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

River of life

Take into your liquid embrace

The soul of purest fire

Temper in your swift currents

The flame of pure desire

 

Wash away the sins of hate

In your churning foam

Cradle the fractured heart

Amongst your smooth white stones

 

Soothe the burns of the past

With rapid rushing waves

Take the elixir of life

And scour away the pain

 

Erode the banks of anger

With your winding course

And sing to the floundering ones

Who wait upon your shores

 

©Aarron Mondello

26/9/2018

Winter Wind

 

 

Blowing down a mountain

A wayward Winter wind

Traveling with all speed

Trying to catch the Spring

 

But Spring was just too spritely

And quickly dodged aside

So the curious Winter wind

Blew onto Summer time

 

Summer time was much too dry

Winter wind grew much too warm

So it skirted ‘round the edges

And to Autumn it blew on

 

Yet when the winter wind

Blew golden Autumn leaves

Tears of ice it cried

When they fell down from their trees

 

So weak and barely blowing

Winter wind came finally home

And never through the seasons

Did Winter again roam

 

©Aarron Mondello

26/8/2018

Words

 

 

Do you have some sad words

That I can put down on this page

Or perhaps some fiery angry words

That make you scream and rage

 

Where are your profound words

To make me stop and think

To challenge all my beliefs

And place them on the brink

 

What about your jealous words

Tinged with hues of green

Or melancholy bittersweet

Words of things you’ve seen

 

Can you find some words for me

Of joyful laughing times

Heady happy memories

That I can fashion into rhymes

 

Sit a while and tell me words

Of all things in your head

Words that I can twist and turn

Into tales to be read

 

©Aarron Mondello

8/8/2018

Steps

 

 

Step lightly on the edge of the blade

On one side doom

On the other you’re saved

Which do you choose

Which is your way

To the dark of night

Or the light of day

 

Step careful on the mountain path

The road is long

And often hard

Straighten your legs

And strengthen your heart

Only your hands

Can touch the stars

 

Walk surely through the roads of life

Sure of foot

And head held high

When it seems for naught

That you strive

Seek the comfort

In a loved ones eyes

 

©Aarron Mondello

2/8/2018

A Quick Tale

 

On a dusty track through a dusty mind
Shallow footprints tracked through time
He follows them to see what he’ll find
When he reaches the horizons line

A beaten path through thick bush land
Never farmed by any hand
Holding aloft a burning brand
A weary traveller in clothes once grand

In a large grass covered clearing
With the sun overhead baking, searing
Listening close to the voice he’s hearing
This great journey’s end is nearing

On a rivers shore of pale stones
Stands a figure all alone
Dull in colour like sun bleached bone
No longer does the traveller roam

©Aarron Mondello
8/5/2018