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.