Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
noren tirtho Jan 15
A haunting Koala curse
breathes fire...
a shadow gropes
for a way in the
jungle of my guilts.
Carla Nov 2019
The time has come again,
Of commemoration,
To the men who fought,
At their final destination.

Years and years ago,
Let out, was a vast strife,
And among that war,
A man who lost his life.

Remembering those soldiers,
Lines and lines of men,
Who dreamt of protecting,
Since they were merely ten.

They fell while serving,
But their dreams were met,
And on this solemn day,
We say, “Lest We Forget.”
The eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month, a minute of silence is shared among Australians all over the country for Remembrance Day. Two years ago, I wrote a poem about Remembrance Day for a competition and decided to write another this year.
There’s always time to stickybeak -
To stop and have a look.
You never know unless you peek
In every shaded nook.

Who needs a reason to explore -
For any reason’s fair.
You won’t know what your looking for
Until you find it there.

So take your time - investigate -
The place where no one’s been.
It’s easy to appreciate
The things you’ve never seen.
Michael Mar 2019
The Ninth Battalion (Australia)

By Sun-filled day and frosty night,
O’er rugged hills and desert sand,
We learned to work as teams, to fight
In jungles of another land.

From every city, State and town,
All the lovely countryside,
Impelled by grim war’s cold, bleak frown,
Gathered we at fair Woodside.

And some of us were volunteers,
But mostly we young conscripts were,
With youthful hopes, ambitions, fears;
Young men’s dreams of love were there.

And lusts, for we weren’t choir boys,
Nor simpering wowser, nor old maid.
We searched for brawling, drinking joys
And chased the girls of Adelaide.

Oh Adelaide, what wondrous pubs,
The Rundle, Gresham (Mind you Roy?),
The Western, Finden, all were hubs
Of social, sinful, youthful joy.

But scarce the city trips sublime.
Beneath the awesome stars our home.
And Sun-bronzed we became with time,
Leigh Creek, Cultana, ours to roam.

At Murray Bridge we fired our weapons, honed our drills;
Formed Section and Platoon at Humbug Scrub, and that was fun.
We dug-dug-dug to prove to them that be our skills,
And by night stood freezing piquet on the gun.

Canungra’s forest, where chilled to bone
We learned to ambush and by sudden flare to ****.
The Flinders Range, those hills of stone.
Shoalwater Bay did prove our skill.

And at the last and having passed our nation’s test,
(for some a final accolade)
And to that question answered yes,
We made farewell to Adelaide.

At Murray Bridge we fired our weapons, honed our drills;
Formed Section and Platoon at Humbug Scrub, and that was fun.
We dug-dug-dug to prove to them that be our skills,
And by night stood freezing piquet on the gun.
Michael Mar 2019
Rest in Country

We'd just lobbed into Vungers from the Dat on R & C,
Innocently strolling was **** Knight and me,
Across the Flags to the Some-Such Bar wherein the girls drank 'tea'.

And I can still see Max beside me striding to the Some-Such Bar,
With the baby-sans about him going just that bit too far,
With their practiced tugs and pleadings going just that bit too far.

And of course among the baby-sans the cowboys moved in too,
Which didn't worry me too much my cash was in my shoe,
But Max was Max and in those days, not like me and you.

‘Watch your wallet, mate,’ says I, ‘in case it comes to harm.’
‘No fear of that’ says mighty Max with patriotic charm,
Then he tucked a cowboy baby-san beneath one brawny arm.

Well! 'You silly ****** put him down’ but Max went like a rocket;
'I'm off to find the White Mice 'cos this *******'s picked me pocket.’
And I groaned aloud because I knew that me and him would cop it.

Sure enough, there gathered round an angry, shouting throng,
In Asia you don't maltreat kids, no matter right or wrong;
Believe you me our lives that day depended on that throng.

And I got hit with an iron bar (the hat protected my head),
Whilst Max had a pistol ****** into his belly and really should be dead,
And across the Flags M.P's I saw, turned white in craven dread.

Australians too, those coppers but no good to Max and me;
The gutless ******* turned about just so they might not see
The riot raging fiercely now about my mate and me.

I'd say forty upright citizens we met that Vung Tau day.
Policemen, soldiers, rascals, all with us two in affray;
Those Aussie ******, save our lives? They'd turned themselves away.

Thank Christ the mob stayed leaderless, our riot's end surprise;
And the cowardly action of those two? 'twas blessing in disguise,
For a Yankee Jeep barged through the mob and drawled 'in here, you guys'.

It barged back out then drove full speed to the end of R&C
Where the Major spoke severely to **** Knight and me.
While quietly back at the Some-Such Bar the girls sat drinking tea.


Saved
This is doggerel, of course, but it is also a description of what happened to me and a digger from my section.
Michael Mar 2019
One morning safe in barracks while sitting on the loo,
Our Colonel, who'd put duty first, was wondering what to do.
Now, he'd sounded out the adjutant and the R.S. M.
He'd asked that pair what did they think would occupy the men.
They had answered 'drill, sir. Men love parade ground stuff'.
But the Colonel, after consultation, thought they'd had enough.
Their morale it should be lifted, satisfaction thus enjoyed.
'We must not have the men abused, but gainfully employed'.

Thus, next morning doing block jobs, the diggers were astonished
When told by sergeant of platoon that toilets must be polished.
''Tis for honour and the Company's pride' he'd said to busy soldier
'And pleased it is you'll be my boy before you're too much older.
That instead of stamping feet on square or theory of the gun,
Or concealment from an enemy, or stalking (which is fun),
You will spend your time with elbow grease each morning here with me,
Polishing taps and porcelain and cleaning lavatory'.

So that every week when CO. comes to look at WC.,
Accompanied by the Major and all the powers that be,
And they poke round toilet ledges, check louvred slats for dust,
These expert, fighting officers smelling drains because they must
Ensure their Colonels wish, and we to quench our Major's thirst,
So that of Battalion's toilets it's his that comes in first.
And young, fit, soldier volunteers, now feeling ****** annoyed,
Are to be denied all training to be gainfully employed.

But enough of silly moralising, holier than thee.
Who finally beat up all the rest for champion company?
Well, that was Sergeant Kusba, who were a devious swine.
He'd doctored water closets so they smelled like table wine.
Well, 'twer lemon essence really, after which one could not flush.
And a secret guard on toilet bowls to ward off morning rush.
Which was borne by me and Sergeant Glen 'til trickery did we smell,
After which we cornered Kusba in the Mess and gave him Hell.

So we as well began to use the lemon essence trick.
We all professed to satisfy but thought our Colonel thick,
As he stood at water closet breathing deeply, satisfied,
The diggers standing by their beds all laughed until they cried.
And the CSM., cognisant, fed up as much as we,
Served the Colonel and his minions a scrumptious morning tea.
Whilst they stood relaxed and at their ease upon our polished floor,
Between ***** trough on one side, on the other, closet door.
Tom Stodulka Jun 2018
Keep that grin on your chin and you’ll be right mate.

Said to me the other day by an old timer who, passing by, has seen a thing or two in a long life.

Keep smiling - I think my Dad said that on many an occasion.

Laugh and the world laughs with you.

Cry and you cry alone - well that’s an old one.

Great smile on your dial.

In a while crocodile.

Fun, good humour, kills the tumour,

Beats any rumour.

Love and laughter - it’s the best medicine.

Despite the odds, the challenges and the stress

And sometimes the pain.

Go forward, onwards and forever upwards.

The stars await.

@Tom Stodulka
Äŧül Dec 2016
The beach should be so special,
I want to go to a beach with you.
I want us to go to a private beach,
And give you an Australian greeting.
My missile will touch your bombs,
And then make way to your silo,
The Australian greeting is ****.
HP Poem #1288
©Atul Kaushal
Julie Grenness Feb 2016
Who controls our banking?
Ruinous fees for money lending.
Who questions their investing?
Why so dear for money dealing?
Who does profit from accounting?
Our finances they're controlling,
While our economy they're ruining,
They're amassing fortunes pecuniary,
Big business for them, commercially.
Let's question their accountability
For our faceless Australian economy,
Profits overseas they're sending---
So much for Australian banking!!!
This is not even funny. Feedback welcome.
Next page