#Dolphins at Brunswick Heads

A large pod of #Bottle Nosed #Dolphins passing by the Brunswick River, NSW, OZ.

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.

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.