Wednesday, April 30, 2008


How kids pick up language, sorry, words.

Heard a joke years ago. Little Tommy is five, mom and dad are building an extension to their house.

© john d Farley, 2008.

The look of excitement and wonder was written on his little face.
“Mummy, what are all them men doing digging up our place”.

Well darling, those men are called brickies, and their going to do some layin’.
Build a little place for Grandma, ‘cos with us she’ll soon be stayin’.

The little bloke observes the action from a vantage on the drive.
There’s things a’churnin’ things a’whirren, so much good stuff, his place has come alive.

“Mummy can I play with them”, in his mind’s eye stuff’s revolvin’.
His little mind was all aglow and new things were evolvin’.

Mummy sees a plan unfolden’, it’s like and educational obsession.
Let him learn some things, he’ll be safe, ‘cos this will be his little life’s big session.

Mister foreman, “Can Tommy join you for lunch, I’ll pack his little crib”.
“No probs missus sends him down and we’ll keep our language glib”

Now not every day can little Tommy go and join his brickie mates.
His little school takes precedence, one last look the little fella’ takes.

Many days he makes his little journey, he sits on an upturned brick.
Eats his crib and he chats a lot, many questions asked, they come out fast and thick.

Well little fella what did you do today, and what did you all talk about.
“We mixed some mud, laid them bricks, and then we raked them out”.

Got a tip for the horses races, what’s number 6 in race 10, and mummy what’s the nags.
We talked about how Manly won, Silver tails they called ‘em, and a bunch of dags.

And then one day little Tommy storms home and pelts his crib down on the table
Only been gone awhile, I’ll ask the little bloke what’s the matter when I can see he’s able.

Tommy darling your home early, there’s a tear in his little eyes.
“We got knocked off, ‘cos we got no bloody work”, his little voice replies.

The boss bloke recons, that bloody truckie is up to his bloody tricks.
“Yez can all go home youse bloody blokes, see yez all tamorra, bloody sorry Tommy.

“We got no bloody bricks”.

© john d farley, 2008.

Friday, April 25, 2008



Sunday, April 20, 2008


Life recollections are private? Secret things 'ARE' PRIVATE AND PERSONAL.
I cannot reason.
No porn, no pixtures, no smut. Bit of "spoken word", I am hard on myself.
But I bet my left one you can relate, I bet you have a story, (
Regards John F. from down under.

Wednesday, April 16, 2008



Several years ago a little boy got lost, after a protracted search the little tacker was found safe and well. What an incredible story, Steven Walls, Guyra NSW, 5000 SEARCHERS, 4 nights. “Where’s my daddy, where’s my daddy”. REMEMBER?
Kids, we love them and they are so resilient when faced with adversity. Steven is 50ish now, he has a little sister. Only Steven won’t know LITTLE BABY CHERRY, but I’ll bet my left one he gave her some advice in how to survive. But only in a way we have forgot, and kids only know.
Steven, your little baby sister went and got lost too, Cherry she was 6 years old, she was older than you.
May I relate the ‘other’, and one of many, true story of little people who go for a walk, in my case, Cherry from Broken Head NSW.
Oh boy what a gut wrench, time; 1630 hours, year; forgot. Situation; missing person. Mission; find missing person. Execution; mobilize search teams from the SES, VRA, RFS, POLICE, POLICE HELICOPTER, ‘SNIFFER DOGS’, ANYBODY and search. Administration; Police Search Control Base, Control; Police, Command; respective agencies, Comms; Bloody radios on 4 different frequencies.
Description of missing person; Little girl, 6 years old, shorts and a top, will answer to the name of Cherry.
Bugger this, dispense with the Combat Agencies speak.
Cherry goes for a little walk this particular afternoon with her pet dog, well, her mum thought she was just outside the back door of their home. Her mum said there was nothing unusual in the situation. Cherry and the faithful mutt played within the confines of the back yard, the ‘mutt’ was particularly protective and would never leave her side.
Her mum hears the frequent sounds of Cherry and her companion, a period of quietness of maybe several minutes elapses and she goes to check, no Cherry no dog.
Her mum and dad begin a search of the adjoining bush land, they call, they call. No response. And then the companion comes bounding through the bush, Cherry will be close behind. That was to be her parent’s best hope, Cherry didn’t materialize. The Police were contacted, the search for our little girl commenced soon after.
A little cryptic is the word to describe the sequence of events, but how else can it be explained. The little baby is lost for Gods sake.
Let me tell you that dozens of people were mobilized to search for little Cherry in minutes, we were all concerned for her well being in the dense forest behind her place, where are you Cherry?. A squad of ‘sniffer’ dogs and handlers, helicopter and lights made a preliminary search. Steven, was this scenario your dilemma?
We commenced a parallel search, it’s dark now, torches are glowing in the blackness. Blokes are calling her name, I say blokes there were some girls, but you know what I mean. Torches are running out of life. We stumbled through heavy forest and thick underbrush. Several of the search team walked right into a creek and became water logged, but they couldn’t give a rats arse. The memories of the monumental trek will come back for some, what about the dead cow in the creek, the bounding wallabies, the sounds of the ‘Horney frog mouth’, the brush turkeys. The people pushed on, we searched under logs, we looked in the bushes, men were frantic and had panic in their words, until.
There comes a time when logic and expediency must overtake stupidity, the area was so extensive, we were so few the search was abandoned until first light.
Now, remember the conditions, its darkest of night, wildlife, dead cow in the creek, forest and thickets, dogs barking, bright lights in the sky, people frantically calling her name, torches slicing into the darkness, there’s a baby out there.
At 0500 hours, and after 8 klms and 12 hours, a little tiny girl emerges from the forest, she knocks on the door of a caravan at Broken Head Caravan Park. The old couple are greeted by a tiny person completely naked, “hello I’m Cherry, I’m lost”.
Her mum tells us that Cherry recounts all of the above, how far behind were we, was our little heroine evading us, Steven, Cherry is your soul mate.
Johnfarls and dozens of people can attest, we cry. All stood down.


Thursday, April 10, 2008



This rhyming BUSHY poem is full of Australiana, it has certain lingua franca that may offend, DO NOT TURN YOUR TV OFF.

Many years ago, we were competing in a Surf Carnival at Nth. Palm Beach, SYDNEY NSW. The surf turned ordinary, in fact it turned out s—h—1—t house, people and water craft were getting trashed at an alarming rate. I think the word was;

“The incredible attrition dynamic undergoing competitors’ and their life saving accouterments necessitated cancellation of the said contest”.

Quote: The Gallagambone Chronicle.

That’s right; it was shithouse.

My hero and older mentor, in fact, the “the hairy bugger” has suggested; “Well, since we’re up here we should give the general population a bit of a thrill, I’ve got a plan”. The plan included a Surf Boat.

“How about a wave at Palm Beach”?

Any body familiar with PALM BEACH, Northern Beaches NSW? You will know that a very pleasant ‘Rip’ runs out on the southern end of the beach. It will take you past the rock pool and beyond. Broadly speaking this is the essence of ; “I’ve got a plan”.

So. What are we on about here? OK, a 25 foot bondwood ply Surf Boat, 4 horesmen, (there are girls now, any suggestions?). The sweep / tiller man was the inimitable Brian Sheen, soon to become our enigma, and a friggen’ continuous set of waves coming in from the south east.


From the outset the task was fraught with extraordinary contrition.
There was ‘Bombhead’, Michael, Jackie, Me, and Big Brian the leader of the mission.

The world at large was watching us, mongrel Brian, YOU made this unprejudiced decision.
The boat was launched, we seemed prepared but with trepidation and derision.

At this point the intention must be clear and object made dispassionate.
“One wave is all we’ll catch, you blokes row I will steer, nature will help us fashin’ it”.

You will not believe how fast we traversed, 20 strokes took us from the beach way way to out the rear.
The Palm Beach Pool was just a blur, we’re out there folks, but why this impenden’ fear?

We settle and collect our senses, we are in the big wave zone.
Just get me home to QY’s, a beer and; why am I writing this watery tome.

Twenty foot, I recon was what we ups and flows.
We’re way way out the back, and we settle for Big Brian’s courteous request, “when I say youse rows, well you pricks youse rows”.

There green and vast, unrelenting fast and have tons and tons of clout.
Supremacy is their potential, and I ask myself, God how can I get out?

The beach is oh so distant, about a thousand yards, give a little take a mile.
I’m rowin’ bow and all I see is faceless hoary backs, the big man has this wry, this oh so complacent smile.

And then the command to “stroke boys” is heard by all so clearly.
“We get this one, home and hosed on the beach we’ll be, the place you want so dearly”.

Mongrel dogs we rowed, piss poor really, we mistrusted Big Brian’s brawn.
Backed off just in time, rowed backwards, and this was where the big blokes scorn was born.

“You gutless, mango dispossessed, bunch of pricks. You heartless mongrels, bananas are proud of their yellow skins compared to you. That’s an oar in your hands, not your prick, it won’t grow any bigger. Your hearts are like peas, you couldn’t run a shit fight.

You with me or agin’ me?, your not a crew, your a poor excuse for cowards. You couldin’ pull a skin of a custard, you are piss poor, weak as piss. If you had half a brain it would be friggen’ lonely, you have let me down, you’r as useless as Papier Mache pricks, the next wave is for us you dogs, or you will be here all night.

Possibly the longest display of analogy and adjectives in a poem this may be so.
But when ‘Big Brian’ gave the order row, you better bend your weakened backs, “row you bastards row”.

Every word the big bloke uttered rang in our piss poor brains, and might I say to this day still.
One more go Oh fearless one, one more chance you hairy bastard, we’ll show the world we’re got the will.

So like a new page openin’ the crew is ready for the grind.
Forget about impending gloom, new courage is what we’ll find.

He sets us up on a mountain way way out the back, and oh my God it’s monumental and it’s also bloody huge.
No more backin’ off, no more gutless piss poor wonders, this is time to end the subterfuge.

It’s two miles high and it’s three miles thick, it’s green and full of massiveness.
Colossal, vast, gigantic, well 18 foot we guess surmise, but now it’s time give this one our very best.

“Gentlemen prepare to stroke, give me what you’ve got.
Show the people on the beach a thrill or too, now you sheila’s it’s time give me your best shot.

“Row you bastards, row like men possessed, and then some if you will”.
We did just that, we bent them oars, and watch the mammoth begin’s to fill.

We’re on this colossus at a blinding pace and down the face we rushes.
Brian yells “trail them oars, come back boys, Jackie lend a hand don’t let the mongrel crush us”.

Fifteen foot of boat protrudes from our watery feat of nature, and we can feel the awesome hum of dominance.
“Stay in the middle, get right back, sit on the friggen’ floor, right now we are on our way to International prominence”.

I’m looking ‘round, the pace in frantic and in my memories eye.
Lookin’ back I see that bloody great sweep oar embedded in Big Brian’s thigh.

It seems just like eternity, well at least for some long time and then some more.
This bloody great wave is runnin’ green and then comes that awesome roar.

Way above our heads the monster’s cresting starts, cascading tumbling and spewing spume and foam.
But Big Brian knows the trial, the ultimate test is nigh, “hang on you scungie lot, I’ll get you bastards home”.

“Trust me boys, we’re not beat yet but this bastards got a punch, Jackie, push with me and soon we’ll all be high and dry.
The amount of energy this mammoth is expending has instilled us with a classic high.

With gargantuan proportions the wall of water on our stern has turned mortal men to awe, and more.
I will wager this all you ‘Boatie’ folk, you’ll have a fear or two ‘cause now you’ll be unsure.


But you have never heard a sound so beloved, precious, and filled with dear relief.
Of that of plywood plowing beach sand, now your back on deck your home is underneath.

Recollections of this trauma have been stretched and somewhat graphic.
You don’t believe me? well guess I’ll have to tell yer, on the beach was a camera crew from National Geographic.

Dedicated to; AVALON BEACH SURF CLUB, copyright John D. Farley 2008.


Please forgive any indications of glibness, however, you will need to read; FROM THE CITY TO THE BUSH, PARTS ONE TWO AND THREE to get the g...