Havin' a yarn

HAVIN' A YARN

G,Day, mate, 'owyagoin, I hope ya' doin' alright, all right?

Yeah! Mate, not too bad, a bit rough around the edges,

Not bad in patches, but still above the ground, most days.

Me too, me' missus and me are still together, still hitched.

And that is something of be considered in the Outback

When things are a changin' an' money's getting' tight.

Ya' not wrong, mate, tighter than a Yella' Belly fish's bum,

Jobs are hard to find now, harder ifn' ya' don't look, they reckon,

Used ta' be a good days work would bring a good day's pay.

Yeah! And when you could trust a man's word, his hand shake.

When you could lend a bloke, down and out,a quid, or maybe two

Knowin' that you would get it back in spades, and then some.

Ya' remember when me and you waz drovin' that mob of bleaters?

We ate a good and hearty meal, and slept dry most nights.

I do remember, mate, I remember it well, well, as well as I can, that is.

Yeah! You remember, sheep rear ends all day long, and dust.

Yeah! I remember the dust, Like powder, up ya' nose and stuff.

Yeah, I got bit real bad by lousy fox fleas, them bloody, blood eaters.

The good old days, when the boss broke his leg, Didn't he kick up a fuss?

Yelled and swore, and thrashed about until the rum ration was gone.

Hard to find a straight stick fer' a splint, but a bent leg beat pain, he said.

Tough old coot, hardly felt a thing, Bundy Rum on the mail truck, came.

A dozen bottles of the best, The boss was at his happiest, no sore leg.

But he was a lousy coot as well, and there was no Bundy Rum for us.

The good old days, when a beer cost ten-pence an' a headache a quid.

Yeah! Mate, the good old days, before the place was invaded by tourists

When most people didn't get 'em selves bogged, 'cause they were smart.

Not like now, mate, pommys and new chums bogged, some in bull dust.

Some in mud, some in the table drain, most in places not meant to be in.

Yeah! Mate, and they whine, they don't get 'emselves out, like we did.

The Outback is changing, mate, it is different somehow, flies still the same.

Drovers in caravans, washing machines, mattresses, even the wimmin.

Who would want to take his missus on a drovin' trip, not me, that's for sure.

But you ain't married, mate, an' that makes a difference on who you would take

Not too bad to finish the day with a cold beer and a bit of cake from the girl,

Good to feel somethin' in the swag not a snake. Her bite don't cause much pain.

“Spose, could ya' have somethin' there, an' the Television thing, is amusin'

Shearin' sheep is still good money. Good mates are still around the place.

Wimmin not plentiful, but that was always as is it is, good ones hard to find.

Horses are gone, motorbikes stinkin' up the air, kids don't wanna work at all,

Government hands them money, they get inta' strife, locked up, young criminals.

The Outback is changin', mate, an; ya' get sadder the more you do the perusin'

Imaginations - A Writer's Friend

Imagination

Sometimes, as my body becomes aware of life, for which I am ever thankful,

My bleary eyes, my deadened brain hears the chattering die away.

Characters of the night all start to scatter, leaping from the bed, a rabble.

Those that do not run, find places in my imagination, and there they stay.

Settled, hiding until some word, some sight, something brings them to spy.

They do not haunt me, for they know my mood of the mornings;

They know I can be bright, they know me foreboding like a stormy sky;

They know I need their company, and are kind to me and fear the warnings.

Slowly I come to grips with rising, my bones creaking in protest,

Eyelids demanding to be shut, closed to the day, just a little longer.

Then one of my head riding mates speaks of things for me to investigate;

A challenge is laid, and I have to rise to meet it, to prove me stronger.

They will not let me rest if things have to be spoken, words written,

And they know my slowness, my weary head, and they take over.

Mechanical fingers hit the keys, letters appear, the bug has bitten.

Off we go, my characters of the night and me, more to discover.

Wonderful gifts us humans are blessed with, imagination, though folly-

Is more than an escape, it refreshes the brain, enlivens the mind;

Stirs the soul, solves problems that may exist, creates friends to love,

And shifts enemies to another place where once gone, you will never find.

Somewhere, whilst ever I remain on this mortal coil, this house of humans

I will find a great love, I will sense that I have been given a chance.

My imagination leads me to believe that there is some kindred spirit

That I may yet still hold in a loving, thought sharing, comforting dance.

Somewhere in this physical place there must be a life I could share,

To relegate the people of the night, my imaginations, to some other place

And a new, exciting game would begin, discoveries and moods to scale.

A different person, a woman of vast patience, able to love, a kissable face.

Maybe not, and I hear my mind folk cheer, they are my friends, they say.

These ones that I have made, these ones that are of my very fibre of life

They do take a toll for their existence, for they control the night until I wake.

Tell them to leave, to break the chain of memories, is not what I would really like.

Where else could I call upon such a rag-tag team of humoursome personalities?

Why would one not have friends that could make you laugh, tho' suffering pain?

Where would you find folk to come at your bidding, always ready to serve your needs?

For me, no other place but in my imagination, waiting release from the works of my brain.

A Forgotten Title

I tend to forget some things,
Well, I tend to forget a lot
I forget the important things,
Like---I forgot what.

I remember what I can.
which isn't very much.
I try to recall the necessities
Just to stay in touch.

My brain is overflowing
With things of long ago
But who I met yesterday
I often do not know.

I will never forget what's 'is name
Or to wind up the cat,
To put the clock out at night
And things like that.

So don't be too hard on me
Don't give up just yet.
I am improving all the time,
And, Ah!....Sorry I forgot.

For those that know the feeling

Steve and Lindy from the novel 'The Outback Story - The Loves and Adventures of 'Tiger' Williams'

On love

There is no greater gift than the one that freely comes

To give your love, and receive in return the same

To feel the warmth and comfort of your companion

The melding of heart and body, the exquisite pain

The joy of knowing the thrill of finding the magic

Soft caresses, the gentle touch, the passionate kiss

Neither man nor woman should pass this life alone

No soul on earth should be deprived of this

The early rush, the heady lust, the excitement

The subtle change where words are not needed

Feeling a oneness, a fulfilment of bonding hearts

Where the casual eye, the gentle touch is now heeded

A look that others see and they smile knowingly

Holding hands on a long and happy walk in the rain

Laughing together at things you once never saw

Not feeling, weariness or at times, any pain

This joyful love conquers the ills of the world

It causes differences to fade, selfishness die

It changes the very meaning of your life's existence

It brightly colours things that we see with the inner eye

Once you have felt this love it never goes away

Although partnerships dissolves for whatever reason

One strong, passionate love is always in your mind to recall

Your personal shield against a bitter lonely season

Why Write

I write words, I put thoughts on paper, not great thoughts nor great words,

But themes that may induce some enjoyable thought in others.

I cannot reach out and touch all those that I seek to please,

I only have hope that I find those that will be my sisters and brothers.

A family of like minds where we communicate for the sake of joy,

For the pleasure of saying the things that calm the troubled mind.

Inspire happiness, or love, or the most delightful things of life,

Using the word like a gentle caress, maybe even a lovers toy.

To stand and talk face to face to some is a waste of thought,

For whilst you speak they travel mental roads, different tracks.

To place the written word before their eyes, commands attention

Yet the fault lies with the ones whose power to learn, often lacks.

The written word, like ink stains in the cloth, like brands upon stock,

Sits in perpetuity, waiting for someone to seek another's mind.

And then, in decades yet to come, you may strike a resonant chord,

That, my brothers and sisters of the pen, is the power of the written word.

The classic Australian joker and story teller gets the quintessential treatment

Like any old classic, Peter Rake's short stories are now available like an old LP - an essential collection.

The Fair Dinkum Yarns from the Australian View includes five outback tales by Peter Rake, plus a coupla poems thrown in for good measure (pardon the pun!).

Get set for some laughs, maybe even a tear jerker.

This collection includes:

Arthur
The Awakening
Notty: Targaroo's Disgrace Bar-fly, bludger and sneak-thief turned unlikely hero
The Coachman
The Pup

Available on Amazon and Smashwords as an ebook and in print for all you old fashioned types as well.

The Pioneers

THE PIONEERS

Below the Murray River, in a quiet and shady glen'

There stands a simple tribute to our pioneering kin.

Rusty iron and rotted wood, ruins of a rustic shack

Far from any township, far from any track.

As I stood upon the threshold I felt a warming glow

I felt the spirit of men and women from long, long ago.

I could hear a mother calling and the scurry of children's feet

A meagre meal of gravy mash, this night there is no meat.

The mother gave a heavy sigh, her shoulders slowly drooped

The father, empty handed, cast his shadow as he stooped.

A weary man of thirty years, aged by toil and care

He kissed his wife, a gentle kiss and sat heavily in his chair.

'No luck today, missus, no gold amongst the clay'

No sign of any fortune, but tomorrows another day.

These words were often spoken, they lay sadly in her heart

She knew he tried his best, and knew she must do her part.

'Tomorrow then, my husband, tomorrow is the day

Tomorrow you are sure to find gold amongst the clay.

They sat for the evening meal set on plates of shining tin

Father giving thanks to their Lord, before the meal could begin.

A baby in a rough hewn crib, coughed and cried in pain

It filled the room with sadness, a child may die again.

One more small marker by the creek near the family home

This was the legacy of those that came, pioneers to the bone.

In the flickering light of candle the pair would sit and talk

Summer breeze beckoned them, but they would rather sit than walk.

Mother would dream of England, Somerset in the Spring

Father always pondering on what tomorrow, for them, may bring.

No thought of turning back at all, no fear of giving in

As for the early pioneers to quit would really be a sin.

They struggled on with hope, a future in their mind and soul

Happiness in this new found land was the pioneer's main goal.

I left the shack and wandered, their hardship made me sad

I found the graves of ancestors, four years, the oldest lad.

Three more lay bedside him and in my heart I cried

Dysentery and typhoid was how many people died.

Then through the mist of my reverie, I heard my kinsman shout

I saw the look of wonder as his wife turned about.

With new strength he gathered her, they danced and laughed in glee

For in his hand, yellow gold, it would end their misery.

Gather children, missus, we're off to town this day

I'll hurry over yonder and borrow horse and dray.

Sickly son she bundled, then knelt and prayed aloud

Treated by the doctor, he would grow and make them proud.

As I dreamt of sailing ships and journeys from far off places

I saw the determination on the cavalcade of faces.

I knew the son would live in this land so large and free

I stood, pride showing for how this great Nation came to be.

NOTE: My Great Grandfather arrived in Sydney in 1850. In 1852, after walking to Victoria, he married and began digging for gold at Yackandandah, Osborne Flat and other places in the area.

Home spun Poetry #2

I  owned a creamy horse, a creamy horse named Custard.
Now, Custard liked to trot, the trottin' creamy Custard,
Some days he'd buck me off and I'd fall upon the ground.
It made me really sad, but I should've sent him to the pound.
One day, in rainy weather, he rolled in lots of Mud.
The dirty trottin', buckin' muddy custard, it was hard to stay his bud.
Creamy Custard went missing, and now I  know what where,
But I am so pleased that the dirty trottin' buckin, muddy creamy Custard
Never made me swear.

Home Spun Poetry

Hard Times

Hard times last longer so it seems

When the miseries of life torment the soul

There appears no hope in your despair

No happiness that will console

And yet, even life's misery has its place

It enhances the simple joy of life

Things we once took for granted

Are manifest when rising from the strife

How much more we appreciate love

When we have been forsaken

Health after illness, strength when it returns

All the good things there to be taken

Misery and woe are easy to attain

But happiness needs some work

No bird sings if we turn a deaf ear

No light shines if in darkness we lurk

Seek love and you will prosper

Have the strength to survive

Care about yourself, and be cared for

Be thankful that you are at least, alive.