Days of the hard and dry (100 poems)

Dingo, homeA day wayback late winter, the old school yard was hard and dry. When at the time, that ole arbour day came drifting by. Spotted, Blue, and Lemon Scented, these young gumtrees ready to plant. We all helped to dig the holes, we students of a small school. Once the planting had all been done, the day it drifted on. Till school was out and us some volunteers, set about to trench for water reasons. The irrigation for the trees we planted, the water that they will need. The five or more of us of twelve years old, we came with mattocks, shovels, spades, and crowbars. It was sixty some plus metres, but for that, we didn’t mind. We started at a cracking pace, breaking through the hard ground on our way. The mattocks swung, the shovels cleared, the crowbars broke it up. We were like hooked in there for hours, as the pipe was laid and metres made, the ground it stood no chance. But for just the few last metres, we paused there for a moment. Our hands they felt like fire, the blisters torn and bloody. So with no time left to ponder, the last few metres fate. We struck up speed, we broke the ground, then hooked up to the line. Now the trees they have their water, we shook each others’ hands. For home we went to eat and sleep, and dream about tomorrow’s chances.

A true tale, a long day…

4 responses to “Days of the hard and dry (100 poems)

  1. Have you read any of Robert Service’s poems? I am not sure why I am reminded of him from this piece but I am. Maybe it is because of the use of your own lingo used in a story telling manner. Either way – I appreciate your style.
    I am afraid I am terrible at analysis and reviews; only recognising feelings 🙂

    • No, I have not read any of Robert Service’s work, but will take a look when I get the chance. I hope it did not sound too technical, you probably have different names for the terms I made use of for the tale. (The lingo of a yarn/tale.)
      I try to convey the emotion with in the story, rather than just bleeding the the feeling alone, as I recollect life and moments as stories.
      There is a part story, part recollection, part resolution poem, back near the beginning of this blog, titled, Veggies, tin and rosewood posts. The poem deals with a range of feelings, although it does not directly outline them, they dwell with in the words. The poem also does not follow a set format.
      Nothing to be afraid of, analysis and reviews by peers/others, are always worth hearing/reading. 🙂

      • An Englishman from Lancashire who immigrated to Canada and spent alot of time in the Yucon during the gold time – Here is a sample:

        Were you ever out in the Great Alone,
        When the moon was awful clear,
        And the icy mountains hemmed you in
        With a silence you most could HEAR;
        With only the howl of a timber wolf,
        And you camped there in the cold,
        A half-dead thing in a stark, dead world,
        Clean mad for the muck called gold;
        While high overhead, green, yellow and red,
        The North Lights swept in bars? —
        Then you’ve a haunch what the music meant . . .
        Hunger and night and the stars.

      • Thanks, Lesley. The Yukon is a wild place. I have heard some people say, difference experiences in life, can bring about alternative styles of story telling when searching for or finding, your own voice.

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