100 PAGE BOOK- KEEPING THE CULTURE - 2005

SELECETED POEMS FROM THE BOOK ARE HIGHLIGHTED

SUPPORT PROVIDES INCENTIVE FOR CREATORS TO CONTINUE TO CREATE NEW MATERIAL

ALL WORKS ARE COPYRIGHT AND USE OF WORKS MUST BE SOUGHT BY THE AUTHOR

WHEN 7 RANG THE GREY

I was jotting down poetic thoughts and making them my own
When I heard the music jingle on my mobile telephone.
Well you could have knocked me over with a feather when I heard,
"It's the Channel seven news room Grey, we need to have a word.

"Mate we've seen your knack for spruiking and relating your bush views
So you're bound to be a natural reporting local news.
Broughy's won the flamin' lotto and he rang and pulled the pin
And we're sure that you can wing it son. We want you to come in."

Well I couldn't knock the old mates back; it's not the Aussie way
So I asked when did they need me like. A voice cried, "Mate today."
Strewth, I thought I'll need to move all right and took off out the door,
'Cause I had to make some changes to my image, that's for sure.

I will need to dye the old grey locks and use some perming stuff, 
But I'll leave some grey tips showing; hell they'll look blonde sure enough.
Then I'll have to get a real bright tie that looks good under lights 
And I'll have to brush some white out on to show me pearly whites.

Then while driving down I'll practise on my great big Broughy smile
Though I'll take the hat and whiskers off, they're not young Robby's style.
When young Justin does his racing tips amid his sporting news, 
He might put me on a winner and I'll take a flamin' cruise. 

Hell, I'll have to get my tongue around that weather blokes flash name;
Scott or Bill would be much simpler, but they just don't sound the same.
Well I'm ready as I'll ever be. I'd best be on my way.
Hey! The news at six on seven, with The Goondiwindi Grey.

As I backed out of my driveway beads of sweat sat on my brow,
When the jingle on my mobile rang. I thought … who's calling now? 
So I stopped and grabbed it from my hip and said real cool, "G'day"
When that voice from channel seven had the following to say.

"Grey! I'm glad we caught you just in time. Young Broughy's rung old son.
He was down a number on the draw and so he never won. 
So Grey thanks for helping out old mate, perhaps another time."
Darn. I guess it's back to old bush verse and spruiking ruddy rhyme.

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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IT'S NO EXCUSE I FEAR

We were touring western Queensland when the world cup final came 
And we stayed in good old Hebel so we didn’t miss the game. 
There were drunken, rowdy ringers, the proprietor, Beth and me 
Who were cheering on the Aussies and envisioned victory. 

It was rugby at its finest and our boys sure did us proud, 
But the Pommes were hanging in there and encouraged by the crowd. 
In the final dying seconds we were looking at a draw 
And a further twenty minutes was now on the cards for sure. 

Well you wouldn’t read about it as things seesawed to and fro 
And the menace that we feared the most was .. hey, I think you know. 
Yes the Pommey’s secret weapon, what a truly awesome sight. 
Johnny Wilkinson and his right boot that won the game that night. 

It is true the Pommes won fair and square, but still it irks me some, 
‘Cause they flogged the poor great granddad of my gentle, poor, old mum. 
And to make it worse Prince Harry, who was out here for a spell, 
Was among the flaming spectators that cheered the pommes as well. 

Some weeks later we reached Injune and we stopped to buy some fuel 
When I felt the call a nature that was painful and quite cruel. 
I was settling down to execute what then had to be done 
When I felt a strange sensation like the presence of someone. 

Not an ordinary presence but a right royal one at that 
And it really was quite scary; still I didn’t stop to chat. 
When I paid the fuel attendant I said, "You’ve a problem dear, 
There’s a sort of royal presence in your gents that’s really queer.

She then smiled as she expressed to me, "Prince Harry used the loo. 
He’d dropped in from Tooloombilla and had spent a penny too. 
He is Jackarooing on the place and stopped in here as well 
So I guess it was his presence mate, as far as I can tell." 

With defeat still chewing at me from that finals rugby game 
I released my pent-up feelings and expressed them just the same. 
"I don’t care if he is royalty, it’s no excuse I fear. 
As replacing empty dunny rolls is etiquette out here!" 

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

I was watching the news one night when a story on how Prince Harry, who had been working on  Tooloombilla Station west of Injune, came into town and had excited the locals when he called in at the local roadhouse and had visited the Loo there. This was about the time of the World Cup and having been done over by Johnny Wilkinson’s boot I was in a, cut down the tall poppy mood, and young Harry seemed a good candidate.

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OLD JACKO IN THE CITY

Old Jacko was a bushman who lived out the back of Bourke,
A ringer who for sixty years knew nothing but hard work.
Big Mal, his boss, said, "Jacko mate you're skinny as a rake,
So slip down to the city man and have a flamin' break!"

The old bloke wasn't all that fussed, but Mal said, "No buts, son.
You take your swag and old blue too and have a bit of fun."
The cities razzle-dazzle really blew old Jackos' mind
And Blue marked every light pole in Kings Cross that he could find.

Some dealer asked the ringer if he'd like to score a hit,
So Jacko decked him on the spot. He didn't mind a bit.
A scrawny, scabby tabby then appeared from out a drain
Which sent the old blue cattle dog completely off his brain.

Blue followed Jackos precedent and took the moggy out
And both were feeling pretty good. They didn't might a bout. 
They wandered down the street a way and walked into a bar,
Where Jacko thought the blokes all dressed a little bit bizarre.

Then as he knocked a schooner down he asked this chap how come,
Some blokes were slipping other blokes a rather tidy sum.
"You silly great big sausage dear. We're gay here, can't you tell."
"Who wouldn't be?" smiled Jacko "I'd be rather chuffed as well."

The worms were biting by this time so Jacko turned to Blue
And hinted he could eat a horse and chase the rider too.
They'd had enough of fish and chips and thought they'd have some Thai,
That oriental tucker place big Mal said they should try.

The restaurant was open and the ringer found a seat
And tried to read the menu, but the lingo had him beat.
He called the waiter over, who spoke worse then Jacko read,
So reasoned why not gesture to the little bloke instead.

He pointed to the menu, then to him and down at Blue,
Convinced the confused waiter would now know just what to do.
Then suddenly a grin appeared upon the waiter's dial
And Jacko thought ... he's got it ... and responded with a smile.

The waiter beckoned to old Blue who followed in pursuit
And Jacko thought ... that's service ... and he thought it rather cute.
I wonder what he'll give old Blue; he does deserve a treat.
A change I guess from biscuits and a chunk of old corned meat.

Old Jacko sipped a glass of wine and sat there patiently
And entertained himself by playing spoons upon his knee.
He wondered just what sort of dish the waiter had in mind
He'd never eaten Thai before or tucker of that kind.

Then from the crowded kitchen came the waiter with a tray,
A meat dish cooked in spices and done in the old Thai way.
He lay it on the table and he said "You like it chum?"
But Jacko look dumbfounded and his body went quite numb.

His look was rather fearful like and tears came to his eyes
And all the boys from back of Bourke they would have heard his cries.
For there beneath the crackly was his one and only mate
Old Blue his only friend in life dished up upon a plate.

Poor Jacko went beserk they say and tore the place apart
And ended up a nervous wreck and with a weakened heart.
These days he's in a nursing home and life is full of bliss,
But Jackos never eaten meat from that day down to this.

 
© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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CARAVANNING MAYHEM

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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The Goondiwindi Grey

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GRAN'S LAST WISH

Our Gran, that's on my mother's side, was British born and raised,
Until the age of ten it seems, then Gran was quite amazed 
To find her mum and dad had planned to emigrate for good,
To Sydney in Australia and a brand new neighborhood. 

My mum was born in Sydney and she married there as well 
And that is where she raised me like and by the way I'm Nell.
Last year old Gran was eighty-five and sensed her time was near,
So planned on one last visit back to England late last year.

She stayed there for three months or more with her dear cousin Em.
And emailed every Friday without fail 'round 8 p.m.
Then suddenly the emails stopped, we heard from her no more.
Then late last week the mailman dropped a package at our door.

The stamps were clearly British, so it seemed that Gran was well,
But when we saw the contents it sure shook us for a spell.
Inside we found two packets that were labelled Heinz Leek Soup
And that was all, no, nothing else, which stunned our family group.

We figured … well it seems to us … Gran fancies this Leek brew
And she's sent us all a sample so that we could taste it too.
Mum added just a dash of milk to thicken it no doubt,
But after eating half of it we had to tip it out.

It tasted flaming terrible and failed to see how Gran
Could recommend that soup from hell to all our Aussie clan.
To our surprise the Postman dropped a letter by next day,
Again it was from England, so we read it straight away.

It was a note from cousin Em and this is what she said.
"Regret to have to tell you folk your dear old Gran is dead.
She passed away last Tuesday, but before she breathed her last
Gran told me her last wishes and so this is what has past.

"We didn't want to burden you with debt and all the fuss
Of getting Gran back home you see, so it seemed clear to us,
If we had Gran cremated we could send her home to you
And save the legal rigmarole most other folk go through.

"We placed Gran in the soup packets, but in the rush I'd say,
Forgot to put this letter in, though sent it off next day. 
My heart goes out to all of you; your Gran was such a gem. 
And please forgive the mix-up folks. Yours truly. Cousin Em."
 

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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ROBBY

I was feeling down, despondent, though I could not figure why.
Hell... perhaps it was the weather and the fact that things were dry.
It's a soul sapping experience when blue skies will not cease,
bringing melancholy moments when one's soul cannot find peace. 

Then my mood was interrupted by an email coming through
and I glanced down at my laptop; it was from a mate I knew.
Howard was a fellow poet whom I'd met last year in May,
who would often send me stories that someone had sent his way. 

As I read the text before me I soon came to realize
there were folk who faced much crueller tests and tears welled in my eyes.
"My full name is Mildred Hondorf and for thirty years or more
I have taught piano lessons to young children by the score.

"Though I've taught a lot of students who have shown ability,
there were sadly some among them who were challenged musically.
Of that number was young Robby and he had a single Mum 
and the lad was now eleven ... much too old I thought to come.

'"But it's always been my mother's dream to hear me play," he said,
and those haunting words still linger to this day within my head.
Robby had no tone or rhythm and this fact he could not hide.
He just lacked inborn ability, but still the lad he tried.

"He learnt elementary pieces and would dutifully review
all the scales I put before him, but deep down inside I knew
that the poor child showed no promise and would never learn to play
but each week his words would echo, 'Mum will hear me play some day.'

"Robby's mother always smiled and waved, though did so from her car
and I'd never met her personally in any way so far.
Then one day Rob never came again. I guessed he'd just moved on.
Though I must admit I felt at ease now that the lad was gone.

"He was not a good advertisement for what I was about
and then several weeks on down the track I sent some flyers out.
For I had in mind an evening, a recital on a night 
where the parents, friends and relatives could see them in full flight.

"It seems Robby too received one and he asked if he could try,
but I told him it's impossible, he did not qualify.
You have not attended lessons, so it really wasn't fair. 
'But my mum was sick!' Young Rob explained, 'she couldn't drive me there.'

'"I've been practising Miss Hondorf and Mum wants to hear me play.'
I don't know how he persuaded me, but Robby got his way. 
He'd perform before my closer, just in case his effort died 
and that way I'd salvage self-esteem or bluntly ... save my pride.

"Well the evening had gone splendidly and Rob was paged on next, 
but the sight of his appearance ... well, it truly left me vexed.
The lad's clothes were unironed, wrinkled and his hair was quite a mess
and it looked like an eggbeater had been through it I confess.

"But he sat at his piano and announced out very loud
he would play Mozart's Concerto in C Major for the crowd.
His small fingers danced so nimbly on the ivories that's for sure 
and I know that Mozart would have been amazed at what he saw.

"Robby ended his performance in a grand crescendo style
and the crowd just stood applauding while I had the biggest smile.
I just hugged the lad and asked him 'How'd you do it? Don't be shy.'
And he spoke into the microphone and gave his proud reply. 

"Well my Mum has been real sick of late, she'd cancer in her chest,
and she passed away this morning Miss. I had to play my best.
Mum was born quite deaf you see, but prayed with all her might,
that one day she'd hear me playing and I know she heard tonight."

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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R.M. WILLIAMS - A MAN WHO HAD TRIED

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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I NEVER CRIED FOR ELVIS BUT I SHED A TEAR FOR SLIM

Perhaps I'd heard it wrong somehow that quiet September day,
     But no, the words rang in my head. Slim Dusty's passed away.
I knew the old bloke had been crook and not that well of late.
     Still, legends live forever … though … it seems I'm wrong old mate.

Like Lawson you could tell a tale about the average bloke,
     Though sung them in the ballad style backed by a guitar stroke.
Your songs portrayed an image which aroused our Aussie pride
     And most of us we shed a tear when poor old Trumby died.

                    So rest in peace for now old friend until the trumpet calls;
                    The spirit of your ballads, mate, ring through life's memories halls.
                    A lifetimes dedication proves you where no passing whim;
                    I never cried for Elvis, but I shed a tear for Slim.

 You walked a mile or two we know, through muddy tracks and dry
      And entertained a lot of folk and made them laugh or cry.
 You pioneered an industry and did the real hard yards
      And kept alive the sentiments of yesterday's bush bards.

A myriad of campfires echoed tunes that bore your brand.
     The Pub With No Beer, Duncan; just two that come to hand.
You made us feel Australian with a sense of wrong and right.
     The city bloke, the bushy, whether brindle, black or white.

                    So rest in peace for now old friend until the trumpet calls;
                    The spirit of your ballads, mate, ring through life's memories halls.
                    A lifetimes dedication proves you where no passing whim;
                    I never cried for Elvis, but I shed a tear for Slim. 

They said goodbye in style that day and gathered in their throngs 
     And old St Andrews echoed to a melody of songs.
Your passing's left us empty mate, we've lost a true blue friend
     And no one lives forever, but the memories will not end.

I know we lost an icon, but his family lost much more,
     A father, grandad, soul mate, of that I am quite sure. 
We stand and we salute you Slim despite the fact we know
     The final curtain's fallen on the last Slim Dusty show. 

                    So rest in peace for now old friend until the trumpet calls;
                    The spirit of your ballads, mate, ring through life's memories halls.
                    A lifetimes dedication proves you where no passing whim;
                    I never cried for Elvis, but I shed a tear for Slim.

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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AN OLD MAN'S VOWS

A sequel to Banjo Paterson's 'LOST'

He stood by the pepper tree down by the stream 
And his eyes were cast down at the mound.
The hurt in his heart, which he carried for years, 
Now displaced by the peace he had found.
The promise he'd made to himself years ago
He'd fulfilled as he'd promised he would.
And the daughter and grandson he'd lost years ago
Lay together as he'd deemed they should.

He'd known that the filly was vicious, strong willed,
But the lad was so wilful and game.
He'd only gone down to the two mile that day.
Still he failed to return all the same.
His mother searched tirelessly all through the night
And for days rode the ranges in hope.
But sadly she pined and she faded and cried, 
Till her frail frame could no longer cope.

He lay her to rest 'neath the pepper trees shade
And he vowed to his God and to her.
He'd search for the bonnie, young, winsome lad's bones
Till the ranges declared where they were.
He too was determined to track down the mare, 
Which now ran with the ranks of the free,          
But pledged in his heart he would have recompense               
For the bones 'neath the ironbark tree. 

Year in and year out the old man rode the range
And he searched every gully and ridge.
Astride his old grey with his packhorse in tow,
He forged on with his bold pilgrimage.
At times he would sight the wild mob and the mare,
But they sensed the man's presence and fled.
Though filled with a will to win out in his quest,
The old man set his course straight ahead.

One morning he focused his sight on a range
Where a column of smoke filled the sky.
The scrub was alight and engulfing the trees
And the hot winds forced flames to soar high.
The old man sought shelter away from its wrath,
In the bowels of a cave and gave prayer.
Though thick, choking smoke and the blistering heat,
Had him gasping and choking for air.

The danger now gone he walked out from the cave
And the vision he met at its mouth
Was one of stark contrast, the landscape lay bare,
And the fire front raced still further south.
The old man now ragged and wilting in strength
Knew the fire had dealt him a blow,
Though urged his grey down the steep slope of the ridge,
To the gully of ironbarks below.

His pathway lay blocked by a large fallen limb
And beneath it there laid a charred frame.
Not human in structure, but that of a horse,
Though it caused him to stop all the same.    
The singed hide was chestnut and that of a mare.
Yes, the quarry he'd sought for so long.
Then anger gave way and tears welled in his eyes
And a magpie burst forth into song.

For lying beside her obscured by her frame
Lay the bones of his daughter's lost son.  
The old iron bark recompensed him that day,
But the old man sensed no one had won.
He laid the boy's bones in the packsaddle bags
And the horse showed approval and neighed.
And a calm inner peace now pervaded the man.
He'd fulfilled both the vows he had made.

© Merv Webster
The Goondiwindi Grey

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