Me OLD Mate JOE
My old mate Joe, his body has departed. My golfing 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.
Some words from Joe.
Me names Joe, sometimes Joseph, and yes me coat was of many colours 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 colour 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.
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poem by John D. Farley
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CLAREVILLE BEACH and 'Bloody Torpedos
BIT MORE FROM ‘GRUMPY OLD BLOGGER’.
Any body remember the NAVEL TORPEDO BASE at TAYLORS POINT, via CLAREVILLE BEACH?
CLAREVILLE BEACH and the “Bloody Torpedo”
Out back of Avalon NSW lives a pretty Pittwater beach, and Clareville, that’s her name. On a peaceful day the beach was pillaged and rent, this is how pretty Clareville Beach, for some time, would to never be the same.
Our Navy boys were our friends, they protected us down under, this day a untervasser thing went mad, well folks they made a blunder.
Must stop, re-late, go back to get attention, Milkrun and Pancho, Mrs. Selley and Mr. Fox, well, they must rate a mention.
Adrian me mate, he fits in with the go, he had a “Cat” moored in Clareville Bay, no surf on Avalon, not a problem, rig the cat and sailen’ down the Pittwater, gees, what more is there to say.
The ‘Targets”, was there three of them, like bastions I supposes, ‘borrow’ a rowboat of the beach, ‘cause there was a fish that lingered underneath, a name something just like Moses.
For many years the base existed nestling in foreshores oh so pretty, to denigrate such a place was, well, was a bureaucratic pity.
Just before the air was blown, sending “Big Fish” down the bay, crash boats raced, hither and yon, we’re Navy blokes, and we jest you not we have the very, very last say.
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poem by John D. Farley
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The Bloke from Mullumbimby
You won’t know this fella, till I get on with me prose.
But I’ll tell ya this my friends, I think he’s one of those.
Now before you howl me down and question my social status.
My job here blokes is to tell a story, not just how johnfarls rates us.
They stuck him in the navy, he used to box for sport.
Adds were placed upon his soles you would see these adds quite often, with the gloves my friends he wasn’t good, he should have stuck to golfin.
Milkin cows he tried, roamin from wide and far, his hands will bear the evidence,5 thirty shows the scar.
He has a friend, and, boy is she a cutie, beats me folks how a bloke like him ends with such a beauty.
So that’s a little yarn about this bloke, and not much have you gleans. His place in life aren’t nothing much, that’s as a bloke I means.
But let me tell just how much he makes the AUSSIE bloke, yeah golf’s the go, he didn’t have a clue, played off 87, his goals were for the dough.
Well Bruce and me were average, Ross was good at golf, THE BLOKE had a problem though, his putting, well, was off.
His wallet bulged with ego and one day he laid the claim, you and Bruce and Ross and me will play the noble game.
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poem by John D. Farley
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Give Or Take A Metre
I MENTION METRE, (METER) , not the distance I hesitate to say, or should that be stressed, maybe acoustic properties.
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, 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 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.
Many 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.
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Old Walleye
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.
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!
This chronicle is mentioned else where on the WWW, more ‘at length’ narratives? (www.johnfarls.com) , described as JOHN D. FARLEY, SUPERBLOG.
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 that, he was all that but not the Junkyard Dog, he’s marine, and 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.
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poem by John D. Farley
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