A folder in which to store some old poems written before 2003 |
An outlaw bushranger's declaration from the other side Roused from my slumber, I still rumble, “Such is LIFE!” my rage spawned with warnings, through beastly passions, wrapped inside my Irish heart. Repression’s counterpart, hiding in the bush, against ill-treatment and neglect, is free-man’s battle; yet, I digress. The struggle for survival, all it took to fight with the Chinese Ah Fook, to be marked by pigs, those Australian prigs. For three times the earth orbited the sun, hard labor; though noted by none, the robbery of a horse set me on an endurance course. Indecent behavior, my foot! Tiny trespass, yes, I confess, but against whose laws? Divine order is just, for we must share, if we cannot spare. My presence silenced the Constable, as two banks got cleaned out, Euroa, Jerilderie. On the news, simple folks along the bush made merry in dance and booze. To me this was such a hoot, to this day Australian Brinks is still looking for the loot. But, when on my head big money was post, Ned Kelly got double-crossed. My family dressed in steel, alone, ambushed in Hotel Glenrowan; an inferno’s breach of humanity set inside hearts of stone; I still roil for I hear them broil. Twenty-eight bullets in my body, I stared at the Old Melbourne Goal, on the gallows, as I hanged, my mama’s words all came back “Mind you die like a Kelly, Ned.” Given my last rites at twenty-five, a Robin Hood of the bush, I still object from online sites, against deeds unconscionable, to people of my breed. I daresay, came the day in the highest court of all, I’ve met finally that forgotten Judge Barry; so to boast, I said, "My effects, in perfect state, are in the Tate Gallery. ------------------------------------------------------ Ned Kelly was an outlaw, an anti-authoritarian Australian icon. After his death by hanging at twenty-five, he was made into an idol by the oppressed carefree bush-survivors. His last words were "Such is life!" |