ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

At a mates funeral some years ago, fair in the middle of summer,
I wondered just what a lot of the onlookers were really doing there.
So many were not close friends, very few were relatives, but he did hold considerable status as a business man in the community, was a fair dealer and ‘carried’ half the community for months on end, even years, sometimes forever.
Perhaps some of them still owed him money and wanted to make sure he was gone before satisfying themselves that the debt was now cleared - or perhaps some of them just wanted a day off work (a two-hour funeral always took a full day), but no matter which, it still remains that . . . .



WHEN YOU’RE DEAD – YOU’RE DEAD
by Frank Daniel 2001

When you’ve finally kicked the bucket
and you’ve gone to rest at last,
when you’ve had enough of living
and your life is now your past -
when the things you said you’d do someday,
never did get done -
you’ve well and truly chucked it in;
you’ve had your share of fun.

When the Parson quotes some holy words
and reads some soothing verse,
when tears fall from your loved ones,
who can think of nothing worse,
when the rellies gather round en-masse,
making sure the jobs well done,
you can bet the grog’s next on their minds,
not you at all old son.

When at last you’ve had your final ride,
the most expensive one of all,
when the clods land on your coffin lid
you count them as they fall,
when dust to dust’s been uttered,
and to ashes you’ll return,
there’s no telling if you’ve gone ‘up there’,
or down below to burn.

When Holy water has been sprinkled
in a bid to bless your soul,
when at last you’re resting safely
in the bottom of that hole,
when the book of life has closed on you,
your epitaph’s been read,
the only thing that’s certain is –
when you’re dead – you’re dead.

When the gathering at your graveside
swelters ’neath the broiling sun,
when the reading in the water-bag
is ten more than the ton;
when the coats and ties come peeling off
and folks salute the flies,
you can bet the ‘good’ that’s said of you
is mostly flaming lies.

When the reverend tells the gathering
that ‘there’s tea for everyone’;
when the spirits that possessed you
no more you’re way will come;
when they gather at the Golf Club,
and they down a dozen beers,
you can betcha they’ve forgotten you
by the laughing and the cheers.

When they place a stone above your grave
with ‘R.I.P.’ thereon,
when they place a wreath of flowers
after twelve long months have gone,
when a crow rests on the marble stone
that’s placed above your head,
it’s for sure and flaming certain
that at last you’re really dead.

When you’re resting in that coffin
with ants and worms for friends,
when the itching in your toes is gone,
you make no more amends,
when the words carved on your headstone
by you cannot be read,
then you’ll know for sure and certain that,
when you’re dead – you’re dead.

I think you're right Marty, it is on my album Saddle the Grey, my story about Will H Ogilvie.
Things are going pretty well for me now, I'm just starting to fire up with a new poem or two.
I hope I can get going again,
Kind regards Mate,

Joe

I think I read this one on the old site. It was good then too! Thanks for posting it again.

Heather

Wozzit on the old site? Sorry about that Heather. I'm still having some troubles memory wise.
things are looking good on the site now, eh?
I couldn't get my abattoir up on the screen so I had to ask Manfred to post it for me.
Thanks very much Manfred, well done.
good luck to all,

Joe

I'm pretty sure I have read it before Frank. I was in the process of reading all the old poems right from the beginning when the site went pffft so it was probably a really really early one - but one I remember.

Heather

G'day FD.

No surer words been said
No need to print a label
life's history will be read.
Mate, 'when your dead--your dead.'

All that one can do: is do your best.

True.

Regards,

John

G'day Frank.I've often wondered what the purpose of funerals might be. I suppose, acceptance of loss, is I suppose the main purpose ( for those left behind of course ). You make an interesting point, why do all those people turn up, who hardly knew the departed, or who never maintained any contact ? Interesting.


Neville

Sorry, apparently I'm not to post here.

G'day all,

My Dad was a gentle, long suffering man of small stature but a real quiet achiever. He had a huge turnout at his funeral. We saw folk that we had not seen in many a year and probably won't ever see again. It was by far the best funeral I have ever been to. We all returned for the wake at my sisters house and talked long into the night.

My dear old Dad, ah, thanks for the memory Joe. If you recall I did a poem about him at the National a few years back. 'The Immigrant'. It was posted on the old site. When we get this one up with a special read only section for members verse I'll whack it in again. I think there are some of the newer members who haven't read it.

G'day Frank...
A very laconic view of life, but a flamin' good read. Begs a rebuttal, but....

"When you're dead, you're dead". W e l l...I don't know - I'm not so sure.
Some reckon we're re-cycled and we've all gone round before.
Some reckon that we come back, taking on some other shape...
like a wombat or echidna or a different kind of ape.

I, for one, don't know the answer, but there's one thing I can say:
there are some who never die but live forever and a day;
who live on through the works they did, or in the things they said.
Their heritage lives after them, though they themselves are dead.

And not all of them are famous or are names well known by all.
Some are only local heros with a fan base rather small.
But each has had an impact on another's heart and mind
and will live on in a memory of the immortal kind.

So keep on making those memories mate.
Cheers, Will.