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My travels down the roadway of life,

As well as passion, joy and goodwill;

Many problems and strife have been encountered unexpected,

On odd occasions I have looked into the face of death,

Tears and misery, are often a man’s uninvited traveling companions;

It seems to me that simply the only universal salve,

For many of the problems of life, at no great cost;

Is the exhilaration and joy of laughter.

All rights reserved. This publication in its entirety is copyright. The author expressly withholds permission to make copies by photocopying or other duplicating processes for any reason whatsoever. First published 2003 ©

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Near the little country town of Dublin,

On the dry Adelaide plains,

Could be found an Old Government Dam,

A relic of days past,

When settlers no water they had,

Dug a huge earthen dam,

Seeking to save the little rain that fell,

On those dry Adelaide plains.

Now this dam was quite unique,

For you see, no water courses it dammed;

Instead, it caught the rains that fell;

From channels dug, into the warm red clay earth;

The walls of this dam rose, with open corners;

A good fifteen feet, mounds of earth like walls surrounding,

The waterhole in the ground, going down in two bounds;

A good thirty feet below sea level.

Quite a feat when you think,

They dug this in the old days,

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With horses and scoops and drays to boot,

When one is wandering through, the Coffee Bush scrub,

Often you’d come across one of the drains,

Going to the old Government Dam,

A remarkable old relic this Government Dam,

But the story yet untold,

Is of some kids, who made use of this old dam.

The dam through the years fell into disuse,

It just became a place for refuse,

And echoes if one yelled into the basin,

The bottom was filled with putrid rainwater and mud,

And all kinds of things once alive and now dead,

All at some time trapped in the mud.

The local town kids used to visit the old dam,

Sit on its walls and chuck rocks,

Into the water to see a splash,

The leader of the pack was young Bobby Collins,

His father owned the local service station,

John was there and ‘Pudden’ Barr,

Some others arrived to see what fared,

Someone found an old pram chassis,

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Pushed it off and watched it go down,

Right to the bottom with a big splash,

Crikey! We thought out loud,

We could do this, slide right on down,

Just like they do in the snow.

Now John being somewhat of an inventor,

Said we should make a sled,

Much safer this than wheels on a bed,

We found a sheet of rusty old corrugated iron,

Bent the nose up just like in the ‘pics,’

Tied a rope to each side and picked straws to see,

Who was elected to ride this monster down,

The banks of the Old Government Dam.

Now the trick you see,

At the bottom, was to turn the sled;

Before the water it hit,

Either that or get off real quick,

Otherwise a dunking in water obscene,

Would be the reward one had no pick,

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This sounded Ok but there was a problem,

Halfway down there was a slight ledge,

Part of the old path for moving horses around,

When you hit the ledge, you had to lay back;

Or else into space, you launched yourself;

No way of stopping, if that happened to you.

Now ‘Pudden’ Bar was a 'braw' lad,

Of Scots descent was he,

Built like a brick outhouse it was clear,

For all of his size our ‘Pudden,’ was not too bright;

Had a healthy fear of things unknown,

Now the boys forgot the straws,

Prevailed upon poor ‘Pudden’, the hero;

To take the first leap, down on the sled,

Somehow or other, the boy took the challenge.

The gang studied the form to slide down,

All agreed on this and that,

One thing being small boys, they forgot;

“Pudden’ was the size of a grown man.

Great expectations reigned supreme,

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The boys with buckets and tins, watered the slide to extremes;

Until it glistened with slippery red clay mud,

‘Pudden’ mounted the sled, fear in his eyes;

His trepidation clear, to all concerned;

No hero was he, now stuck with the task,

A ‘Ben-Hur’ of the iron sled, in glory he hoped

to bask;

Now all was ready, ‘Pudden’ had mounted;

Reigns in his hands,

On his face, a grim look of determination,

Let him go was the cry!

Now it is oft’ said that there is many a slip,

So it was with this venture risky,

What we didn’t expect arising from ‘Pudden's’ weight,

Was the speed of acceleration, at the time unclear;

The sled took of down, like flaming greased lightening;

The new wet clay under, helped to render;

As our hero sped down the slope,

All seemed Ok even the speed,

Until ‘Pudden’s’ sled hit the middle ledge;

With a mighty scream of fear, that all could hear;

‘Pudden’ became airborne and unable to steer;

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Velocity’s victim, of that quite clear.

Well I guess the end was inevitable,

‘Pudden’ accelerated to the speed of light,

An airborne Projectile, truly in flight;

Into the putrid pool, at the bottom of the dam;

Went poor old ‘Pudden’ Barr,

The splash was awesome, a sight to behold,

As shite went everywhere, spread far and wide;

To this day, I will never forget,

The sodden creature that finally arose,

From the quagmire down below,

Just like the ‘Creature from the Black Lagoon’,

But covered in poop and mud,

Spitting water and profanities rare,

In Scots, Gaelic and in words quite unclear;

Told us kids and God as well.

What we could do with this ‘bloody sled.’

What’s more, we were all cursed and going to Hell.

We washed off poor old ‘Pudden,’ as best we could,

The only water there, was smelly liquid from the dam;

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He staggered off home to get some new clothes,

It is well recorded that his Mother,

Spoke only very broad Scots and Gaelic, hard on the ear;

The scream was extreme, when her boy she saw,

Covered in poop from head to foot,

We all learned new meanings that day,

For an unheard language that came into play,

I swear the old dear,

...didn’t cool down nor the language abate;

Until sunset, three days later.

Now this tale will never go down in history,

For its lost in the footsteps of time,

The old dam still stands,

Silent with memories unspoken,

Of young boys playing,

There on the banks,

Of the Old Government Dam.

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As I tracked down the roadway of life,

Always seemed to have the best of intentions,

In the things that I did and done,

For those whom I care, even some I cared for not:

Strange you know, albeit good intentions;

I seemed to run off the rails now and then,

Mostly I try to do the right thing,

You know, trying to do right;

Is just another version, of good intention.

Had good intentions of keeping fit,

Now round my middle, for most to see;

I’ve got this bloody great Dunlop spare tyre;

Must have done something wrong!

Stone the crows, it just grew there without any help!

Like some sort of big whale,

Sadly, can’t see the strategic bits, down there below anymore;

Working by Braille these days, or so it seems,

Worst of all the face in the mirror looking back at me,

Skin like a prune, hair like mouldy hay.

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Never intended to have so much on the old credit card,

Intended in old age to have a healthy bank account,

Bugger , now I’ve hit the limit on two cards;

Can’t seem to find that sneaky beggar,

Who’s making charges on my card?

Each time I look away, he’s up and booking fast and hard.

Had good intentions of being in love but once,

Thought I had a wife for the rest of my life,

That too ran off the rails,

Strewth, you wouldn’t read about!

Found a good looking second wife,

Then bugger me dead, she up and disappeared, too;

Gone to do her thing, find herself or so she said;

Stupid me! I just didn’t know she was lost;

Left me holding the bag, credit card bills, the lot!

Guess it’s usual in these circumstances;

Son’s great, bright and intelligent, but he too

...gets a bit confused at times;

Something to do with women and good intentions, so he says.

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It’s all flamin’ wrong you know,

Like most blokes, I like good-looking women,

You know, the type;

The one’s with a curvy coke bottle figure and

...nice big knockers on high;

Problem is!

Just wish to heck, I could remember why?

Now after all that, is done and over;

I’m having a fine relationship, with a big brown Tomcat;

He’s a good mate, this furry fellah of mine;

But talk about dopey!

Strewth he just doesn’t understand plain flamin English?

When he’s not ignoring me, which is most of the time;

He’s not doing what he’s told!

On second thoughts, not too sure who's the dopey one!

On the good side, unlike past wives;

He never tells me skites or such,

Doesn’t matter if I’m feeling agro, or a bit out of touch;

For me he still cares ever much.

Now I wasn’t planning to be a flamin millionaire,

Just moderately well off, not even a toff;

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But this is bloody ridiculous!

Nary a buck to my name, most of the time;

Someone else always seems to have a need, before mine;

And I’m not married, not even a girl friend;

I just wish I could find that thieving sod,

Must work for the bank I reckon?

From my bank account,

He keeps knocking off bucks,

And that other loud mouthed mongrel,

I wish I could catch up with him,

Can’t keep his trap shut,

Tells everyone, far and wide;

Every time in the bank, I get a few dollars to hide.

Now with the best of intentions,

I studied and trained real hard to be a good driver,

Got driving licenses hanging out of my ears,

For trucks, cars and motor bikes and everything in between;

Can drive anything with wheels or tracks

...and ride anything with fur or quacks;

Passed all sorts of nauseous exams and tests,

Could even drive an Army tank, but not the best:

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Can’t understand it these days though?

That bloody car of mine and its not that old!

Has developed a mind of its own,

Speeds up over the limit, if I’m not looking;

Worse still, like an errant flamin draught horse;

At the drop of a hat, like a dog after a cat;

It runs off the road, right into the donga,

Next thing you know,

It wants to run up the bum of the car in front,

Crikey, it almost like I’m driving the wrong way,

Up a one-way street!

Next thing you know,

Some smart arsed driving instructor,

Is going to try and tell me, I’m too bloody old to drive.

Now I’m renowned for my good intent,

When taking a small glass of red,

Love the taste, a good drop I hate to waste!

These days the taste is still great,

But the effects have become somewhat crook,

Get all sweaty and hot, a real grot;

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Heart beats like a flamin hammer, feel like a big sook!

My compass too readily, seems to get out of whack;

Problem with the tongue too!

Prone to say things, I wouldn’t usually suggest;

Not too diplomatic most would say!

Sometimes end up calling a spade a spade.

So finally good intentions are not absolute,

Things so often happen between intent and carriage,

The outcomes not always what you plan nor want,

But don’t get dispirited by all of this,

For good intentions plot the course we live,

Life just causes intentions to sometimes founder,

Reality is, that we seldom control life;

For life mostly controls our fortunes,

Along with our daily life and all its strife!

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(Some Humorous Memories)

Now I must confess to being country boy,

Many years as a youth, spent entertaining self;

No good saying I was bored to Dad or Mum,

That earned a swift response,

Weed the ‘veggie’ garden, milk the cows and the butter

…churn and make.

Its true and I should state,

That I was a ‘Townie’ country boy,

Not imbued with a deep knowledge of the hard life on the land,

A country boy is often exposed to many goings-on,

Some funny some sad,

Here I will now try to relate,

A few of these stories,

So that you my memories might share.

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It’s fair to say, that of snakes most have a healthy fear,

These poisonous slithering buggars inspired great dread;

If one gets bitten in Southern ‘Aussie,’

You can bet your bottom dollar, you’ll soon be dead;

Now this is the story true, of one big snake;

A King Brown, about 3-yards long and a bit,

This story found me stacking hay, on a bright summer’s day;

In those days past when hay was reaped;

In sheaves, by binder twine machine tied;

The hay was stacked in heaps called stooks, some yards apart;

The sheaves were loaded on a large draft-horse drawn dray,

3-pronged pitch forks the order of the day,

One man on top of the load, two or three below;

The load was stacked, until around15 ft up in tow.

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To see those farm hands throwing up sheaves,

I declare, was almost poetry in motion, skills so rare?

The man up top caught each sheaf and stacked it ever so neat,

Now here’s the part I will not too soon forget,

Up went this particular sheaf, caught up top with consummate skill;

Followed quickly by a fearful shriek,

It seems that the man downstairs, when picking up the sheaf;

Had a snake skewered, with his pitch fork quite neat,

Then pitched it up quite complete,

With the sheaf of hay, that summer’s day;

The man on top now in fear was faced,

With no where to go and a big angry snake,

He jumped back and arm-over-tit, down he went;

Hit the deck with a sodden thump, his body well bent.

All went silent for just a brief moment,

The unfortunate gentleman there on the ground,

Came around did he,

Lay there spitting out dirt and straw,

With eyes glazed and quite red of face,

Entered he or so it seems,

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Into a deeply religious moment of grace;

Whilst we tittered and our heads laughed off;

He swore oaths those young tender ears of mine,

Had never before heard, in kind;

Told God in short order did he,

What he thought of the raving twit;

Who gave wings to that King Brown Snake,

…about 3-yards long and a bit.

But wait, this drama was not yet quite complete!

With all the yelling, the laughter and so on,

The horse team awoke from their ever sleepy reverie,

Around them both looked and what did they see?

One angry big brown snake,

With a hole in his hide, towards them angrily hissing,

Slithering down the front of the hay laden dray, their lives to take;

Now as stupid as horses can sometimes be,

These were of one mind and shared mutual thought,

Just took off and bolted;

Their man on reins now missing, down on his earthen bed!

Down the paddock they in a rush fled;

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The half laden dray dragging in their stead;

Panic had set in, their eyes rolled in fear;

Extreme speed gained, as away they sped from the snake in rear;

Even farm horses knew the deal, when snakes get too near;

From the dray on all sides, in a big uncontrolled spray;

Sheaves flew in all directions and stooks in the way were flayed.

The horses pursued they were,

By the farm hands now become quite sprite,

Waving their pitch forks and yelling curdling obscenities, no doubt in spite;

Through the paddock gate at high speed the horses sped,

Next thing you know,

In the wire fence gate, a rear wheel got caught;

Now behind the dray,

Like some mad chariot leaping into the fray,

Half a mile of fence disappeared, liberally covered in hay;

Well you might ask,

What happened to that somewhat innocent villain?

That King Brown, about 3-yards long and a bit,

The victim of a pitch fork and a so called twit,

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When the horses stopped and finally took their rest,

No doubt anchored, by a half a mile of dragged wire fence;

The dray was empty, no snake nor hay;

Was there to be seen from this fray.

Now as for me this was a day,

When great adventure, fun and laughter came into play;

Rest assured from that day on, stooks of hay;

A wide berth I gave if near them I played.

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A smile and more,

Does this slow glance, mean adventure true?

Foxy lady, you have that look about you!

Eyes that reach out and take me,

To places I want to be.

A smoldering look, away turning;

Sets the fires of hidden passion burning,

Wait now my eager friend,

Passion yes, heartache no!

Choices always, where do I go?

Some company now, would be rather nice;

Regretfully, there is always a price;

For love on the fly;

The drought that I break,

The cost be ever so high,

Flirt I well might,

Way into the night,

Good fun this, a touch of bliss;

Just remember old man,

To give married women a great big miss.

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“These Four Walls”“These Four Walls”“These Four Walls”“These Four Walls” Sun’s shining, birds early calling,

Father’s day comes around again for this year,

Sitting here alone within these four walls,

Little cat friend nearby,

She loves keeping me company,

Listening to country music,

Dreaming about this sometimes sad old life of mine,

Son’s away on the other side of the country,

He rang early this morning to say hello,

Missing each other; true love.

Feeling a bit down, no hugs this day;

An occasional tear in the dark,

Sometimes Lord ~

Life seems like it’s an endless 24/7 work day,

Back to the wall too much of the time,

Still ~

...needing these four walls,

…to hold together all the many memories past;

Four walls a place to hide the fears,

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So no one can see this old invincible patriarch,

Sometimes falling apart and missing his love lost;

Just a memory left of the good times long past,

These four walls empty without her.

Guess Father’s Day is not meant to be this way;

Like so many other times,

Just have to man up once again,

…and face this new day like so many others;

Well Lord, just need to get over it;

I guess these four walls I need;

Perhaps after all,

This is a place of rest and of respite,

These four walls.

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“Living in the Music”“Living in the Music”“Living in the Music”“Living in the Music”

Burying my soul in the music,

Trying to cut the strings from this world,

Feeling the chords and notes,

Worldly worries slowly departing this old soul,

Body so old I can’t make a new love,

No one to hold close, save a little dog mate;

Memories coming and going,

…so ancient; there are so many!

The days seem to so quickly pass,

That old sun travels across the day,

Like an express train on its way,

Never enough gold for each day,

Kids and school still to pay,

Seems like I met most of the promises I made,

Sadly not the same the other way,

Some real disappointments,

But then, many smiles along the way;

The joy of reaching out a helping hand,

Trying to be a little like my Master I guess,

Seeing the love in the eyes of my little mate,

Being thankful for a good life.

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UNCHARTED WATERSUNCHARTED WATERSUNCHARTED WATERSUNCHARTED WATERS

The other day unannounced and unexpectedly,

I died!

But by the grace of God and my Son,

And two major open heart surgeries later,

I survive;

Long weeks in hospital,

The world now is different,

...perspective uncertain,

Perhaps it is simply,

...that I better understand human mortality!

You see, each day I am sentenced,

To walk with this time-bomb in my breast;

Waiting for that sudden stabbing pain,

...that announces - you’re dead!

The old soldier in me travails,

...trained and programmed;

To fear not death,

In fact sometimes methinks,

…I would welcome such;

I live in this solitary intellectual world alone;

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Daily battling between pessimism and optimism

At night, the past sneaks in and steals sleep;

A few friends, seeing some but only occasionally;

So many of my old comrades now passed,

Seems like I am always saying goodbye,

Simply, I wanted to be part of something;

To contribute,

But now who wants an old man?

Some perpetuate the myth,

That I am just a whinger and complainer,

But love still fills my heart,

Just laughing at the daily pain of ag-ing,

...a little dog for my companion,

Fortunately, like most animals,

…he loves without human rules?

So I survive,

…but what life this?

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Poem PagePoem PagePoem PagePoem Page

Foreword 2

“The Old Government Dam” 3

“The Best of Intentions” 10

“Snakes Alive” 17

“Risky Business” 22

“These Four Walls” 23

“Living in the Music” 25

“Uncharted Waters” 26

“A Country Boy” 16