Posts Tagged With: poetry

Travel Theme : Poetry…


What is this life if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

No time to stand beneath the boughs
And stare as long as sheep or cows.

cows jc 038_2993x2128
No time to see, when woods we pass,
Where squirrels hide their nuts in grass.

No time to see, in broad daylight,
Streams full of stars, like skies at night.

Mungo toBulahdelha to Elizabeth Beach 048_3072x2304


No time to turn at Beauty’s glance,
And watch her feet, how they can dance.

Would you like this dance?

Would you like this dance?


No time to wait till her mouth can
Enrich that smile her eyes began.

083 happy man

A poor life this if, full of care,
We have no time to stand and stare.

William Henry Davies


What a change of challenge Ailsa has given us this week, “interpret poetry”. I am not a poetry reader but I do have a few that linger in my mind from times way past. Here is a previous post I did of my all time favourite “horses of the Camargue” . A stirring tribute to the horse. But today I have chosen another favourite. I hope you enjoy my interpretation of it.

Categories: memories, photography, poetry, travel theme | Tags: , , | 18 Comments

Weekly Photo Challenge : Solitary : Bird

Raptor, can any one tell me what it is?

He clasps the crag with crooked hands;
Close to the sun in lonely
Ringed with the azure world, he stands.
The wrinkled sea beneath
him crawls;
He watches from his mountain walls,
And like a thunderbolt he
Alfred, Lord Tennyson


Categories: birds, photography, poetry, weekly photo challenge | Tags: , , , , , | 2 Comments

Weekly photo challenge : Purple

Purple Pub, Normanton

Purple Pub Normanton

This weeks theme for the photo challenge is “purple” and it immediately brought back memories of the trip around Australia. I asked Jack what his memory of purple was and he had no hesitation naming the Purple Pub in Normanton in the gulf country of Northern Queensland. It is very “in your face” big and bold in the middle of the main street. It invites you to go inside.

We stayed at the camp ground across the road and had a counter meal, it was fish and chips, OK but not as memorable as some we have had.

Even the seats are painted purple

Jack makes friends easily and he palled up with this mother and her son. Notice the BBQ table and window frames are also painted purple. Even the clothes every one is wearing is sort of purple…

Thoughts from an Aboriginal

This poem was pinned up on the wall in the pub. How true it is. Even mentions purple…

Categories: memories, photography, poetry, purple, weekly photo challenge | Tags: , , , , | Leave a comment

A life long passion for horses

The white horses of the ocean with spray whipped mane

This week our normally placid ocean was whipped into a fury by a deep low just off the coast. The 5 metre waves roared and foamed with the wind whipping the spray off the top and throwing it back in huge plumes. It was an awesome sight and crowds of people stood watching this example of natures fury unleashed. I did a post about it on my Gypsy life blog (click here to go to it)

Laying in bed that night thinking of the ocean brought back memories of a favourite poem, “Horses on the Camargue”. Next day I sorted through all my boxes and folders of memorabilia and found it. It was still as moving and evocative for me as it was when I was a teenager.

Reading it my mind travelled back over the years to when I was a horse-mad girl, my life revolved around horses. My earliest horse memories were of the delivery men, in the 1940’s and 50’s they all had horse and carts. The coal-man came round once a month with a huge Clydesdale pulling his heavy coal waggon. He would hoist me onto the horses back. I was about six years old at the time, and I felt on top of the world, with legs stretched almost to their limit, as they straddled the warm, smooth back of this giant. We would trundle to the end of my street where he would lift me down and I would run home. Once a week the vegs came laid out on a cart pulled by Kitty a gentle, chubby piebald. As I grew older I would go back to the stables to help groom and feed Kitty. Every so often the rag and bone man came by, ringing a bell and with his distinctive cry “Any old bones, bring them out now” I never really got to know his pony as he didn’t stop unless some one hailed him. I always felt sorry for his small, black undernourished pony with a tangled mane and tail that I longed to brush. The pony every one avoided was the ice-cream mans bad-tempered grey. He would park at the school gate on hot days and his pony would stand with ears back and snap viciously at any one that came close.

My father was a keen gardener, as were many others along the street, and they all had their bucket and shovel at the ready and it was a race to collect the free manure if lucky enough to have it deposited out side your gate.

How times have changed, no horses on the street now. But home deliveries are becoming a growth area in Australia, with the advent of on-line shopping, groceries are now dropped off at your door, but faster delivery times are needed than would be possible with a horse and cart. Life moves so fast in this computer age.

I was a city girl living in an environment like Coronation Street, but longed for country life and a horse of my own. So as a young child my constant companion was Thunder, my imaginary horse. Gleaming black coat with a white blaze. I would call him to me each morning and mounting him, would canter off to school. I ran everywhere back then…

As I grew up horses were always part of my life. At age 12 I found a horse breeding farm not far from home and hung around till the owner eventually gave me a job helping muck out, feed and groom his many horses. That is a long story and would need to be a book, not a blog post to tell the story.

So all these memories of horses were triggered by the ocean, which in turn reminded me of a poem. The mind can work in a strange way of associations.

So here is the poem. I wonder if it will bring pictures to your mind and feelings of the grandeur of the horse in all its glory.

Horses on the Camargue

In the grey wastes of the dread,

 The haunt of shattered gulls where nothing moves

But in a shroud of silence like the dead,

I heard a sudden harmony of hooves,

And, turning, saw afar

A hundred snowy horses unconfined,

The silver runaways of Neptune’s car

Racing, spray curled like waves before the wind.

Sons of the Mistral, fleet

As him with those strong gusts they love to flee,

Who shod the flying thunders on their feet

And plumed them with the snortings of the sea;

Theirs is no earthly breed

Who only haunt the verges of the earth

And only on the sea’s salt herbage feed–

Surely the great white breakers gave them birth

For when for years a slave,

A horse of the Camargue, in alien lands,

Should catch some far off fragrance of the wave

Carried far in land from his native sands,

Many have told the tale

Of how in fury, foaming at the rein,

He hurls his rider; and with lifted tail,

With coal-red eyes and cateracting mane,

Heading his course for home,

Though sixty foreign leagues before him sweep,

Will never rest till he breathes the foam

And hears the native thunder of the deep.

But when the great gusts rise

And lash their anger on these arid coasts,

When the scared gulls career with mournful cries

And whirl across the waste like driven ghosts:

When hail and fire converge,

The only souls to which they strike no pain

Are the white crested fillies of the surge

And the white horses of the windy plain.

Then in their strength and pride

The stallions of the wilderness rejoice;

They feel their Master’s trident in their side,

And high and shrill they answer to his voice.

With white tails smoking free,

Long streaming manes, and arching necks, they show

Their kinship to their sisters of the sea–

And forward hurl their thunderbolts of snow.

Still out of hardship bred,

Spirits of power and beauty and delight

Have ever on such frugal pastures fed

And loved to course with tempests through the night.

Roy Campbell

Categories: horses, memories, photography, poetry | Tags: , , , | 3 Comments

Memories of an English Rose

This rose was photographed in the Adelaide botanic gardens 2005

The rose, to me, brings back memories of my childhood, and England. My Father was a great gardener and he filled our small suburban garden with roses, lilac, columbines, and many other flowering annuals. I spent many hours helping him as we weeded, pruned, admired and smelt the roses. He also had a hothouse for growing chrysanthemums and tomatoes. As a child to sneak into that warm,cosy haven and sit on the dusty floor surrounded by the earthy, distinctive aroma of the tomatoes and to carefully choose and pick one that was perfectly ripe and eat it as I sat there was close to heaven. The rest of the vegs came from the allotment plot. This was a 15 minute bike ride away. I can’t remember how many plots were in that section but I loved going with my Dad to check how all the vegs were growing and also check out all the neighbours plots.

To this day I am passionate about gardening. Time passes so quickly when you walk round your garden, just for a look, pull one weed, that leads to another. Before you know it two to three hours have happily slipped by…

A small burst of sun-light

An English Rose

Give me an English rose

and you can keep your vaults of gold.

Give me a rose that I can watch it’s dew wet heart unfold.

Keep the treasures of the world

but leave me this one bliss,

where on earth could you surpass a pleasure such as this?

Patience Strong…

This lovely verse was on a birthday card that I received from my Aunt Zena many years ago, but carefully kept in my box of memories.

My heart is like a red, red rose….



Categories: memories, photography, poetry, quotes, roses | Tags: , , , , | 8 Comments

Beautiful Aussie birds

Lorrikeets in the rain sheltering on my front deck

Feeding time at Fleays wild life centre on the Gold Coast


Aussie birds are so vibrant in colour and also in personality. The lorikeet is loud, raucous and pushy but I love them.Right along the Burleigh beach front there are many Norfolk Pines and each evening on dusk thousands of lorikeets descend on them to roost for the night. It is known as a “rookery”. The noise of them all squawking and arguing over the best positions is deafening. You must be very careful not to walk under the trees…

If you were a bird and lived on high,

you’d lean on the wind when the wind came by,

you’d say to the wind when it took you away:

“That’s where I wanted to go today”.

Where am I going? I don’t quite know.

What does it matter where people go?

Down to the woods where the blue-bells grow–

Anywhere, anywhere I don’t know.

A.A. Milne “Spring Morning”

Categories: birds, lorikeet, photography, poetry | Tags: , , , | Leave a comment

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