Welcome to my page... Enjoy!
Graham E. McLoughlin
WELCOME TO
MY WORLD
From fixing multi-million dollar fighter jets to carrying peoples garbage... from sitting yarning with Aboriginal Elders under a pepper tree in a DOGIT Community to lobbying Cabinet Ministers in Canberra, I have had a full and fortunate life, some of which I would like to share with you in verse.
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SERVICE RELATED POEMS
No Place for a soldier of Our Land
The Wraith With The Four Letter Name
OUR LAND AND FEELINGS
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NOT SO SERIOUS
Turtlehead and the Loaded Rabbit
When Your Pipework Packs It In
With apologies to Dorethea Mackellar
With Apologies to John O'Brien
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BACK TO A GENTLER TIME
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SOME PROSE YOU MAY ALSO ENJOY
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I
Once known as Teapot Swamp
As I sit here in the tropics and my mind begins to roam
I think of our Moorilda and the place I still call home.
The sun upon the stubble and black cattle on the hill
I smell the apple blossom and I hear the magpie’s trill
The lines of stately pine trees and the laughing, bubbling creeks,
The hot western winds that seared you and the snow that lasted weeks.
I remember all the open space where, as children, we would romp.
The country life was good to us, at home in Teapot Swamp.
I still can hear a cicada song from the gum trees old and tall.
The bleating of new born lambs to answer mother’s call.
Taste the sweet tang of a blackberry, eaten straight off spreading vine.
Ignoring the pain of sharp, curved thorns to make the biggest mine.
I hear my bike crunch on gravel roads... My footsteps through wet grass.
The ringing of the old school bell, calling us all in to class.
I feel the chill of frosty morns, with icy puddles just made to stomp.
Crossing the creek, on the way to school, back there in Teapot Swamp.
Though time has passed... Near fifty years... These memories still stay clear
They help me remember gentler times of a place I still hold dear.
Of a time when neighbours all were friends, almost as close as kin
Of house doors that were never locked, in case someone wanted in.
I have certainly missed those gentler days in my propensity to roam
And didn’t think I would miss as much the place I still call home
When I swapped it for the military with its ceremony and pomp.
From the place now called Moorilda... Once known as Teapot Swamp.
© Graham McLoughlin 2015
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This poem is my first attempt at a 'commissioned' historical record.
Based on an original prose version of 'The Stranded Viking' compiled by Tom OLsen, the Son of Erik.
Originally written under the nom-de-plume of 'Tom Bartlett', his mother's maiden name, the original version provided much detail of the early life of a man who was to become predominant in the pioneering years of the Bundaberg region and the timber trade across the Wide Bay Burnett.
The poem was commissioned by His Grandson ,Bartley Olsen, for a reunion held in Bundaberg in November 2014, attended by over sixty of Erik's descendants and by Kjell-Ottar and Hege Olsen, from Norway, the Descendants of Erik's Brother.
The Stranded Viking
He braced his feet against the swell, the Wawoon’s helm in hand
The open sea off the port bow, to starboard the great South land.
His eyes had seen this sight before, as down the coast he steamed.
His mind flew back to years before when for the sea he dreamed
His native Norway now so far… ‘twas here he’d made his home
When the Deutschland’s hull had opened up and stilled his urge to roam.
She had struck a reef off Masthead Isle through fault of an older chart
All hands were saved and cargo too, but the sea broke her apart.
And there she rests in coral grave her sails now furled for good.
The Viking cast his mind back to this land where he first stood.
And watched the barque as she broke apart, to break his Nordic ties
His father, brothers, friends and kin, the grave where his mother lies.
At age fifteen he had left his home to sail the seven seas.
He had plied the ports of Europe, his destiny with the breeze.
And around the cape he then had sailed, the Queensland coast his goal.
Just a few leagues short of Rockhampton they found that fateful shoal.
Captain Brane was a canny man and had tried to float her free
But the Deutschland’s ballast of iron screw piles would see her claimed by sea.
For three high tides they had tried their best, ‘til Brane thought storms may reach
Some went by boat to Sea Hill light, and some to Masthead beach.
His mind now moves to present day, a new family to the south.
Another hour of steady steam would make the Burnett’s mouth.
Up the river to Skyring’s dock then home to that new life
Six daughters and four sons there were, and Annie, his young wife.
In Bundaberg he had made his home and further plied the ocean
A Master now, on Wawoon’s deck , his feet braced to the motion
Of pacific swells and river bars, bringing lumber out to sell
To build the Queensland houses in the towns he now knew well
He became a man respected, in the community he helped make.
And eventually he left the sea, but nothing could ever take
The Viking spirit, and salty veins he passed on to his kin.
The Red-gold hair and love of the sea was something born within
That journey begun years before, when Erik left Norway,
Would falter fifty four years on… then still go on today.
As a Viking’s memory brings family here, in this place that he helped make
We remember him, we lift a glass… and toast… for Erik’s sake.
© G.E. Mcloughlin 2014