Norman Ohl Poet and Author

11/03/2026

B & S survival ( Not sure these are still a thing )
By Norman Ohl
I was barely out me teens, full o’ fire and half a clue,
When I headed bush one Friday night like young fools always do;
The B & S was on again, way out past Yen-gar-ie,
In a tin shed of a country hall with bugger-all finery

We rolled in late with dusty utes and eskies chock-a-block,
There’s blokes in suits with work boots and girls in op-shop frocks;
Some wore gowns, some wore thongs, some wore bugger-all,
And every one of us was keen to have a red-hot ball.

We cracked a tin before we parked, no sense in muckin’ round,
By the time we hit the doorway half the mob was already down;
There’s Bundy, beer and God-knows what passin’ hand to hand,
And someone spewin’ round the back before we even heard the band.

The music roared like thunder, all pub rock and twang,
We stomped the floor till bolts shook loose each time the chorus rang;
A bloke climbed up the raffle table yellin’ “Watch this, boys!”
And fell clean off to rapturous laughs and drunken country noise.

Outside the utes were doin’ laps, revvin’ hard and loud,
Bonnet-riders, tray-back beers, showin’ off to crowds;
Some drongo lit a burnout, cooked the clutch to death,
And staggered off a hero till he ran out of breath.

Inside it turned to mayhem, food dye flyin’ thick,
Green and purple up the walls and down some poor girl’s dress real quick;
A wet T-shirt comp kicked off by the dunny door,
And no one there pretended they’d seen that stuff before.

By midnight laws were optional, good sense had packed its swag,
There’s blokes asleep in urinals and dancers startin’ drags;
A virgin got his shirt marked up in letters bold and mean,
By sunrise he’d lost the shirt, and maybe lost the V.

At dawn we crawled to swags and trays, half dead but grinnin’ wide,
With heads like drums and mouths like sand and boots still caked with pride;
We swore we’d never drink again, a lie we told real well,
’Cause next year came and off we went straight back to that same hell.

Now I’m older, slower, wiser, well, wiser might be wrong,
But I still laugh about those nights when memories come along;
For no fine dance or city bar or suit-and-tie affair
Could match a B & S gone feral in a bush hall anywhere.

Thank Christ the proof stayed in our heads, in yarns we half forget,
In blurry laughs and aching bones and sins not on the net;
For luck was on the side of fools who danced that feral line
We’re free men now because back then no phone could record in real time.

So here’s to youth and grog and nights you barely recollect,
To bad decisions made with pride and zero damn regret;
If heaven’s got a dance floor, I hope it’s rough as this
With dusty boots, loud country tunes, and one last drunken kiss.

16/02/2026

A Place That Kills Us (So They Reckon)
By Norman Ohl

They say our land’s a killing ground,
Where dawn comes armed with fear,
Where spiders own the letterbox
And snakes knock off for beer.
Where crocs go strolling city blocks
And sharks do laps in bay,
And Aussies belt up death itself
By the end of every day.

They say we wake to a punch-up fight
Just fetching milk and bread,
That mums swing brooms at demon roos
And dads fight redback or wind up dead.
That every bush holds poison fangs
And every tree drops doom,
And koalas fall like guided bombs
From out the wattle gloom.

Well pull up a crate and wet your throat,
I’ll tell you how it runs:
Most Aussies live where the worst attack
Is parking fines and puns.
The crocs stay north where the heat’s no joke,
They don’t haunt suburban lanes,
And snakes would rather clear right off
Than star in human pains.

The spiders lost their fatal streak
Back in ’79,
Since antivenom showed them up
And ruined their design.
The sharks get ink like hired thugs,
Though stats don’t back the fear
Florida’s got us covered there
But doesn’t cop the jeer.

As for drop bears keep that yarn alive,
It sorts the wheat from chaff,
A tourist test, a harmless lie,
A national bloody laugh.

The real perils? Now I’ll name them straight,
The stuff that earns respect:
A magpie with a nesting beef
And vengeance to collect.
A rip that pulls like mortgage debt
If flags are disobeyed,,
A stretch of road that’s just too long
with no Servo where fuel can be paid.

So no, we’re not a death parade
In khaki hats and grit,
We’re mostly late, mildly sunburnt,
And dodging bureaucratic s**t.
Australia’s wild, but mostly so
In yarns we like to spin
The real danger’s thinking myths
are how the truth gets in.

12/02/2026

The Temperature of Caviar ( Inspired by me being a prize T**t )
By Norman Ohl

Yesterday I grumbled, in the blazing summer’s grip,
To a mate who wrote, “Just swim a lap, go take a cooling dip.”
He reckoned I was lucky, with a pool out in the yard,
While half the town was frying eggs on every footpath hard.

But I, in lofty misery, replied without a blink,
“The water’s far too warm, old son, it’s like a tepid drink.”
As though the Lord had short-changed me, or dealt me some cruel blow,
By heating up the backyard blue a degree or two, you know?

This morning with the leaf-scoop and the chlorine in my hand,
I stood beside that shimmering gift like some ungrateful man.
The sun was up, the lorikeets were quarrelling in the tree,
And there I was, complaining of my private luxury.

My father, forged in leaner years when dust was thick as sin,
Would stare me down in silence till the shame came flooding in.
A boy who knew the hunger lines, the patched-up boots and all,
Who’d think a backyard swimming pool a thing beyond recall.

He’d slowly shake his silvered head, then fix me with that stare
That measured men by gratitude, not what was rich or rare:
“Complaining ’bout a warm blue pool is like scorning caviar,
While other souls are parched and cracked beneath a searing star.
When blokes would bless a muddy dam for just a cooling run,
You curse the heat upon your back, and call that suffering, son.”

He worked with hands like mallee roots, with hope stretched thin and tight,
And counted every penny twice by lantern-light at night.
No pool to cool his summer toil, no tiled and sparkling blue,
Just creeks that shrank to muddy threads when north winds blasted through.

And here stand I, his living proof of how the wheel has spun,
With more than he could dream about beneath this southern sun.
Yet still I found a way to turn abundance into lack,
And grizzle like a spoilt young pup because the heat came back.

It’s not the warmth that shames a man, nor sun upon his skin,
It’s how he squanders gratitude and lets resentment in.
For gold is easily turned to dirt by attitude alone,
When all we see is what we’re not instead of what we own.

So here’s to fathers forged in drought, in hardship and in strain,
Who’d trade a week of comfort for one solid fall of rain.
And here’s to learning, late perhaps, what wealth is truly worth,
Not measured by the pool we have, but by our thanks on earth.

Next time the mercury climbs high and sweat runs down my brow,
I’ll dive into that “tepid” blue with humbler spirit now.
For better far to bless the heat and all that I’ve been given
Than curse the caviar’s temperature, And call it living.

09/02/2026

Tough as Nails (Soft as Butter)
By Norman Ohl
I’ve built up skin like old red gum,
To block the hits that always come.
From folks who smile then throw a dart
Their words aimed straight at the softest part.

You’ve met ’em too, I reckon so
The ones who twist the way they go.
“G’day!” they beam, all full of cheer,
Then whisper, “Geez, you look crook this year.”

And others try to chip away,
Sneaky jabs in what they say.
A crack about your daggy shirt,
Each line designed to dig and hurt.

So yeah, I might seem hard as steel,
Act like I don’t care or feel.
But truth is mate, that’s just a bluff
Deep down, I’m soft. A powder puff.

I wear this armour day and night,
Not ’cause I love a bloody fight.
It’s 'cause I feel the hits too much,
And tenderness gets kicked and crushed.

So let ’em talk, I’ll play the game,
But I’m still me, I’m still the same.
Tough as nails? Yeah, fair enough
But underneath, I’m soft as fluff.

06/02/2026

“From the Meadows of Ulsnis”

( 1863 The Queensland colony offered assisted passage to farming folk from Denmark and Germany. The deal: work for the Govt. for 2 years and then your free to select land to farm.)

By Norman Ohl

From meadows green of Ulsnis, where the Vikings made their stand,
Where silver seas roll softly on the edge of Danish land,
Where ancient stones bear witness to a thousand years gone by,
And gulls drift low through churchyards ‘neath a cold North European sky

From there the name of Ohl was carried far by time and tide,
Through farms around old Gettorf, where our kin once lived with pride.
There Asmus Ohl kept Berenbrook in order, firm but fair,
And Johann Friedrich learned the worth of toil and steady care.

But winds were shifting westward to a land both raw and new,
Where Queensland’s call rang clear: “We’ve honest work for folk like you.
Come labour for two winters; lend the colony your hand
Then take your wives and children forth and choose your piece of land.”

So Johann and his bride walked up the gangplank, hearts held fast,
Aboard the La Rochelle they sailed through storms and shadows past.
For eighty-one long days they faced the wide unyielding sea,
Until the shores of Queensland glowed with promise yet to be.

They served their two years faithfully—each dawn’s hard work begun
Then turned their boots to bushland, westward walking toward the sun.
Like many hardy settlers with a dream that wouldn’t die,
They rode for Central Queensland where the plains run wide and dry.

So now you’ll find the Ohl folk scattered far through scrub and town,
From Rocky’s winding river to where Clermont’s dust blows brown.
Our roots are weathered branches, though some flourish, some decline,
Yet all are shaped by courage from a sturdy Viking line.

My line runs down through Detlef, then to Albert, strong and still,
And then to Dad—old Bill Ohl—steady heart and iron will.
Then Betty, Colleen, Kerry, Al, Ann n Ian all share that line;
They’re cousins tough and thriving—bushland stock, and that’s just fine.

And when I pause to ponder all the roads that brought us here
From Ulsnis’ Viking meadows to this sunburnt hemisphere
I thank the ghosts behind us who endured each test and trial,
For they carved out a legacy that stretches mile by mile.

From meadows by the sea they sailed with courage in their soul…
And from that ancient journey grew the name we cherish—
Ohl.

04/02/2026

“Welcome, and thanks for being here. I’m glad my poems found you.”

02/02/2026

Wow... the First copies of The Windmill Boy are being delivered Please send me your happy snap when you get your copy. To get your copy just click the link https://books.by/outback-ink/the-windmill-boy

01/02/2026

“The Winner?” (cause growing old is a privilege)
by Norman Ohl

Not everyone’s granted the gift to grow old,
That lesson comes slow with the years;
For some leave the track while the engine still runs,
And the rest ride on through the tears.

My best mate fell at thirty-eight,
Liver cancer took him down;
We’d raced through life in a friendly war,
Each chasing our own small crown.

We’d reckoned the man with the most at the end
Would stand as the victor, proud
And by that rule he won his race,
While I’m left to cheer out loud.

But I’ve made it through near sixty-eight,
Seen my children find their way;
Watched grandkids grow and sunlight fade
At the close of another day.

I’ve watched the world turn wired and strange,
Seen wonders born of code;
Machines that think and talk like men,
And light where darkness glowed.

He’s missed the marvels and the mess,
The heartache, the toil, the strain;
Spared the wear of the years that grind
But he’ll never feel joy again.

I stood best man on his wedding day,
Raised a glass to the life he’d planned;
But his widow’s gone and written me out,
Like the tide wipes clean the sand.

His children grow, they’ll never know
The boy their father was;
The daring grin, the wild old dreams,
All lost without a cause.

And when I think of him, as I still do,
That ache comes soft and low;
A guilt for years I got, not earned
A sadness hard to show.

For not everyone’s granted the gift to grow old,
And the lucky don’t always feel blessed;
We carry the tales the others can’t tell,
And the ache that won’t quite rest.

27/01/2026

Boomtown Arithmetic ( A story from my youth )
By Norman Ohl

When I was barely twenty, just a whisker past a kid,
I worked the port at Gladstone where the ocean bit and slid.
A commercial diver’s living, steel, and sweat, and nerve,
Where a man could lose his fingers if the tide decided swerve.

Ten days down beneath the harbour, seven days back up on land,
Paid enough to make a fool think he could buy the whole damn strand.
We were young and hard and reckless, bronzed like coins fresh-cast,
And we spent our cash like seawater, fast, and wide, and vast.

Now Gladstone in the eighties was a town of blokes and bars,
Ten men for every woman, and twice as many scars.
No opera, no theatre, no wine and cheese affair
Just beer, and fists, and rumours, and salt thick in the air.

And in we’d come, those divers, loud as chains dragged o’er the quay,
Still smelling faintly of the deep and vaguely of VB.
Sunburnt, drunk by lunchtime, pockets fat as stolen sheep,
Buying rounds like charity for sins we didn’t keep.

Across the street sat Westpac, cool and tidy, calm and clean,
Where the tellers wore their ties and counted notes they’d never seen.
One poor bloke behind the counter, hair just starting to recede,
Earned one-tenth what we were making, and every cent with need.

We’d swagger in at closing time, still half-cut from the night,
Sand in boots and fishy jokes, behaving less than right.
“Cash withdrawal, mate,” we’d slur, with a grin too wide by far,
While he dreamed of murder weapons shaped exactly like the bar.

Years rolled on. The sea grew quiet. Suits replaced the dive.
Boardrooms now instead of tides , I’d somehow stayed alive.
Then one day across a table, mid-negotiation’s grind,
A finance bloke kept staring like he’d lost his bloody mind.

“I know you,” he said slowly, with a squint and tightened jaw.
I laughed and said, “Unlikely, mate, your face I never saw.”
He chewed on it through morning tea, then lunchtime broke the spell.
“Gladstone,” he said. “Nineteen-eighty. Harbour. Ring a bell?”

I nodded. “Diver.”
He exhaled like a storm let loose.
“Oh mate,” he said, “I hated you and every one of youse.
You were always pi**ed and tanned, like life was one long prank,
While I was stuck on one-ten a week at bloody Westpac Bank.”

He told me of the envy, the rage he’d swallowed dry,
As we staggered in for cash with sunburnt grins held high.
While he counted every dollar, dreaming just to breathe,
We spent his weekly wages on a night we couldn’t leave.

We laughed till tears were running, the kind that heal, not sting,
Two ghosts from opposite sides of Gladstone’s boomtime swing.
And somewhere Old Bill would’ve chuckled, tapping ash aside:
“Son, money makes young idiots, but time evens the tide.”

For danger pays in youth, my friend, but memory collects,
And every teller gets his say, it just arrives with checks.
So spare a thought for quiet men behind the counter glass:
They remember every bastard who came drunk and tanned to pass.

23/01/2026

People keep asking me where they can buy my new book, easy follow this link by clicking on my face

The Windmill Boy is a story of growing up under big skies and quiet rules, where love was shown more in labour than language, and wisdom came without polish or applause.