Words That Rattled In My Head

By Garry Boyd

A collection of poems and short stories, mostly set in the Australian bush.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Garry Boyd
• Release date: May 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476388649

Garry Boyd

Garry Boyd was born in Sydney in 1945 and attended high school at Fort Street Boys. He represented the school at cricket and tennis. After marrying in 1971, the family moved to Gulgong in Central West New South Wales and he became involved in the coal industry, which lasted twenty-three years. In 1996 he graduated with a Bachelor of Business degree from Charles Sturt University. A sea change called and in 2001 he moved to Tea Garden where he is actively involved in community work.

Book preview

The Gumble Rugby Match

Gumble Town’s a peaceful place, well nearly all the time,

The folks are fairly friendly, the peace and quiet sublime.

But when it comes to big events nothing is a patch,

On the fever in the town come the yearly rugby match.

Strangers drift down from the hills, eyes set close together,

All the talk’s about the game and forecasts on the weather.

For Saturday’s the fateful day a rugby game’s no joke,

Against some city slickers, some toffs up from the ‘smoke’.

On Friday night the slickers quickly pitched a grand marquee,

And lazed about all drinking red, their women fine Chablis.

Whilst in the Gumble public bar the beer was freezing cold,

The pride of Gumble Rugby treated every drop like gold.

Now Gumble’s chances rested on their favourite sportin’ son,

Big Bruiser Brown the barman, he’d see the job was done.

For never was a tighthead prop held in such esteem,

By the fourteen other blokes that made up Gumble’s team.

His neck was like a bullock’s, his heart in size a match,

Born to lead the Gumble pack and he could kick and catch.

The referee was Father Ted, stern but fair and true,

A man who’d show no favour, as only fair men do.

But on that wintery afternoon the swells looked on in awe,

At this the Gumble rugby ground, the worst they ever saw.

It recently had seen the plough a crop there to be planted,

A fact the slickers didn’t like and so they raved and ranted.

Despite their gripes and grumbles the game got under way,

The Gumble ground was packed to full to see the Bruiser play.

And to the crowd’s complete delight the locals did stand tall,

For come half time the score was close, in fact it was nil all.

The second half was really tough, the scoreboard didn’t change,

When Father Ted called a halt,the crowd thought that was strange.

It seems he’d dropped his whistle and it broke upon the ground,

The end result that dreaded whistle couldn’t make a sound.

Good Father Ted said don’t despair for I can fill the bill,

He whistled loud a piercing sound the crowd heard on the hill.

That’s how the game continued; it never missed a beat,

And all the Gumble faithful were standing on their seat.

Till near the end with five to go their worst fears realised,

For the slickers’ speedy winger had an overlap contrived.

The barman set off in pursuit; it seemed he had no chance,

All Gumble watched in silence and stared as in a trance.

Then Bruiser whistled ’tween his teeth, the player turned around,

Stopping dead just long enough for Bruiser to make ground.

He tackled that poor winger with awesome might and power,

And Father Ted just pointed adding ‘go and take a shower’.

Now in the Gumble Public Bar they still talk of the day,

When Bruiser Brown the barman made that famous play.

It’s now in local legend how the winger came to grief,

Big Bruiser he just smiles, and whistles ’tween his teeth.

Eyes of Green

Flashing smiles and shapely curves oft than not appeal,

To those who dream of love affairs, if only they were real.

While others find attracting what’s not so easily seen,

Like tranquil pools of mystery, soft eyes of ocean green.

Eyes that haunt the mind and soul, mystic in their way,

Memory lingers pleasantly all of night and day.

Colour changing light to dark sometimes in between,

Still always fascinating, those eyes of ocean green.

Blues and brown do captivate, so can eyes of grey,

Each has their attractions in their distinctive way.

Something though is missing, that sense of the serene,

For nothing can compare with two eyes of ocean green.

The Old Sign

One of Australia’s busiest highways, the Pacific, runs along the east coast of New South Wales connecting Sydney and Brisbane. One of the many towns it passes through is Taree, and on its northern outskirts enclosed by a chain wire fence is a garden nursery.

There is nothing particularly special about this nursery except that on the fence hangs a weathered, wooden sign advertising the nursery’s name and below these simple words:

When the world wearies and society fails to satisfy ...

There is always the garden.

I like those words ... because they are true.

Lucky Numbers

Jacko held the empty schooner glass up and eyed it with affection. He noted the regular rings of white froth encircling the inside, beads of condensation clinging to the outside, what ... a ... beer! Just as he’d said so many times before, those words of love were whispered yet again, ‘Tell me, how do they make this stuff for the price?’

Sheep Dip Muldoon, Jacko’s eternal drinking buddy and better known to his mates as The Dip, would not be denied; he went at Jacko like a dog at a bone.

‘I’m telling you, mate,’ continued The Dip, ‘it’s our lucky day. The star signs are in alignment, both of us got eight as our lucky number and tomorrow’s the eighth day of August. Need I remind you that August is the eighth month? Guess what? It’s my shout and this will be our eighth schooner, then I’m going home.’

‘Did you say your shout? Suppose I can force another one down,’ was the laconic reply. ‘You don’t believe that star stuff do you, Dip? Crikey, them blokes just make it up as they go along.’

The Dip handed over a motley collection of coins to the barman, shrapnel he always called small change. Still it was legal tender and two cold, refreshing schooners sat proudly on the bar of the old country pub.

‘This one’s not a bloke,’ grinned The Dip, ‘what do you think of that?’

Jacko took a long deliberate swallow of that precious amber fluid, after all, this sort of discussion shouldn’t be rushed.

‘Know what I’m thinking, Dip? If it ain’t a bloke then more than likely this star gazer be a flaming sheila, how about that for dedeucement?’ This time it was The Dip’s turn to savour his beer. Damn it, that Jacko was a smart bugger.

‘Well, her name’s Lola the Gazer, and she looks at the stars day and night. She’s the real deal, Jacko.’

‘Is that so, Dippy one?’ queried Jacko, ‘I been alive for nearly fifty years and can’t say I seen too many stars around smoko or lunch or afternoon tea, suppose you and Lola sees ’em all the time?’

‘Don’t joke about it, Jacko,’ said The Dip sharply. ‘You know what I mean, she concentrates day and night. Bloody hell, you’re a doubting bastard!’

‘No, I’m not—just a sceptic.’ Jacko laughed loudly and had a super long swallow of beer then wiped his mouth on a sleeve before continuing, ‘Look, mate, if you want to go to the races tomorrow, just ask. Don’t rave on about this lucky numbers star stuff bull. Strike a light, we only get two meetings a year out here, I’ll be going if the stars said stay in bed all day. Besides, I’m in the doghouse with the cook, if I win some loot might get back on side with her. She been spewing since I forgot her birthday last week.’

Sheep Dip couldn’t contain his delight, ‘Old mate, you’ll be so glad, because we’re going to back number 8 all day, might need a box trailer to cart the money home. You’ll be numero uno back at the shack when you turn up with notes bulging out of your pockets.’

‘You hope, be great if life came with guarantees,’ grinned Jacko. ‘I’ll have to get going, pick you up at noon tomorrow. Remember Dip, what I always say—if your hand’s not shaking you haven’t put enough on.’

Predictably, The Dip roared with laughter even though he’d heard that line a hundred times before. So keen was he about going to the races he’d calculated the hours until the first race before Jacko made it to the door. Jacko had other things on his mind, like a taxi. His place was only about a five-minute drive away but a long walk after all those schooners; a cab seemed a good idea.

Outside home he paid the driver and couldn’t help smiling a little when told the fare was eight dollars, ‘Damn eights have started already,’ he laughed.

Daughter was in the Primary School Christmas Pageant the following night. It was supposed to be ‘Christmas in July,’ a fad started by idiots who lived in cities. But the music teacher had been ill, so it became ‘Christmas in August’. A promise to wifey and daughter of his attendance was, in hindsight, not such a good idea. After a day at the races with Sheep Dip who knows what condition he’d be in? Anyway, he didn’t know the races would be on did he? Stone the bloody crows, is a bloke supposed to know everything? To make matters worse, all he could hear walking along the path to the front door was daughter rehearsing, ‘On the eighth day of Christmas my true love said to me ... eight maids a milking ...’

‘Bloody hell,’ whispered Jacko, ‘this is more serious than I thought.’

On Saturday morning, unlike every other morning, his clock radio reminded him of the previous evening ... the news had just begun ... the eight o’clock news.

‘Sheep Dip’s going to love it when I tell him.’ Then he thought for a second, ‘This is starting to get to me ... no, it’s not ... just one big flaming coincidence that’s all. The stars, what a load of bull dust! Get up, stupid, and get some coffee into you.’ It was early but Jacko wasn’t above letting fly with a few curses first up of a morning, it sort of settled him down. Come midday he was well and truly settled down,