WHO LIKES POETRY, well, "BUSHY POETRY". If you want some cultural stuff, like, 'cultural cringe", check out;

Be carefull to read the poems in a monotone, you know, with inflections here and there.

www.johnfarlsbrunz.com/BUSH_POETRY_John_D_Farley.php

My poems are infecteous, you will need medical treatment after reading.

SO WHAT ARE YOU GOING TO INDULGE, (ME) IN TODAY

I have tried whales, snakes, lots of stuff. Even some of my crappy poems. You may think the world revolves around my ego, not right. I think about football, cricket, the opposite sex, an occasional wine and taking photos of BRUNSWICK HEADS NSW. I buy the paper to wrap my kitchen refuse in.

I watch the TV, mainly for the programs, that's when I go for a pee, (so I dont miss the commercials). Frequently I sit in front of my PC and hit my websites and gloat about my full and fruitfull life. Looking at trees reminds me of the heat generated from a fire, you know like, what animal can I BBQ now?

I laught at my own jokes, even when there are no audience, (and no idea wot there about), Every time I look at a Thesaurus I think about my piles. I shave once a week, mainly to relieve the itch of not taking a shower. "To much washing weakens you". (LOve that story, you know; "life gets tedious dont it".

Well I am changing all of that, I am having a resurgence, my highly acclaimed and well accepted poems will be found at;

http://www.johnfarlsbrunz.com/

Look for something like 'BUSH POETRY'. Ignore any referances to a naughty page.

I have understood my mind set, read my pissy attempts at rhymming slangy poetry and you understand, yes, it's all about me, "IT'S ALL FOR ME", LOVE YA JOHN F.

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 clichés, 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.