January 3, 2018 ,

Love’s Gone

Love’s Gone

There’s no love left
at the old homestead,
chook yard n stables,
where we as kids
saddled up n rode around,
it’s all collapsed
back to bare ground.

The 8 stand shed
where we shore big mobs,
been gutted out
for a machinery shed.

And the wife n kids
all live in town
ever since
the bus shut down.

We’re cropping big time,
big gear to boot and
we’ve ripped most of
the fences out.

Livestock’s a memory
twice removed,
piles of wire,
steel posts speared through,
dozed in the bush
to rust away,
can’t see us fencing
another day.

It takes six weeks
to get it in.

By June, July
it’s home n hosed
park the gear
up in the shed,
n watch
n pray for rain
in hope Jack Frost
stays well away.

Harvest comes quickly
every year
n every year
we rip it off
with harvesters
that cost a bomb.

But end of harvest
every year
regardless of
n costs.

There’s time to sit back,
kick back,
ready up,
for next years session
with the crop.


John Taylor’s novel “The Ute”

the ute book by john taylor now available at

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June 2, 2017

The Shearer

“ The Shearer ”

Listen to JT recite his poem …

He won’t push back the bat wings
On a catchin’ pen no more
Flick rivers of sweat from his brow
As he yanks the hand-piece chord

And the bottle he drank at cut-out
Will never taste the same no more
Cos he’s opted for the haul-pack
And ‘dozer on the mine
Working day or night shift
And he’s lost the rhythm of time

An air-conditioned coach cruise
Out to work and back
Doesn’t hold a candle
To a shearer’s truck on track
Rushin’ sandy crossings
Shovin’ pushin’ back and fillin’
Another shed next week.

He won’t push back the bat wings
On a catchin’ pen no more
But I’ll bet he’ll sit and reminisce
Of all the sheep he’d shore
Of ev’ry track he travel’d
As he rove from shed to shed
Of every yarn was ever ‘ad
Round every cut-out keg

John Taylor’s novel, “The Ute” – now under $5

the ute book by john taylor now available at

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March 23, 2015 ,


The shadows are extending,
laying flat as the sun slides.
Close on the horizon,
darkening countryside.

Rib bone gullies tapered
on the ranges slowly merge
as darkness dresses slowly
before a soft white moon.

Rising slowly beaming softly,
rekindling light and space
in an outback amphitheatre,
boulders jumbled ’round the place.

Scudding moonlight probing,
leaving pockets cross the range
in deeps of dark till daylight,
bursts out cross the plain.

Chasing dark from rib bone
gullies tapered down
rock strewn range
as sunlight forges up and onwards
proclaiming brand new day.

Toppling on its zenith,
descending through the day.
Slowly giving over to
a full moon night display.

If you like my poems . . .

The Ute by john taylor
Consider buyin’ my yarn “The Ute”
Less than 5 bucks for Kindle.

Check it out on Amazon Kindle.

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March 16, 2015

A Plume

There’s a plume out there approaching.
Streaming in the sky,
chuffing spreading down
and wide cross sea
and countryside.

A mess of doubt and claim,
as fine silt settles on the land,
blinkered sight. Unfocussed minds
on short term gain
and power play.

Suffocating sea grass flats,
denuding coral
coloured lines of fish
and dugongs habitat.

There’s a plume out there approaching,
spreading, settling wide.

Suffocating in its path,
blinkered sight,
unfocused minds.

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February 23, 2015


The cockies are all starting
On their mixed land farming lots.
Herding up their cattle
Sewing paddocks down to crop.

Tractor lights spear in the night,
neighbour’s places further out,
identified by homestead lights.
burning on far in the night.

Motor cars traverse the paddocks,
dipping lights in creeks and gullies
bringing food and welcome tea.

Add their bit to long nights round,
of round and round the paddock goes,
head and dusty trailing lights,

Silhouetes bulk seeder bins
and spidery frames with springs and tynes,
sewing seed and fertilizer
as round on round the paddock shrinks.

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Love’s Gone
The Shearer
A Plume