Year of the Dog

Well, we blundered and blustered our way through 2011 and have just come out the other end hoping for no more shaky ground, radioactive vegetables or products spelt with 'K' to signify Kardashian entrapment.

Most of all, in Australia, we hoofed it on home on the back of another K: A red cloud kelpie named Koko who's not only become super hero of the north west of WA, but a symbol of all things Aussie and quintessentially huggable.

So, for a final wrap of the year that was, I offer with much spit and dribble and the best take on Julia Gillard's strine I can possibly muster, a 2011 foray into the year's insanity, as heard across Australia on ABC Local Radio's national New Year's Eve broadcast with Scott Lamond.

YEAR OF THE DOG

Snow in the desert

No matter how many times I tell my three year old that the Pilbara is only likely to get snow during the next ice age, or in a parallel universe, or when the proverbial freezes over, she continues to ask when it’s going to arrive.

Maybe you’ve got the answer. I mean, if you're going to live in a desert which does a good job of flowing with money, palm trees which gather flies and eggs which fry themselves on the road, then why not snow as well? 


It's the Pilbara. Anything's bloody possible!

Frosty

Whatdya mean Karratha?

Or…grrr… not Newman too?!

Not getting’ me to Panna

Or Para-what? Paraburdoo!

Get stuffed, have to pay me,

An awful lot for sure,

Cause you’re not getting me to Wickham

Or Samson or Roebourne, what’s more.

I’m on the tightest schedule,

You know I am the man?

I’m sure that you do realise

That heat’s not in my plan.

So nup. That’s a no to Hedo.

A no to Port South.

A no to outback Warralong

And Jigalong – read my mouth!

So… that’s what happened at Christmas,

When Santa outsourced himself

And subcontracted all his talents,

Reindeer, wife and elf.

You see, he’d had a big night out

At an early Christmas party

And done his back with a big fair whack

And boompf! Weren’t feeling hearty.

“I do not want to give this up,

My duty to mankind,

But alas, I’ve sent out forms for

Application, if you mind.”

Just like one bloke he’d wrangled

For, well, double the overtime rates -

A friend of a cousin who had a friend

Who was friends with someone’s mate,

So, the north west heat of WA

Got stuck with a bloke named Frosty

Who was, funnily enough, with a carrot nose stuck

And in scarves looked rather bossy

I know, a snowman really sucks

For delivering to the desert

So up in the greatest north north west

They prayed for, (what else?) a blizzard.

And lordy be on Christmas Eve

With Santa workers compo

The god or gods or angels or stars

Must have thought they’d just gone bonkers, 

that 30 000 hot sweaty folk

Who all loved cyclones and sun

Were still praying hard on the 24^th

For a fierce snow storm to come.

And lo and behold on Christmas Day

It was snowing in the Pilbara skies

And Frosty did his job for Santa Claus

And we all ate hot mince pies. 

National release of "Red Dog" film sparks sneaky return of the legend

This week, the Pilbara had a bit of a coup. To the lovely Jess Mauboy, that's not coup as in cow-p or coop as in chickens or coop as in scoop. Even though it is a scoop. A lovely one at that. I hear the doves coo (as in coup). It was a national movie premiere, no less. Perhaps our debut. (The one which rhymes with coup, not mutt).

Speaking of mutts, that's where all these seemingly random literary segues are headed. To Red Dog.
He's a famous woofer in these parts. Liked to roam about the Pilbara between Paraburdoo and Dampier several decades ago. Today in Dampier, his statue stands proudly. The only way history could stop him disappearing into the ether of history forever.
Many people have stories about Red up here. Some knew him. Some fed him. Some knew someone who knew someone who knew him. And everyone else who didn't grabbed a role as an extra in the film so they missed out neither on history nor hobnobbing.
When the film premiered recently in the beautiful amphitheatre of the Walkington Theatre in Karratha, the town went off and Kleenex bought shares in the Shire of Roebourne.

Koko - star of "Red Dog" on location in Dampier, WA,
with Courtney Bertling, 2010

I like to imagine that Red Dog is still alive. He's out there wandering, looking for a bit of Chum and the odd truck ride to Port Hedland. And he quite likes the look of himself in the movies.

Woof and you’ll miss him

Who, oh who, let the dog out?
Who oh who? What’s more,
he’s been gone about a week,
he’ll be dripping down his cheek
gettin’ honks from hooning road trains by the score.

Someone out there yells, “Got ‘im!”
And the locals gather round ‘im to be fussy.
But he’s rather too polite,
floppy ears and hair’s not right
and it turns out we’ve been duped - it’s bloody Lassie.

Far oh far away in outer space,
even there the martians think they’re right.
And we reckon, finally, righto,
but they’ve mucked it too, that’s Pluto!
So they speed off green, embarrassed, into night.

That dog, oh dog gone it, he’s just vanished
and everyone is feeling rather goofy.
It’s a dog’s life for our Red
and we’d like to go to bed,
but we cannot help but being that bit snoopy

Red Dog? Nope. Doopa.

“There he is, all fluffy!” yells some kiddie,

wand’ring about Hedland last weekend.

But that kid’s in some blind fog

‘cause he’s sniffed down Doopa dog.

Must have overdone the fairyfloss again.

Some Paraburdoobian hears Elvis,

sniffs a hint and gets right on the scent.

But it’s Hound Dog on the radio,

not our Red, just yodeladio.

Our man eats a dagwood dog quite sad and spent.

Suddenly, a call comes from Snake Gully,

a Pilbara traveller’s seen a tucker box

But the dog that she has found

is glued on, not trotting round

and, embarrassed, she just sinks into her socks.

Finally, the word comes from Fremantle,

a red dog standing proud, now that’s our lingo.

Biggest dog you ever saw

looking out to Rotto’s shore

and we smile, realising then…the flour dingo.

So here we sit in Dampier just wondering…

enigma of the roads, where might he be?

For he never ever failed

to stop all chasing his tail

and he never ceased being stuff of legend, see.

Meanwhile, there’s a movie on in Karratha.

Lights down and all eyes agog.

“They made that film right here,”

whispers someone in the rear

and behind him, sitting quiet…shhh

                                                    …Red Dog.

I'd love to have a tea with Jackman

In the two days leading up to April this year, I was beside myself. Well, I wish I had been beside myself so the self who was beside me could stay at home in Port Hedland whilst the other 'I' was freed up to tootle down the road to Karratha for a BFAT (A Bloody Freaking Awesome Thing).

You see, Hugh Jackman's publicist had liaised with the West Australian tourist industry to secure him a beach, for one day only, outside Karratha, called Hearson's Cove. The purpose? Why, to film the next in his series of extraordinarily delicious Lipton Iced Tea advertisements.

I thought the proposition ideal. The beach is a long, shelly stretch in a wide bay. The sun is imminently blue. The sea (when it is there, as opposed to when it is out two kilometers, according to local tides) is persistently warm.

Thus, when it came to the Friday morning of his ad. shoot at the commencement of April, all Karratha was abuzz and abussing its way out to this beach. Yet I was more despondent than a Britney fan who'd thought they were going to get live Spears for their splash of cash. And the only way I could cope was by going shopping. First, it was to the homewares store in Port Hedland where I spent over $100 on several items I absolutely did not need. Then I did the grocery shopping, spending $437 on food, drink, vegies and random homebrand appliances. An interesting venture given that I'd just done that week's grocery shopping the morning before.

By lunchtime, having ached my way through the morning, eaten four hot cross buns, crunched up a packet of triple choc biscuits, slurped a bucket of icecream, masticated several bags of chips and drunk six mugs of Lipton Tea, I had nothing left to do but write this poem.

Hugh and Cry


Not lying, I’m crying,
upon the floor I’m dying
and thinking, stop blinking,
mascara splodges inking
my face which is blotchy
and dribbly, blubbery, splotchy.
I’m sitting with icecream,
a bucket, topped with whipped cream.

My spoon I am slurping,
the wine’s made me start burping,
the Tim Tams are crumbs now
with me slumped in my pow wow,
crosslegged and moaning,
‘Oh woe is me,’ I’m groaning.
The morning, a heartbreak,
I’ve made a dreadful mistake.

Why did not I jump on
that bus and get a move on
from Hedland southwest where
Karratha had its coup there?
Hugh Jackman, oh heck, man,
he’s there today, so why am
I sitting here dribbly,
my guts all wobbly wibbly?

To Hearson’s he travelled,
his secrets to unravel
of dancing, so sexy,
with looks which do perplex me.
And right now, he’s sipping
his Lipton’s tea and dripping,
no doubt with his shirt off…
Oh I am such a nuff nuff.

I’m foolish, schoolgirlish,
and somewhat maybe churlish.
Oh bottom! It’s not fair!
OH WHY AM I NOW NOT THERE?!
So here now in Hedland,
my head and heart in bedlam,
I’ll sit here without cheer
for hours with a sore rear.

The phone rings, it bring brings
at midday and this voice sings:
‘How funny! How stupid?
Can you believe they took it?!
To think that they bought how
Hugh Jackman would be here now
and dancing and singing
down on the beach, hearts ringing.”

I listened, I shivered,
my bottom lip it quivered.
I blushed in the hush and
tried simply to be offhand:
‘Indeed yes, how crazy!
Who’d be sucked in so hazy?
Hugh Jackman, oh haha,
come up to see Karratha.’

And quickly, quite sickly,
I said goodbye all prickly.
And looked all around me;
my purchases astound me.
In woe I’d gone shopping,
the credit card hot hopping.
And that makes me coolish –
FIRST PRIZE Ms April Foolish!



Copyright Elise Batchelor 1st April 2011

Bubble wrap or bust!

When I first moved from Melbourne to the Pilbara several years ago, it was, as many stories up here go, completely by accident. We were in a four wheel drive. Travelling around Oz with life compacted within the confines of a Nissan Patrol. And it was oh so very, very simple. We ran out of money at Exmouth. Well, everything bar $20 for fuel to get us five hours up the road.

In Karratha, we found a house (or my husband's employer did, as is also, necessarily, the way of things in a region which, whilst responsible for the country's booming economy, is brutally expensive to rent in.) And we shipped over our boxes.

All 78 of them.

Plus furniture.

Plus this funny thing which looked like either a ginger crusher or a guinea pig torture chamber. Still not sure.

Plus dust.

Plus. Plus. Plus.

And the mountain which was stacked up before us in our ever so fragile loungeroom ached like all the last straws in the world had been placed on its peak.

It didn't collapse under the pressure.

But I almost did. And to this day, I wonder how it is we so quickly move from the simplicity of a few boxed items of necessity to a hoarder's paradise. And still believe we'll need everything...sometime.

In the meantime, we've just moved again. I now call Port Hedland home and have been boxing and unboxing my life once again. Andrew Collins from ABC North West is also doing the same with his wife Melissa and little Pilbara baby Saffron as we speak.

Their motto is 'Bubble wrap or bust!'

So, to all of you who have ever moved and found the movement a less than moving experience, here's a little joy. And maybe a message of hope too: You'll never be alone in the experience. We've all lost the plot over it before. Don't you worry about that!


Packing It


As the ultimately anally and
organised type,
she would not believe the press
and he would not believe the hype
that to get somebody in to do the
packing was all right.
He said, “Nope, cannot afford it.”
She said, “Do it in a night.”

So the challenge it was on and they were
ready, set pack,
with the microwave unplugged
and all the crockery unstacked
And all the knives and forks and spoons
and what the Lordy be is that?
“It’s a garlic crusher, darling.”
“Oh,” he mused, “not a…rat trap?”

“How ‘bout,” she said with sense,
“we chuck the kids’ toys all in here,”
as he packing taped the boxes
and forgot to drink his beer
and so in went lights and buzzers,
teacups pink and teapots clear,
every truck and train and block,
every thing which pings the ear.

Every mobile phone for babies,
every wind up singing car,
each and every tambourine, and drum
and battery powered guitar,
all the toys which ding and tinkle,
all the franchised kiddy stars,
“Can’t we give it to the Salvo’s
and not cart it near and far?”

“Sorry darling, no,” she frowned,
although she’d wondered just the same.
It is all just part and parcel of the
pack and movem game,
as he lugged another bloated box
to sit beside the frame
of the portrait posed and four foot wide,
smiles pinched and rather lame.

And they boxed up every cable,
five remotes from one tv.
He felt ripped and fully able,
she thought are we off our tree?
But the deed it needed doing
and between just you and me
with Bon Jovi in the background,
it was quite a sight to see.

And they had a kiss at four am
both sweating like drowned flies,
sorting uniforms from dress ups,
chucking out last year’s mince pies,
taping box on box on box with cheekbones
fierce and rippling thighs,
“How about a break my darling?”
giving her his cheeky eyes.

“Hardy har,” she pulled a face and fiercely
onwards they did scramble
with a mission of precision all their
pots and pans to handle,
every match and dust collector,
every teapot trinket candle,
every dress and shirt and belt
and every thong, ugg boot and sandal,

every cute thing, wrapped in bubbles,
every CD stacked and packed,
here a loose spoon off the table,
there a stray coathanger whacked,
‘til the sun was dawning yawning
and the next door’s chicken clacked,
but unlike its single egg neither our two
had actually…cracked.

“Ta dah!” he put his arm about her,
wiping off his sweat.
“We are legends, superstars;
more to the point, we’re done!” You bet.
And they stood amongst the silence
of the boxes’ towering threat
as amidst the great brown castle
sounded something like regret…

Bok-ekkkk. Bok-ekkkk!

And their looks were stunted horror
as the sound screeched from the ground
and they quick began to wonder
where this sound might well be found.
In amidst the thousand boxes,
deep within it did resound
and he heard her swear prolific
as his blood thumped round and round.

Was it Joseph’s wind up truck,
or was it Rosie’s fluffy chook?
Was it Elly’s dancing Tinkerbell
or Max’s talking book?
Could it be right near the top?
Could they take the merest look?
No, that sound came from the depths,
depths of despair and they both shook.

Bok-ekkkk. Bok-ekkk!

And the answer? It was simple:
They must unpack every box,
every stupid household item,
every jewel and single sock,
every shell and vase and ruddy muddy
gumboot, every jock.
as it showed, that torment on her face,
before he’d thrown a rock…

Bok-ekkkkk. Bok- Ekkkk!

Two hours on and all their work undone
the thing still rang on aloud
She was crying, he was chucking stuff,
but nowhere to be found
was the voice of greatest torment,
ringing out and all around
and they sat amidst debris
with everything just come to ground.

Bok-ekkk. Bok-ekk!

Then she heard it. There it was and there she
found the microwave,
sitting all alone behind the rubble,
unboxed barricade
and she opened it to find it
and to end this mad charade -
her egg timer - clucking chicken -
done its time and on parade.

Bok-ekkk. Bok-ekkkk!

And the husband and his wife,
with exhaustion and great thirst,
took a lesson from this moment
before into tears both burst,
that when packing and upstacking
when that moving time’s the worst
is quite easily and simply…

take the batteries out first.


Bok-ekkkkkk!

©Elise Batchelor February 2011

Children's Book Week bonanza!

This week I had the rambunctious pleasure of performing a few of my poems (with a kiddy slant) for children in Karratha visiting the library for National Children's Book Week. I'm popping this collection up together in case you too have children or the desire to read about ironorasauruses, piddling puppies, sunburnt armpits or pearls accidentally flushed down the loo.

Oh, and an ever so gentle warning that if you come across things like what happened to Van Gogh's ear, Cold Chisel and novocaine, or the difference between cleanin' and shaggin' in a car, you can either explain it, ignore it, or deflect it!

Happy reading! Go on, a bit of nonsense is good for the soul. :)



My Backside - how to get burnt in orrible orrifices.
Into the Sunset - a long drive to Broome and flying snot
Captain Roast and Custard - sailing through the high seas of peas, gravy and peaches
In the Olden Days (when there were dinosaurs) Last millennium, last year or yesterday...
Little Big Dwiving Dweams - Dweam cars as pondered by prepubescents
Wally's First Day at School - of dogs and wee and strange loyalties

Thanks to Dorothea Mackellar for her famous Aussie poem, ‘My Country’.

My Backside

I love a sunburnt backside
its dimpled, charred remains
its ripping raw sensations
and tender skin tight pains.
I love it when it wizens
and I can’t sit to wee
the blistered, chafing terror
that burnt red bum on me!

I love my sunburnt foot soles
when I can’t walk or stand
or even hop from foot to foot
especially on hot sand.
I love it when the heels singe
and I need aloe vera
when nothing but those frozen peas
could be to me more dear…er

I love my sunburnt ears
(I thought I’d put on cream?)
they stick out like red Pringles
and make me want to scream.
I love it when I shower and
the water burns non-stop
just like Van Gogh I wish I had
a knife so I could chop.

I love my sunburnt armpits
I don’t know what’s with that
I had my arms down when I swam
and on the beach, lay flat.
But somehow all that sunshine
it burnt my pits with passion
and now I walk, my arms stuck out,
I’m calling it a fashion.

Core of my head, my scalp,
its scorching is untold
a roaring-red smoked salmon
a sizzling fireball scald.
I love the way I feel as if
I’ve been electrocuted
and that my brains have sizzled too
is one fact undisputed

I love my sunburnt palms…
Come on, give me a break!
I used them to put on my cream
Burnt hands?! For goodness sake!
They feel like they’ve been ironed or
just left on the equator.
They look as if I’ve taken to them
with a carrot grater.

I love my sunburnt eyelids
they’ll keep me wide awake
they feel as if I’ve shredded them
with my blunt garden rake.
I love the way they will not move
that sun, it really fries
now I can neither blink nor wink
I cannot shut my eyes!

I love a sunburnt backside
and foot soles red and raw
and ears which burn to blisters
and armpits charred and sore.
I love a scalp that’s cindered
and palms – now that’s absurd
I love a pair of eyelids fried
and just one final word…

I love the beach in summer
I love the Aussie heat
I love to stay outdoors all day
and swim and bathe a treat.
But now that I’ve been sunburnt like
a terracotta brick
I’ll use my thirty plus instead of
board wax lathered thick.
 

And now, to a poem about getting TO the holiday (with the mandatory vomits, references to cows, poo, wee and the occasional flushed Broome pearl).


Into the Sunset
(A postcard to the far north)

Dearest, greatest Grannie, I’m writing this from Broome.
I’ve got so much to tell you so I hope I can make room.
It’s been a big adventure with such awesome things to see
and I reckon at least dad would abso-lute-ly agree.

It’s a long drive from the Pilbara - much longer than your hair -
and the sky’s rinsed blue, just like yours too, but grey streak free, to be fair.
We kids sat in the back seat and sang songs the entire way,
‘cause mum, she broke the stereo (she swore a bit that day).

I sang ‘Baa Baa Black Sheep’, a thousand times in rounds,
with ‘Twinkle Star’ and the ‘ABC’ - should hear how sick they sound!
And funnily enough (although don’t reckon mum thinks so)
they have the same tune. Wicked, hey? And over and over we’d go.

Then when we all got wearisome, my dad put up his hand
to sing our favourite lullaby, a song he calls ‘Khe Sanh’.
I will admit quite frankly that it made mum look more strained
‘cause it woke us up, but I loved it. Grannie, what is novocaine?

We stopped at a place called Pardoo. Wow, what a groovy word!
It sort of rhymes with cow poo (Mum says I can’t say turd.)
Pardoo it was awesome. There’s grass to run about,
with dad still singing Khe Sanh and Mum giving him a clout.

And then we stopped at Sandfire. The whole thing had burnt down.
Don’t ask when it will be rebuilt, they’ll whimper, sigh and frown.
But Sandfire it’s just awesome, with peacocks running wild.
I offered them my icecream, but my mum yelled, ‘Stop that child!’

I don’t know what’s the problem; she says that sharing’s good
and on a hot day I can’t think of better peacock food.
The whole day it took ages. My sister puked. A LOT.
Three times on the carpet and once on the window, SPLOT!

And one which was quite green you know, projectile stuff no less,
when mum was in the driver’s seat, it made a brilliant mess
all over mum’s new hairdo. She winced, but didn’t scream
and kept on driving…Grannie, what does persecution mean?

So that was just the drive up. I’m running out of space.
But the whole week has been fabbo. It fully rocks, this place.
We’ve been to Cable Beach each day, made castles in the sand
and traipsed them through the unit. What’s exasperation, Gran?

Last night we went to dinner and watched sunset with a breeze.
I think mum said at least six times, ‘Another cocktail, please’.
I don’t know why, I’m sure, I thought she’d be preoccupied
with cleaning up the mess of chicken curry sauce which flies

quite quickly through a drink straw if you give it enough force,
unless you get some rice stuck, which inhibits you, of course.
I’m really getting tight for space. I better wind things up
and tell you about Chinatown, the pearls dad bought mum. Nup.

On second thoughts, I’d better not because, well, you know loos.
They tend to flush things down for good. Yep, ones…and pearls…and twos.
I told mum I was sorry. I told dad I would pay.
He said he’d send me down the mines and that I’d better pray

to the highest, farthest skies for that most sinful, bad ablution.
I’m stuck on this one, Grannie, too, what is self flagellation?
Mum, she called for timeout, to have a bit of peace
and dad he let us sing ‘Khe Sanh’ and eat hot chips with grease.

Mum she rode a camel to the sunset, wild and free
and when she’d done that, came back home and cooked us all s’getti.
My time is up. I’ve done my dash. One postcard’s not enough.
Mum says she’ll hand deliver it and I’ve just called her… bluff?

So in the nearest future Gran, expect your daughter home
and just one final question, you get snow in Greenland, no?

A little something to remind us how fabulous our imaginations are. And there’s plenty of onomatopoeia in this one, which I love - words which imitate the sound or actions they refer to, like slurp, slosh, thump and clonk!


Captain Roast and Custard

He picked a paddle up and ploughed through
wild pulsating seas
of gravy lapping round the chicken,
nudging floating peas.
He rowed, a mighty sailing man;
he fought the pumpkin tide,
cascading, bumping, chunky thumping,
taken in his stride.

He stabbed the mighty army built of
string beans slapped together,
separating one from t’other;
fierce work in this weather.
His ship he kept it undulating,
crashing through sharp peaks
of blister bursting hot potatoes,
white hot crispy cheeks.

He wound his way through rounded buoys
all orange luminous,
guiding smooth his paddles through these
carrot markers thus.
He launched himself upon the turnip,
pummelling it down.
He kicked gargantuan Brussels sprouts
and mashed them with a frown.

This mighty vegie ocean was a force
which to him beckoned.
Yet here was he, the captain grand,
and wicked cool, he reckoned.
And when he’d licked the lastest slurp
of gravy from the shore,
he peered up to his mum and dad
and begged, ‘Can I have more?’

But they were busy, both of them,
caught in some reverie.
So he was stuck, this captain,
on an empty plate of sea.
His dad was itemising peas,
and commandeering staff,
arranging them in munches,
united on one path.

His mum was planning jogging routes
for local parks and streets,
dividing and reorganising
paths of roasted beets.
And then there was his sister,
chatting amidst roars
to green broad beans and chicken chunks,
soon gobbled dinosaurs.

And so he sat there watching as
a captain does the ocean,
staring at his family, these
stories all in motion.
And when the four of them were done,
with every plate licked shiny,
he knew that if main course was fun,
then next, dessert? Cor blimey!

And sure enough his custard pools were
giant water slides,
his sister bathed her pears and sent them
off to beddy-byes.
His dad inspired employees all
with zippy slurpy sounds.
His mum inspired the whole electorate
handing peaches round.

Or maybe he invented this?
Maybe they just ate?
But maybe, maybe, maybe,
maybe, wouldn’t it be great,
if all this stuff was going on
instead of simply dinner
and they were all on grand adventures...
What a total winner!

Oh well, he thought, maybe just me,
I’m Captain Roast and Custard
and maybe they would laugh at me
and I would be quite busted.
Yet as his Dad told a bedtime story
‘bout a boss called ‘Thunder’
who led his tribe through wilderness
the boy, he thought, I wonder...?

Whenever my family and I take long drives, we see who can invent the quirkiest dinosaur names. There’s nothing like wordplay and punning to inspire invention and imagination. My favourite’s definitely the ironorasaurous. Yours?

In the Olden Days (when there were dinosaurs)

She’s sitting with her block tower
and buildings, shops and parks
and I asked her more on her design -
this plastic landscape art.

‘It’s Karratha in the olden days,
a long, long time ago,
last year, when there were dinosaurs’
(She’s four, so she should know).

And so, we two got talking of
which dinosaurs these were
and out spewed forth a litany
which soon became a blur.

Well, first, the saltosaurus
spraying salt into the air
and then myfeetarsaurus,
sick of walking everywhere.

Then there was the longest one
which wound through Pilbara miles;
Its name was ironorasaurus,
munching huge dirt piles.

It was from a larger group
who roamed the land to dig,
‘explorasauruses’ they were
with jaws and teeth quite big.

There was the one who tried to run
away from school and hide,
busted by the teachasaurus;
that dinted its pride.

The one who went out fishing on his
boat where hot sun passes.
His name it was eyesorous
and he should have worn sunglasses

Then there was that funny one,
liked hanging down from trees -
upsidedownasaurus
really not good for the knees.

He played with mates down in the park
upon their friend, that’s right
young Seesaurus sprang up and down,
liked giving them a fright.

And then they’d take their bikes and boards
to that new ramp in town
and hang out with skateboardasaurus,
whizzing up and down.

Always so much stuff to do
until each dinner time,
like playing hide and seek
‘til mummysaurus every time.

The toddler dinosaurs did not like
trundling off to bed.
‘onemoreasauruses, they all liked
story time instead.

In the night they’d listen to the
loudest dinosaur -
a daddy snorasaurus,
nostrils flaring through the floor.

Both day and night beasts flew about
and landed near the bay
with tails of red and white they flew
in Soarasaurus play

Some dinosaurs you’d say were always
questioning their parents.
Defiant, the whatforausour?
just whined in gushing torrents.

Meanwhile, those arty dinosaurs
in Cossack had much flair.
Decorasauruses they painted
pictures everywhere.

Dinosaurs with swine flu said
‘the doctorsaurus saw us’,
but whinging ones were banished off to the
ignorasaurus.

There also was a bunch who loved
that metal music, LOUD!
They were called hardcorasauruses,
a crazy crowd.

Of course, there was a tamer group of
singing dinosaurs -
the dinosauruschorus loved to
dabble with old scores.

Well darling, I retrieved her from her
Lengthy explanation,
Karratha in the olden days
seemed a dinosaur’s vacation.

Where did you ever get these names?
These beasts from olden day?
I thought kids aged just four liked having
tea parties? No way!

The little girl just pierced me with
the wisdom of old eyes
and pulled out my most treasured book
so old and very wise.

Mummy, here, your dinosaur,
the book with all their names.
I read its cover carefully,
‘Thesaurus’…that explains.

We all like a new car. Or maybe any car for that matter. My dream car is still a 1989 Corolla Seca. Ahh...one day. If you're going to dream, dream LARGE!

Little Big Dwiving Dweams

Earnest

When me grows up me wants to dwive
a firetwuck what’s wed
wif a honking horn and the hugest hose
to spway my garden shed.
I’ll polish it wif turtles and the
wax you get fwom them.
I don’t know where they keep their wax
but I’ll just have to ask ‘em.


Tweedle

When I gwow up oi’d lok to droive
a mini mowwis minor
because I’m small (I’m only foive)
there would be nofing foiner.
Oi’d wiz awound the park outsoide
my house and do some donuts
and coz’ I’m small oi’d hoide behoind the
wheel fwom all the gwowups


Uppity

When I’m a big girl I will drive
a soft top black Mercedes
and I won’t pick my nose at all,
just poke it up at ladies.
I’ll drive it to my boyfriend’s house,
but, hang on, boys are yucky,
so, no, I’ll drive right past him
and I’ll splash him if I’m lucky.


Thugger

When I grow up I’m gonna buy
a big old station wagon
just like me Dad who said they are
the bestest ones to shaggin.
is shaggin just like cleanin’ Dad?
'cause you help Mum a lot
with shaggin or with cleanin’ son?
ahh…I don’t know? I forgot?
(I really truly am confused
So, when I buy my car
I’ll clean it and I’ll shaggin it
on lawn and dirt and tar.)


Revvver

When I grow up I’m going to be
the very fastest ambo,
say things like, ‘Move away now folks!’
and save the day like Rambo.
Except that white’s a boring colour
an ambulance must shine.
So I will paint mine polka dotted
purple, pink and lime.


Little Patty

My Dad he drives a sports car
and the back seat’s built for zero
so it gets hot on long, long drives
but he thinks he’s a hero.
Mum says he’s had a crisis
but I don’t know what that means,
I just know it’s a stupid car
although it’s red and gleams,
so, when I get old, about eighteen,
I’m going to drive a bus
so I don’t get all squished up
in the back with five of us.
For I’m the littlest, in the corner,
Jack and Max both smell
and Ruthie’s eight and sweats a lot
and Tom, well, he’s always spewing up carrots and jelly which is so gross and repulsive and really utterly horrid, you know.


Yarnie

When I grow up I’m gunna drive
a train that’s really long
because I’m always losing things
like just now, my left thong.
Much bigger than my Leggo trains
like the ones in the red north west,
a hundred carriages all linked up -
more like a billion I guess!
When I lose stuff my mum goes nuts
and things go bang and clatter
but if I lost a carriage or ten
it really wouldn’t matter!


Petal

When I grow up, I’m going to buy
a ute and a harmonica
and sing and drive out all the way
to sunny Pannawonica.
From there I’ll trade my ute right in
and buy a special truck
I know exactly just the one,
which’ll wait for me, half my luck.
It sits just on the roadside
and no one seems to care.
They drive right past each day and I think
that one’s mine, wait there.
It’s just a little big for me,
about two storeys high
In fact it’s got these tyres that touch
the bottom of the sky.
But I love it coz it’s cute and in my
very favourite colour
The brightest yellow, but I’d love it still
if it were duller.
When I sit on the driver’s seat
and tootle past the shops
I’ll wave to all my friends below
and even to the cops
who won’t give me a ticket
’cause the windscreen’s way too high
to check the registration
‘specially if I start to cry.
I’ll drive my kids to school in it
when they are my age now
and park it in my front yard
so the neighbours go, ‘Oh wow!’
When I grow up and drive to
Pannawonica one day
to trade in the old ute
for my dream vehicle, I’d say
200 tonnes of haulpak truck
will suit me very nicely.
I’ve got five dollars saved right now,
but, um…are haulpaks pricey?

And now for the tail [fully sick] of a prepubescent pet. 

Wally’s First Day at School

Wittle Wally waltzed awong the
wittle winding woad.
He weed upon the wildflowers
which caught the sun and gwowed.
His owner whistled wight beside
and watched as Wally wandered
aww the way to doggie school
on Wed-nes-day and wondered,

Jolly Wally what gweat skills
will you weveal today?
Well, wittle Wally’s ears pwicked up
as he heard master say:
‘Maybe you will sit or stand
or maybe you’ll woll over
or maybe you will find a fwiend
named Woofy, Wex or Wover.’

Wittle Wally couldn’t wait
to see what he’d do either.
he dwibbled with excitement
and he wouldn’t take a bweather,
bursting and a’wond’wing ‘bout
his vewy first school day.
He felt a wittle dwunk with joy
and couldn’t wait to pway.

Well, when they weached the oval where the
doggy school was wun,
wittle Wally widdled one last time
out in the sun.
He saw, aw, twenty doggies with their
owners all out there
and wiggle-wagged his wittle tail
just thwilled beyond compare.

He couldn’t wait to intwoduce himself
and wight away.
He pulled his master by the lead
and wouldn’t sit or stay.
But just befowe our Wally
had the chance to wace wight over
to intwoduce himself to dogs named
Woofer, Wex and Wover,

a whistle bwew which pwicked up Wally’s
ears and made him wince.
‘Twas all eyes on the twainer
and his tummy felt like mince.
Ok, I am a wittle nervous,
thought our wovely Wally.
But hey, I am a fwiendly chap,
I’m sure they’ll wike me, golly.

He watched as all the doggies
with their masters gathered wound
and made a gweat big circle
and all sat upon the gwound
and as he joined in with the west
he saw, just two dogs down,
a pwetty pomewanian
weawing such a fwown.

She had a wittle wibbon wound her
soft and fwuffy mane,
but looked like she was cwying
and her nose shone with the stwain.
She seemed to be oh so forworn,
with what he couldn’t guess.
Her master wooked quite happy
but, well, she wooked quite a mess.

As they sat and wistened Wally
weaned acwoss right then.
He winked his eye and whispered
to the pomewanian.
‘Hewwo pomewanian
and how are you today?
You wook a wittle sad
as if you do not want to pway.

‘Can I be so bold as if
to ask you what is wong?
You are so vewy pwetty
with your wibbon pink and wong.
I noticed you were teawy
and I’d weally like to help-’
But suddenly, a snarl, a growl,
a bark, a wincing ‘YELP!

The dog between the two of them
was towering over Wally -
a wotten wooking wottweiler’d
have none of Wally’s folly.
His eyes were wild and cwazy
and our Wally he spwang back,
put two and two together
in this thundewing attack.

The pwetty pomewanian
was fwozen to the spot.
Her wild wottweiler boyfriend
weally seemed to have forgot
that manners weally make the dog
(they say at doggie school)
and pouncing on a dog who likes your
girlfwiend isn’t cool!

So Wally made a gawwant stance
and stood up to that woofer.
‘Carm on, bwing it on I say,
you bully headed doofer.’
Wittle Wally wondered if he’d
weally made a blunder
with the war he’d waged against
that dog he now stood under,

but Wally thought of wibbon girl
and, chest puffed out, perspiwing,
he barked the bark to end all barks
which was quite awe-inspiwing.
‘Look!’ he barked, ‘You mean old dog,
you make your girlfwiend cwy.
There’s snot upon her wittle nose
and tears come from her eyes.’

Wottweiler wooked at Wally,
as did wibbon girl.
Dumbfounded were the two of them
as insults Wally hurled.
‘I’m not her boyfwiend, toyboy!’
‘Oh my, no!’ she wepwied.
‘Then what the?’ quizzed Wally,
who so warely was tongue-tied.

As it turned out, funnily
(oh ha ha ha, woofs Wal),
the old wottweiler simply wanted
quiet, how banal.
He’d wanted just to wisten
to the twainer’s words so wise,
instead he got some toydog’s
whispers suddenly awise

and as for cutsie pomewanian
she had the fwu,
a snotty nose, conjunctivitis -
you’d look wubbish too!
With that all settled, finally,
the thwee of them were chums
who wearnt to stand up on command
and sit back on their bums.

They were a happy wittle gang,
albeit odd I know,
and evwybody woved those thwee
and watched their fwiendship gwow.
But if ever at doggie school
a bully came their way,
‘twas Wally, bwavest of them all,
whose WOOF! would save the day.

In your car and follow that star!

When the International Space Station recently emerged as a speeding star over the dawn horizon of the North West Aussie Pilbara region, my family and I jumped up and down like looneys (as far as my post baby bladder allows these days). We beamed our

Helloooooo!s

into the atmosphere and we were loud. So loud, we're sure they heard us. The ISS was being pursued at the time by the Space Shuttle Atlantis on the last days of what may well have been its final mission. Our view was awesome: rather gritty, a bit crusty, waves lapping behind us, tent thankfully sandfly proof. We were camping at our Indian Ocean secret spot along 40 Mile Beach near Karratha. And admiring its speedy passage across the sky smacked my gob harder than a flying sandcastle.

Meanwhile, I'm led to believe, down the road were a couple of grey nomads (and for those of you reading from the far reaches of the globe, this is a term of ...endearment? for wandering Australian retirees travelling about the country in their vans, campers, tents and other weird, wonderful getups.) They were having a few issues with their vehicle of choice whose brand shall remain nameless (and don't worry runaway 4wd types, it's not you!) They spent the night on a large station, surrounded by plenty of space and a few international travellers. Hmmm...an international space station of its own, one might say. So it's to these folks we turn: Geoff, Shirl and their not so trusty four wheel drive, Apollo. They have their own astronomical story to tell...and it's pretty, uh, far out...

Apollo and the ISS

Geoff had the radio turned up loud,
tapping on the steering wheel, royally proud
of his shiny sublimy four wheel drive,
‘Apollo’* took them travelling, fully alive.

Shirl felt it first and moaned out loud
Didn’t sound right even under the shroud
of blasting beats from the stere-e-ere-oh
and caravan wheels back there on tow.

But loy-a-lly she faced the music,
‘Geoff!’ she called, should he choose to hear it.
‘Geoff!’ again, ‘Can you HEAR THAT SOUND!’

But thumping his beat, didn’t turn around.’

This time Shirl cried out, ‘My dear!
Houston? GEOFF!! Got a problem here!’
Around spun Geoff, nose tapping the beat,
Shirl now squiggling in her seat.

She flicked off the music, speaking clear,
‘I said, just listen, to the engine dear.’

His face then blanched. Coconut white.

A rattle and thump, his wife was right!

So here they were two nomads bold
travelling the earth to lands untold,
through the dust and rickety gravel,
never did they think it would unravel.

Su-dden-ly, the plans had changed.
Something in the engine was deranged.
and caught on a road ‘twixt nowhere near,
landscape burnt, they felt the fear.

Then…just like a dream a sign emerged
beside the road both on the verge
of pondering, wondering about their fate,
sun now setting, getting late.

A station it was, with plenty of space
and dusk now coming was a race
to find a spot with Apollo intact
before a diff or engine cracked.

Soon found a paddock by the sea,
wide and vast as this land can be,
a scattering of vans spread far apart
by folks whose travels were an art:

A German couple in a battered van,
a family from France in a hired tin can
and way over there were a bunch of Swiss,
blonde and yodelling, hard to miss.

Vast amounts of space to camp
on which to muse beside their lamp.
‘Oh dear Geoff, maybe in the morning
someone can help us on sun’s dawning.’

‘Better still,’ mused Geoff-er-y,
‘the first night star’s above the sea.
Let’s make a wish from this vast station
for ve-hicular inspiration.’

They wished the star might ease their plight
and all too soon the dawn brought light.
Geoff woke first and mustered Shirl,
‘Look outside! Check it out my girl.’

Everyone else in the paddock near,
everyone was up and up they peered as a-
cross the sky a bright star moved,
followed by another one along its groove.

Curve balls over the daybreak light.
What an anomaly, a bit of all right!
And off the light headed north northwest
‘It’s a sign, it’s a sign!’ burst forth our Geoff.

They jumped in Apollo, perilous car,

‘Follow, follow, FOLLOW THAT STAR!’
Away from the station scattered with races
all peering up with glowing faces.

Out down the gravel to the nor’ nor’west

off to Karratha (just my guess).

If only they had known when they awoke

‘twas no bright star but full of folk -

astronauts not on vacation

but hurtling past on a fast space station,

speeding round out in the dark,

thinking life is quite a lark.

So, as a p.s. to this tale of Apollo,

the four wheel drive drove ‘til tomorrow

and up they went, not into town

and sailing into space you could see Geoff frown.

The ISS it took them far,

into orbit with their car

and with just a little less gravity

and wicked views, the world to see,

the four wheel drive was simply fine
and Geoff and Shirl had a whirl of a time.
Talk about nomads flying free
around the world dexterity.

So if you see a funny shape
up in space, it’s the 'Great Escape’,
for Geoff and Shirl can still be found
following the space station round and round
          and round and…round and
                                     …round…
                                             and round...
                                                      and...round...

© Elise Batchelor ABC North West 26th May 2010
© Rob Whitehead 2010 - photo of the ISS and Atlantis
    in the predawn Pilbara sky
* Apollo: not the car's real name

Zorro of the North West

You know, I get it, I really do. Having been a Melbournian for twenty years, I understand the need to make haste for the pool whenever the sun peers out from behind a cloud. After all, that cheeky golden grin may only last five minutes. And there are three more seasons yet to expect in that day. Maybe four times over. And maybe including snow.

But when you live in the desert, somewhere like the north west of Western Oz in my home of seven years, oh how quickly you come to expect the heat. In summer our temperatures remain at about forty degrees celcius or so. I don't get in the pool now until it hits at least 37 degrees. Thus, when winter comes and the days (although still lurid blue and ceaselessly sunshiney) crawl below thirty degrees, the idea of swimming is simply ludicrous. Unless, that is, you're on holiday here. Unless, perchance, you're just visiting. Unless, oh yes, you're from Melbourne.

This poem is for my beloved Melbourne, for friends who visit and provide us a winter laugh by diving in deep. And for anyone else on our planet who would eagerly jump into the pool, in the Pilbara, in winter. I'll be in to join you soon! Try...November. 

Of course, by then we have cyclones. And they're another story entirely.


North West Superhero


The plane was right on time,
the heels were quite refined,
the general Savour Faire was ripper mate.
No one had drunk too much rum
with ties ad infinitum
arrived from chilly Melbourne to our state.

And out they stepped this pair
with faces worn by fear
of dodging trams and tumbling black umbrellas
in freezy winter breezes,
frappéd with chunky sneezes
and pale, these two were salty white, I tell yas.

She was, from head to toe,
dressed inn black, uh huh, you know
just how it is when you forget the sun.
Forget you ever could
go out without your hood,
without your bits snapped frozen - that’s the one!

He though, let’s call him Paul,
escaped the eastern squall
deciding that he’d try to match the trend.
A walking suit in I.T.,
today he’d donned a flannie,
a metrosexual sin, let’s not pretend.

So Paul and his dear wife
(so as not to cause strife,
let’s call her Flower, a floral pseudonym)
were here for seven days
the heady heat to praise
and had on their agenda just one thing.

And with their little boy,
the cutest cuddly toy,
Paul wanted but to live the tropic dream.
He stripped off instantly
for all the world to see
which caused a royal shock and some to scream.

(Now, just a small aside,
a turning of the tide
to put this keen display into perspective -
Flower: pragmatic, British
refined and never skittish
and Paul: stuck long indoors a corporate captive.)

But there he stood, defiant
and rather uncompliant,
gazing through the gates and not quite nude.
Not nood as one might say, but
Nyuuuude, called Flower, ‘Hooray!’
‘We’re here to swim!’ cheered Paul, ‘So let’s go dude!’

For them, the height of heat,
a temperature to beat
of thirty three, or two, or one, at dawn.
For them, insanely hot,
for Pilbara folks, quite…not
with me there in a jacket on this morn.

Too brrrrrrr for me by far
but Flower’s pool wear, it starred,
‘twas elegant with brimmed hat, sunnies, cream
and I shivered inside out
as I watched them swim about
living what we call the ‘Pilbara Dream.’

It’s the dream of bright hot days
of gold, that Yabu* haze,
of singing, dancing sunlight under trees
of floating through the water
and dressing as you oughter
in nearly next to nothing in the breeze.

And when they were all done,
their time out in the sun,
Paul joined his lovely Flower sipping tea,
‘My darling Paul, you’re burnt;
I thought you might have learnt
your skin can’t take this; you’re more pale than me!’

‘I know, but I’m the man!’
Paul took his darling’s hand
and then she burst out laughing through the air.
‘Oh Paul, you missed a tad
of sunscreen, my dear lad!’
‘So what?’ replied young Paul scratching his hair.

The feat, remarkable,
now irreversible,
a lightning bolt burnt right across his face.
‘My love, you look like Zorro
and probably will tomorrow,
a streak scorched Pilbara superhero. Ace!'

Well, Paul, now marked, was chuffed,

burnt beautifully, enough,

their lightning trip now took on greater meaning.

And my bones chilled as they'd swum

but God, did they have fun

and ZORRO! of the north west flew home gleaming.

 

© Elise Batchelor 2010
* 'Yabu' means 'gold' in aboriginal Wongatha language

Fill your bucket before you kick it!

Before we kick the bucket, we all want to fill it. What's on your bucket list? Mine's actually blutacked to my study wall on large pieces of butcher's paper to prevent me forgetting any of it. In fact, the thing is so busy with 'to dos' scratched all over it, it keeps falling off the wall and flopping onto the carpet. (Or maybe I just need to be a bit less scungy with the Blutack). Mine includes stuff I've ticked (have a poem published, run naked in the Simpson Desert), plenty I haven't (be an extra in a film, write a book) and some which are, quite frankly, ridiculous or impossible (become Cate Blanchett, appear on Enough Rope.) So, here's a poem about a lady named Kirstyn's bucket list. It's surprisingly so choccas with everything she's done already, I have no idea how she's going to continue filling it for the next 70 years! Maybe some inspiration in there for yours...

My Bucket


If only my wonderful parents had known
that when I was just aged four,
my little beach bucket then full of sand
would soon fill up with much more.

For, whilst then the shy and retiring type,
I sort of, well, went, KABOOM!
Decided to suck out the marrow of life,
announced, ‘Now then sand, make some room!’

And off I did trot with my bucket and spade
and my gumption and gizzards and guts,
proceeding to fill it with crazy adventures,
not heeding the voices, ‘She’s nuts!’

I bungee jumped out in Zimbabwe;
it bounced in my bucket aboing!
I danced on some tables, Croatia,
‘twas that, or get sleep, flipped a coin.

Shoved an elephant in, rode in Thailand
and a leopard in Africa patted.
Risky, perhaps, but a baby, and that’s
quite sublime, as if nothing else mattered.

There’s pelicans in there, Kalbarri,
and wine bottles from South of France.
They’re empty mind you, for what else can one do
but keep chucking them in. Take the chance!

My bucket went with me to Queensland
and scuba dived out on the reef.
It skydived Namibia (no broken tibia)
and sunbaked in Broome for relief.

I threw in some lions on safari,
giraffa and zebra tossed too
and ripper strong curry, don’t be in a hurry
mzungu to find you a loo!

My poor thankless bucket on that one…
and also a few other places.
Try, all of Nepal, thank you bucket, quite brimming
with mountains…and spew, oh good gracious!

You could say my bucket has fortitude,
for long far and wide did we ‘Rome’.
Indeed there, the grand Colosseum
(was tough work to ship that one home).

But my bucket said, ‘bring it on!’ daily,
so why not live life to the max.
Done the ‘Undies 500’, Kalgoorlie
and paid my respects in Auschwitz.

My bucket reflected in stillness;
we both knew how lucky we were
and onwards we journeyed together
as a whisper of breeze it did stir.

We’ve driven through Spain (wrong side of the road),
drove a header, four wheeler, a van.
Oh memories, my bucket, of tootling along
with a gorgeous South African man.

And then there’s the bee that once bit me
(I’m not going to tell you all where)
but I nearly died and only survived
in a one man run hospital, yeah!

And soon, with old Esperance quite buried down deep,
Karratha was tossed in the mix:
gorges, Karijini and camping, bikinis
and thousands of great Facebook pix.

But that was way back in the noughties.
Let’s fast forward eighty years on,
my memory now straining, my bladder now raining,
my bucket, not quite had the gong.

And I’d filled it to bursting point every year -
I’d married, had kids (hair all curly),
learnt to surf like that Slater, run a pub out of Africa,
stayed up late with my mates, got up early.

Taught English in Taiwan with girlfriends,
done TV, wrote books, travelled more
and worked at the Antarctic base camp
(my poor bucket got frostbite galore!)

And chucked every bit in my bucket
and heaved it on buses and trains.
In Kombis it thumped, doing bombies, it jumped
and I held its hand tight on big planes.

Then yesterday came. It was different.
Worn out by its weight, I felt sick
and in but a split second moment of ire
I gave my loyal bucket
                                       …a kick.

So here now we are up in heaven.
‘Watch out!’ they called, seeing us come.
‘She crammed full her bucket on earth ‘fore she kicked it
and I reckon they’ve both just begun!’


© Elise Batchelor 2010