Photo By Jools Thatcher

The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “Night Birds”

Ed Bates once again performing the guitar duties this week

Play this poem directly in your browser! Just click the “play” button below:
Download audio file (JVG_Poem20100829.mp3)

A track from the “Drifter” album

Night birds

In the uphills of South Gippsland, in gullies, dense and steep
Impenetrable to all but that which shelter’s in its keep

From its remnant forests, its mysteries veiled from sight
Comes the legend of a bird that only ventures out at night

No parrot, owl or raptor and flightless, it is said
A diet like no other bird – Copper, Iron and Lead

The first recorded sighting – by whites, at any rate
Was when the Toora Tin Mine opened in 1888

Tent pegs disappeared; chisels, knives and picks
Initially the miners thought their mates were playing tricks

Then nightly, after dark, they observed a frightful din
As the birds picked through the tailings, extracting specks of tin

The miners feared those avians, though none had proved a threat
They’d sooner soil their duds than leave their tents once sun had set

Fear soon turned to loathing and talk of genocide
Nails were scattered through the bush, laced with cyanide

The birds devoured them eagerly, a fate they weren’t deserving
To reappear the following night to seek a second serving

A prospector, named Shelley, was found dead beside his swag
Every scrap of metal had been plundered from his bag

The eyelets from his boots, tacks pulled from the soles
His Billy Can, not two weeks old, peppered full of holes

The buttons from his fly and the fillings from his teeth
His belt buckle burgled by this callous, feathered, thief

“Robber turned killer” the men were heard to howl
They swore their revenge on this ferrous eating fowl

But Shelley choked to death claimed the autopsy report
He was eating a Koala when a knuckle bone got caught

But the miners had their own view and their message was succinct
Plug everything that moves until the bastard is extinct

They shot anything with wings, from lorrikeats to pullets
While their target stayed well hidden, feasting quietly on the bullets

The owners of the mine were alarmed at the dissension
Productivity could suffer and drew too much attention

Investors, always nervous, and concerned they’d lose their backing
They forbade the bird be mentioned, on the threat of instant sacking

With jobs as rare as hen’s teeth, workers spoke of it no more
Eventually the mine closed down around the First World War

The bird was lost to memory as the mine was lost to scrub
Reduced to drunken yarns met with laughter at the pub

Still, theft remained a problem for the cockys in the shire
Strangely, always metal, from bolts to fencing wire

Gate chains, hinges, horse shoes – which left the farmers fuming
Most put it down to looters with the price of scrap iron booming

Then, a bootlegger named Haydon, trying to relocate his still
Slipped and took a tumble down a densely wooded hill

In luck, his fall was broken by a leafy, spongy, mound
“Lyrebirds” he thought, not knowing what he’d found

Suddenly, two birds, both near a metre high
Fled into the bush, it was clear they could not fly

Startled from their mound, they’d no time to conceal
Two massive metal eggs that shone like stainless steel

He fetched his partner, Pamela, and led her to the nest
An amateur ornithologist, she relished in the quest

They stood before those glistening orbs, too stunned to say a word
That gentle, timid, creature they named “The Bocce Bird”

They chose to keep its secret – what else could they do?
Have hordes of tourists poking round near their illicit brew?

But they shared it with the locals, who got into a flap
Now you’ll notice every farm has a pile of metal scrap

Car wrecks, barbed wire, roofing iron – it’s not coincidence
Food, left for the Bocce Bird, in the hope they’ll spare the fence

What other creatures, real or myth, are lurking in the bush?
Fed by fear and fantasy and the imaginings they push

Prisoner’s of legend, they remain, till freed by proof
Like a politician’s promise, as elusive as the truth

© Copyright 2010 Ian Bland

Photo By Jools Thatcher

The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “Make Contact” ( or “Give 3RRR lots of money”)

It’s time for 3RRR’s annual radiothon, a cause well worth supporting.

Ed Bates supplied the “atmospheric background” both weeks

Play the poems directly in your browser! Just click on the “play” button below:
Week 1 Download audio file (JVG_Poem20100815.mp3)

Week 2 Download audio file (JVG_Poem20100822.mp3)

Listen to the my album “Drifter”

3RRR Radiothon 2010 “Make Contact” (Part 1)

“Have you ever wondered what’s out there?”
“I can’t believe we’re alone”
“The only life in the universe?”
“Adrift in the twilight zone?”

“Shut up “Rabbit.” You’re talking crap”
“Pig” Mills thought the chances were slim
In “Pig’s” world the sun circled the earth
And the earth revolved around him

Who cared about other intelligence?
Who cared they were lost in space?
“Pig” Mills had more pressing issues
Like thirst and feeding his face

Unless these life forms were edible
In which case they had some appeal
Blast off was only five minutes ago
“Pig” was down to his last ‘Wagon Wheel’

A comet’s tail according to “Pig”
Tastes like a sherbet bomb
“Pig” was as batty as Ziggy Stardust
“Rabbit” as Major Tom

Darkness and silence were taking their toll
Both astronauts seemed ill at ease
“Imagine” gasped “Pig” “If “Spanner” had lied”
“And the moon isn’t made out of cheese”

Confronted by fear, neither boy spoke
As they hurtled forlorn through the void
Then something big slammed into their ship
A meteor or asteroid?

An unworldly hiss, a discharge of air
Would this end with them suffocating
Mercifully, no – a false alarm
It was just “Pig” regurgitating

Isolation can drive you insane
Regardless of strength or willpower
Our valiant explorers teetered on the edge
They’d been in orbit nearly quarter of an hour

“Rabbit” was curled in a foetal position
“We’ll be smashed into cosmic dust”
While “Pig” crawled round under the seat
Searching in vain for a crust

“Someone should have made contact by now”
Wailed “Rabbit” his voice full of dread
He tried to raise someone on the radio
To no avail – It was dead

“Hello! Come in! Won’t somebody answer?
It’s dark in here – Talk to me!
For God’s sake is anybody out there?
I’m a little tea pot short and stout
This is my handle, this is my spout
Collingwood will win the flag
Collingwood will win the – Collingwood?
I must be going completely insane!!!!!
Hello! Hello! Hello!

3RRR Radiothon 2010 “Make Contact” (Part 2)

We left “Pig” Mills and “Rabbit” McGorry
Floating in outer space
Radio down, food exhausted
Lost without a trace

Fifteen minutes since blast off
The last five with nothing to eat
“Pig” was so hungry he’d eaten his belt
And the trim from the leather seat

No power, they drifted in total darkness
Sensory depravation
“I can’t last much longer” “Pig” bemoaned
“One ‘Mintie’ between me and starvation”

Then a blinding light engulfed the ship
“Pig” squealed “This must be heaven”
Two alien forms stepped from the light
Through the door of the — Austin Seven?

It was “Spanner” Chaplee and Lindy Dent
The space flight was all a charade
Their ship, a car wreck, the windows blacked out
On blocks in the Chaplee’s backyard

“Good one ‘Flash” Gordon” “Squirrel” Tyrell harrumphed
“You couldn’t pilot an elevator”
“Can’t even last a quarter on an hour”
“In “Spanner’s” simulator”

Most kids want to journey to space
And all of us share in that dream
While astronauts are the public face
They’re just one small part of the team

Nearly eighty programs every week
We need your help to stay in the air
The cosmos is a harsh environment
A lot of strange things out there

Space junk, dead stars, endless black holes
And toxic radiation
Too many planets that can’t support life
Spinning in high rotation

Space belongs to everyone
Not just a few celestials
It’s Community and Humanity
Except Sundays when its extra-terrestrials

We know you’re out there somewhere
We rely on subscribers like you
“Make Contact” – Join us on board
You’re needed as part of the crew

© Copyright 2010 Ian Bland

Photo By Jools Thatcher

The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “Medicine”

Ed Bates has the week off as I recorded this before heading off to the snowfields of Victoria. I can only imagine what Jon will do to the intro this week. Let me know how it went.

I will be back in the studio live for the radiothon next week

Play this poem directly in your browser! Just click the “play” button below:

Download audio file (JVG_Poem20100808.mp3)

Listen to my Album Drifter

Medicine

“Do us a favour won’t you pet?” Mavis Clissold purred
Kevin knew the favour before Mavis said a word

“Let me guess” Kev chortled as he dropped his tail gate down
“Could I pick up your medicine on my way back home from town?”

Robert Kingsley Cranston was if none else, resolute
A mind as sharp as blackberry thorns, a smile to match its fruit

Farmer, pilot, degree in science and chemical engineering
As skilful with a test tube as a harvester or shearing

Creating salves for fly blown sheep while noble is hardly a thrill
For nought but his amusement, he resolved to build a still

For the Pot, he used a butter churn and cast off milking pales
His aim – to make a spirit as strong as liquid nails

The fire was fuelled by methane piped in from the septic
This carbon neutral venture would impress the toughest sceptic

The water clear as custard, pumped straight up from the dam
The quality improved once he’d fished out the dead ram

Tadpoles proved a problem, but Bob soon sorted those
A filter, manufactured from his wife Joan’s pantyhose

The mash, a mix of silage and a lot of TLC
Blended with berries from the Mountain Pepper Tree

Three times distilled – and three again, till Bob was satisfied
Then aged in plastic barrels that once stored a herbicide

The resulting brew so potent it dissolved their farmhand’s braces
A single bottle mixed with juice had forty off their faces

It was not a business enterprise, though many were willing to pay
Every drop Bob bottled, he gladly gave away

While he enjoyed the challenge, his neighbours enjoyed the spoils
Known around the district as ‘Bob’s Essential Oils’

If you listened to the locals – I won’t mention any names
It was more than just a beverage according to their claims

Tinea, haemorrhoids, cradle cap and grip
A smidgen on a tissue wiped that cold sore from your lip

An endless list of ailments, infirmities and aches
A sprinkle near the woodshed – That’s the last you’d see of snakes

A powerful aphrodisiac – or so the Cockburns swore
“Twice a day” they boasted – not bad for 94

Endorsed by Grandma Hayes, more than eighty years a farmer
It was, in her opinion, a better stone than marijuana

The pharmacy was hurting, the pub and liquor store
Rumours were brought to the attention of the law

Bob had some issues with the local copper, Frank
So he concealed his operation in a disused water tank

The dog went spare one night while Joan was sitting on the porch
“Bloody wombats” Joan surmised – until she saw the torch

She grabbed her walkie talkie, shouting “Bob, the cops again”
To buy a little time she let the Kelpie off the chain

Bob reluctantly decided to blow that tank apart
He was, like many farmers, a pragmatist at heart

He kicked the pot still over, then scrambled out the hatch
As he dived toward the wood shed he dropped a lighted match

A good ten seconds passed, Bob’s plan appeared ill fated
Then a massive explosion and the tank evaporated

Flames shot down the pipe and a mille second later
The septic erupted leaving nothing but a crater

A moment’s eerie silence then it started raining turds
The coppers stood there shell shocked, lost for more than words

Frank took a statement still encased in toilet paper
He retired at years end, said “I’m too old for this caper”

The evidence destroyed and no witnesses forthcoming
The official enquiry put it down to faulty plumbing

Bob learnt two lessons, firstly, knowing when to quit
And if you mix your medications you could end up in the shit

© Copyright 2010 Ian Bland

Photo By Jools Thatcher

The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “Paradise”

Ed Bates returns to the guitar duties this week

Play this poem directly in your browser! Just click the “play” button below:
Download audio file (JVG_Poem20100801.mp3)

Paradise

Paradise – the pay off, for all our earthly toil
The refuge of the righteous when they leave this mortal coil

Embraced by most religions – it serves both hope and fear
Dangled like a carrot – the believer’s panacea

This earthly plane derided, where flesh and lust enslave
The grass is always greener on the far side of the grave

‘Revelations’ tells us there’s a limit to the throng
One hundred and forty four thousand – That’s smaller than Geelong

With priority for Saints and other VIPs
Rabbis, Popes and Mullahs – it’s going to be a squeeze

Misguided “Martyrs”- TV Evangelists as well
No pun intended, they don’t stand a chance in hell

Despite allowing for no-shows, heretics and cheats
Religions, like the airlines, have flogged more fares than seats

They could add some extra levels, either underneath, or heighten
Or just extend the boundaries – they do it all the time in Brighton

In these days of litigation it wouldn’t be surprising
If some jilted, hell bound, lawyer sues for false advertising

Is paradise, like Noosa, a resort for the elite?
Exclusive, perfect weather, a fashionable retreat?

While hell, like the Gold Coast, is a haven for the masses
An environmental nightmare, consumed by greenhouse gasses

Will discrimination still bind a woman’s soul?
The same religious bias, that gives men, on earth, control

Will their souls be subjugated on grounds both fraudulent and glib?
Or finally, set free from the clutch of Adam’s rib?

Is paradise a garden, rivers filled with milk?
Palaces of gold, rubies, pearls and silk?

Like the cover of ‘The Watchtower’, green hills and endless dawns
It begs the eternal question – Who mows the bloody lawns?

Cherubs buzzing round on ride-ons, shattering the peace?
Or hoons dragged up from hell and let loose on day release?

Will a hundred virgins greet me as I sneak through heaven’s doors?
I appreciate the gesture but I’d prefer a hundred whores

Or is paradise much closer, in our minds and in our hearts?
In the laughter of our children, in the joy, that love imparts?

Unexpected moments, as complete as they are brief
The sum of all our kindnesses, compassion and belief

If paradise exists, I suspect it lies within us
But if it really is a place, I pray they’re serving Guinness

© Copyright 2010 Ian Bland

Photo By Jools Thatcher

The theme for this week’s JVG Radio Method poem is “Mathematical Equations”

Jon takes a week off and look what he comes up with. Mathematical Equations is stretching it a bit.

Dave Evans (who rides a bicycle ) is on the box in his seat this week.

Ed Bates “car broke down” – yeah right.

Play this poem directly in your browser! Just click the “play” button below:

Download audio file (JVG_Poem20100725.mp3)

Drifter – The Album

Mathematical Equations

From our moment of birth till departing this earth

We quantify characteristics

Measured and weighed, assessed and assayed

Less flesh and blood than statistics

Worry and cram from test to exam

Potential reduced to a score

Talent encumbered, analysed, numbered

Possession’s 9 tenths of the law

Weight versus height, stupid or bright

Pressure on kids so intense

A lofty IQ, has nothing to do

With integrity, kindness and sense

Now all daily rigours are based upon figures

I find it wears a bit thin

Down at the bank, my name draws a blank

But they swoon at the sound my PIN

My doctor’s the same, though he calls me by name

It’s procedural rather than matey

I know in his mind, I’m forever defined

As 139 over 80

Life insurance, a punt on endurance

Complex equations apply

The longer you live, the more money you give

Only one way to win – and that’s die!

While the chances of winning the lottery’s thinning

Over 2.3 million to one

A similar mark to being nipped by a shark

At least one bite and you’re done

On average, men’s lives fall short of their wives

Fleeced years of quality time

Women accrue, 84.2

While blokes drop at 79

To better the odds and outsmart the gods

I plan to alter my fate

Claw back the years with a snip of the shears

Have a sex change at 78

The world gets hysterical at all things numerical

Taxation, migration, inflation

Graphs and schematics, applied mathematics

The world is one big equation

Life, I confirm = egg over sperm

Times around 500 million

Multiply these by just the Chinese

We’re pushing close to a trillion

Take that figure, less, diseases and stress

Over greed to the power of beer

Divide it by war, disasters, the poor

It’s a miracle anyone’s here

Discard the dregs, divide by the legs

Then again by your DNA

Allow for vaccines, take off your genes

That’s genes, with a G not a J

Deduct cigarettes, sloth and regrets

And anything you can’t control

Add vegies and fruit and the odd square root

Plus a bonus for humour and soul

Tally it up, pour it all in a cup

Drink it, smoke it, or take it

Forget times and division, it’s still your decision

Life, in the end’s what you make it

© Copyright 2010 Ian Bland