The Dusty Men

The Dusty Men

 

Four men travel a dusty road

Tight of belt and light of load

Weary feet shuffling slow

Where do the four dusty men go?

 

Man number one is a man named Tom

He never speaks much of where he is from

But he holds the ace of spades with a tear in his eye

As the bright sun sets in the twilight sky

 

Man number two goes by the name of Bert

Wearing the rags of a silken shirt

Early each morning with a flask of gin

He sneaks off alone to quietly sing

 

Man number three is a spry old cricket

Said his friends out west called him Wicket

With gnarly old fingers as light as a breeze

He lifts heavy purses just as easy as you please

 

Man number four doesnt say much

The other dusty men all call him Dutch

They can’t imagine that his road has been fun

For poor old Dutch doesn’t have a tongue

 

Four dusty men travel a dusty road

Tight of belt and light of load

None can ever say if the dusty men know

Where the roads they travel even go

 

©Aarron Mondello

2/11/2018

 

Down to the billabong

 

The buzz of life is in the air
Magpies sing their morning song
And a fat old shuffling wombat
Plodded down to the billabong

“Mornin’ Roo” the wombat said
“Set to be a lovely day”
But the cranky big red only grunted
And rudely hopped away

“So it is, Wombat old boy”
Said Brown Snake in the grass
“and don’t mind Red, for as we know
He is prone to be an arse”

Wombat chuckled softly
And continued to shuffle along
Chatting with Brown Snake
Heading down to the billabong

They made their way towards the bank
Of the the still, inviting pool
Passed under a great big gum tree
Through shade so very cool

“Ooroo you two. Say, what’s new?”
Came a slow voice from the tree
Wombat looked up and who’d he spy?
Koala, as high as he could be

“G’day Koala,” wombat said
With a smile for their meeting
“It comes as no surprise to see
Again you’re bloody eating”

“Yeah man” Koala slurred
Then promptly fell asleep
And Wombat thought “Bloody Hell,
Those leaves must be a treat”

On he shambled, old Wombat
A slow and leisurely crawl
When just a few paces on
He heard Black Cockies raucous call

“Wombat, you plod, move along
Before the waters all drunk dry
It never is a pleasant sight
To see a wombat cry”

“Ha Ha Galah, very funny
You’re such a flaming riot.
Do the whole bushland a favour
And just be bloody quiet”

Black Cockies laugh echoed
Through the bushland all around
While unbeknownst to Wombat
Came Emu tall and proud

Too late Emu saw him
And tried to slow her run
Long legs becoming tangled
She fell hard on to her bum

“Emu!” Wombat called out loud
“Love, are you alright?
Did you bruise yourself,
Falling from such height”?

Emu wobbled to her feet
“I’m fine, just carry on”
And feeling quite embarrassed
She fled to the billabong

Dingo slunk down the path
Echidnas quill stuck in her snout
And Wombat heard the snickering
Of Echidna near about

Old Frilled Neck ran past
Frill rustling in the wind
Coming first in a race
That only she was in

A shadow passed over Wombat
Kookaburra flying high
Laughing at the shenanigans
He spied from in the sky

Then Wombat came finally
To the banks where Wood Duck nests
He stopped near an old campfire
To take a minutes rest

He snuffed the ground for sign of man
But the human had moved on
It seemed all manner of creatures
Came down to the billabong

©Aarron Mondello
7/10/2018

Image credit: An image of A billabong by Harold Cazneaux

The Sun-kissed Man II

Calloused hands

Hard and black

Grime and dirt caked in

Dusty jeans

A light blue singlet

Tobacco fills a rusty tin

 

Sitting in

A rocking chair

On a faded porch

Watching as

The red sun sets

A glaring heaven torch

 

His body’s tired

His bones ache

His muscles stiff and sore

Yet he will rise

Fresh and ready

With the coming of the dawn

 

Sitting peaceful

In the twilight

Thinking of the days he roamed

No regrets

The Sun-kissed Man

In his exile all alone

 

©Aarron Mondello

16/5/2018

The Heat

By Aarron Mondello

4/12/2017

The heat is baking
My creative
Juices into dust
I can not wait
For the sun to abate
At the coming of dusk
The cool nights hand
Wrapped about this land
Is for what I dream
If you’ve lived
In the Aussie heat
You’ll know just what I mean
There have been times
In this life of mine
The road has actually melted
Tar stuck to my feet
In a burning heat
Land like an ore recently smelted
Shimmering heat lines
In the distance rise
Up from the scorching earth
In this sun kissed land
Where I lay my hand
The country of my birth
Even in the shade
On these hot days
There’s no reprieve from the sun
But I wouldn’t swap
This land so hot
For anything or anyone.

©Aarron Mondello2017


Featured image found here

http://www.vengavalevamos.com/travel-guide-preparing-your-australia-holiday-guest-post/