Blink and miss the action.

Photo by Jonathan Ybema on Unsplash


Wrapped in a fulsome fold

Photo by Kevin Brunet on Unsplash


Me, myself, and I — This is who I am

Photo by Enzo B on Unsplash


Into mysteries we both crave

Photo by Kourosh-Gaffari-Unsplash


The moon melts into butter.

Photo by Valery Sysoev on Unsplash


Bursting at the seams.

Photo by David Clode on Unsplash


A man who seldom asks.

Photo by Paul Einerhand on Unsplash

Out west in the Southern Tablelands
Near Black springs down Jerrong way
There lives a wild Rascacallion
Who most times gets his way?

In the wilds of the Abercrombie
He lives there in a shed
And be careful approaching from the west
Or he’ll fill you full of lead.

He’s a man who seldom asks
About your business, if caught trespassing
Regardless of if you’re blowing through
Or take too long when resting.

He’ll fill you full of holes
Till you resemble a useless sieve
Mostly blown apart
A moment lost you can’t relive.

So, beware of your hapless fossickers
Out there noodling for a buck
Cos if the Rascacallion catches you
You’ll be left fresh out of luck.

Some say he has a four ten
An antiquated shotgun, rifle
But you’ll jump out of your socks
Cos he couldn’t care a trifle.

So, beware Aussies and strangers
Don’t approach this rascacallion bloke
Cos he’ll catch you in his gun sights
And blow you up in smoke.

They say he’s hairy and unshaven
And has a wide uninterrupted view
And the rumor’s if he’s hungry
You’ll end up in his stew.

©

David Rudder
20th October 2021

Thanks for reading.


Seasons.

Photograph thanks to Julie Beasley.


And the talking parrot.

Photograph by author.

I once owned
A pesky parrot bird
Who remembered
Every word
Of what I’d said
Or shouted
At everything
It heard.

She sang brrr brrr
When the phone rang
Then listened
To what was said

Then repeated it

Until my face went red.

Whether right or wrong
The words lodged
In her head
She used to listen
To my wife
Who’d roll her eyes
And say
It’s her again
God save us
I wish
She’d go away.

It was
The dreaded
Mouther outlaw
And all the missus
Could moan
Was O I know
Then whispers get off
The bloody phone.

After a long call
That went on and on
The missus
Was exhausted
She reckoned for
What she’d undergone.

The parrot sat up
And cocked its head
Then said brrr brrr allo
And then it said
O no O no
I wish
The bishh
Wash ded.

We taught the parrot
To say hello
Then say
I know I know
And next time
The mouther outlaw phoned
We gave
The bird a go.

She rambled on
For hours and hours
And the parrot said
I know I know
And then as we’d
Taught it
Politely said
Now I’ve got to go.

We thought we’d solved the problem
The mouther outlaw
Could have her say
Yackety Yack, she never stopped
She blabbed
All night and day.

Now all of us are happy
The mouther outlaw
And parrot
In total delight
They’d babble
Senselessly all-day
And half the night.

This happy
State of affairs
Went on and on
Until one fateful day
When our talking bird
Fell off its perch
And slipped
Peacefully away.

We buried the poor bird
In the backyard
And dropped
The phone in there
As well
The bird went to paradise
The mouther outlaw
To hell.

©

David Rudder
19th October 2021

Thanks for reading.


Take wings and fly away.

Photograph thanks to Julie Beasley.

David Rudder

Top writer in Poetry. I am a diarist and write poetry to reflect my thoughts.

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