The young bulls are downright wild
And the ringers mighty tough And each brags with his mates How he’ll give the other enough. The ballsy males will clash When muster time is here And young bucks stir the dust To hide their very fear. Now in the muster yard The bulls and boys are penned For the locking of the horns That honour will defend. In the middle of the yard Is the altar to the battle Where man and beast and hormones Hang from the Bronco Panel. Upright and rigid built The Panel is where we win The locking of the horns And the cutting of the skin. The rope is thrown upon the beast And cinched to the middle rail The panel holds, the ringers cast him And grab him by the tail. Many a bone is broken Many a head is bust The bulls come off the worst When their balls land in the dust. The Bronco Panel. Dead Man’s Waterhole Yards, Ettadina Station, Coopers Creek. The Bronco Panel. Dead Man’s Waterhole Yards, Ettadina Station, Coopers Creek.
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They knew of the great turmoil
when the land was made and formed by the creatures cast in stone and star when the very sky was born. The lessons of countless fathers Are the legacy of this race that sighs and breathes and listens to the very essence of this place. The songs of a thousand years brought them face to face with songs of another people from a faraway distant place. These were born to bring the Lord to those in heathen despair with the weight of the wooden cross a lifetime’s burden to bear. Driven from their own ancient land By those of another god They were steeled with resolve and angst to lay their hands upon the sod. They carried their crosses across the sea and filled their wagons with needs on a mad journey to the inland sea to devote their life to deeds. Then the hot wind stirred the salt on the shores of a sometimes sea as two cultures from two different lands collided with fateful misery. The stars had hardly turned and the water came but once then the songs were silent and the spirits returned to rocks. Now on the shore of the sometimes sea lie bits of stained glass and crockery amongst the stone tool armoury and the bones of human history. Written at Lake Killapaninna on the Coopers Creek, near its mouth into Lake Eyre. Site of the ruins of Bethesda Lutheran Mission (1867-1917). The site is littered with stone tools, bits of coloured glass, and human remains (both Lutheran and Aboriginal). Through the whispering desert oaks
along the gun barrel grader tracks wheels are rolling beneath the metal that follows the Toyota dreaming cracks. The cracks in an ancient landscape weathered by modern time like crazy marks upon a plate that make their own pattern & line. And all along the thin red line lay the great dead beetles on their backs burnt-out markers of this time where two dreamings mark different tracks. One belongs to the very landscape is owned by mountain and tree ancient stories that guide the way to life and all that be. The other is an awkward line that shows on pretty charts and marks the course of modern man in search of glowing hearts Everywhere we drive in this land the roadside is scattered with upside-down, burnt-out wrecks of cars dating back to 1950s models. We have been told that it is traditional to burn the possessions of people as they die, and the same applies to cars. These ranges are spread widely and include substantial mountains. They sit upon a vast plain with occasional drainage lines. The plain is at an elevation of about 700 metres, and is a sparse but colourful garden & grassland. The peaks jump straight out of the plain, with rugged rocky architecture, some on a tilt. The rock is granite, stained red, and about 2000 million years old. The landscape is coloured by the rusty red soil. The plains are overlaid with a green and straw coloured lace, and the mountains with a blue haze. The end result of red mountains viewed through the blue haze is a vivid violet colour. Spectacular. In the time of modern desert stories
new nomads follow their wanderlust along a line of flashing mirrors cut by cunning in the dust. The hard and shining metal landscape of the bushy gibber plains reveals a stony glint after the recent washing rain. And in the desert garden beds where tough creatures make their home is a pretty picture painted on rusty reds that stand strong against the great blue dome. All the madness of modern man in this so-called empty space is revealed in shadows on the ground which hide an evil face. At ground zero the soil is littered with a black slag, glass-like and evil looking. I didn’t touch anything except with my boots. Left the area via Observation Hill where the British nobs stood and witnessed the fading glory of the Empire. In some fly-ridden, godforsaken, empty land no doubt. Fools be they. Lunch at the airstrip and then on to camp in a lovely red sandy glade amongst the desert plants and animals. |
Author"Words are clumsy pretenders of the images of my mind." Categories
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As a practicing artist I have travelled far and wide across Australia, walked on country, camped on country and rolled out my swag. I thank the custodians and I acknowledge the traditional owners of country throughout Australia and their continuing connection to land, culture and community. I pay my respect to Elders past and present.