A Sonnet
The disaffection of a troubled life
Where all existence may seem dull as blur
Where boring hatred cuts you like a knife
And nothing that is art may then occur.
You wallow in self-pity and distress
You search for answers but can’t find the way
And blame the world for causing all your stress
Believing what all other people say.
Then, through the mists of reason and some rhyme,
Four Jewish scribes created an illusion
With waking sensibility in time
They blessed you with their absolution.
All was lost, a saviour was created
That calms the mind and has all fear abated.
© Joe Lake
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Joe Lake's Novel, Fear Of The Dark
So far: Robert and Julie came in their Winnebago from Sydney with the aim of settling in Tasmania. They were parked on Cooee beach when they took a walk in Burnie Park. A blonde woman in a rubber mask was stalking them. Robert chased her and ripped off the mask when the woman ran away. When they got back to the Winnebago the van was rocked by someone. Robert got his shotgun, stumbled and the gun went off into the ceiling. Robert hit his head as he fell backwards and became unconscious. Julie called the police and ambulance.
“No, I won’t come in the ambulance. There’s a scooter attached. I’ll lock up the van and drive up to the hospital. It’s on top of the hill, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. We’ll see you up there.”
The ambulance left with Robert inside. He was still unconscious.
Julie turned to the policemen, “Can I lock up the van?”
One of the policemen said, “Better not.”
Julie unhooked the scooter, swung it out on it’s little crane and set it onto the ground where it immediately started. She put it onto its stand. She went back inside the van, where a police officer was taking photographs.
“Will you be all right by yourselves until I come back?”
“Fine,” said the officer.
Julie jumped onto the scooter, pushed it off its stand, put it into first gear and let the brake-like clutch go. She switched on the lights, turned the hand grip that was the throttle and drove off. She always felt as if she were flying. The small wheels gave that impression. When fifteen minutes later she arrived at the emergency entrance to the hospital, she parked the scooter and went straight to the counter.
“I’m Julie Jones. My husband was taken up here by ambulance only a few minutes ago. Can I see him, please?”
The lady at the counter looked at a woman in a nurse’s uniform at a desk in the back. The nurse shrugged her shoulders. The woman at the counter said, “Not here.”
“But he fell, in the Winnebago, and hit his head and then the gun went off.”
“I’m sorry,” said the nurse at the desk. No ambulance arrived here in the last hour.”
“Then where would it have gone?” Julie’s blood drained from her head. She began to panic.
“Maybe they went to Latrobe?”
“That’s between here and Devonport?”
“Yes.”
“Can you find out?”
“Yes.”
The nurse picked up a telephone and conversed for a few minutes seemingly being re-connected again and again. Finally she said to Julie. “No ambulance went anywhere in the last hour.”
“I’d better get back to the van. The police would know.” With this she turned and forgot to say thanks. She ran to the scooter, started it and a few minutes later she was back at the spot where the van was supposed to be. It had gone. There was no sign of anyone.
“Julie kept the scooter idling with the lights full on. She stared. Her body froze, then she burst into an insane laugh. What would she do now? She still had the mobile phone. She’d have to find the police station but first she’d ring 000. (To be continued)
“No, I won’t come in the ambulance. There’s a scooter attached. I’ll lock up the van and drive up to the hospital. It’s on top of the hill, isn’t it?”
“That’s right. We’ll see you up there.”
The ambulance left with Robert inside. He was still unconscious.
Julie turned to the policemen, “Can I lock up the van?”
One of the policemen said, “Better not.”
Julie unhooked the scooter, swung it out on it’s little crane and set it onto the ground where it immediately started. She put it onto its stand. She went back inside the van, where a police officer was taking photographs.
“Will you be all right by yourselves until I come back?”
“Fine,” said the officer.
Julie jumped onto the scooter, pushed it off its stand, put it into first gear and let the brake-like clutch go. She switched on the lights, turned the hand grip that was the throttle and drove off. She always felt as if she were flying. The small wheels gave that impression. When fifteen minutes later she arrived at the emergency entrance to the hospital, she parked the scooter and went straight to the counter.
“I’m Julie Jones. My husband was taken up here by ambulance only a few minutes ago. Can I see him, please?”
The lady at the counter looked at a woman in a nurse’s uniform at a desk in the back. The nurse shrugged her shoulders. The woman at the counter said, “Not here.”
“But he fell, in the Winnebago, and hit his head and then the gun went off.”
“I’m sorry,” said the nurse at the desk. No ambulance arrived here in the last hour.”
“Then where would it have gone?” Julie’s blood drained from her head. She began to panic.
“Maybe they went to Latrobe?”
“That’s between here and Devonport?”
“Yes.”
“Can you find out?”
“Yes.”
The nurse picked up a telephone and conversed for a few minutes seemingly being re-connected again and again. Finally she said to Julie. “No ambulance went anywhere in the last hour.”
“I’d better get back to the van. The police would know.” With this she turned and forgot to say thanks. She ran to the scooter, started it and a few minutes later she was back at the spot where the van was supposed to be. It had gone. There was no sign of anyone.
“Julie kept the scooter idling with the lights full on. She stared. Her body froze, then she burst into an insane laugh. What would she do now? She still had the mobile phone. She’d have to find the police station but first she’d ring 000. (To be continued)
gazette no 80 December 2010, Joe Lake's Opinion
I love Christmas. Someone I know calls it
Hanukkah.
I used to be Santa in department stores where I felt like a king, a ruler, as you have your subjects come to make petitions. I used to tell them that I’d see what I could do. There are shining faces of worship that’s something beyond their dreary lives. Some would try to pull my beard and wig off. I gave it away because some seediness intruded, unfortunately.
I didn’t want any part of that.
But most of all what I like about Christmas are the lights. If you remember my poem,
The Fairylights - I like Christmas trees and baubles, and the packages presents come in, and ginger bread, and walnuts, and decorations generally, and I like ham. I even thought seriously about eating myself to death. I couldn’t afford it. But more than anything I like the hymns. Don’t stand near me when I sing. It’s not a pleasant experience.
I wish you all a happy Christmas and may all your dreams come true. Oh yes, and a happy Hanukkah.
Hanukkah.
I used to be Santa in department stores where I felt like a king, a ruler, as you have your subjects come to make petitions. I used to tell them that I’d see what I could do. There are shining faces of worship that’s something beyond their dreary lives. Some would try to pull my beard and wig off. I gave it away because some seediness intruded, unfortunately.
I didn’t want any part of that.
But most of all what I like about Christmas are the lights. If you remember my poem,
The Fairylights - I like Christmas trees and baubles, and the packages presents come in, and ginger bread, and walnuts, and decorations generally, and I like ham. I even thought seriously about eating myself to death. I couldn’t afford it. But more than anything I like the hymns. Don’t stand near me when I sing. It’s not a pleasant experience.
I wish you all a happy Christmas and may all your dreams come true. Oh yes, and a happy Hanukkah.
gazette no 80 December 2010
This is her song -
My name is Barbara and this is my song - the beginning and the end, and the end which has many beginnings.
I hear the birds, I feel the sunshine and the rain, I let the wind dance on my face, I taste what is beautiful and what is sour, I delight in every scent upon the blossom.
As a child, I laughed and cried, I played with friends, I lived in the bosom of family, I cast my own net and followed my dream. One day, the nightmare began, long, long ago. And then the descent.
I struggled, I hoped, I prayed. But the mind closed one fine day and I could see everyone from a darkened room, curtains pulled, and the walls closed in while others skipped in the park.
The trap was set and of my own making. Medication, they nodded in concert. Let the tablets do their work, let them provide the buffer between green trees and the very longest night. Let this be the regime, the way of life, the beginning and the end.
And my friends drew away, and I turned and ran because this room was my haven, my sanctuary, my hope, my life and death, my solitude, my contemplation.
I was quite alone.
Thoughts screamed in the induced slumber and more, and more, they plied me with a multitude of drugs, numbing the pain, separating me from control of myself, for who I am.
I am a human being. I am a woman.
Hear me cry when the door has closed, when a hand has waved goodbye, when there is silence, when there is only me and the doorway, and nothing but a blister-pack of sheer oblivion.
Is anything real now? Can I touch this beginning and end and the end which is the beginning?
Cruel doctors bless the medication, the chemicals that play with my head. Enough of these drugs will fix the problem, like a magician waving a wand. Take them by the mouthful and enjoy!
Does anyone listen?
No, only the one with the prescription pad and a scrawled signature. Write my life in pharmacist language! My life played out on a piece of paper. Easy that way. Time to forget and for them to forget me. The prescription absolves them of responsibility. So easy with a scribble, a phone call and then off they go to another cocktail party - “Daaarling, imagine us living like that!”
I am human and I am a person!
I am me!
There are some who hear me, who sit in the dark, in the filtered light, who care much, who watch, who need some certainty, as much as I do.
This is my song and it has only just begun!
My name is Barbara and this is my song - the beginning and the end, and the end which has many beginnings.
I hear the birds, I feel the sunshine and the rain, I let the wind dance on my face, I taste what is beautiful and what is sour, I delight in every scent upon the blossom.
As a child, I laughed and cried, I played with friends, I lived in the bosom of family, I cast my own net and followed my dream. One day, the nightmare began, long, long ago. And then the descent.
I struggled, I hoped, I prayed. But the mind closed one fine day and I could see everyone from a darkened room, curtains pulled, and the walls closed in while others skipped in the park.
The trap was set and of my own making. Medication, they nodded in concert. Let the tablets do their work, let them provide the buffer between green trees and the very longest night. Let this be the regime, the way of life, the beginning and the end.
And my friends drew away, and I turned and ran because this room was my haven, my sanctuary, my hope, my life and death, my solitude, my contemplation.
I was quite alone.
Thoughts screamed in the induced slumber and more, and more, they plied me with a multitude of drugs, numbing the pain, separating me from control of myself, for who I am.
I am a human being. I am a woman.
Hear me cry when the door has closed, when a hand has waved goodbye, when there is silence, when there is only me and the doorway, and nothing but a blister-pack of sheer oblivion.
Is anything real now? Can I touch this beginning and end and the end which is the beginning?
Cruel doctors bless the medication, the chemicals that play with my head. Enough of these drugs will fix the problem, like a magician waving a wand. Take them by the mouthful and enjoy!
Does anyone listen?
No, only the one with the prescription pad and a scrawled signature. Write my life in pharmacist language! My life played out on a piece of paper. Easy that way. Time to forget and for them to forget me. The prescription absolves them of responsibility. So easy with a scribble, a phone call and then off they go to another cocktail party - “Daaarling, imagine us living like that!”
I am human and I am a person!
I am me!
There are some who hear me, who sit in the dark, in the filtered light, who care much, who watch, who need some certainty, as much as I do.
This is my song and it has only just begun!
Wednesday, June 30, 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Pious Lady
You, with your classy high heel shoes
Who prefers to walk on soggy lawns
On your way to religious instructions
Rather than walk near me
Sitting on the bench near the concrete path
That leads to the church door.
Do you avoid walking past me because you are afraid
of your true self?
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Pious Lady
You, with your classy high heel shoes
Who prefers to walk on soggy lawns
On your way to religious instructions
Rather than walk near me
Sitting on the bench near the concrete path
That leads to the church door.
Do you avoid walking past me because you are afraid
of your true self?
© Judy Brumby-Lake
You, with your classy high heel shoes
Who prefers to walk on soggy lawns
On your way to religious instructions
Rather than walk near me
Sitting on the bench near the concrete path
That leads to the church door.
Do you avoid walking past me because you are afraid
of your true self?
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Valley Blue
Over valley blue
ancient bells peel,
And flowers beat
to the rhythm of the wind,
Blades of grass murmur
and caress,
And hay is on the air, teasing,
Birds prey in leafy trees,
Song muted
against drift notes
from stout church, quaint,
in this valley blue,
As they gather.
The old bull raises tired eyes,
And on a breath
retreats to comfort slumber,
Heavy as a whisper
lost in forgotten undergrowth.
Are there people in the mist
weighed by lavender,
Or souls eager for redemption?
Footprints in the dew,
Acorn lolls without fear at
bull’s moist snout,
And the wind,
Mischievous with messages,
Sounds as an echo
in the shifting graveyard.
The valley has changed now.
© Michael Garrad June 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Valley Blue
Over valley blue
ancient bells peel,
And flowers beat
to the rhythm of the wind,
Blades of grass murmur
and caress,
And hay is on the air, teasing,
Birds prey in leafy trees,
Song muted
against drift notes
from stout church, quaint,
in this valley blue,
As they gather.
The old bull raises tired eyes,
And on a breath
retreats to comfort slumber,
Heavy as a whisper
lost in forgotten undergrowth.
Are there people in the mist
weighed by lavender,
Or souls eager for redemption?
Footprints in the dew,
Acorn lolls without fear at
bull’s moist snout,
And the wind,
Mischievous with messages,
Sounds as an echo
in the shifting graveyard.
The valley has changed now.
© Michael Garrad June 2010
Over valley blue
ancient bells peel,
And flowers beat
to the rhythm of the wind,
Blades of grass murmur
and caress,
And hay is on the air, teasing,
Birds prey in leafy trees,
Song muted
against drift notes
from stout church, quaint,
in this valley blue,
As they gather.
The old bull raises tired eyes,
And on a breath
retreats to comfort slumber,
Heavy as a whisper
lost in forgotten undergrowth.
Are there people in the mist
weighed by lavender,
Or souls eager for redemption?
Footprints in the dew,
Acorn lolls without fear at
bull’s moist snout,
And the wind,
Mischievous with messages,
Sounds as an echo
in the shifting graveyard.
The valley has changed now.
© Michael Garrad June 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Last Bounce Of Sun
Snap at the window,
Like wolf jaws on prey,
This white dark
illuminated by breath-starved moon,
Still and freezing,
Snap, like crack
of neck on long rope drop;
Was it a break of iced limb,
succumbing to snow weight,
Or the mirror
that splintered quietly
in image of abomination?
Glass yielding to cold?
Fractured reflections
in tortured memory?
Last bounce of sun
on the other side?
Perhaps he listened too hard,
And stared where
there was nothing to see.
© Michael Garrad May 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Last Bounce Of Sun
Snap at the window,
Like wolf jaws on prey,
This white dark
illuminated by breath-starved moon,
Still and freezing,
Snap, like crack
of neck on long rope drop;
Was it a break of iced limb,
succumbing to snow weight,
Or the mirror
that splintered quietly
in image of abomination?
Glass yielding to cold?
Fractured reflections
in tortured memory?
Last bounce of sun
on the other side?
Perhaps he listened too hard,
And stared where
there was nothing to see.
© Michael Garrad May 2010
Snap at the window,
Like wolf jaws on prey,
This white dark
illuminated by breath-starved moon,
Still and freezing,
Snap, like crack
of neck on long rope drop;
Was it a break of iced limb,
succumbing to snow weight,
Or the mirror
that splintered quietly
in image of abomination?
Glass yielding to cold?
Fractured reflections
in tortured memory?
Last bounce of sun
on the other side?
Perhaps he listened too hard,
And stared where
there was nothing to see.
© Michael Garrad May 2010
Eurpa Poets' Gazette No. 75, February 2010
We set so much by trivia. It becomes our sole focus. The most insignificant thing is an obsession, the whole reason why we live and breathe. It is all-consuming.
Who said what about someone; who inferred something about someone; who whispered at the wrong time. Shadows of discontent.
Suddenly, who we are counts for... well, not much. We cannot look up and out because the blinkers blind us.
Contemplate this washing dishes, looking out at a mortgage sprawl, wishing so much this and that was just that - in fact, nothing against life and death.
It is the now that counts, like good health.
Who said what about someone; who inferred something about someone; who whispered at the wrong time. Shadows of discontent.
Suddenly, who we are counts for... well, not much. We cannot look up and out because the blinkers blind us.
Contemplate this washing dishes, looking out at a mortgage sprawl, wishing so much this and that was just that - in fact, nothing against life and death.
It is the now that counts, like good health.
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Bacteria
I’m drifting along in plasma without the need for muscles,
though having to be careful to dodge those white
corpuscles.
This is such a grand life, as I just bob-bob along,
to now and then divide in two, there’s nothing could go wrong.
I say, here comes a mate of mine, it’s good old E. coli.
He’s looking very healthy, but then, so too am I.
We’re so happy in this blood stream, we’re verging on
hysteria,
Hi - ho! here comes another friend, my good old pal
diphtheria.
We can hold a grand reunion of bio terrorists,
this has to be the pinnacle of germ world’s
Mount Everest!
But wait! What is that up ahead? It looks like antibiotics!
I haven’t had a touch of that, since I was in the tropics.
Strewth! There goes me mate E. coli, it took him real quick,
and now poor ole diphtheria is looking mighty sick.
Just when life was coming good, I’m faced with mortal fear
Oooh! That stuff has got me too, and I reckon I’m a goner ’ere!
© Pete Stratford 2.3.10
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Bacteria
I’m drifting along in plasma without the need for muscles,
though having to be careful to dodge those white
corpuscles.
This is such a grand life, as I just bob-bob along,
to now and then divide in two, there’s nothing could go wrong.
I say, here comes a mate of mine, it’s good old E. coli.
He’s looking very healthy, but then, so too am I.
We’re so happy in this blood stream, we’re verging on
hysteria,
Hi - ho! here comes another friend, my good old pal
diphtheria.
We can hold a grand reunion of bio terrorists,
this has to be the pinnacle of germ world’s
Mount Everest!
But wait! What is that up ahead? It looks like antibiotics!
I haven’t had a touch of that, since I was in the tropics.
Strewth! There goes me mate E. coli, it took him real quick,
and now poor ole diphtheria is looking mighty sick.
Just when life was coming good, I’m faced with mortal fear
Oooh! That stuff has got me too, and I reckon I’m a goner ’ere!
© Pete Stratford 2.3.10
I’m drifting along in plasma without the need for muscles,
though having to be careful to dodge those white
corpuscles.
This is such a grand life, as I just bob-bob along,
to now and then divide in two, there’s nothing could go wrong.
I say, here comes a mate of mine, it’s good old E. coli.
He’s looking very healthy, but then, so too am I.
We’re so happy in this blood stream, we’re verging on
hysteria,
Hi - ho! here comes another friend, my good old pal
diphtheria.
We can hold a grand reunion of bio terrorists,
this has to be the pinnacle of germ world’s
Mount Everest!
But wait! What is that up ahead? It looks like antibiotics!
I haven’t had a touch of that, since I was in the tropics.
Strewth! There goes me mate E. coli, it took him real quick,
and now poor ole diphtheria is looking mighty sick.
Just when life was coming good, I’m faced with mortal fear
Oooh! That stuff has got me too, and I reckon I’m a goner ’ere!
© Pete Stratford 2.3.10
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Who Is Amy?
Who is Amy?
Where is Amy?
Is she busy today?
What is she doing?
I hope she is sad.
She wouldn’t enjoy sad.
Her heart would clench
in her breast
and beat faster
and burst with tears -
tears that would
run down her face
crackle and fizz
in her waxy ears
her gut would clench
then spew forth
a burning acid,
cleansing release
jerky gulps
of cigarette-free air
would expand and dance in her lungs
and the skin
at the corners of her
mouth would crack and sting.
Her bruised face would ache;
her blistered and black-tarred feet
would rub tenderly
on the fur on the floor.
Her knotted hair
falling to her
shoulders in clumps
begs to be brushed.
The urgent, stinging
need to piss
would drag her to her feet.
Horrified and crying, crying,
she could decide
whether the last penis
in her
was there by consent.
The beautiful agony
of sober pain would come
in a colossal
leaden foamless wave
and gather her up
and flatten her down
till she fights to get up.
She is sober.
She wants to get up.
© Loretta Gaul 6.10
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Who Is Amy?
Who is Amy?
Where is Amy?
Is she busy today?
What is she doing?
I hope she is sad.
She wouldn’t enjoy sad.
Her heart would clench
in her breast
and beat faster
and burst with tears -
tears that would
run down her face
crackle and fizz
in her waxy ears
her gut would clench
then spew forth
a burning acid,
cleansing release
jerky gulps
of cigarette-free air
would expand and dance in her lungs
and the skin
at the corners of her
mouth would crack and sting.
Her bruised face would ache;
her blistered and black-tarred feet
would rub tenderly
on the fur on the floor.
Her knotted hair
falling to her
shoulders in clumps
begs to be brushed.
The urgent, stinging
need to piss
would drag her to her feet.
Horrified and crying, crying,
she could decide
whether the last penis
in her
was there by consent.
The beautiful agony
of sober pain would come
in a colossal
leaden foamless wave
and gather her up
and flatten her down
till she fights to get up.
She is sober.
She wants to get up.
© Loretta Gaul 6.10
Who is Amy?
Where is Amy?
Is she busy today?
What is she doing?
I hope she is sad.
She wouldn’t enjoy sad.
Her heart would clench
in her breast
and beat faster
and burst with tears -
tears that would
run down her face
crackle and fizz
in her waxy ears
her gut would clench
then spew forth
a burning acid,
cleansing release
jerky gulps
of cigarette-free air
would expand and dance in her lungs
and the skin
at the corners of her
mouth would crack and sting.
Her bruised face would ache;
her blistered and black-tarred feet
would rub tenderly
on the fur on the floor.
Her knotted hair
falling to her
shoulders in clumps
begs to be brushed.
The urgent, stinging
need to piss
would drag her to her feet.
Horrified and crying, crying,
she could decide
whether the last penis
in her
was there by consent.
The beautiful agony
of sober pain would come
in a colossal
leaden foamless wave
and gather her up
and flatten her down
till she fights to get up.
She is sober.
She wants to get up.
© Loretta Gaul 6.10
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Still Life
If I could smell the scent of those delicate roses,
Or taste the grapes, forever succulent and plump
on the vine
And pour myself a glass of rich red wine
From the elegant decanter standing sentinel behind -
If I could take just a bite
From one of the rosy apples in the bowl -
Those sweet tantalising juices
Might lull and soothe me in their seduction.
And if one more time I could hold the hand
That painted this picture
I could say - "Mother, I’m sorry."
I could tell her that her dementia
Plunged me into a whirlpool of uncertainty and fear
And now I know that if I felt this way,
How much more confused and afraid must she have been.
Perhaps then, I could quiet my growing doubt
That I might not have cared or done enough.
Her painting hangs on my wall,
The colours faded, the canvas cracked -
If I could only breathe new life into a still life...
© June Maureen Hitchcock June 2002
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Still Life
If I could smell the scent of those delicate roses,
Or taste the grapes, forever succulent and plump
on the vine
And pour myself a glass of rich red wine
From the elegant decanter standing sentinel behind -
If I could take just a bite
From one of the rosy apples in the bowl -
Those sweet tantalising juices
Might lull and soothe me in their seduction.
And if one more time I could hold the hand
That painted this picture
I could say - "Mother, I’m sorry."
I could tell her that her dementia
Plunged me into a whirlpool of uncertainty and fear
And now I know that if I felt this way,
How much more confused and afraid must she have been.
Perhaps then, I could quiet my growing doubt
That I might not have cared or done enough.
Her painting hangs on my wall,
The colours faded, the canvas cracked -
If I could only breathe new life into a still life...
© June Maureen Hitchcock June 2002
If I could smell the scent of those delicate roses,
Or taste the grapes, forever succulent and plump
on the vine
And pour myself a glass of rich red wine
From the elegant decanter standing sentinel behind -
If I could take just a bite
From one of the rosy apples in the bowl -
Those sweet tantalising juices
Might lull and soothe me in their seduction.
And if one more time I could hold the hand
That painted this picture
I could say - "Mother, I’m sorry."
I could tell her that her dementia
Plunged me into a whirlpool of uncertainty and fear
And now I know that if I felt this way,
How much more confused and afraid must she have been.
Perhaps then, I could quiet my growing doubt
That I might not have cared or done enough.
Her painting hangs on my wall,
The colours faded, the canvas cracked -
If I could only breathe new life into a still life...
© June Maureen Hitchcock June 2002
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Giving Up The Ghost
Lying on a bed of alleluias
Sick with cords of shivers
Lead-shot with weariness
The warm breath of Jesus whispers,
"Give up the ghost."
As if there was a choice!
Gather it up, reap it from your life
Troll the outreaches of the body
Gulping and sliding through corridors
of sinews
Valves, tubes and mouldy cavities
Putty corralled in the throat
The larynx slammed behind it.
"Cough it into my hand",
An atrocious hand - a red colander
Of raw sinews, splintered bones
Blood-pain circled with lacy flesh.
The ghost slides out and Jesus
Moulds the spirit around the hole
Plugs it safe to hold the soul
From underneath the heart.
It flows warmly into its loving
receptacle.
The heart a cold, silent stone.
Gone now soul in holy hessian bag
Woven with prayers, good
intentions, kindness.
Holed with jealousy, unkindness, doubt
Darned with belief and trust.
Taken safely into the void and origins
anew.
© Patricia Turner June 2010
Lying on a bed of alleluias
Sick with cords of shivers
Lead-shot with weariness
The warm breath of Jesus whispers,
"Give up the ghost."
As if there was a choice!
Gather it up, reap it from your life
Troll the outreaches of the body
Gulping and sliding through corridors
of sinews
Valves, tubes and mouldy cavities
Putty corralled in the throat
The larynx slammed behind it.
"Cough it into my hand",
An atrocious hand - a red colander
Of raw sinews, splintered bones
Blood-pain circled with lacy flesh.
The ghost slides out and Jesus
Moulds the spirit around the hole
Plugs it safe to hold the soul
From underneath the heart.
It flows warmly into its loving
receptacle.
The heart a cold, silent stone.
Gone now soul in holy hessian bag
Woven with prayers, good
intentions, kindness.
Holed with jealousy, unkindness, doubt
Darned with belief and trust.
Taken safely into the void and origins
anew.
© Patricia Turner June 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010
Teachers
This is for the teachers
That stand before the class
For they help you learn
About the future
Or the past
They teach you modern technology
They push you along
So to the teachers of today
Hip Hooray, Hip Hooray
For you help me
To be what I am today. I say, thank you.
© Richard Griffiths 11.11.08
This is for the teachers
That stand before the class
For they help you learn
About the future
Or the past
They teach you modern technology
They push you along
So to the teachers of today
Hip Hooray, Hip Hooray
For you help me
To be what I am today. I say, thank you.
© Richard Griffiths 11.11.08
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75
Autumn
Autumn is moving on
Golden leaves swirling
Flower heads fading
Rotting apples on the ground
And I am still around.
Evenings now are chilly
Darkness coming early
Sun appears less brilliant
Biting winds abound
And I am still around.
To cherish every moment
Of ever-changing season;
To feel life’s earthly pleasures
In the autumn of my years I’ve found
I’m mighty glad I’m still around.
© Vi Woodhouse
Autumn is moving on
Golden leaves swirling
Flower heads fading
Rotting apples on the ground
And I am still around.
Evenings now are chilly
Darkness coming early
Sun appears less brilliant
Biting winds abound
And I am still around.
To cherish every moment
Of ever-changing season;
To feel life’s earthly pleasures
In the autumn of my years I’ve found
I’m mighty glad I’m still around.
© Vi Woodhouse
Friday, February 26, 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010
It’s March again and time marches. There is a gene that retards growth in humans. People with this disease stay young, except that some parts of their bodies are not in tune and the person dies in consequence. Science, being able to control the gene (as seen by me on TV as a documentary) will make us all live for a thousand years, or more. There is no reason why we should not, as the cells in the body regenerate regularly anyway and only a fault in the genes makes us grow old and die. Most birds, for example, don’t age. They just die. Never mind.
Next month is the beginning of our seventh year of publication. We’ve published a hundred local people with poetic aspirations. I’ve tried to put the gazette onto a Google Blog blogger "Europa Poets’ Gazette" and have partly succeeded. Last time I looked it wouldn’t put No. 70 up but it did connect Joe Lake with a slimming company in England. I wonder if they know that I’m fat. Maybe not. I’ve tried Facebook but it keeps asking me for different passwords and secret handshakes. I’ve nearly given up. Once, an email came from Facebook asking who the hell am I to try to communicate with her. There is always a percentage of loonies on the internet and one must be young and naive to be able to put up with the hackers and the general infectors of the mind.
My garden is doing fine. I’ve discovered the secret ingredient to growing vegetables: Cow poo. It worked wonders for the people in the old country. They included their own poo. It still works better than all the artificial fertilisers. I mix it with pottingmix and up come the plants as if someone were pushing them from beneath the earth.
As you can see next door, I’m experimenting with nonsense verse. It’s marvellous. Someone said the other day about my Sonnet’s 2009, that they didn’t make sense. Maybe. But nonsense verse alleviates that problem because it all makes sense not to make sense. It’s like music with no words.
Ontology
(The nature of Being)
Think of the perfect and then think of God,
The all creating, all omniscient entity
Who has designed the world and our lot
Where all is perfect in this sanctity.
If God were evolution, He’d be less
Than great within a sceptic's sordid scheme,
So He must be much more than we can guess.
He must be more, much more than what it seems.
To prove the essence of this Being,
God is better than cannot be assumed,
A perfect force, of ever watchful seeing,
This God could be no accident presumed.
God is substance striving for perfection
A determined Being’s clear reflection.
© Joe Lake
From Philosophical Sonnets 2010
The Bungledoo
I tell you of the Bungledoo
Who owned the big brown lands
Where all the little children do
What no one understands.
The Bungledoo knew Bringaling
The yellow Gunglefoo
Who ate brown land as binngeling
Avoiding all that doo.
But all the children thought it fair
That Dinglebaggle dried
And so could float right through the air
Until you knew, he lied.
The Bungledoo who thought aloud
That bringbet could be done
As Dinglebaggle was a fraud,
As he shouted from a gun.
He stood his ground and spat in vain
At Dooroog’s flying croc
And thought that he could win the blaim,
Deciding to take stock.
But what he didn’t know, the spool,
Was that the king could fly
And so they all swarm in the school
To croak a lullaby.
I tell you of the Bungledoo
Who owned the big brown lands
Where all the little children do
What no one understands.
© Joe Lake
From Musical (Nonsense) Verse 2010
Next month is the beginning of our seventh year of publication. We’ve published a hundred local people with poetic aspirations. I’ve tried to put the gazette onto a Google Blog blogger "Europa Poets’ Gazette" and have partly succeeded. Last time I looked it wouldn’t put No. 70 up but it did connect Joe Lake with a slimming company in England. I wonder if they know that I’m fat. Maybe not. I’ve tried Facebook but it keeps asking me for different passwords and secret handshakes. I’ve nearly given up. Once, an email came from Facebook asking who the hell am I to try to communicate with her. There is always a percentage of loonies on the internet and one must be young and naive to be able to put up with the hackers and the general infectors of the mind.
My garden is doing fine. I’ve discovered the secret ingredient to growing vegetables: Cow poo. It worked wonders for the people in the old country. They included their own poo. It still works better than all the artificial fertilisers. I mix it with pottingmix and up come the plants as if someone were pushing them from beneath the earth.
As you can see next door, I’m experimenting with nonsense verse. It’s marvellous. Someone said the other day about my Sonnet’s 2009, that they didn’t make sense. Maybe. But nonsense verse alleviates that problem because it all makes sense not to make sense. It’s like music with no words.
Ontology
(The nature of Being)
Think of the perfect and then think of God,
The all creating, all omniscient entity
Who has designed the world and our lot
Where all is perfect in this sanctity.
If God were evolution, He’d be less
Than great within a sceptic's sordid scheme,
So He must be much more than we can guess.
He must be more, much more than what it seems.
To prove the essence of this Being,
God is better than cannot be assumed,
A perfect force, of ever watchful seeing,
This God could be no accident presumed.
God is substance striving for perfection
A determined Being’s clear reflection.
© Joe Lake
From Philosophical Sonnets 2010
The Bungledoo
I tell you of the Bungledoo
Who owned the big brown lands
Where all the little children do
What no one understands.
The Bungledoo knew Bringaling
The yellow Gunglefoo
Who ate brown land as binngeling
Avoiding all that doo.
But all the children thought it fair
That Dinglebaggle dried
And so could float right through the air
Until you knew, he lied.
The Bungledoo who thought aloud
That bringbet could be done
As Dinglebaggle was a fraud,
As he shouted from a gun.
He stood his ground and spat in vain
At Dooroog’s flying croc
And thought that he could win the blaim,
Deciding to take stock.
But what he didn’t know, the spool,
Was that the king could fly
And so they all swarm in the school
To croak a lullaby.
I tell you of the Bungledoo
Who owned the big brown lands
Where all the little children do
What no one understands.
© Joe Lake
From Musical (Nonsense) Verse 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010
Rag Doll
The little boy who lives
down the lane
is evil,
Or maybe he’s insane,
Plays with rag dolls,
Wears girlie clothes,
And Heaven knows
what goes on behind that door,
No one hears, not one thing,
Nor even saw
his frozen grin in window frame,
Playing at his childhood game,
Whispers loud but no one stirs,
And the cat licks its lips,
Never purrs,
Sitting, satiated, and very still,
Tongue flicking mouth with a will,
Or does it smile
at the girl-dressed boy
who fondles eagerly this rag-doll toy?
© Michael Garrad February 2010
The little boy who lives
down the lane
is evil,
Or maybe he’s insane,
Plays with rag dolls,
Wears girlie clothes,
And Heaven knows
what goes on behind that door,
No one hears, not one thing,
Nor even saw
his frozen grin in window frame,
Playing at his childhood game,
Whispers loud but no one stirs,
And the cat licks its lips,
Never purrs,
Sitting, satiated, and very still,
Tongue flicking mouth with a will,
Or does it smile
at the girl-dressed boy
who fondles eagerly this rag-doll toy?
© Michael Garrad February 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010
Corner Store
Pitch black the night,
Blind in the dark,
No white light,
No friendly glow,
The corner store is shut,
And maybe never opened,
And they weren’t there,
Perhaps never had been,
Did the birds sing?
Was it a flautist's note?
Or nothing at all?
Perhaps the rain dancing,
Or clouds crying,
Wind against face,
Or face against wind?
Or was it the sun laughing,
Hollow and white?
Or nothing at all?
A baby crying,
Or a gasp?
What are tears and smiles
in the very long slumber?
The Death,
Free-wheeling on a roundabout,
On and on,
Is it painful?
Or nothing at all?
A crumb of dirt maybe,
Playing on parched grass,
One particle that lolls
in the undergrowth,
Buried by incalculable years,
Stark tree, whose branches groan
and strain against a weak foothold,
It will fall in a thousand years,
And be nothing at all,
Did it feel a limb snap?
Did the trunk scream
as the bough fractured?
Did it happen?
Did I happen?
Were embers glowing red-bright,
Or was it a fog beam in a no-day?
Or nothing at all?
The corner store did not exist
at the end of the lane,
And the lane runs always,
Not a twist, not a turn,
It never was,
Never is,
Nor was I,
And it isn’t painful
because Death is nothing at all,
And life is nothing at all,
It has never been,
And the end is
the beginning of nought.
© Michael Garrad February 2010
Pitch black the night,
Blind in the dark,
No white light,
No friendly glow,
The corner store is shut,
And maybe never opened,
And they weren’t there,
Perhaps never had been,
Did the birds sing?
Was it a flautist's note?
Or nothing at all?
Perhaps the rain dancing,
Or clouds crying,
Wind against face,
Or face against wind?
Or was it the sun laughing,
Hollow and white?
Or nothing at all?
A baby crying,
Or a gasp?
What are tears and smiles
in the very long slumber?
The Death,
Free-wheeling on a roundabout,
On and on,
Is it painful?
Or nothing at all?
A crumb of dirt maybe,
Playing on parched grass,
One particle that lolls
in the undergrowth,
Buried by incalculable years,
Stark tree, whose branches groan
and strain against a weak foothold,
It will fall in a thousand years,
And be nothing at all,
Did it feel a limb snap?
Did the trunk scream
as the bough fractured?
Did it happen?
Did I happen?
Were embers glowing red-bright,
Or was it a fog beam in a no-day?
Or nothing at all?
The corner store did not exist
at the end of the lane,
And the lane runs always,
Not a twist, not a turn,
It never was,
Never is,
Nor was I,
And it isn’t painful
because Death is nothing at all,
And life is nothing at all,
It has never been,
And the end is
the beginning of nought.
© Michael Garrad February 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010
Pervasive Power
The pervasive power of the rich,
The pervasive power of those who hold
status and degrees;
The pervasive power of those with a facade of class, acquired without toil or effort,
Where a person of this social pack
Is often placed at the top,
Whilst those without pervasive power
Will be designated to a mediocre and invidious job
By those with a facade of smiles,
The pervasive people with power.
Ideas Wrongly Attributed
Often, inconsequential persons’
Ideas are surreptitiously stolen
and the Creator’s name altered.
Inconsequential persons
are never credited as the creators
of original ideas.
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Golden Goodbye
I watch the setting sun shimmer on the water -
Layers of molten gold, appliquéd on green velvet,
And I remember how you adored gold -
You were always swathed in it from head to toe.
Now, your dust scatters in the summer breeze,
Setting on the gold you loved so much.
© June Maureen Hitchcock December 2009
The pervasive power of the rich,
The pervasive power of those who hold
status and degrees;
The pervasive power of those with a facade of class, acquired without toil or effort,
Where a person of this social pack
Is often placed at the top,
Whilst those without pervasive power
Will be designated to a mediocre and invidious job
By those with a facade of smiles,
The pervasive people with power.
Ideas Wrongly Attributed
Often, inconsequential persons’
Ideas are surreptitiously stolen
and the Creator’s name altered.
Inconsequential persons
are never credited as the creators
of original ideas.
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Golden Goodbye
I watch the setting sun shimmer on the water -
Layers of molten gold, appliquéd on green velvet,
And I remember how you adored gold -
You were always swathed in it from head to toe.
Now, your dust scatters in the summer breeze,
Setting on the gold you loved so much.
© June Maureen Hitchcock December 2009
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010
Pervasive Power
The pervasive power of the rich,
The pervasive power of those who hold
status and degrees;
The pervasive power of those with a facade of class, acquired without toil or effort,
Where a person of this social pack
Is often placed at the top,
Whilst those without pervasive power
Will be designated to a mediocre and invidious job
By those with a facade of smiles,
The pervasive people with power.
Ideas Wrongly Attributed
Often, inconsequential persons’
Ideas are surreptitiously stolen
and the Creator’s name altered.
Inconsequential persons
are never credited as the creators
of original ideas.
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Golden Goodbye
I watch the setting sun shimmer on the water -
Layers of molten gold, appliquéd on green velvet,
And I remember how you adored gold -
You were always swathed in it from head to toe.
Now, your dust scatters in the summer breeze,
Setting on the gold you loved so much.
© June Maureen Hitchcock December 2009
The pervasive power of the rich,
The pervasive power of those who hold
status and degrees;
The pervasive power of those with a facade of class, acquired without toil or effort,
Where a person of this social pack
Is often placed at the top,
Whilst those without pervasive power
Will be designated to a mediocre and invidious job
By those with a facade of smiles,
The pervasive people with power.
Ideas Wrongly Attributed
Often, inconsequential persons’
Ideas are surreptitiously stolen
and the Creator’s name altered.
Inconsequential persons
are never credited as the creators
of original ideas.
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Golden Goodbye
I watch the setting sun shimmer on the water -
Layers of molten gold, appliquéd on green velvet,
And I remember how you adored gold -
You were always swathed in it from head to toe.
Now, your dust scatters in the summer breeze,
Setting on the gold you loved so much.
© June Maureen Hitchcock December 2009
Europa Poets' Gazette, No 68, December 2009
Barnacles
Glued fast onto its chosen rock
Twice daily washed by waves,
Antenna combing fluid world
For nutrients it craves.
So thus it grows hard calcine tube
Amidst colony of kin,
Link in the ocean’s food chain,
It shelters dark within.
This creature boasts no pearly shell,
No pleasing note does sing,
Man finds no pleasure in it -
Boat men have cursed this thing.
Through swirling tidal changes,
So many darks and dawnings,
It simply, in its shell, exists,
And then it too starts spawning.
© Pete Stratford 29.11.09
Patchwork
She lay on the sand, watching the race -
White sails cutting triangles out of a sapphire sky,
These were the colours and design she would use
On the patchwork quilt she was making.
She sighed - if only solving all her troubles
Was so simple!
Patchwork girl, lying on patchwork sand,
Watching patchwork sky -
In a patchwork world.
© June Maureen Hitchcock February 2010
Glued fast onto its chosen rock
Twice daily washed by waves,
Antenna combing fluid world
For nutrients it craves.
So thus it grows hard calcine tube
Amidst colony of kin,
Link in the ocean’s food chain,
It shelters dark within.
This creature boasts no pearly shell,
No pleasing note does sing,
Man finds no pleasure in it -
Boat men have cursed this thing.
Through swirling tidal changes,
So many darks and dawnings,
It simply, in its shell, exists,
And then it too starts spawning.
© Pete Stratford 29.11.09
Patchwork
She lay on the sand, watching the race -
White sails cutting triangles out of a sapphire sky,
These were the colours and design she would use
On the patchwork quilt she was making.
She sighed - if only solving all her troubles
Was so simple!
Patchwork girl, lying on patchwork sand,
Watching patchwork sky -
In a patchwork world.
© June Maureen Hitchcock February 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010
On Jonson Street
Byron Bay, August 2005
On Jonson Street the lines of chalk
fade in angled sunlight -
shapes of sun and fish
curved on a black canvas of bitumen,
near
cheap breakfasts and the endless beach
neoprened bodies flicking wet
arms over fibreglass
waiting on the sun-warm water,
for the surf.
On Jonson Street the traffic flows
the traffic stops, the traffic slows
past curry houses and craft emporia
past flocks of backpackers,
soft curls and hard vowels,
tanned, dreadlocked, in bare feet
along the edges of Jonson Street
Chalk lines fade toward the gutter
- the sun bleeds off the canvas -
as silhouettes, slick in shiny black
replace the street with sand
staring at the water.
© Cameron Hindrum
Byron Bay, August 2005
On Jonson Street the lines of chalk
fade in angled sunlight -
shapes of sun and fish
curved on a black canvas of bitumen,
near
cheap breakfasts and the endless beach
neoprened bodies flicking wet
arms over fibreglass
waiting on the sun-warm water,
for the surf.
On Jonson Street the traffic flows
the traffic stops, the traffic slows
past curry houses and craft emporia
past flocks of backpackers,
soft curls and hard vowels,
tanned, dreadlocked, in bare feet
along the edges of Jonson Street
Chalk lines fade toward the gutter
- the sun bleeds off the canvas -
as silhouettes, slick in shiny black
replace the street with sand
staring at the water.
© Cameron Hindrum
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010
On Jonson Street
Byron Bay, August 2005
On Jonson Street the lines of chalk
fade in angled sunlight -
shapes of sun and fish
curved on a black canvas of bitumen,
near
cheap breakfasts and the endless beach
neoprened bodies flicking wet
arms over fibreglass
waiting on the sun-warm water,
for the surf.
On Jonson Street the traffic flows
the traffic stops, the traffic slows
past curry houses and craft emporia
past flocks of backpackers,
soft curls and hard vowels,
tanned, dreadlocked, in bare feet
along the edges of Jonson Street
Chalk lines fade toward the gutter
- the sun bleeds off the canvas -
as silhouettes, slick in shiny black
replace the street with sand
staring at the water.
© Cameron Hindrum
Byron Bay, August 2005
On Jonson Street the lines of chalk
fade in angled sunlight -
shapes of sun and fish
curved on a black canvas of bitumen,
near
cheap breakfasts and the endless beach
neoprened bodies flicking wet
arms over fibreglass
waiting on the sun-warm water,
for the surf.
On Jonson Street the traffic flows
the traffic stops, the traffic slows
past curry houses and craft emporia
past flocks of backpackers,
soft curls and hard vowels,
tanned, dreadlocked, in bare feet
along the edges of Jonson Street
Chalk lines fade toward the gutter
- the sun bleeds off the canvas -
as silhouettes, slick in shiny black
replace the street with sand
staring at the water.
© Cameron Hindrum
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010
Feature Poet
On Reading The Work Of Genevieve Ryan (1984-2005)
Death is absurd at the best of times.
I am reminded of Truchanas, the great
witness of the wilderness, who drowned
in the river he loved. He played Sibelius
while the doomed lake lit up the room.
And Dombrovski, the imagist, the master
photographer, who died in the grasp of
his majestic art. He too liked rivers
and saved them when he could.
His funeral was held on your mountain.
The same mountain, where
on ice-smooth ancient forest rocks
you slipped out into the void, while
all around you, sentinel trees stood silent.
In ancient religious scriptures it says
that life and death will pass away.
But water will always flow, somewhere,
like love,
And memory, happy and clear.
(Genevieve Ryan slipped and fell to her death at Newtown Falls on Mount Wellington in Tasmania in February 2005. Her prolific journals, including poetry and other writings, have been edited by her mother Elizabeth and published as Regards, some girl with words. Available in book shops or through Sid Harta publishers, Melbourne.)
© Cameron Hindrum
On Reading The Work Of Genevieve Ryan (1984-2005)
Death is absurd at the best of times.
I am reminded of Truchanas, the great
witness of the wilderness, who drowned
in the river he loved. He played Sibelius
while the doomed lake lit up the room.
And Dombrovski, the imagist, the master
photographer, who died in the grasp of
his majestic art. He too liked rivers
and saved them when he could.
His funeral was held on your mountain.
The same mountain, where
on ice-smooth ancient forest rocks
you slipped out into the void, while
all around you, sentinel trees stood silent.
In ancient religious scriptures it says
that life and death will pass away.
But water will always flow, somewhere,
like love,
And memory, happy and clear.
(Genevieve Ryan slipped and fell to her death at Newtown Falls on Mount Wellington in Tasmania in February 2005. Her prolific journals, including poetry and other writings, have been edited by her mother Elizabeth and published as Regards, some girl with words. Available in book shops or through Sid Harta publishers, Melbourne.)
© Cameron Hindrum
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)