Bob Bush

A bush poet from Vacy

Bob Bush, began writing and reciting rhyming poetry on a 3 week journey across the Simpson Dessert. In a convey of Six 4WD vehicles and over 20 people, Bob shared the driving with a mate, and to fill in the hours when he was a passenger, Bob started recording the day’s events in poetry. Around the campfire at night he would keep the “troops” entertained by reciting the results.

That was 1994. Bob has now written and published three bush poetry books, and is a regular guest speaker at Rotary and Probus club meetings.

He has recently tried his hand at “bush poetry street busking”.

He is fully equipped with his own lectern and mobile PA system and uses this to promote his current book “Legends, Lies and Larrikins”.

Bob chooses to recite all his own material. He selects poems he thinks the audience will be able to relate to, with topics that relate to sport, ‘days of old,’ and the everyday occurrences that reflect the hardships and humour of all who choose to live, work or play in Australia.

Bob attributes 10 years as a member of Toastmaster International for giving him the confidence to begin reciting poetry in public.

He is currently working on a series of poems that shall form the basis of his new book.
 

For more information, or to book Bob as a guest speaker, or to purchase a book, please call 4938 8323. 
 

The Auction

Auctions generate high emotions! There are people who are forced to sell. There are some who get carried away during the bidding and pay far too much. There are some who are overjoyed at securing a bargain and there are some who recognise an item that brings back memories.


The auction day was all but done, one item to present,
A bugle from a bygone war, its body bashed and bent.
The lustre of its copper form, had suffered over time
And no longer held the polish, it had back in its prime

Now rest assured the auctioneer was keen to end the day,
’Tho ten percent of winning bids encouraged him to stay.
He paused for just a moment, then held the bugle high
And started with his special spiel to make his patrons buy.

“Consider if you will this prize - I seek a bidder’s call!”
“A bugle you may choose to play, or hang it on a wall.”
“It’s rare to see a piece like this, an army bugler’s pride”,
“Let’s kick it off at fifty five - don’t let this bargain slide!”

The crowd before him did not stir, they’d had enough that day,
A comment from some bloke was heard, “I doubt the thing would play!”
Then finally a bid was made, some enterprising chap,
“I’ll take the chance and give you five, that’s all it’s worth as scrap!”


An old man raised his hand up high, ‘though not a bid was made,
Instead an offer to the crowd, to see if it still played.
A man of some distinction that well belied his age,
He slowly stood then made his way, to stand up on the stage,

The auctioneer was quick to see a highlight to the day,
So he handed him the bugle, asking where he’d learnt to play.
The old man slowly shook his head as a tear rolled down his cheek
And struggled with his answer as he turned around to speak.

“I played these things so many times, I swore an oath back then,
That if I made it through that war, I’d never play again”.
“But now I feel I owe a debt, to mates that Hitler took”
“The anger and the hate have passed, it’s time to close the book”.

The mouthpiece was of moulded brass, ‘tho years had turned it green,
He removed it from the bugle and paused to wipe it clean.
He put it in and gave a blow, rolled his eyes and gave a frown
And for just a fleeting moment, thought to put the bugle down.

But those mates were there behind him, for them he’d try once more,
The sound that filled the air this time, was nothing like before.
The Last Post we hold as sacred, well known to bring on tears,
The way he played it on that day was heaven in their ears.

The crowd rose quickly to their feet, responding as if one,
And with respect, their heads were bowed, until the tune was done.
The bugler slowly left the stage to applause that filled the room,
As the auctioneer decreed, that the bidding should resume.

“You’ve heard the bugle for yourselves – Its tone is heaven sent!”
“And any bid that gains this prize, is money wisely spent!”
“The bid I hold is merely five, that’s open to the floor”
“What do I hear - I seek your bid, perhaps a hundred more!”

Two hundred was the bid that came, and that was quickly topped!
The bidding climbed by hundreds till at last the bidding stopped.
The auctioneer had let it flow - those bids were high and fast
And when he slammed his gavel down, eight hundred was the last!

The owner of the hardware store had held the final bid,
And he thanked the grey haired bugler for what the bugler did,
Then what he did before that crowd, it stunned them one and all!
‘Cause he gave it to the bugler, to hang upon his wall.

So now come every Anzac Day, he takes his bugle down,
To proudly join the day’s parade and lead it through the town
And the spirits of those soldiers who fought and fell and died,
Will assemble with the bugler to be there by his side.




Images, text and 'The Auction" courtesy of Bob Bush.