Tuesday, July 28, 2009

MOHAMMED AND THE FISH


MOHAMMED AND THE FISH, VIZ A VIZ, THE ROCKY BOARDWALK.

John D. Farley©, 2009. (Yes, like all my crappy poems, it did happen, like real time, like now).

No, folks of MUSLIM leanin’, copyright for the big bloke is not my meanin’.
It’s for the fish he gave me out on the BRUNZ wall just today.
“Here John”, he said, “this feed is for you”, like, what can I say.
Catholic am me up bringing, but not much a believer can we note.
But MOHAMMED, well, he is MUSLIM, but for me he’s just an ordinary bloke.


Now then, who is the MOHAMMED to whom that I infer, and respect.
You may think it’s typical ‘johnfarlsbrunz’, bushy prose, crappy I expect.
So I will tell you a little story, on the rocky boardwalk, it happened just to day.
It’s about a simple gesture, a humbling nod, thanks without measure; from you I expect no pay.

Other people were present, DEBBIE, WAYNO, just chatting away the day.
We talked about life in general, our lives and where they stay.
We saw our first whale, spaslin’, bashin’, way down towards BYRON CAPE.
Every season we wait this occasion, “their coming north”, on the head the hairs and on the nape.

Debbie ‘plants her flowers’; she will give a silent prayer. Wayno and me just talk fishen’, trying to out do each other, we are blokes, so I guess that’s only fair.
“Have you seen the schools of mullet, upstream they are bound”. “Didn’t the rocky boardwalk, and, the sand dunes get a hefty pound”.

Then down the ‘boardwalk’ comes the little MUSLIM bloke.
And so we are, the gang of four, a rag tag bunch, a bunch of village folk.
Some friendly banter, time of day, then our prophet settles down to fish.
You see him silently give a prayer, “dear God, a fish is what I wish”.

Wont tarry now, from the briny came a creature slimy, “here John this ones for you”
“I accept your generous gift”. It’s in the bag, now it’s in the fridge, MAHOMMAD, you’re a jewel. It was that simple gesture from a little psychic bloke.
MOHAMMED, is his namesake, a person of the earth, but my MAHOMMAD is just a bloke, he is one of the VILLAGE folk.

John d farley©, 2009.

Sunday, June 21, 2009

DICKIE KNEE, THANKS JOHN B.


Remember "DICKIE KNEE"?

Well I 'bumped' into the little bloke a coupla' days ago, who is he you say? You had to be there, remember "HEY, HEY IT'S SATURDAY", go on 'GOOGLE".

Anyway, there I was taking some photos on my beloved Brunswick Heads south wall, you know; "THE ROCKY BOARDWALK". And there in my image viewer appeared a little blue hat, "bugger me it's Dickie Knee". What a scoop. I met the GOVERNER GENERAL OF AUSTRALIA coupla' days ago, got some photos of her also, lovely lady, we are very proud of her.
WHICH STORY IS TRUE?, (one / both / none).

Monday, April 27, 2009

ILLEGAL IMMIGRENTS










FIRSTLY, CHECK OUT THE IMAGE. (No, not her, that's me girl drying her hair)









THE ONE ABOVE.
You are witnessing the arrival into Australian waters that of an 'ILLEGAL IMMIGRENT', this person was last seen at a secret 'dispatch' point way across the TASMAN SEA, known as "RAGLAN", a place in the Pacific Islands. (Can you see him?). The person on the North Wall, (Brunswick Heads, NSW, AUSTRALIA) is, in fact a 'people smuggler', also, has the nome de plume; "THE FISHERMAN".
This intrepid surfer has travelled across the TASMAN SEA on a single wave, his endurance, his need for a place of freedom, his desire to be in a place to start a new life MUST be rewarded.
I am privy to much information, I am being search for, I am a wanted man, you must not divulge your source, please. His 'vessel' was incinerated on the beach.
We in Australia welcome people with open arms, this saga needs to be related.
Firstly, the young person is safe and well, he is in a secret place, please tell his family. He is being fed intraveneously by a combination of KIWI FRUIT, rum and coffee, and a secret recipe of 'milk thistle', (POOHAH). He is responding well, he is singing softly some lovely poignant songs from his land of birth.
I can relate to his position, I arrived, well, my family arrived in a "boat" in 1846.
Please dont give him up, now I will have hide in my own country.
See my story, http://www.johnfarls.com/, every body starts somewhere, love ya, john f.

Sunday, April 5, 2009

IDIOTS OF THE WEEK AWARD




Why do people throw caution to the wind, why try out the devil. It's time to re-wind the "ODE TO THE FLOODED CAUSEWAY".

LOCATION: Eastern seaboard of Australia, any where really. Any where there is flooded stream crossing a 'causeway or ford'. GOOGLE SEARCH; (flooded causeway), you will see where I am coming from. In january 2008 we lost a friend in the BRUNSWICK VALLEY, NSW, OZ, we were shattered and dismayed. Amongst the harrowing thoughts that races through a persons head a poem surfaced, a crappy "BUSH POEM", look inside it, I still dwell on the 'inside'.
Many lives have been lost in our little area; TAKE YOUR HAND OFF IT.

AND THEN IT HAPPENED, SO SAD, SO NEEDLESS.

ODE TO THE FLOODED CAUSEWAY. ©John d Farley 2008

That buggers come up again.
That was quick, so they were right, but what would they know, this my domain.
Lets have a go, will I, nah, take the shoes off and wade a little, seems ok, what’s the staff gauge say? Only one meter? gees I must have a piddle.

I’m nervous, I’m anxious; calm is the antonym, which knows better.
Have a go yer mug, maybe one day the word is r.i.p. That’s it, let her rip, me names god, so send me a letter.
So bloody easy, didn’t I tell yeah? I’ll drive her fast make a wave think of the Ark.

Well, the light’s growing dim, so what, I’ll be home for tea and family stuff and hear old faithful bark.
And howl and whine and fret and act like a lonely animal without a friend, she knows darn well what’s up.
I’ll get there, didn’t I tell yer, I am invincible, I am a’winnin.

You beauty, nearly there, piss of log, don’t need you, or more got the bastards got me, I’m go’ in swimmim.
Strange emotions, many odd thoughts, peaceful stuff.
Me life, me mates, me wife and kids, the old bitch.
Must learn a better word for me dog, now here’s the pitch, ‘I’ve bugger him up’ and all’s getting black, heaps of bubbles.

Bubbles, I can use them, yes I can. Their fleeting things, I grab for them. I known now I’m in very deep troubles.
Upside down, I don’t have a clue, the air I breath is, its, well just like tea.
Is this the end? No coming back, no more you, no more me?

The feeling of release is somehow strange but relaxin’. What have I done, I don’t blame myself, it was somehow stupid but now it’s quite, and real perplexin’.
I didn’t have much time for prayer, but nows a pretty fair time.
Look after me wife and kin please god, oh, and that bitch of mine.

When yah find me, someday soon, wields that bloody cudgel.
All I want’s is my wife, me kids, me bitch, and the mates at Billinudgel.
Here we go there’s that last bubble, peace has got me, me wife, my kids, me old dog.
me wife me me dogs kid.
me wife me kids me dog,

I made a bad choice, better next time, forgive me and learn.
me wife me kids and me dog.
I would still be here but for that friggin’ great log.

John d farley © 2008, http://www.johnfarlsbrunz.com/, email; johnfarls@bigpond.com


Thursday, March 26, 2009

GIVE OR TAKE A METRE/ METER

I MENTION METRE, (METER), not the distance I hesitate to say, or should that be stressed, maybe acoustic properties.
Tried writing poems, it seems that proffessional attitude is required.


GIVE OR TAKE A METRE, John D. Farley© 2009
Me hat’s off, me sleeves are rolled up, and I’m ready for the fray, this poem’s about correctness, you critic’s will take bay.
You see, I never wrote a poem, including the Aussie Bushy ones, ones that I cant match.
Until a tragic incident occurred, in my locale, in my backyard, described as bein’ on my patch.
This will be time well spent, so of I went, to write a rhyming Bushy poem.
Heart full of sorrow. Who’s words can I borrow, bugger it, the words will be my own.

All about a flooded creek, my first attempt was written.
Much more crappy rhyming verse then followed, Farley’s brain was smitten.
Then based with prior learning, living life if you will. I’ll base me poems on a life of yore, my memories I will fill.
Well you can’t believe how vernacular weaved, in and out this Bushy narrative.
I soon found out, with out a doubt, bends some words use some slang, from Aussie stuff the decretive.

And then down the track, from way outback, from left field the bitter truth rose up and bit me lame.
I read some stuff by a bloke named Ellis, Campbell is his last name.
Beloved Bush poems is his game, my work he puts to shame, shameful, followed by the then some.
It’s the reason why I’m trying hard to do good things, so why am I so bloody winsome.
What an Aussie champ, his writing tips I follow with enjambment, onomatopoeia and metaphors in quick succession.

Problem is, old Aussie mate, my minds to thick to comprehend the science of the mission.

I think I’ve got a handle on rhythm, on caesurae, similes and clich├ęs, and maybe a stanza dream.
Constantly revise me poems, cant get monometer right and have to re-write the rotten theme.
Bugger me, almost got the imagery right, can you see wot I see Ellis, I have been on the track that yourv’ been down.
There’s a bloke called Bernard, der Silver throated is he known, knock about man, you Poets will look at this and moan.
Don’t let the hangman’s noose slip loose; you blokes keep knocking out the good stuff. Me, I’ll just plod along, singing my song, poems in my vernacular, sometimes honest. Always very rough.

My poems are full of self-procrastination, self-indulgence, me, I, and a little more of self.
But, then 60 years plus, arse out of me duds, so I can’t sit on the shelf.
Our poetry, my regret, is miles and miles apart, you hark from Coolah, so I must give thoughts impart.
My Pommie ancestors settled in the upper Hunter, we might be cousins, now there’s a merry start.
Well sorry Ellis Campbell, if in the cupboard the skeleton resides, and writes.
Maybe you will disown this poet, but I look for your clergy often, my pledge will be to put it right.

And, so with this tongue in cheek analogy, respect to you not with-holden’.
Best wishes from all Bushy Aussies, you bloody beauty, keep the words unfolden’.

John D. Farley© 2009, www.johnfarls.com, www.johnfarlsbrunz.com, email; johnfarls@bigpond.com.

PS: This will be re-written’, edited, and then some.

Sunday, March 1, 2009

FLAT AS SHiT CARTERS HAT.

Typically; "Dunny Carters Hat, Night Soil Carters Hat, Shit Carters Hat, Poo Carters Hat, Night Carters Hat, Dunny Can Carters Hat. Well, the anology simply denotes that; if the Brunswick Heads bar mouth is as flat as the above hat(s), it's safe to go fishing.

NIGHT CARTERS HAT, AL LA FISHEN’
John D. Farley, © 2009.

When the sea is flat, like a shit carters hat, it’s time to down the tools.
McKeag and me will launch the boat, you see in our town, well folks, the fishen’ rules.
A block of ‘pillies’, our trusty rods, some ‘occie’ Maybe out there we will ‘spotya’.
Listen for the sound of 115 horses, no, not a stampede, it’s our trusty steed the ‘Gotcha’.

Bond wood, clad with fiberglass proud as punch she takes us.
Through the Brunswick ‘Walls’, out to the ‘local reef’, “around the pot holes McKeag, hey mate don’t shakes us”.
So we drop the ‘pick’, we sets the rods, and compulsory bit of ‘coolite’ float is cast.
Very soon the ratchet whirrs, “hey Keggie were fishen’, get out the gaff, the fun’s about to start”.

Well, not always is the pace so frenetic, there is days we wait, then there’s day we get real hectic.
Just to be on the briny, kicking back and reminiscing, folks, this seems to be eclectic.
“Hey old mate what about old “Walleye”, biggest bastard I’ve ever seen”.
“You pulled him up from 40 fathoms, brown and awesome, teeth with unholy gleam”.

Our faces turned white, and, while our duds turned a different shade.
“But you had to have your moment of glory McKeag, the moment I will never trade”.
We cogitate and think about adventures nature had us subjected too.
How we nearly sunk the “Gotcha”, the rains came down, we nearly drowned, the things that we both went through.

We reflect upon the massive catch of Mackarel we hooked upon the local.
What to do with our ‘fishy bounty, makin’ money was the point real focal.
Market down, prices crap so a sales journey we did venture.
WE crawled from Tweed Heads to Billinudgel, we sold the fish, we got pissed, boy what a great adventure.

We talk about, what comes about; you will gauge by this little yarn.
Coupla’ days, she’ll be right, so one more day wont harm.
Stuff the workload, we’ll be there tomorrow, right now were on a mission.
“If you accept these terms then hang about”, ‘cause McKeag and me have ‘gorn fishen’.

John D. Farley, © 2009.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009

LINEMAN FOR THE COUNTY

R.I.P. dear Victorians. I balled my eyes out, I'm allowed, I'm 70.
When you swallow my mind set, you may get some humour from the following:

Brunz, N.S.W., OZ has lost some people too, several linesmen have gorne missing.