Welcome to my page... Enjoy!
Graham E. McLoughlin
For those who may be interested, there are a number of other War and Service related poems on the Service Related Poems page. Just click the link above. A couple of RAAF specific one you may find amusing are also on that page
A Country Funeral
Around a grave some people stand, in a dusty country town
Tears glisten on cheeks and shoulders slump … all faces looking down.
There’s a bloke who was the mechanic , before he closed his door.
And a plumber who used to fix the pipes, but he doesn’t any more,
a nurse, just back from Brisbane, where she has had to take a job.
There’s the council grader driver, who now mines to make a bob.
And with them stands poor old bob, who used to be the baker.
and a fly-in priest stands side by side with a city undertaker.
A pensioner… too old to move… A farmer and his wife
As they gather here to say goodbye…To the Australian way of life.
The grazier’s family could have come, if only the weather would improve
The bank manager also would be there… if he hadn’t had to move.
There’s old mate who owned the general store, but now can’t fill an order
Because he can’t compete with the dollar milk at Woolies down the border.
A wreath would normally be laid this day, by the local football club.
But there’s no one left to field a team since they closed the local pub.
No older children stand here today, because they are all away at school.
And the bus driver closed his business when he couldn’t afford the fuel.
And the pain they all feel collectively cuts them like a knife
As they gather here to say goodbye… To the Australian way of life.
And miles away in bustling cities, some don’t even know its gone.
Their busy lives too cluttered to watch this way of life pass on.
The bottom line is paramount here… There’s so much more to do.
Than worry about a way of life like their father’s used to do.
Why should they be worried about a small-town country baker?
You can’t be side-tracked by little things when you’re a global decision maker.
There are lattes to be drunk , meetings to do,…reports to read and write.
These yokels in the country have to keep the big picture in their sight.
There are no votes or corporate dollars to be made in remote places.
And ‘ways of life’ just can’t be graphed on government databases
Why can’t they see they’re unimportant in this world of trouble and strife.
And they still don’t believe they murdered the Australian way of life.
Yet still here by that graveside, remembered by so few.
A way of life will live again in hearts that beat anew.
They won’t give up, their will too strong… no matter how hard it gets
They’ll keep this life alive, inside their hearts, despite their deep regrets.
When global troubles stop supply… When strife knocks on the door.
When those people in the cities just can’t live there anymore.
When erstwhile global citizens are rioting about shortages of food.
Maybe the banks and politicians will not afford to be so rude.
Born again in country towns with their residents as midwife,
Like Lazarus, it will rise again… The Australian way of life.
© Graham E McLoughlin 2018
No Place For a Soldier Of Our Land
Taking fire from down the street, just be quicker on your feet.
Make that doorway where you crouch become your fort
Check your magazine is full, finger ready for the pull.
Just hunker down and wait for more support.
Bagdad’s streets become a maze, as the hours turn into days
In this madness of IEDs and bloody sand.
Where at every turn lies fear, because they just don’t want you here.
This is no place for a soldier of our land.
As the sweat soaks through your hair, from the Kevlar that you wear
And the speaker in your ear becomes your mate,
With your brother soldiers prattle, as they too fight the battle.
As you crouch here, frightened, trying not to hate.
And when the battle finally ends, and you’re back amongst your friends.
Aussie diggers, tall and straight and proud and tanned
On an Afghan aerodrome, many thousand miles from home
Again, no place for a soldier of our land.
Now you’re back on a Sydney street with a sign down by your feet
Saying ‘homeless army veteran, please give’
And a thousand pass you by, They all refuse to meet your eye.
Caring not a bit about how you have to live.
They just haven’t got a clue about what war did to you
And how it changed the life that you had planned
And of the family that you lost or your mental holocaust
Now home’s no place for a soldier of our land.
Where did it all go awry, why did good men have to die
Why must another’s battle be our own
Why do men who gave their all have to wear a beggar’s shawl
As right into the garbage they are thrown
Because in Canberra’s halls of power, where our politicians cower,
And view passing out parades complete with band
They send more men off to war, just like they did before’
In their hearts, no place for soldiers of this land.
© Graham McLoughlin 2016
Standing in the dark of dawn, like those that went before them.
A few quiet words, a mate’s handshake, a country can’t ignore them.
These are the ones who gave their pledge to give, protect and serve.
Who signed a contract with all of us, our freedom to preserve.
They gather here on this day of days, to remember those not here.
Brothers they’ve left, their fathers too… Their memories crystal clear.
Then comes the call and they fall in line, to march three abreast once more.
Past clapping crowds, eyes straight ahead, just like they’ve done before.
At memorial and cenotaph they stand in solemn bond.
And listen as a bugle’s call brings thoughts from far beyond.
They come not here for accolades, they come not here for thanks.
They come to honour others… Those that now deplete their ranks.
They come to remember fallen men whom war had made their brothers.
A bond so close, understood by few, and now ignored by many others.
They live the ode… “Lest we forget” on this and every day.
Like all here should, to service the debt they’ve never had to pay.
It worries me, as more men fall, and traditions are forgotten.
The leaders in our government with their policies misbegotten,
Will allow the ones, who owe the most, for what these brave men gave,
To erode the legacy they left for them, their own cultural roads to pave.
To wear your flag is racist, to recite the ode offends,
To be a proud Aussie is politically incorrect… The bullshit never ends.
If this land loses ANZAC day and all that it stands for
We dishonour all who stand here now… And all those gone before.
© Graham E McLoughlin 2016
All those gone before
As I sit here in my lounge chair with my laptop on my knee,
My mind flies back some fifty years and things held dear to me.
Of when we made new brothers of another Mother's son.
Of the ranks of blue-clad comrades and the roads we trod as one.
I remember feeling all alone...especially that first night.
Until the Taswegian in the lower bunk just seemed to make it right
With tales of his own, like mine, and of things he'd seen and done.
We shared a night and shared a life...on the roads we trod as one.
It wasn't always smooth and fast on this new road we chose.
Quite a change from where we'd all been, as new lives are I 'spose.
There were hard times, good times, sad times, fears, but there was also fun.
As we all grew into manhood...onthe roads we trod as one.
For years we walked together, growing into who we are today.
A product of each other and the roles we chose to play.
A band of hedgehog brethren in the wind and rain and sun.
Our plural psych now singularised...on the roads we trod as one.
And later when we went our ways to squadrons far and wide.
Still a sense of belonging in our deep souls would abide.
We made new mates, but kept our old, separation still undone.
You don't forget the friendships forged, on the roads we trod as one.
Then came my time to leave the RAAF, and leave my family there
The first year I thought the hole it left was more than I could bear.
I have never felt so helpless when Darwin felt the Tracey run.
As I thought of all my brethren, on the roads we trod as one.
As years went by I grew apart...I began another life
Another job, another home, a family and a wife.
Occasionally I would wonder what had happened to everyone.
But no longer could I find my way to the road we trod as one.
Acquaintances...I had a few, but mostly walked alone
Save some I met who had trod a road a little like my own.
They helped to fill the hole left by the brotherhood once won.
But not quite the same as some I could name, on the roads we trod as one.
With age came realisation that new contact should be made.
Technology had changed a lot, liaison now conveyed.
A keyboard became a way of life, now time could be re-done
As I found old friends and walked once more on the road we trod as one.
Now sitting here I have come to know, we're not so far apart.
To tread a road remembered brings a gladness to my heart.
A virtual road admittedly, but the discourse has begun.
Helping us to come together again...on the road we trod as one.
No longer do I feel alone and miss the friends I had made.
To travel back in time once more to where we earned our trade.
From now until the time comes when my life on earth is done.
I'll thank God for my travels...on the road we trod as one.
© G.E. McLoughlin 2016
The Roads We Trod As One
