Christine Eccleston Aussie character stories/songs | Writer

Christine Eccleston Aussie character stories/songs

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25.01.2022 Merry Christmas.

22.01.2022 Wishing everyone a safe and peaceful Christmas. This year is a very different time for so many. Be kind and share our wonderful Aussie Christmas spirit with those close. Take care and thank you for a wonderful year. Just Hangin’ Out With Santa.... With a Ho Ho Ho, it’s away we go, Clap your hands and give a cheer. Hold on tight, he’s just in time, It’s our favourite time of year. With a Ho Ho Ho, he’s here at last, He’s outside on our verandah. If anyone is asking, We’re Just Hangin’ Out With Santa. With a big white beard that’s made of snow, A big red coat, so soft and warm. He holds his tummy when he laughs, His bells jingle when he walks. With a Ho Ho Ho, it’s here we go, There’ll be presents, fun and banter. If anyone is asking, We’re Just Hangin’ Out With Santa.

20.01.2022 Hello and happy Sunday everyone. Wishing you a very happy and peaceful new year. (Although things aren’t exactly going to plan yet) This time 12 months ago we were all on fire watch or worse. Sending good wishes to everyone who battled through those horrible fires.... No Dust To Hide The Wheels. There’s no dust to hide the wheels, As he trots an even gait. No dust to hide the wheels, And our hearts are free and safe. There’s no dust this year to hide the wheels, It sits settled, safe and still. Heavy from the gentle mist, That rolls in across the hills. For just last year it was our foe, It rose high above the wheels. An angry dust, filled with heat, In a summer straight from hell. A dust made fine from months of heat, And carried on the winds. Dust and sparks rejoicing, And a summer filled with fear. For it was January just last year, And the bush was burning free. Smoke rising from the western hills, Filled our hearts and minds with fear. Watching as the flames drew close, An enemy with the fiercest heart. Racing down the timbered slopes, Tearing through with no regard. Months of drought that lead us there, And a wind that seemed to stay. Australia was on fire, And our nerves were torn and frayed. Livestock loses, too high to count, Homesteads left in piles of ash. Blackened fence lines lay in ruins, Hopes and dreams of many dashed. Scared, but not surrendered, We rise above the ash. We rebuild our homes and broken hearts, And thank god for what we have. For, just those 12 short months ago, Our world was falling all apart. Each day we move on bravely, Still holding shadows in our hearts. But, there’s no dust this year to hide the wheels, As he trots an even gait. The track holds shade from grey gums, And our hearts are free and safe. Our bush is healing slowly, She’s quiet, cool and free. She shades our track below her, She puts our hearts at ease. The grey gums and the stringy barks, Hold their true and friendly shade. Rejoicing in the easy air, They sigh now they know they’re safe. No dust to hide the wheels, Only freedom that we feel. No dust to hide the wheels, And green within our fields. No dust to hide the wheels, As he trots an even gait. No dust to hide the wheels, And our hearts are free and safe.

11.01.2022 Happy Sunday. Hoping everyone is well. It’s that time of year again where poor Santa has trouble with Rudolf. Rudolf’s Round The Back.... As the clock strikes 12 on Christmas Eve, And the drinks begin to slow. Outside a clear and starlit sky, The summer moon descends a glow. As the mozzies and the frogs unite, A midnight summer chorus bright. The peace of Christmas fills the air, This is Santa’s biggest night. But, empty glasses line the bar, The whiskey jar now drained. Blitzen turns and says to Santa, We’ve let it happen once again. Santa thought it would be nice, To shout the reindeer all a drink. Two shots down at the local bar, Then it’s off all night delivering. Last drinks were shouted long ago, Time to bid the bar goodnight. An empty stool where Rudolf was, That big red nose nowhere in sight. Where’s that bloody Rudolf? He promised he’d behave. After 8 months locked in rehab, Seems his drinking hasn’t swayed. Where’s that bloody Rudolf? It’s time to load the sleigh. After 8 months locked in rehab, He promised he’d behave. Comet, check he’s not unconscious, In the men’s room up the stairs. Dasher, look behind the empty kegs, He could be sleeping anywhere. Donna, go and get some coffee brewed, When we find him give him some. Dasher, check the whiskey storeroom, That’s where last year he came undone. That cheeky bloody Rudolf, Couldn’t let the moment slip. That Black Jack table drew him in, A new glass of whiskey on the sip. He’d rounded up his gambling mates, Sent a message SOS. To meet him after midnight, We’ll give old Santa boy the slip. Amongst the smoking of his cheap cigars, A felted table poorly lit. Whiskey glasses to the left, Hidden hands of aces dealt. The odds are looking rather good, And the chips are highly stacked. Rudolf’s having quite the evening, At that Black Jack table round the back. As the searching for their cheeky mate, Keep the other reindeer occupied. With Santa’s ulcers playing up, From Rudolf’s promises and lies. With the time to harness up long gone, There’s a panic setting in. It’s Christmas Eve down under, And it’s happened once again. Every year, it’s just the same, When will Old Santa learn. That Rudolf can’t be trusted, He’s a liability to the firm. An Aussie pub holds great allure, Along the dried out dusty track. For a gambling, drinking reindeer, And each year Rudolf sneaks around the back. So, where’s that bloody Rudolf. He promised he’d behave. After 8 months locked in rehab, Seems his drinking hasn’t swayed. Where’s that bloody Rudolf? It’s time to load the sleigh. After 8 months locked in rehab, He promised he’d behave. He’s dealing up the Black Jack cards, At the table round the back. Santa’s nerves are shattered, And bloody Rudolf’s round the back.

02.01.2022 Happy Sunday everyone. Hope you enjoy today’s poem. Our Australian bushranger history is so interesting. I still have a few copies of Volume One available if you’re searching for Chrissy presents. Send me a message if you’d like a copy $30 each w/ $5 postage. The Grave Of John McLean.... As you drive towards the sunset, In search of the Riverina plains. You’ll pass a lonesome headstone, The Grave Of John McLean. He looks out across a valley flat, Towards his home from years gone by. A view that’s second to only none, From the grave there where he lies. Round Hill Station which he over looks, Was where his life had just begun. A keen young man with hopes and dreams, His whole life ahead to look upon. A life cut short from a gunmans hand, From a madman on the loose. A bushranger named Dan Morgan, Who was happy just to shoot. Mad Dog roamed the district lawlessly, A mind deranged within falsehood. Kept an eye for local troopers, From his hideout in the bush. Round Hill Station the next target, In need of food and horses fresh. Waving rifles with no care at all, Mr Watson’s hand took the bullet next. His boss bleeding from a shotgun wound, The shot from Morgan’s gun. The young station hand knew all too well, Mad Dog’s fun had just begun. With a madman armed and dangerous, Now amongst their evening peace. And Mrs Watson and the children, In line of gunshots, if that trigger was released. Young John was off, to ride for help, To bring a doctor for the boss. He could ride like no tomorrow, Fearing more lives that could be lost. He took the fastest station horse, Already a fine horseman he’d become. But Morgan saw to follow him, And chased young John on through the scrub. As John leaned and gave his horse his head, He took a gunshot to his back. From Mad Dog Morgan’s rifle, In the lonesome scrub he was attacked. An empty horse, that galloped on, A young station hand lay still. With a gunshot wound from Morgan’s gun, That would surely take his life as well. Morgan felt compassion, For the young man on the ground. And took him back to Round Hill, And remained with him till the end. Next morning Morgan left to roam, Mad Dog Morgan roamed the bush alone. A young mans life, cut all too short, From a madman’s rifle blown. So, as you drive towards the sunset, In search of the Riverina plains. You’ll pass a lonesome headstone, The Grave Of John McLean.

02.01.2022 Here’s to a peaceful and happy Sunday. I love our bushranger history. Ned was one of our bigger characters. Hope you enjoy today’s poem.... The Secrets Of The Bush. The gunshots down by Stringybark, Hidden by time and distance wide. Safe in the arms of ghost gums, The rifle shot, So easy to hide. A battle by the creek bed, Gunshots echoed from the hills. Two troopers lives had ended, The bush holds its secrets still. For the Aussie bush holds secrets, Of murders, truth and lies. The gunshots fired by outlaws, With little proof of alibis. Was Ned a true bushranger? Or a man without a chance. Did the trouble that surrounded him, Just sway to a merry dance? Were the troopers looking for a win? Was Ned an easy target. Did they curse his very being? Revenge for being quite outsmarted. Taking to the bush for comfort, He knew how to talk to her. In times of conflict coming, He knew exactly where to turn. He’d hide safe and sound in bushland, A master of the land. Bushranger was his title, Or just a man hard to understand. The troopers wrote their stories, Of an armed and dangerous sole. Did the Aussie bush know better? Of stories never told. His explanations always read........... He meant no lasting harm. He’d only shoot if threatened, And not a man who wasn’t armed. So, does the bush hold secrets? From when Ned’s story was alive. Is the truth locked up in ghost gums? On those rugged mountain sides. Are his memories correct? Do we have the story straight? Or does the bush hold secrets, Of a wrongly ended fate. Ned Kelly was a bushman, The papers always read. An outlaw and a horse thief, A man very poorly bred. Hiding out in bushland, A warning to beware. He’ll shoot you in an instant, And he’ll never show a care. But, his letters read quite different, From what the papers said. An explanation offered, But no one seemed to care. Hated by the lawmen, Hunted like a dog. A bounty on his bearded head, His future would be lost. And, does the bush hold secrets? From when Ned’s story was alive. Is the truth locked up in ghost gums, On those rugged mountain sides. Are his memories correct? Do we have the story straight? Or does the bush hold secrets, Of a wrongly ended fate.