FOR THE FALLEN.

With proud thanksgiving, a mother for her children,
England mourns for her dead across the sea.
Flesh of her flesh they were, spirit of her spirit,
Fallen in the cause of the free.
Solemn the drums thrill; Death august and royal
Sings sorrow up into immortal spheres.
There is music in the midst of desolation
And a glory that shines upon our tears.
They went with songs to the battle, they were young,
Straight of limb, true of eye, steady and aglow.
They were staunch to the end against odds uncounted;
They fell with their faces to the foe.
They …

Goodbye Young Soldier
We said goodbye tonight
To a soldier whom I did not know
He did his duty well
But sadly he had to go
He did not travel this far
To leave behind family & friend
He came to do his duty.
He did not know it would be his end
His short life was just that
A soldier’s ultimate commitment he gave
This earth deserved him longer
He went too early to his grave
He is one of many heroes
Another poor young soldier
For he is not alone
No years left in which to grow older
What comfort lies for those he …

I’ve just moved a car from the back of my shed
An old vintage model, the owner long dead
With Old Henry Ford he started it all
His old tin Lizzie, it often would stall
A big crank in front and one at the wheel
It did not look much, but on one would steal.
Without a gearbox but a double de clutch
but the price he was asking was not very much
It was very light and had not much power
But often would reach twenty five miles per hour
If you ran out of petrol way out in …

Far away on the banks of the Stanley
Where the Shorthorn and Herefords roam
There’s a quaint little shack near the mountains
A place that we call our home.
It was there that our old Grandfather settled
In eighteen and eighty-four,
With only an axe, maul and wedges
And a five foot six crosscut saw.
It did not take long clearing timber
The hut was put up in a week
The food was tough corn beef and damper
Plus wallabies shot near the creek.
The life it was honest and rugged
But so was old Grandad I’m told
He was up of a morn …

The poem “Retreat to the Hindenburg Line” is written about the true battle in which my Great, Great Uncle Jim Cochran was killed.
 

Raised at Enoggera in Queensland
The date of 1915
Was the recruitment of men, making the Seventh Brigade
The bravest of troops has ever there been
This 25th Battalion left Australia in early July
Sweat, blood and tears they trained in Egypt
Not knowing what fate, new mates said goodbye
 September, the trenches of Gallipoli they manned
Reinforcing the depleted New Zealand and Australian Division
Men of the Seventh Brigade added to their vision
The last major Allied …

When You Least Expect It
It Lies Hidden In Your Shadow Waiting……..
Biding Its Time Over The Years
Grinning With Anticipation Of What Will Come
The Changes That Will Take Place
Subtle At First, Hardly Worth A Second Glance
In Fact So Gradual That You Miss The Signs
As You Spin On Life’s Merry-Go-Round
A Hint Of This, A Suggestion Of That
A Whisper In Your Ear, A Tap On The Shoulder
You Shrug It Off In Casual Dismissal
Turn Its Presence Into An Illusion
Like The Ripples Caused From A Disturbed Reflection
But It Returns, Creeps Up Behind You
Its Breath Hot On …

My sister Alice with hair of gold
Was riding her pony when 5 years old
With big brother Sid, every weekend
To the farm on the creek near the big bend.
They bought butter and eggs as well
The old farm house was once a Hotel
Called Paddy’s Pinch or Bushman’s Arms
The quaint old building had certain charms.
A resting place in the stage coach days
Certainly different from modern ways
A dairy farm this place became
Then a pine forest which seemed a shame.
Now all is cleareed no further tellings
Where Paddy’s Pinch was will be modern dwellings.

I was brought up on a little farm
With town a dozen miles away
We all arose at daylight
Getting ready for the fray
I saddled up old Trixie
And rode up to the hills
To round up stubborn milking cows
Some say that hard work kills
I really dont’s believe that
As I enjoyed the fun
With Bluey and with Rover
We made the old cows run
We soon got through the milking
And separating too
We fed the calves and pigs as well
Just me and Bill and you
And after getting breakfast
We walked two miles to school
And met the other boys and girls
In winter …

Tax his land,
Tax his bed,
Tax the table
At which he’s fed.
Tax his tractor,
Tax his mule,
Teach him taxes
Are the rule.
Tax his work,
Tax his pay,
He works for peanuts
Anyway!
Tax his cow,
Tax his goat,
Tax his pants,
Tax his coat.
Tax his ties,
Tax his shirt,
Tax his work,
Tax his dirt.
Tax his tobacco,
Tax his drink,
Tax him if he
Tries to think.
Tax his cigars,
Tax his beers,
If he cries
Tax his tears.
Tax his car,
Tax his gas,
Find other ways
To tax his ass.
Then tax his coffin,
Tax his grave,
Tax the sod in
Which he’s laid.
Put these words
Upon his tomb,
‘Taxes drove me
to my doom…’
When he’s gone,
Do not relax,
Its time …

Woodford was such a little school
One hundred years ago.
Our toil-worn pioneers of old
Nurtured and watched it grow.
Jack Fletcher came, so it is written,
And helped to form our street;
While George Gentry and his axmen
Were all anxious to compete.
There were Beanland, Nonmus, Bill McGuire,
George Johnstone and Haggar too.
All lined up with their tools of trade,
To see what they could do.
Their wives and families did their bit
And helped to build their home;
Non-existent was the picture show,
The young ones did not roam.
The school with shingle roof was built,
To keep them out of strife;
To educate …

One hundred years of history,
This day shall now unfold.
A hundred years of memories,
Names of young and old.
Names of absent students,
Those who died in the war,
Names of boys, and little girls.
Forgotten…..live once more…..
Many have succeeded,
Many passed away,
Many are school mates,
Remembered on this day,
For once we were a family,
And here, did all reside….
Delaney’s Creek and D’Aguilar,
We, honour thee….with pride.

Giraffe Speckled Beauty

She burst forth into the world,
And let her presence be known.
This delicate bundle of life,
Whose features declare God’s hand.
A reminder to us of innocence,
And the simple joys of life.
Little Chloe is a gift from above,
A symbol of her grandfather’s love.
Eyes shaped with devine care,
Ocean blue in their depth.
So knowing and trusting,
A window to her spirit
Lashes dark and complimentary,
Her lips formed from an angel’s kiss.
Pixie ears an elf-like face,
And skin as soft as rose petals.
Long delicate fingers touch in wonder,
So precise in her exploration.
Her giggle expresses pure pleasure,
She is everyone’s little …

You should reside at D’Aguilar
Where all the best folks stay
It’s a lovelier little township
Than you’d meet for many a day.
The bullock teams come struggling in
And motor trucks and that
And in the winter westerlies will nearly blow you flat.
There’s a Pub upon the corner and a shop and bakery
They have even got a Bowser
They are up to date you see.
The electric light line passes through
Some day they’ll get it on.
The old gravel road to Woodford, why now it bitumen.
The railway line runs through the town, there’s a train up every day.
And …