouragement and feedback in recent times. The first three inspired entries following are all Daniel’s original work as they deal with a range of subjects relevant to significant issues of modern-day life.
A Sonnet For Your Life
Washing away, being slowly taken out by the sea,
The sands of time are moving far into eternity.
What’s left behind is nothing more than an empty space,
But for one small moment, ‘till another takes its place.
Grasp the beauty of the time that lingers in between
For that becomes the life we live, as short as it may seem.
And what we do in that short time before we are gone,
Becomes the living memories of those that follow on.
The past is always present for what it is that we pass down,
Has been before and is with us, it already has been found.
We’re holding it for keeping; it has been left to us for care,
To pass it on most tenderly, it’s for the future ones to share.
The crumbling bricks and mortar show where mankind did begin,
But in the end what matters most is what comes from deep within.
Old Times Gone
In the woods above the valley, near a cabin made of logs,
Sits a tired old mountain man and his faithful, aging dog.
He has lived and hunted all his life in these wondrous hills,
Taking only what was needed and preserving what he could.
Bear and turkey, quail and grouse, and of course the whitetail deer,
Just enough for him and friend to make it through the year.
Now he sits and wonders and ponders his old age,
Pats his faithful friend again and feels a touch of rage.
The trees are slowly going and he doesn’t hold much hope
That come the next full spring he’ll see them on the slope.
They’re clearing land a plenty from the valley down below,
And building fancy houses for them foolish city folk.
He has lived here most his 80 years and watched the country grow,
But now his back is to the wall, he’s as high as he can go.
His little piece of heaven, so close to God’s blue sky,
Is slowly crumbling down before his very eyes.
The wildlife has been moving on for about a year he’d guess,
Searching out for safer land away from man’s progress.
Well, “our time is nearly over” he whispers to his friend,
“But maybe there’s one thing we can do before the end”.
“I’ll load up all the carbines
And dig out the stash of shells . . .
Next spring my dear and faithful friend
We’ll give the bastards hell”.
Little One
Hey, little one, I wish that you could tell me
Of all your hopes and dreams …
Of all you know and understand …
Of how this world does seem.
Would love to know how it compares
To the world of grown up lives,
When we no longer have the power
To see through childhood eyes.
To see real beauty for what it is,
So simple and so rare;
To see the richness in the lands
That mankind has to share.
Hey, little one, I wish that you could tell me
Of all the truth you've known …
Of all the rich beginnings …
Of all the seeds been sown.
Would love to know what has gone wrong
With the misplaced goals we've sought,
How we've been thrown from the single track
Of simple childhood thought.
To know where it was that we have been
And why we never learned;
To hold on to a future
That long ago we yearned.
Hey, little one, I wish that you could tell me
Of what the future brings …
Of what we should be looking for …
Of what's coming in the spring.
I promise that I'd listen
Without the adult pride;
I'll take in each and every word
And cherish them inside.
Then dream again of simple days
Unblemished from the truth,
And once again I'd understand
The innocence of childhood youth.
Hey, little one, if only you could tell me …
In a similar vein to the last piece by Daniel, Sharon Coleman on the NSW Blue Mountains sent in the following entry which she tells she wrote for her young daughter Mikayla in celebration of her birthday. A special party was thrown, the occasion having a tulip theme. As Sharon tells “The children made a tulip collage on one side of their lolly bags (plain brown paper) and on the other side we pasted this poem. I wrote it as if it were an old fashioned piece that children a century ago may have been told.”
When the cold winds blow
And the clouds carry snow
The tulips appear
Bringing winter cheer
They light up the garden
When few flowers bloom
And warm our hearts
Through winter's gloom
So the Lord God brings life
To our cold lives of strife
When hopeless we lay bare
Our own lives we despair
Then does our Saviour Jesus
Push through the cold dark earth
Of hearts unloved and hopeless
Turning grief and tears to mirth
Concerning things of the soil and garden toil, our budding poet and self-confessed ‘simple man’ Daniel Larson couldn’t resist submitting yet another piece as follows (it’s one of my favourites!):
Gardens Grow
they satisfy, they pacify
can appease the troubled soul
grant release and offer peace . . .
where e'er the gardens grow.
nature's soil, some gentle toil
doesn't take too much more
heading towards rich rewards . ..
where e'er the gardens grow.
search your mind, soon you'll find
with time you'll come to know
the gentle rains bring life again . . .
where e'er the gardens grow.
simple needs, a few small seeds
let springtime's essence flow,
joy will come from summer's sun . . .
where e'er the gardens grow.
oh so soon, the roses bloom
and in-between there's other shows
the colours, too, will shine for you . . .
where e'er the gardens grow.
when the day is done, in setting sun,
take pride in what you sow
right from the start it warms the heart . . .
where e'er the gardens grow.
then through the plights and darkest nights
under the deepest snow,
they'll be new life come with the light . . .
where e'er the gardens grow.
for what we see in history
though time's march may be slowed
in the end it starts again . . .
where e'er the gardens grow.
Finally, a teaser! The following has been penned by yours truly. It is the preamble to the book which I have had on the burner for some time … perhaps it is part of my next published work which I’ll release once the last copies of ‘Rick Rutherford’s Country Christmas at Wroxton’ are sold. Presently, I’m not sure, but I really would love to know what you all think of it. It’s called ‘Between The Silences’.
Starting is always the hardest part.
A hundred paths present themselves, each one inevitably leading to the same destination, albeit at different places in time, but the same destination nonetheless.
To a place of silences.
The unspoken, that which is locked away and denied – a place where a key to being free is guarded with the strength of a life force … and the noise goes on around.
Loud noises, hushed noises, secret whispers and judiciously-edited words.
Between that which is spoken, that which is felt, there’s the silences that ring out
through the core of one’s being.
Between the silences, there is the noise that only the heart can hear.
A Story of Life
At 82 years of age, Cathy Robson’s beloved mother, Nora Thomas, has taken up pen and paper to write the following delightful piece of prose … proving conclusively that one is never to young, or old, to harness one’s creativity and revel in a passion for poetry.
The piece has also prompted a rather personal revelation for Cathy. As she tells “It is rather interesting to note that, after knowing my Mum my whole life (well of course!) she has had a hidden gift I knew nothing about … What a lovely surprise I received when she gave me a copy of a poem she wrote for a seniors’ gathering she was attending, so it really is an honour to be able to share her verse with you.
“Something my Mum has been able to do over the years is to face the coming years with dignity and grace and as she faces another ‘change’ in her life, she shares her ‘secret’ in the lines ahead. I hope it encourages all who will read it … She hasn't given her poem a name, but that really is quite like her. Such a kind, gentle lady, never wanting to draw attention to herself, but always wanting to be there for others!” The delightful ‘story of life’ by Nora follows:
Life is not all froth and bubble,
Sometimes joy and sometimes trouble;
Ups and downs – a daily thing,
Sometimes we cry, we sometimes sing,
Things do come that bring a grumble,
Tricky paths can cause a stumble;
What we need to heed, I see,
is which to learn from – which to let be.
We cannot see the path we travel,
We need a guide to help unravel;
Rest assured, God knows each day,
so hold His hand, He'll show the way.
A Triple Offering
The things of life – from start to finish – are also at the heart of the latest works submitted by our most prolific ‘prose person’ Daniel Larson, whose work has appeared in this department several times before. Daniel’s three new pieces – ‘Poor Ol’ James McBride’, ‘Evening’s Song’ and ‘For Now’ – each resonates with a deep sense of the things of life … its purpose and its passage. Dan hopes that each one touches the heart of those who read his words, and inspires others to not only think and feel, but to maybe even take up the pen and also write!
Poor Ol’ James McBride
He left his schooling early to work upon the land,
From dawn to dusk he toiled, trying to grow just what he can.
Lost his first crops to something called the blight,
And all the banker said was “poor ol’ James McBride”.
He ordered himself a woman all the way from Philippines,
She was the skinniest woman the town had ever seen.
She never gave him children; they say she never tried,
And all the women sobbed “poor ol’ James McBride”.
He finally hit some pay dirt and sold his crops for cash
And put most of it away in his little secret stash.
She found it soon enough and out of town she did alight,
The only thing the sheriff said was “poor ol’ James McBride”.
He started over once again, got himself some cheap livestock,
But fences needed mending and then came the mighty drought.
His cows they got the sickness, and his only horse did die,
The butcher only shook his head, “poor ol’ James McBride”.
Now his cabin is a-crumbling, like him it’s getting old,
And winter is a-coming and he’s going to be quite cold.
He doesn’t have the credit at the store he shuffles by,
He hears the shop keep whisper “poor ol’ James McBride”.
They found his body laying, sometime late in yesterday,
Face down in the dirt he’d worked throughout his days.
“Dig a pauper’s grave, somewhere off to the side”
And all the preacher had to say was “poor ol’ James McBride”.
Suddenly he’s standing in Heaven’s far off place,
And St Peter’s looking down at him, with a smile upon his face.
“You’ve had your time in Hell” he says, “now here you will reside”,
And all the angels sang out loud “Welcome James McBride”.
They pass his grave in numbers; he’s buried there to this day,
“Look, there’s a paupers grave” is all that they can say.
But he’s living with the angels, wears a smile so broad and wide . . .
And greets all the newcomers by saying “Hello, I’m James Mc Bride”.
Evening’s Song
T’was evening’s song that played so soft upon the ear,
With harmonies both rich and rare, and melodies so clear.
It moved you into gentle sleep, which washed away the pain,
Took you places far away, and brought you back again.
Then morning’s breeze awoke you, with soft and flowing sounds,
That comes from out of a forest, in which new life begins.
It lightly lifts your spirit up and washes it anew,
Puts a smile upon its face and gives it back to you.
The sunshine does its best to give you warmth and light,
That keeps you from the winter’s cold, and from the darkened nights.
It comes to you at early dawn and guides you through the day,
Reminding you of tomorrow, as you travel on your way.
Then evening’s song returns and plays upon your heart.
Knows that you are tired now, your day’ has been long and hard.
Lays down with you upon your bed, and echoes in the skies,
Then leaves you to your gentle peace as you close your weary eyes.
For Now
He laid her out on satin sheets
Spread red roses at her feet
Dressed her in her Sunday best
Hands folded neatly on her breast
Small slight dimple on her chin
A youthful glow about her skin
A special beauty so rich and rare
In peaceful sleep, lying there
She heard the archangels play their tune
And knew they’re coming for her soon
Saw the drops swell in his eyes
And wished she could say good bye
Because it was time to go
She cannot tell him what he should know
That in the passing of one quick year
She’ll kiss his cheek and dry his tears.
A ‘Well Versed’ World View
If Galileo had said in verse that the world moved,
the Inquisition might have let him alone.
(Thomas Hardy 1840 – 1928)
 The wonderful original verse keeps coming, proving that those with a country bent can do much more than just decorate and adorn a home. Your creativity knows few limits! The other thing that is so obvious from all the new pieces of prose and poetry I have received is the fact that, by taking up the pen and writing down one’s thoughts and feelings in verse, the process helps one deal with – and process – a multitude of life’s experiences and occurrences. As 20th century American writer John Cheever said, when words are written down as a page of prose, “one hears the rain and the noise of battle. It has the power to give grief or universality that lends it a youthful beauty.” And when poetry is the instrument of expression, it, according to Canadian musician and lyricist Leonard Cohen “is just the evidence of life – if your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.”
And the difference between the two forms of verse? As famous English writer Samuel Taylor Coleridge proposed back at the beginning of the 19th century … “I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; that is, prose equals words in their best order; poetry equals the best words in the best order!” Some may disagree, others may wholeheartedly concur. But whether you choose to express your feelings and views in poetry or prose, there is no getting away from the fact that both these forms of creative verse quite often take on a power all their own once that have been formed as words on a page, and can often take on a whole new essence and meaning – as interpreted by others – soon after they have left the mind, and the finger tips, of the author.
Take, for instance, the new additions to what is fast become a true ‘RRC Anthology Of Verse’ following! In these submissions, the creators have found a voice for thoughts and feelings regarding certain issues and scenarios within their lives and the world. Read anew by another, the words have power and implication far beyond the original intent. This is the power and the magic of creative verse – poetry and prose alike … to relay feelings and emotions of the author and have them reinterpreted according to the life experience and world view of another.
The first new submission is from our regular contributor Dan Larson whose prolific production of wonderful verse is matched only by the diversity of subjects on which he chooses to write. Inspired by recent Mother’s Day celebrations, he penned the following in tribute to his own beloved Mum:
You tweaked my hand
when I was born
when I lay there helpless and forlorn
Fed me when I cried
and comforted me
through broken hearts and oft’ skinned knees
Into the world
you sent me ahead
and hid the tears you softly shed
Now I’m older
and so more wise
and I can see the ages in your eyes
I hope I’m there
before too long
before you are to be moving on
I’ll tweak your hand
from strength above
and give back to you all your love
In a similar vein, Julie Craig has taken the opportunity offered by the Poetry & Prose department here to submit a beautiful piece she penned in tribute to her late father. As she told in her message, she wrote the verse on the occasion of her beloved Dad’s recent birthday and put it down in a card which she and her mother took to the Memorial Park where he is laid to rest. The card read:
Today I'm thinking of you Dad,
Because it's your special day.
I want so much to be with you,
But you are far away.
Today it is your birthday,
And I can't share it with you.
You left this life four years ago.
I'm just left with the memory of you.
At times like this I miss you
And wish that you were here.
I can't even give you a birthday hug
And it makes me shed a tear.
So I'll stand beside your graveside
And look to the sky above.
I'll blow you a special birthday kiss
And send with it, my love.
Then I want to thank you
For all the things you mean to me,
And for being so special.
In loving memory.
South Australian Donna Bridges took the opportunity offered by the Poetry & Prose section to send in the following piece which she specially wrote for her two daughters Amy and Erin in celebration of their Cornish heritage, doing so on the occasion of a special May biennial event in which they were involved called ‘Kernewek Lowender’. The piece is entitled ‘Maypole’.
Flowers encircling flowing tresses,
fresh white aprons over
pretty printed dresses.
Skipping 'round to an ancient tune.
Round and around they go,
over, under, to and fro.
Ribbons of satin skipped up in a dance.
Hours of patient practice,
just for the chance,
To be a Maypole Dancer.
On other important matters – of life and love – our ‘resident poet’ Daniel Larson has offered two more submissions for the month which will certainly bring you to a point of deep reflection! The first is called ‘Time Passes Quickly By’ while the second is appropriately entitled ‘For Those I Have Loved’.
Time Passes Quickly By
Lit a candle in the night
saw your face in the bouncing light
Felt your touch across the miles
and bathed in the warmth of your smile
Dreamt the dreams we always had
of traveling across the lands
of watching young children grow
and giving of the world we know
Felt you put my heart at ease
as the flame flickered in the breeze
Always have a tear to cry
as time passes so quickly by
The promise made is ever saved
there are always flowers on your grave
For Those I Have Loved
If I had but one more breath
to express what I wish for,
It would be to see your smiling face
glowing evermore.
If there was just one more beat
to come from my weary heart,
It would beat for the ones I have loved
from the very start.
If I could but turn back time
to right the wrongs I have done,
My soul could be laid to rest
to the tune of peaceful songs.
If I have to shed a tear
in the shadow of my time,
It won’t be for my parting,
but for leaving you behind.
And onward in our journeys
let us not live with regret,
What we had for this short time
is still precious to me yet.
Then in the remnants of life,
in amongst the unknown ways,
I pray that your life goes on
‘till we meet again someday.
Having read a copy of my Christmas book ‘Rick Rutherford’s Country Christmas at Wroxton’ – which she tells she had to prise off her mother to read, Mary Benniss was inspired to complete the following delightful poem which she tells she was working on when she started to read the book. As she told in the message she sent with the poem “You impressed me no end with your handmade wall hanging as featured in ‘Country Christmas at Wroxton’. I was touched by your reflection in the book and strangely enough was already well on the way with the following poem called ‘Count Your Blessings’ which echoes in effect what you said. Hope you enjoy it”. Though the sentiments of Mary’s work may be prompted by the time of reflection that Christmas brings, they have pertinence for each and every day of the year.
Count Your Blessings
The world we know is all consuming
But make time for the joys of life,
Too many things we take for granted
Count your blessings, in them delight.
A heart is meant to have another
That one to share, the good, the bad,
When heaven sends ‘that one’ love calling
Count your blessings and be glad.
Be thankful for the gift of family
Be mindful that they do not stray
Nurture, trust and love each other
Count your blessings every day.
By nature kindred spirits gather
How cold the days without a friend
The warmth they bring makes each day brighter
Count your blessings once again.
On life’s great journey take a moment
Once a day, before it’s done
Your soul will be the better for it
Count your blessings, one by one.
If you too would like to share your thoughts and feelings with fellow countryites by way of your own original prose or poem, I would love to hear from you and have the chance to publish it here for the enjoyment, enrichment and sharing of all. Whether you have an important message to state through your work, would love to reflect on matters of life or pay tribute to a special loved one – the podium is yours! All you have to do is drop me a line via the website here, email rick@rickrutherford.com or post a letter to PO Box 27, Lawson NSW 2783.
... DANIEL’S LOT ...
 There are those who love to write poetry and prose for the unique opportunity it presents to put thoughts and ideas into lyrical verse. There are others who have a passion for the process of penning poems and prose as it offers a very special means of expressing emotions and arousing the same in the reader. Others find poetry and prose the most cathartic means of expression they have available to them – more so than even music – while others still delight in the fact that poetic verse allows them the opportunity to express their viewpoint on the greatest diversity of subjects – from love to death, aging to the mundane everyday things of life – with every topic being regarded as ‘fair game’!
For Victorian Daniel Larson, the writing of poetry and prose is all these things and so much more. Originally from America, Daniel’s passion for creative writing in its many forms knows no bounds. To say that he is prolific is an understatement! Each week he is moved by the things around him, and life’s experiences, to express his unique, personal viewpoint through the writing of one, two, sometimes even a dozen or more pieces which each provoke the reader to contemplation. Some are more entertaining and light hearted than others, but all cause one to stop and think about the subject in some way.
Recently inundated with a swag of new pieces from Dan Larson, we present here a special selection of this prolific writer’s most recent works – to inspire, amuse and provoke all to consider in a new way the various subjects he tackles. There is an impacting piece dealing with the passage of time, another focussed on the preciousness of childhood, reminiscences regarded special souls who have touched his life, and even one about working in the morgue!
‘Daniel’s Lot’ is also presented as a kind of challenge to other budding poets and creative writers. If one talented soul such as Dan can produce so many poetic pieces, we’re hoping that other budding ‘novice essayists’ and similarly-minded souls will take up pen and paper and join the ranks of the many wonderful writers we have already published here. There’s not only the delight of seeing your work published and read by thousands of others, there is also the opportunity to go into the running for the wonderful prize of a $50 shopping voucher to spent in the Rick Rutherford’s Country online store, or soon-to-be opened real-time country gallery in the NSW Blue Mountains.
And so, without further ado … following is ‘Daniel’s Lot’!
Gypsy Lullaby
Before you were imprisoned in your other life,
Roamed ‘round the countryside with children and a wife.
You travelled over many backyard country roads,
Selling little potions to keep them from the cold.
All was going well ‘till the spring of thirty-two,
When she took off running, left the children with you.
Spent the years trying to teach them what was right,
Never take what wasn’t yours and share a fire at night.
Taught them ABCs and reading best you could,
Told them you’d return, though he knew you never would.
Sent them off one by one into the world out there,
Hoping you’d done enough and that they were prepared.
Kept selling potions as you moved from town to town,
Looked for her day-by-day but she was never found.
Sometimes you meet a child or two and share a bite,
To see how they’ve become fills your heart with pride.
Sometimes, now, these days just feel like they’re far too long,
For how much longer can you sing this gypsy song?
The body’s growing weary with each passing test,
And it’s earlier each day when you look for rest.
Now you sit ‘round a fire and think back on those days,
When freedom was before you in so many ways.
Time moved on so fast, and sometimes a tear you cry,
As you sing quietly that gypsy lullaby.
Major
He swore he was a major
way back in World War Two,
But daddy said he just served
the mashed spuds and the stew.
He talked about the battles
that happened every day,
Mummy said he was busy
washing the pots, miles away.
He talked ‘bout the iron tanks
and the trenches filled with rain,
Aunty said that he was hurt
when he cut his thumb again.
Poor Gramps just bowed his white head
and said “I have seen it all”,
My uncle said that was true
when cleaning up the mess hall.
Now they can say what they will,
for I will forever see
My Grandpa as a major
‘cause he’s a hero to me.
A Child
If you can take at least one child
and put a smile upon their face,
And then wipe the tears from the eyes,
you’ve made the world a better place.
Then if you can give to a child
a little bit of heartfelt hope,
And share with them some simple joys,
you’ve done more than you’ll ever know.
Sometimes a life goes by so fast,
Sometimes measured by one breath.
You can’t keep them all safe from harm,
But you can feel for every death.
Then as you look at what’s to come
and what’s left that is all true,
Remember just one single child
in respect of all that you do.
The time will come to you at last
when it’s your turn to leave this land.
Have no fear ‘bout walking alone,
there’s a child that will take your hand.
But For a Time
Sometime, somewhere, upon the sea,
amongst the waves and winds,
There sails a ship that bears your name,
it is soon to sail in.
There is a clock being kept which
strikes upon the hour;
It sounds each time for the three
that have eternal power.
And marked somewhere on sodden ground
is your plot of earth,
Which has been labeled long before
the day that was your birth.
What was put down in sacred words
once so long ago,
Was the prophecy of your life
that you have come to know.
Grasp each day and moment, too, and
keep a smile on your face.
As best you can, live out your life
with dignity and grace.
For it will come with passing years,
the echo of a song,
That whispers softly through the trees
long after you are gone.
Bones
In mortuary crypts you’ll find
some bones from long ago,
That lie in quiet solitude
under the fallen snow.
Life has sprung eternally
from their lives gone by,
And though they’ve lain for many years,
in peace their spirits fly.
They have no voice with which to speak
to tell you of their fate,
In silence they have been entrapped,
in blindness they await,
For changing of the seasons . . .
that are coming thus . . .
And in the ever gentle winds,
they’ll float as angel dust.
Under The Veneer
Her name was Molly; had bright red hair;
she danced for the boys in the band.
Followed them daily from town to town
and she always dressed up so grand.
Kept them amused and livened the crowd,
always knew how to bring them in.
Night after night until they found out
that her name was once really Jim.
Harry was always dressed to the hilt,
wore his medals proud on his chest.
Told everyone how he survived
when they met with a sniper’s nest.
Tried hard to keep his comrades alive,
swore he did all that he could do.
The sheriff soon found the medals and clothes
were stolen from Fifth Avenue.
Jackson was flash; was always well groomed,
and had every hair in place.
He always drove the latest sports car,
and fine horses he owned and raced.
Gave heaps of gifts to all charities
and made the school’s cash boxes sing.
The FBI were around last night
and closed down his state wide drug ring.
So spruce yourself up; put on your best,
and get down amongst the in-crowd.
Whatever you’ve got, splash it around,
and act like you’re ever so proud.
Sing them your songs; tell them your best tales,
and show them your pearly white teeth.
But don’t forget to keep it well hid:
What really does lie underneath.
The Tradition Continues
Daddy took his shotgun down,
Said we’re going into town.
Gonna find young Billy Ray,
This is sister’s wedding day.
(I’m still too young to know why
Daddy’s got him in his sights).
Sister grabbed her hat
And complained she’s getting fat,
Mummy handed me a toy,
Daddy said, “Hope it’s a boy”.
Mummy smiled and took his hand,
Smiled at him, said, “ain’t love grand?
Remember my Daddy’s fuss
When the preacher married us?
If Billy tries to run off,
Fill his backside with buckshot.
Aim low and don’t shoot too soon,
Peggy’s got to have a groom!”
Old Henry Fry
Carried him down the road early one morn,
sometime in mid July.
‘Twas rainy and cold, no one around,
except for old Henry Fry.
Followed me along and I slowed down some,
wondered why he was there.
No one in town really knew him at all
and no one seemed to care.
Came to the spot where I’d lay him to rest,
a little spot that I saved;
While Henry looked on I lowered him down
into the pauper’s grave.
Later that day I bumped into Henry
and asked him why he had come.
He gave me a smile and then softly said,
“It’s what I’ve always done.
There’s too many times in this short life
you’re so far from your home,
Maybe cold or hungry or feeling down;
maybe you’re all alone.
And when the time comes for you to pass on,
when it’s your final day,
There should be at least one to say “farewell”
when you’re laid in your grave.”
Well, Henry passed on ‘bout a month ago,
was nothing much to tell.
But when it was done, I stood by his grave,
and I said, “fare thee well”.
New Job
You can see what you want to see; you have nothing to fear.
Nothing’s moving anyway, in this sterile atmosphere.
Say anything you like to say, no one here will talk back,
No one here will argue and no one will attack.
If you don’t like games such as soccer, football, even chess,
No one here will force you to play, or make you watch, I guess.
Politics are never mentioned, no body really cares,
They don’t even want to know about their neighbour’s affairs.
It’s to each their own most the time, it’s easier that way,
They don’t even bother asking about the time of day.
They’ve got four walls and cooling, and a roof over their head,
And each and every one of them has their own single bed.
Now that you’ve had a look around, do you like what you see?
The benefits are great; you’ll even get a bed for free!
I’m sure you’ll like it here; it’s a career that can be forged,
You’ll find it so rewarding working in the city morgue.
Three Words
Long ago on a distant morn
words came forth and dreams were born.
Aimed at the future from the start,
carried safe within the heart.
Set out on the long road ahead,
in the winds where they’re kept fed,
Were passed around both here and there,
kept by those who really cared.
Moved back and forth through prose and rhyme
and stories passed down through time.
Nothing more needed to be said
when these words are heard or read,
And when, from the heart, always true,
these three words of “I love you”.
Fare Thee Well, Distant Shore
Put a message in a bottle
and set it out to sea.
Don’t really care where it ends up
as long as it floats free.
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