A bloke growing up in the bush and the city, how it lead to bush poems, I think

NEW BOOK#2 STUFF, #8

It’s not unusual; there are places where people are just drawn. Every Town, every city, every country has one. Best not be too descriptive, you will all know of your own special place. This little rhyming poem is Australiana, it is written in "Bushy" vernacular. If I were educated you would describe it as "LINGUA FRANCA", or LINGUA AUSTRALIS.

BRUNSWICK HEADS, THE ROCKY BOARDWALK SOUTH.

Collect my thoughts, block out my entire stigma, block out all we give to this very odd enigma.

Only a citadel, rocks and dirt it’s built, it protects us from encroaching ocean.

But if you need some inner peace, solitude, walk the talk, the wall; it’s got the potion.

The talk, that’s the thing we need, mostly need in daily life.

Brunz South wall is the place for peace and peace of mind, and it helps you with your inner strife.

The talk, all inner emotions, your troubled head will be explained, and so.

Go there stay a while; shed a tear, I do often go.

For many reasons, for many people the break wall. Watch the ocean ebb and flow.

On any day I will ride my bike, camera is my extension, mostly calm but when I’m not it’s the place to off load all my tension

This rocky promontory, annex of our being will suddenly evolve into a village, puzzled, I will wager this.

Then take a stroll meet some folk, nod your head, and a smile won’t go amiss.

Many days I’ve spent along this rocky boardwalk Brunz, people visit from all over to join the little village.

Village? How is this so, now I must explain my wisdom, giving a reason well.

There’s no village square, no church, no shops, and there is no wishing well.

Well, do we need the accouterments’, only people will fill the need, any day there are these people, any race or creed.

How about Mohammed, not the real bloke I hesitate to say.

No, it’s our little Malaysian fisherman, watch for him, he’ll be there on any day.

Now he loves a chat Mohammed does, and he has many words of sense.

Doesn’t care who he addresses; everyone, and he don’t sit on the fence.

His god will be your god, because nature is his yearning.

Take what you need, feed your kin and friends, his wisdom will get your mind aware, your intellect will start churning.

This wise man on the wall is one of daily folk.

Just like me he’s not important, he’s just an ordinary bloke.

There’s Debbie, Wayno’ and a multitude of village faces.

They don’t think they mean much in this beautiful of places.

This rocky village square will have its share of sorrow, its based on life will be.

Village people live and die here, the sorrow and pain… the loved ones, given to the sea.

When you visit our rocky village, some won’t know it exists in time.

Spare a thought that ere you are, this place is yours and mine.

Come, enjoy seclusion, look out for the villagers, and please take time to think.

You and the rocky villagers will be new friends in a blink.

Nod your head and raise your hand, and if your eyes can shimmer, smile a bit start up a chat and you’ll be on a winner.

Look for a bloke on an old black bike, he’s got a huge compulsion, you smile at him, give a nod; he’ll be over you like emulsion.

Brunswick Heads, the rocky boardwalk south, there is a village square.

Only friendly people are welcome to come to visit, but that’s not really fair.

We respect your station, respect your space, come and visit, And that folks, from all of us… this is our rocky dare.

©John d Farley 2008.

DID I SEE YOU THIS MORNING? BRUNSWICK HEADS, THE ROCKY BOARDWALK VILLAGE.

Remember me; I was riding my old black bike. I had a backpack and my camera ‘round my neck. You bloke had your sandals off, tip toeing along The ROCKY BOARDWALK SOUTH, Brunswick Heads that is. I envy you, you had a partner, your wife? Your lover? Was it your sister?

Paid the bills and me rent, booked me ticket on the XPT. Now I go to where everybody goes, some place to reflect, to get some respite, to cogitate. The sea and the rocks give inspiration, but don’t worry not for devious things. Bugger me, you guys nodded first, you smiled and acknowledged me, that’s the philosophy of the "BOARDWALK" OH, the vista.

Tide is on the ‘make’, lovely greeny blue ocean water rushing upstream, do you see what I see, the rejuvenation and replenishment, or do you see the "Village" as a place for peace and tranquility and somewhere just to go and observe. A thousands words will be your legacy of this wondrous place. You will return.

What do we observe? Let’s get the scene in perspective. A jutting promontory allows us to venture into the realms of our existence, this simple bloke reckons it’s the closest place we get to from where we evolved. I love the board walk, I love the people.

But I love God, "your God Is my Gods brother", "my God is my God", "if my God is my God and your God is your God, and l love both Gods, how does that work?

The all-encompassing analogy of the ‘Boardwalk’ is not fiction, it exists, Brunswick Heads is a real place, my spiritual place and you have your place of worship.

My God has many brothers and sisters, a loose comment? We acknowledge there must have been a mother, right? The context of God is life driven, I am a simple person, and my God is what we are given and not a person. Respect your God, the philosophy of the Disciples, my God is Mother Nature, man has overlooked the primary drive of creation. Make a comment, is john f naïve?. It’s all there at the ROCKY BOARDWALK SOUTH.

It’s all there at the ROCKY BOARDWALK SOUTH. The poem that best describes the enigma.

HOW IT ALL CAME ABOUT, FISHEN’ THAT IS.

Who doesn’t like to have a fish, the smelly bait, the slimy fish, and the thrill of the "chase"? The wonderful sight of little kids just relaxing, the innocence, boys and girls. The Dad’s and Mum’s explaining the fundamentals’ of patience and persevering, OH, and how to bait and cast.

Fishing is an elemental lesson in life stuff. It brings families together in a common goal, fishing is a learning curve, the end result; "A BLOODY GOOD FEED". But hang on!! Have I digressed, we are only going fishing, how can philosophy be a consequence of scaling a fish. If I really put my mind to the subject, and I have, look at the progression.

Seaside, inland waterways, doesn’t matter. WHY?

"Let’s go fishing, come on kids, fish for tea". WHY?

Did you know that the spontaneous purchase of fisnen’ stuff makes up 35% of sCales?

When did you have your first fish, maybe a bent pin and some cotton?

Remember sitting and watching, thinking a little?

Is it the only sport that provides recreation, family bonding, "A BLOODY GOOD FEED". Endurance, skill, determination, resolves, imagination and perseverance?

Fishing provides the basis to "untwine". (Or unwind).

Hands and fingers provide and ideal place to store hooks.

Some times you can earn a living from the activity, but it’s a hard life.

So therefore that’s what ‘FISHEN FOR A LIVEN’, for me was / is all about.

All of the senior men in my life, OH, and me MUM, showed me a thing or two about catching a fish.

GOD knows when I caught my first fish, but it started a progression, a development that has not finished to this day. When we moved to BRUNSWICK HEADS, the boys would awake at "sparrow fart" and head for the Boat Harbour. Sometimes, maybe a fish would result; mostly they would return without the knife, several yards of fishing line and minus many sinkers and hooks.

Sometimes they returned with a bucket of fresh bait, they called them BUGS, BALMAIN BUGS. They soon learnt that this BAIT!! Was more suited to breakfast. At 50 cents a kilo the splendiferous Bug was a non-event for the trawler men.

GORNE FISHEN'.

In (http://www.johnfarls.com) I describe my Uncle Chris and me fishing for Luderick, had the best times. But this is BRUNZ, this is about FISNEN’ FOR A LIVEN’, fishing the; 45’s, the 38’s, Norries, The Local, The Nursery, the Cod Ground, also known as THE WINDARRA BANKS. To a lesser extent, the Brunswick River. DROP LINEING, LONG LINES, FISH TRAPS, ROD AND REEL.

And from an early time I knew not to keep the "Biggies", let the older fish go, otherwise: no more fish you bastard.

After all that’s happened in Australia, in fact world wide, this NEXT story is a bit of an anti-climax.
IT’S NATURE’S WILL. Brunswick Valley Floods 2008.

WHAT A DOWN POUR, AND probably ISN’T OVER YET.

To all of the people affected by the inundation in the BRUNSWICK VALLEY and in particular northern NSW and southern QLD, please stay safe. The damage to property and infrastructure will be horrendous and present many interruptions to normal life for some time. To ALL my colleagues in the STATE EMERGENCY SERVICE and supporting agencies, RFS, NSWFB, VRA, DOCS, THE POLICE, ST VINNIES, RED CROSS, SLSC and all the other people from other agencies, KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN.

To all the holiday makers and visitors to our areas, BLOODY SORRY about that, you will come back? PLEASE.

To the people stranded with limited food and essential commodities’, everything is being implemented to assist you in your time of need. Every logistic avenue will be investigated to get you some help; IT’S THE AUSTRALIAN WAY. Keep out of harms way.

And to anybody who thinks they can tackle those flooded causeways, GET A LIFE, cause you’ll lose it if you throw caution out the window. In our little region of the BRUNSWICK VALLEY, Northern NSW, no less than 7 motor vehicles have been swept from inundated crossings, 3 were YOU BEAUT four-wheel drives, some with multiple passengers. Some haven’t been seen yet. All lives were spared.

OUR ADVICE TO YOU; DON’T BLOODY DO IT!! We are not a towing service. Our members don’t need tragedy in our patch. AGAIN, to our affected citizens, please wait it out, help will come.

FLOODS, BIG TIME. Jan 2008.

HAVE TO TELL YOU THAT THE TOTAL FOR MOTOR VECHILES WASHED FROM FLOODED CAUSEWAYS HAS RISEN TO 12, that’s right, one dozen. You wanna be No.13? Do you know the BRUNSWICK VALLEY Northern NSW, MAIN ARM and WILSONS CREEK? Go on temp the Devil’s number; we’ll be very cross.

We can’t blame the 4-wheel drive Manufacturers, they use professional drivers and they tell us just that, and, 50% of the cars where sedans, however all are irresponsible impetuous drivers. My organization don’t need you, get your act together.

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 bloody rotten causeway has 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 knew then... I’m in a shit load of 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.

LITTLE BABY CHERRY, LOST.

In 2000 a little 6-year girl went "walkabout" from the yard of her home near Broken Head Northern NSW. She wandered off with her pet dog. Her mother had been in constant voice contact. The terrain behind her home was dense bush leading into heavy coastal forest. About 4/5 kilometers east was the Broken Head Caravan Park, a small hamlet near the ocean.

The time was late afternoon; conditions were calm and cloudless, then. Little Cherry did not answer her mother’s call. Her mum began calling her from the back yard, Cherry had disappeared. Her pet dog appeared from the bush behind the house, but no little girl.

Frantic calls for assistance to the local Police commenced a protracted search, it’s getting on to very dim light, and it will soon be dark. Members of the Police with a helicopter and sniffer dogs commenced to search behind the property.

Members of the State Emergency Service, The Volunteer Rescue Assn, the Rural Fire Service and some local residents, a total of upwards of 50 people, commenced to conduct a sweep search in dense woodland, in total darkness aided by torches. For several hours they searched to no avail, the search parties are instructed to return at first light with more volunteers.

LITTLE BABY CHERRY.

CHEERRIIEE BABY. That’s mummy, "nearly time for tea darling", yummy.

"Here I’m is out here with doggie wwoolfie", gee he is a sook.

A butterfly flutters it’s all blue "come on doggie lets take a look".

Its wings are pretty and it flies out the gate, "wont be long mummy"

I think I said.

The pretty butterfly.

But it’s gone, it’s gone in the bush, where? We will find it. Mummy will love it, Daddy will smile.

Where’s doggie, where is this place, mummy and Daddy will find me, I’ll just walk, gee the trees are nice.

Can you hear, that’s an Owl, Daddy told me that, it’s dark now Mummy, I want my tea.

I see things really good, wish daddy could be here, that’s a big bird, I want my house, oh here’s the little creek.

Oh very smelly, is that a cow, can I take my shirt off mummy, and I’m really hot. Dogs are barking, dogs are scary; I’ll go this way.

Scared Mommy, lights and noise are coming through the big trees, Daddy why the wind.

All the lights, loud voices, cranky voices. Daddy said.

A voice, a little boy, "go this way", my tea, Mummy and Daddy. The little boy, "go this way".

A little animal, "hello".

Mummy I’m very tired, can I go to bed, "no Cherry I’ll get you home, you’ll see". But that’s not Mummy.

It’s really really dark, the little boy is in front of me, he’s only little, he calls to me.

We know.

The naughty sounds, the cranky loud voices, the dogs, I’m not scared now, a long way away. Mummy will find me.

Sounds in the bushes, "can I lie down under that old tree".

"Don’t lie down, come with me, let’s play, can you hear the beach". The little boy said.

I want my bed, I’m ready for ‘jammas’, Mummy, look at me, oooh it’s cold.

Daddy said I’m a little girl and always smile, Mummy said I’m pretty. Why is nobody here? Just the little boy.

It’s dark, where’s my home, why is our home got lost.

Little boy, where are you, the light is just in front, it’s like a little home. "Your safe" he said.

Mummy said be nice, if I bang on the door and be nice.

I know what to say; "HELLO I’M CHERRY, I’M GOT LOST".

Dedicated to little Cherry and her very relived Mum and Dad, © john d Farley 2008.

PS: The searchers had described a dead cow in a creek, the Police Helicopter, the barking Police dogs, the sounds of men and women calling in loud voices. Cherry described all of these things to her Mummy, she "was scared Mummy".

Could the ‘little boy’ be an apparition? Have little kids hidden intentionally to escape the suspected dangers from all of "naughty sounds, the cranky voices, the dogs". Maybe another "walkabout" can answer this enigma; his name is Stephen Walls, (circa 1978), "Little boy lost"

Cherry walked out of a very dense littoral forest, she was completely naked. She had, by some calculations, walked 5 kilometers during the night, ALL STOOD DOWN; there was not a dry eye in the town.

MAHOMMAD LIVES IN BRUNSWICK HEADS.

No not the 'BIG BLOKE', OUR MAHOMMAD is a little malaysian bloke with a big heart. He fishes and talks, then talks, and then fishes. When you come to Brunswick Heads look him up. THAT'S HIM, SOMEWHERE ALONG THE "ROCKY BOARDWALK BRUNZ".

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

John D. Farley©, 2009.

No, folks of MUSLIM leanin’, the 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 MAHOMMAD, well, he is MUSLIM, but for me he’s just an ordinary bloke.

Now then, who is the MAHOMMAD 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 special 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.

MAHOMMAD, is his namesake, a person of the earth, but my MAHOMMAD is just one of our special VILLAGE folk.

John d farley©, 2009.

We live at OCEAN SHORES, NSW.

MY NAME’S Petal, LOVE ME. I am a purple flower, he is a dag.

MY STORY.

A blinding flash, I’ve been taken, I’ve met a man with a camera my inner self is shakin’.

Who is my new love, he said, "he’s very unobtrusive".

He wanted to see me at my best. "I’m only a flower" but he said, your beauty is heavenly but elusive.

He captured me at my finest time, I was putting on quite a show, my purple dress took his breath away and his face was all a glow.

I let out all my esters, my fragrance flowed and my scent turned his face quite crimson.

I’m just a flower when’s all is said but I could see he was so winsome

And then he put me in my place, never forget this my dearest love, you are God given and you’re special... you’re my purple dove.

He swore he would never take my morning bloom.

He wants me for my inner self, and now I feel no gloom.

He is going to make me famous, put me somewhere nice.

But I’ll bet he’s taken many flowers and will I pay the price.

Even so my petals glow and I really turned petite.

You’re the one he said, you’ll join my club elite.

He has some friends in a far away place with whom he’d like to share.

But I will never forget his blinding flash it’s him my life will share.

He’s placed me in his life’ I’ll be with him forever.

I blush deep purple just to think; oh he’s so very clever.

He wants to place me in an album and I will be at the center.

That’s the reason I’m blushing now, I’m going to let him enter.

HIS STORY;

My gorgeous little petal with purple blush you’ve smitten.

An ordinary bloke before you smiled at me my love, is this how love it is written’.

Nothing in my world compares with your early morning blush.

Peace has entered, gloom and sadness lifted, in a lovely purple rush.

I had to capture your wondrous face please forgive my rude intrusion.

Your stood out like a beacon light; now my feelings are confusing.

You tantalized my senses your perfume was matchless so supreme.

I love you Petal dear you have shattered my very being.

With your permission can I show you to some very special friends?

GO smelltheflowers is their name and they have a special place.

Petal, they want to meet you, greet you. Will you share with them your face?

Remember this my little bloom they love flowers without equal, so unique.

I adore you now beyond compare, see you soon little purple bloom until next time that we speak.

Sadness strikes now, but I will always see your face, your beauty may fade but never die.

I have a special picture, and all my days will have, we had a lovely interlude, a love story you and I.

©John Farley, AKA johnfarlsbrunz 2008

OLD WALL EYE AND OTHER SHARKS.

Tale tales and true. Many stories have been recounted about "OLD WALL EYE", he lived in real memory, and he was not a figment of too much ‘rum and coffee’. Our ‘friend’ lives out from Brunswick Heads, he has one good eye.

This "Bushy", read ‘watery’ yarn comes from a personal experience. This must make me 121 years old. Also read; he for she, she for he?

OLD WALL EYE.

He was big and brown, he had a huge set of teeth and he terrified us. A dog? A bull? no a bloody great shark that’s what old wall eye was. He lived near Brunswick Heads N.S.W.; He lived in deep water and was notorious amongst the trawler men and the boaties. He wrecked so many prawn nets and ‘took’ so many fish, always distinguished by his one white eye, can’t remember which was the good eye, it may have been his starboard one.

He was a legend, he was not a figment of some bodies imagination. Ask any fisherman from up here and they will relate a story of this huge BRONZE WHALER. My mate John and myself can tell you first hand of our encounter with the toothy creature from the deep.

FARLEY AND MCKEAG, (Google that).

John owned a fiberglass bond wood boat, it was distinguished by the name ‘GOTCHA’. When the Bar Mouth was flat as a ‘night carters hat’, we would down tools and head out for few hours of fishing. Mostly we fish the local reef and if conditions allowed head for the 38’s. So here we are; anchored and down goes the 70lb lines with ‘pillies’ for bait, got some bites and landed some nice Schnapper, John suggests he has caught Australia, you fisher persons will relate to hooking the bottom. The only option is to keep hauling in until the hook lets go or the line breaks. For some time John hauls away but still the weight remains on the line. We both know something big has been hooked up, sharks mostly take a run and break you off, this was to be an exception. SO, what was this dead weight, it was not long before the question was answered.

Out of the murky deep an apparition of huge proportions becomes very evident, John has hauled to the surface "The Legend", the, "walled eyed monster". Two blokes with normally complacent personalities are incredulous at the size of this fish, GOTCHA is 18 feet long, the monster is nearly as long, it quietly surveys us, we survey it and a stand off is happening. The rest of the narrative will be a blur; a knife is produced, the line is cut, the motor started, the anchor is retrieved and we get to buggery out of there. WE have had our encounter with ‘OLD WALL EYE’ AND SURVIVED!

OLD WALL EYE.

He was big and mean, he was brown, teeth resplendent white, some will imagine an animal that barks.

Well I can tell you he was all that but not the Junkyard Dog, he’s marine, from the 38’s this bugger harks, and rules the ocean oh supreme.

Brunswick Heads, the "Rocky Boardwalk South" will be where this recount emanates.

It’s about me mate Johnnie Mckeag and me, oh and ‘GOTCHA’, you guys, the story will desalinates?

John and me check the bar this day, it’s like a Shit Carters Hat, and that’s flat.

So down go’s tools, paintbrushes and stuff, the 38’s are where were at.

The faithful ‘GOTCHA’, she’s bond wood, 18 foot, fiberglass clad and pride of all the fleet.

She’s pullin’ at the bridle as the dreaded break walls we meet and breach.

With rods and lines and smelly bait, me mate and our trusty steed.

Head E NOR EAST to the ‘horror zone’, just to have a good day out.

Bring home to the folks a wholesome feed, yeah fish for tea, grilled for me, and, it must be your next shout.

30 minutes and we are there dropping down the anchor, to our fishing spot of choice.

The mighty ocean, she’s quite, she’s tranquil and a wonderful place to be ‘hooked up’.

Bait up, drop down, get set, get bites land some fish, now get ready for a story that johnfarls hasn’t cooked up.

Mckeag says " hey farls I think I’ve the bottom, bugger, have to break of the line".

So he hauls and hauls on the 70 pound fishing twine, it comes up ever so slow, and then it dawns, something big is coming up from way way down the mine.

The line, she won’t break, 15 minutes pass and then some more I feel sure.

What is this thing me mates hooked up, "keep pullin’ mate", got to see this thing, curiosity found, that will be the cure.

"Remora, sucker fish", we both exclaims in time, up they come, the penny drops lets cut of the bloody line.

But now the reason for our wonder majestically appears, brown and huge it enters our line of sight. It surfaces on the starboard side then slowly moves to port, it’s the legend.

Just a bronze whaler, 16 foot long, it has a head like a Mini-Minor, bloody hell lets get out here, let us make our flight.

Frantic action, panic, traumatic reaction, over reaction, crap has hit the fan, cut the line, start the motor, get up the anchor, don’t wait for this buggers might.

All these actions take place in a blur, back to the depths this apparition descends.

WE have had our encounter with OLD WALL EYE, we lived, but this not where the story ends.

WE clean the boat from you know what, and what do you think we find?

Bloody ‘dry rot’, that’s wot, see the dilemma? Old WALL EYE almost had our be-hind.

Night soil carters, dunny carters, shit carters, night carters, dunny can carters, sani-can carters, sanitary can carters, "you make it, and we take it".

Actually, this poem has nothing to do with the above professional expertise. Rather, it is an analogy about the shape of their hat. You ascertain that to carry many cans of "night soil" will necessitate a certain flattening of their hat, hence: the "sea is as flat as a shit carters hat". My mate Johnnie McKeag, (go on GOOGLE; ‘mckeag, Brunswick heads), loved our fishing, read on.

FLAT AS A SHIT CARTERS HAT.

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 are 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 Mackerel 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 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’.

OK mate, get this story straight, and get your teeth into the bit. Lewd and crude and very "Occer", this prosy rhyme will sit.

Pack a sanger and　a　stubby, 'cause fishin' is where were at.

Let's try our luck old buddy.

LET'S GO FISHEN’,　the sea is 'FLAT AS SHIT CARTERS HAT"

MY MOB FROM THE S.E.S., AND OTHER VOLUNTEER LARRIKINS.

Orange people? I guess it’s what you hanker too.

Ideology? Yes there is some conscious theory to a selected few.

But enough already of the philosophical rambelins’.

Let me get on with my poem, before the bureaucrats start scrambilin’.

Are you a Volunteer? A person of any gender, race or creed?

Then my place is your place, ‘cause society has this desperate need.

Need, he says, what’s your story, where do you fit the credentials well.

Well folks, you can, and will be a somebody, enlist you time; let’s see those numbers swell.

I joined the Mullumbimby Unit of the S.E.S. when me time was slack and no count.

No ambitions, no pretensions, full of baggage, nomadic tendency I had to mount.

What could I offer, what could they offer? Could I fit the bill?

What time wills I give, will I fit in, and have I got a skill?

Questions from above were soon allayed, again a volunteer, a new path I have laid.

Again you say? I’m heading for 34 years total, S.L.S.C, S.E.S, and the V.R.A.

Forgive my indulgence oh so vocal.

I am one of many dudes in your midst, who’s need to help is focal.

Celebrate your precious time you are allowed to tarry, if had my time again, volunteerin’ I would marry.

Well, that comment I pleads to be a total mind warp extraordinaire.

Flack, will be the consequence, and that, I will have to wear.

So let me clarify, you impending volunteers, think about the consequential outcome.

You want to be one of us, no probs, just don’t expect an income.

God there is some good people out there, pretensions I have mentioned.

All they want to do is help other people; there income is their pensions.

Deliberation, yes my time has been impulsive, if you will; set in aspic.

Thick in the head, a little bit short on intellect, a fact that some will have a suspect.

Maybe you think I have been pushin’ me barrow, and this analogy will be all about me you suppose.

So it’s time to tell, sorry folks, in trepidation, I guess I’m one of those

Yep, out of the closet, you bloody beauty, the feelin’ let it be.

You would be wrong you know. I have punched these keys to set my ‘boofhead’ mind a’free.

Propinquity, analogous, I have used grammar and "Bushy’ words at will.

Want to be a volunteer? Race, creed, religion, AC, DC, your presence and your place you will fill.

Be like me, silly old fart, no sense no feelin’, no concept of fear and trepidation.

Just a cog in an international revolutionary wheel, the SES a volunteer organization… but we are THE BACKBONE OF THE NATION.

ME OLD MATE JOE, eulogy.

Joe and I wore our orange overalls proudly; we assisted the RFS on many occasions, feeding them, running errands, manning radios, generally we were logistically minded.

My old mate Joe, his body has departed. My golfing mate, me SES mate, my Community involved mate, me theater person mate, and then somewhere, somehow he sticks things in my mind. Knew and have known him. Joe is a real mate.

ME OLD MATE JOE.

Me names Joe, sometimes Joseph, and yes me coat was of many colors brave.

But I’m just an ordinary bloke, so it won’t take long, your precious time, I’ll try hard to save.

I loved me friends at the Unit, overalls resplendent orange color bold.

I didn’t give much ceremony for acrimony, but I did my duties told.

Well, they indicated, "procuring", and in my chosen field I did sound.

I was the store man, I procured things you might say, but I lifted stuff, all for Mullumbimby bound.

Fire fronts, cookin’ stuff, liven’ rough, and I did that and some more.

Look at you, you RFS, eat me food get a break, then put the peddle to the floor.

And was I an ordinary golfer? The "Swamp Pheasants", Mullumbimby Golf Club is well known.

Handicap? Golfer? What’s that? When me mates wanted points, well, suddenly stableford has grown.

Every Monday, me mates and I would go to do the battle.

Never won a lot, a golf ball here, two bob here, so lets’ go on with the prattle.

Beth Wicks, all off this, a profession will be unfolden’.

The SEA HORSE SINGERS, and Byron Shire is the place that is beholden’.

I had a job, prop manager, curtain puller, our shows were for the locals.

Never seen so many folk, given’it out, singn’it out. Good on ya Geoff Dart’s focal vocals.

And then, OH boy, they put me in the show and then Goldilocks’ I was bound and more.

The Vegemite Kids, I’m on the skids, makeup makes us good I’m sure.

Marginally attractive, curiously distractive, I think ugly is the word, the inscription.

Joe’s me name, and I’m on me way and had a good time, on me cemetery description.

Have a little tipple climb every mountain, me partner Coral won’t object.

She had the job of carer, and it wasn’t good, that I expect.

I was just an ordinary bloke; I got more than I gave.

Help me settle down, depart this life, and don’t you be so grave.

Will you have a talk, but don’t talk of sad, and I’m certain Coral she won’t billya’.

Have a cuppa’, have a snack.

Now pour a little drink for me, would ya mind, willya’.

I know you will be ecstatic to learn the following;

John Farley booked his ticket on the XPT today, I’am off to see the little Farley family for XMAS, waiting for me will be David and Michael and little Zack, OH, and Belinda, she’s the one with a large belly, ‘A BIMP’. OK I left her till last, cause she is the VIP, Belinda is expecting her second baby real soon, in fact I may be present, if not a quick return will be the order of the day. Tuggerawong here I come.

Before I go, what about a little yarn about ultra sounds? Girls you know the drill, have your checkups and ‘soundings’, keep well and have a healthy baby. Belinda had the first ULTRA SOUND and a little girl was 99% sure, the new mother rushes out and buys out EVERY BABY SHOP in the WHYONG, TUGGERAH and LAKE HAVEN district, she returns with all this ‘girlie’ pink stuff, every body is happy, well little Zack will take some convincing, he wanted a baby brother.

THEN, BUGGER! Well not really, the 2^nd ultra sound indicates a sign of an appendage, Zack is pleased, David and Belinda are just happy that the baby is well, they have had IVF TIMES 3, THE NEW BABY IS A La Natural.

The only problem, two really, exchange all the girl’s clothes for a dangling endowed child and think of some suitable boy’s names. The little girl was to be known Lillee Shirley Farley, sweet what? Our appendage will be called Kye John Farley.

That concludes my little narrative, well almost, there is a moral to all this; NEVER COUNT YOUR LILLEE’S TILL YOU SEE THE WILLIE, we say; SHIRLEY AIN’T NO GIRLIE, ISSABELLA IS A FELLA and KAI BUTTON UP THAT FLY.Later in life; YOU IN THE RIGHT JOHN, JOHN?

IN ME WALLET, ZACK AND KAI.

When I get out me wallet, swipe me credit card to check out all me riches.

I see a tiny photograph… riches, bitches… it’s the answer to all me wishes.

The cheeky faces of two little boys gleam out at me, I guess the 6 packs will have to be on hold.

I must relate a poignant note, you guessed it, it’s about me grand kids, and now a Poppy story will unfold.

Little Zack and little Kai, cheeky faces, are the images that meet my simple eye.

It always takes me back a step, a step back to my kids, Shirley, (nee Clarkson), Farley, her and I.

The things you Mums go through, just so a randy bloke can gloat.

All the stuff we put you through, "birth is wonderful", I think some dickhead wrote.

Hey, Farley, get a life, it’s been going on for eons, like, give or take a couple.

But this poems all about two little blokes, me ego, got a shit load of that, will have to be so subtle.

Little Zack, he came along first, after many serious medical IVF experiment.

Belinda, she is the Mommy, God bless you baby, but what the buggery rhymes with that.

OH, I know, David and me experimented, do it natural, and now I’m very fat.

ZACK’S POEM.

Thank you Mummy Daddy, for giving me your genes.

Would I have been the same kid, if they interfered with your spleens?

Well now I am here, will you start me on my life?

Help me have good health, pick up me toys, and save me from the life of strife.

I have got a lot of stuff, stuff I want to offer, like smelly pants, occasional rants… think I may take up soccer.

My Uncle Michael will be a gem, he follows Manly, he will be my friend, Australian just like him…is that a little ‘OCCAR.

Mummy Daddy will you help me through this life, and help me if I wander.

Nine months in Mummies belly, help me have a good life, and I promise I wont squander.

Now I got a little brother, he is just like me, another little hit.

Zack and Kai all kids reign, keep trying Mums, like come on do your bit.

What’s that little Kai, a poem? Poppy wrote one just for you.

That is why he loves us… but what is that un-Godly smell Kai.... Is that really cumin’ from you.

Well folks, that concludes a little story, but there is more to come, regards john d farley, call me john.

	CITY AND THE BUSH, "BUSHY POEMS" ALSO........ WOOLLOOMOOLOO, AVALON BEACH TO BRUNSWICK HEADS. A BUSHY BLOKES LIFE.