Christmas
The lights of Christmas from the houses
Blink and wink with teasing ease,
Sweetest feelings this arouses,
Shines with tenderness for peace.
And the children holding hands
Are engulfed with tingling feeling
By the crib where hope expands
As overawed, they fall down, kneeling.
© Joe Lake

Efficient Combustion
Our lights winked out so fast,
I'd grown accustomed to your warm song.
Your dusty prints
Around my spaces.
There's no proof, no record,
You're the dream -
These fading scents of filmy presence -
All the little whirlpools when my plug is pulled.
You swim now, on my ocular edge,
Distant with blur and
Sea salt to lash
Those horizons that we set,
It isn't hard to see,
We just –
Ran out of fuel.
© Andrew Hardy
After-image
To make it up to you
I close my eyes and
retreat.
I'll touch the endless
source of all want;
desire to be entirely
complete with the
after-image imprinted
when I open my eyes
Slowly, to hold as
long as it will linger,
Perfect in shadows
hiding in your eyes,
until you laugh
Again, with me.
© Chris Rattray

Shadow Lands
In the mysterious undiscovered Shadow lands,
Life is still.
You can hear the whistling of the wind
Through the trees.
The squeaking of the wooden steps,
As though phantom feet still step there.
The swaying doors
That open for ghostly hands.
Windows opening and closing,
As though the unseen are there.
The sound of the ocean
Rushing spookily in and out.
It is pitch black, I cannot see.
Suddenly, a blur!
It’s right in front of me.
I reach out.
I feel something.
As I yell in terror,
My voice echoes
Like a million screaming children.
The voices fade,
I realise I am the only one here,
Then the shadows appear.
© Nicole Viney

Joe Lake's View.
Christmas has rushed towards us and the emotions it raises are those of sacrifice and hope. Here in Tasmania we only feel the reverberation of the festive season’s intention. We are on the opposite side of this huge star’s cooled surface from where we first migrated. Isn’t it about time that we created our own festival for this time of year? But that’s too hard and in the meantime I’m happy to put an artificial tree into my loungeroom with artificial candles and artificial stars and artificial presents from an artificial bishop whom we call Santa Claus and by American tradition comes down chimneys just as in the soft drink ad or in the facetious poem, ’Twas the night before Christmas, where Santa and the reindeer are six inches tall, where he smokes a pipe and is overweight.
I would have preferred the European Christkindel, which is the Christ Child that flies in through the window on Christmas Eve and deposits presents by ringing a bell and where the Krampus, a kind of punishing devil, beats naughty children with a broom made of hazel twigs. But please bring peace to the Earth and love, and hope by the light that shines towards a forgiving and better future.
Merry Christmas to all!

Breaking It Down
The road we travel on,
It’s paved with memories
I try not to leave behind.
We’ve come a long way,
From the awkward silences,
And blank stares.
Life is bliss,
Every day is sunny and bright,
We feel on top of the world.
Nothing could possibly break our spirits,
At least,
That’s what we act like.
But for some reason,
There’s always a small doubt in our minds;
I choose to ignore mine.
Then one day,
It happens,
The perfect reality becomes a shattered illusion.
Both happiness and closure take a hike,
And just like that,
They vanish.
We pretend to move on in our lives,
Act like everything's the same,
We fool everyone except ourselves.
I walk through crowded streets,
Past all our old hangouts,
And all I do is hurt.
© Samantha Colombari, Burnie High School
Forget
Hear the cry, girl,
As a gull call drifts
in echo across silent air,
Cherish it,
This tribute to youth’s energy,
For ageing eyes speak,
And wanton memory
walks summer days, long,
Dreams still lived,
Of brushed hands
and a fixed glance
that mouths aching words;
Hear the cry but a second,
And then forget.
© Michael Garrad October 2009

We must grasp at life, every unbelievable moment.
Savour every breath of fresh air.
Wonder at what we see.
Listen to the orchestra of birds.
Inhale every distant fragrance.
Taste the storm.
We must do all this if we are to truly live.
When none of this matters anymore, then we have ventured into nowhere.
Embrace companionship, hug close love, however that may be shown or expressed.
Who we are is what is so precious - to give and to receive, to accept each other as human beings.
To be happy with that.
Too often we seek the ideal that is nurtured in a wish.


Real
Real is behind closed eyes,
Behind skin veil,
Where sound is a picture,
Changing on mind’s whim,
Beyond this tired body,
Across every hedgerow
and treetop,
Far into the cool blue,
Faster than racing clouds,
To where it is,
And to where it belongs,
Power images that give life peace,
For it is the joy of every sense
played quietly,
Where this real is nourished,
And gossamer curtain is never raised.
© Michael Garrad November 2009

The Phantom Fox
Down Orford way, close by the sea,
The Simpsons ran a B and B,
For husband Bill and Jane his wife
It was ideal, they loved the life.
A dog they had, a clever pet
Of unknown breed, they called him Jet.
Now in the summer, trade was fine,
Soft beds, good food and local wine.
But in the winter months ’twas bleak
No travellers did their cottage seek.
But then one day, they had some luck,
When up their drive there came a truck.
Two men jumped out, bright eyed and keen,
The cottage signboard they had seen.
"We’re from the Fox Free Task Force, sir,
A fox round here’s made quite a stir.
Our boss wants us to check the ground
So we’ll stay here till he is found."
And daily more reports came through,
The tally of the sightings grew.
But in the hills and paddocks flat
They could not find a single scat.
And where he hid 'twas hard to tell.
Like fiction’s Scarlet Pimpernel,
They could not find him here or there.
Their patience then began to wear.
Some three months on and nought to show,
With budget blown they had to go.
Said Bill, "Our dog he loves a lark
When roaming nightly in the dark.
And ever since he was a pup
He likes to play at dressing up.
And if I give a little shove,
That fox pelt fits him like a glove.
Those extra bed-nights filled our bank
For that we have our dog to thank.
So now, my dear, I’ll book some flights,
At Burleigh Heads we’ll spend ten nights.
And yes, young Jet, you’ll have a treat -
You’re going to get some juicy meat."
© John D. Duncan October 2009

Europa Poets' Gazette, No 68, December 2009

My Mother
Sparkling blue, her old eyes shine
Few wrinkles for 99.6 years but
There was beauty of truest joy
Lines like a velvet rose petal
Childhood memories come and go
Her lace shawl covers her tiny shoulders
Mother Mona Lisa smiles
Her eyes held mine, so much enfold
Sitting beside her I am privileged
My mother, by birth,
My life all belongs to you
The gentlest sweetest voice says, "Yes dear."
She speaks of dreams, hopes and yesterdays
Today, tomorrow, I see your peace,
Love and joy of life,
Your sparkling blue eyes are memory.
© Yvonne Matheson December 13 2001
A Place Called Fossil Bluff
Huge stones stand timelessly
Guarding their charge
A place normal yet not
A place like and unlike any ever seen
Decorated beyond compare by nature but
Holding deeper meanings and stories
Ready to be told for those who but ask
Untouched except for the Tommeginer who
Hundreds of years lived here but respected it
Since then sheltering people
Comforting, teaching, sharing, with people
It knows what each person needs
They don’t need to ask
No one could ever know all this place holds
The place called Fossil Bluff.
© Jess Hyde, Wynyard High School

Humming Life
tiny letters fill my mind
little faces to look
and find silly sounds
drift away gently
flowing through
my day
© Dripping Ink (Lauren Hay)