This will hurt me...

Sunrise. The Burnie-Ridgley area, Tasmania's North West. February. Is rap/hip hip-hop a modern form of performance poetry? I believe that it is. Proof? This! Baby Got Back , Sir Mix-a-Lot I like big butts and I can not lie You other brothers can't deny That when a girl walks in with an itty bitty waist And a round thing in your face You get sprung, wanna pull out your tough 'Cause you notice that butt was stuffed Deep in the jeans she's wearing I'm hooked and I can't stop staring Oh baby, I wanna get with you And take your picture My homeboys tried to warn me But that butt you got makes me so horny Ooh, Rump-o'-smooth-skin You say you wanna get in my Benz? Well, use me, use me 'Cause you ain't that average groupie I've seen them dancin' To hell with romancin' She's sweat, wet, Got it goin' like a turbo 'Vette I'm tired of magazines Sayin' flat butts are the thing Take the average black man and ask him that She gotta pa...

You might not believe this, but as I took this photo we were being approached by a marauding gang of bloodthirsty sheep.

I've invented a kind of little boy cray pot , involving a big net and a trampoline. Bait it with a lolly snake, and Bob's yer uncle!

This one is way back from the start of the year, and sees a refreshed and revitalised Ezra propped up waiting for breakfast to be served. Kudos to any punter who can guess the little bloke's favourite frühstück behandeln ?

The little bloke simply demands that his mother let him in the holiday barn house right away . It is a good thing that he's so handsome.

Fields filled with growing somethingorthers [potatoes? leeks? cabbages? onions? swedes? any ideas?] in Ridgley, just outside of Burnie. I do like the morning light on crops. This photo leads me into today's poem, from one of Australia's favourites, Judith Wright. Woman To Man , Judith Wright The eyeless labourer in the night, the selfless, shapeless seed I hold, builds for its resurrection day--- silent and swift and deep from sight foresees the unimagined light. This is no child with a child's face; this has no name to name it by; yet you and I have known it well. This is our hunter and our chase, the third who lay in our embrace. This is the strength that your arm knows, the arc of flesh that is my breast, the precise crystals of our eyes. This is the blood's wild tree that grows the intricate and folded rose. This is the maker and the made; this is the question and reply; the blind head butting at the dark, the blaze of light along the blade. Oh hold me, for I am af...

When were were up on the coast earlier this month, Henry turned his hand to refitting long-discarded farm equipment. Here you can see an old plough that he fiddled with for a bit and got it up and going and we tilled a couple of acres before morning tea!

I took this shot just outside the farmhouse we stayed at up in Burnie earlier this month. I do like a nice sunrise through. Here in Hobart, it's morning. It's Australia Day. It's time to go down to Bellerive docks to get some sausages and laugh at people draped in what is a profoundly ugly flag.

There can be a solid argument made that the moon as viewed on Tasmania's north west coast is ideal for a zoomed photograph. I can almost see the cheese! I took this one in a paddock next to some Hereford cows one morning last week. While away, I will admit to enjoying the process of finding poems that I like and sharing them with you. Thus, my new series: Saturday Festival of *someone else's* Poetry ! Today, an oldie but a goodie... The Crazed Moon , by W.B. Yeats CRAZED through much child-bearing The moon is staggering in the sky; Moon-struck by the despairing Glances of her wandering eye We grope, and grope in vain, For children born of her pain. Children dazed or dead! When she in all her virginal pride First trod on the mountain's head What stir ran through the countryside Where every foot obeyed her glance! What manhood led the dance! Fly-catchers of the moon, Our hands are blenched, our fingers seem But slender needles of bone; Blenched by that malicious dream They ar...

It is Monday morning and I find myself back at work after a few weeks out. I am not happy about it. Just last week I was residing at a quiet little farmhouse - converted barn, to be precise - gazing at the sheep nibbling away at the grass out of the kitchen window. It's a good thing that I took this photograph then, I can spend the morning gazing at it instead! A poor substitute, I might add...