Here’s a good one for the mums.

The Alarm

The alarm goes off as it does every morning,

You climb out of bed, stretching and yawning,

This is an alarm you can not ignore,

If you did they’d break down the bedroom door.

By the time you get there they’ve started fighting,

You pull up the blind to let some light in,

You help them dress and you brush their hair,

Then the every day treasure hunt to find the footwear.

You march them to the table and start cooking toast,

Then they start fighting over whose got the most,

When breakfast’s over you clean up the mess,

And wonder how on earth you cope with the stress.

By 10am they’ve eaten all the cake,

So once again you’ll have to bake,

You put on the kettle and go out to check,

There’s nothing that they are about to wreck.

You’ve just sat down when they come in,

Looking for a drink and the biscuit tin,

Someone starts crying, he fell off the swing,

The other one swears she didn’t do a thing.

You enter their room to make the beds,

And there’s your best book torn to shreds,

One bed’s full of toys, the other one sand,

Oh for a maid, wouldn’t it be grand.

Then as the sun goes down, you run them a bath,

They have their tea and they’re in bed at last,

The quiet in the house almost hurts your ears,

Hubby’s not home, he’s out having a few beers.

You leave tea in the oven and go for a shower,

And 9 o’clock, you’ve wilted like a flower,

But as you watch them grow up day by day,

You know you wouldn’t have it any other way.

By Lorna Madson.

By Lorna Madson

Weatherboard walls and rooves of tin,

Doors you cannot lock,

The fence around the garden,

Wouldn’t keep out the flock.

Not enough water to have a lawn,

Toilet’s out the back,

Bathroom’s on the veranda,

But this is no humble shack.

It’s your average Aussie farmhouse,

It’s comfortable inside,

The farmer’s wife takes care of it,

With shear hard work and pride.

Lace curtains on the windows,

There is no need for blinds,

Insects found inside the house,

Are of many different kinds.

For flywire on a farmhouse door,

Never seems to last too long,

The chookyard is down near the sheds,

For the odour is quite strong.

Running repairs around the house,

Are done by the farmer’s wife,

If you take her tools and don’t return,

I guarantee you’ll be in strife.

A screwdriver and hammer you’ll always find,

In the drawer beneath the sink,

For these are the tools she’ll have to use,

When something’s on the blink.

At shearing time, she’s a roustabout,

Come cook and bottle washer,

And when it’s time to pick the stumps,

She becomes a mallee-root tosser.

At seeding time she drives a tractor,

At harvest time, the truck,

And when the paddocks are all bogged out,

It’s always her that will get stuck.

And when it’s time to drench the sheep,

She’s someone to abuse,

Rarely do they compliment,

Her cakes or roasts or stews.

And all the while she keeps the house,

And the kids she sends to school,

At haircut time the family will,

All line up near the stool.

Of many talents she is made,

But come taxation time,

Her occupation he fills in,

It almost seems a crime.

Just as she’d suspected,

She is once again housewife,

She’ll be claimed as a dependant,

To keep them out of strife.

It can seem so isolated, so far away from it all,
This place where the salmon gums grow proud and tall,
But to most who live here and have done so for years,
Amid the frustration, the anger and tears,
To sell up and shift would be utter madness,
The good times somehow override all the sadness.

During a drought the sheep starve and die,
And during a flood the waters run high,
Stock was away and fences let go,
Only those who’ve been through it would ever know,
Of the heartache, the anger, despair and frustration,
When flames eat the sheep feed and leave desolation.

In winter it’s green, slippery roads, bitter cold,
The frosts hit hard and the winds blow bold,
It’s preparing combines, fixing fences,
Then all hands on deck as seeding commences.

Tractor lights light up the hills like a city,
Tempers fray and it’s always a pity,
When during a breakdown, parts can’t be got,
City bloke doesn’t care if the crop’s in or not.

The dams will fill and the wheat grow tall,
But only if the right rains fall,
Wildflowers are bright and plentiful in spring,
Good prices it’s hoped the wool clip will bring,
Then with the heat the crops start to turn gold,
By now most of the wool has been sold.

The sheep are dipped for itch-mite and lice,
The days are now warm, sunny and nice,
And as they get hotter, the harvest begins,
For hours a day the header reel spins.

As the mercury rises, so does the thirst,
The “Gum Tree Tavern” comes alive with a burst,
Where else but here would you find such a thing?
Just come as you are and bring your own tins.

There’s no better place to boast bags to the acre,
Miles to the gallon, or who’s the best maker,
Of headers and trucks or how much water you’ve got,
In the paddock where the sheep are, they’ll talk the lot.

It’s heaven and hell, hard work, telling yarns,
It’s making a living out here on our farms,
For this is Pingaring, it’s a way of life,
Not many would trade it for the city and its strife.

This is the first of my Aunty Lorna’s poems, which I’ll be posting a new one up every month. To view all of them at once, use the Poetry category on the right.

HIS 80^TH YEAR

In an old rocking chair on veranda boards,

He sits and reminisces,

Of days gone by and the work he’s done,

Of the wife he so dearly misses.

His weather-beaten face proof of years in the sun,

Eyesight that’s failing him fast,

His tired old body can no longer work,

As it did in the years gone past.

Slippers replace the work boots he wore,

His big hands are now pale and tender,

Arms that once rippled with muscle,

Are now pale, fragile and slender.

Things were so different from when he’d first come,

To the land as a strapping young lad,

The clearing he’d done, the homestead he’d built,

Twas a good life, the life that he had.

Eighty years worth of memories to share,

But nobody wanted to listen,

As he thought of his wife and the children they’d raised,

The tears on his cheek softly glistened.

And now it was done, his dreams were all dreamt,

The hardship and toil all past,

As he closed his eyes for the very last time,

The first shadows of evening were cast.

By Loran Madson.