Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No. 97

Fear Of Darkness   A serial novel by Joe Lake.

(So far: Julie’s husband has had an accident and disappears. At the police station Julie sees two people who have no reflection in the mirror. Next, her husband is back and she notices two marks on her neck after she takes a dream-like excursion through the universe. Then, she meets a social worker who says that she is from five hundred years in the future who gives her a ring to travel in different dimensions. They step into a parallel universe and return. Susan leaves but

 warns Julie not to turn the ring as this could be dangerous.)

          

 “Julie, you there?” John moved his arms wildly into the fog.

        “I’m here. Hang onto me if you like.”

        “Why are you standing up? I’ve tied you to the bed.”

        “We’re in a parallel universe. Here we’re the same and not the same and I still don’t know whether our bodies are in the caravan still.”

        “You’re frightening me. Go back to where we were.”

        “I’ll turn the ring.” Julie did and found herself lying on their double bed in the van, still tied up as John still sat on the bed next to her.

        “What happened? We were here and then we were not. You’ve hypnotised me.”

        “No, I wish it were that simple. I’m a traveller now and it’s fun. Well, it is. I can go anywhere. Actually I don’t know where I’m going when I turn the ring but at least it’s out of your control.”

“I think you’re mad and I still don’t understand.” John put his head between his legs and closed his eyes.

“Untie me.” He did. All the while he shook his head.

“There! We’re going for a trip now?”

“No. Susan told me not to turn the ring by myself. I could end up anywhere and never get back. You’d like that?”

“No, you’re strange but I am too and now that we’re retired, I don’t mind a bit of an adventure.”

“I’ll wait for Susan. In the meantime, why don’t we both sleep? It’s been a difficult time.” John held her hand and touched the ring.

“I could turn it when you’re asleep.”

“You better not. The ring is a kind of transmitter, connected to some powerful station sending from another universe next to ours and I don’t understand any of it. I think I’ll give it back to Susan or hide it so that it can’t do us, you and me, any mischief.”

John held Julie’s hand and was looking for the ring. It had gone. “It’s not there!” he said.

“I’ve already hidden it where you’ll never find it. It’s a kind of invisible pouch and I can’t tell you where it is.” With that, Julie fell asleep and after a while John could hear her gentle snore.

“She thinks she is so smart, but I’m the man here and I’ll get the ring off her! Who knows what it could do, even get me some money,” he thought.

(To be continued next month)

Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 97

The days are turning cool and we sleep better. Judy and I took the dogs to the beach where they love running in circles as if herding sheep.

We bought some clearance cherry liqueur chocolates left over from Easter. There is no end to our suffering. I still play bridge and I am not sick of it yet. I’m doing indoor bowling but we are on a losing streak. My film script is moving towards completion but I have to spend a few nights typing it all up. My cancer seems to have stopped killing me for now and that should be good, except I don’t trust it.

Otherwise life is perfect. I live in my scripts, shooting and chasing people all through Cradle Mountain and then at night to sleep peacefully while dreaming of pleasant things that will never happen and the next day we’re chasing imaginary villains up and down mountains - how could life be better?

On Being II

Our lives are drawn towards a central core

To reproduce a substance into life

And here to form and open up a door,

The first beginning of that human hive. 4

We congregate and mingle and we make;

Constructing structures that sustain the cell

To reproduce from blueprints in its wake

And stimulate to feed and know and tell. 8

Yet soon enough the wheel grinds to a halt

So that the substance must be dissipated

Where Being and its essence may be culled,

Decayed into its parts, disintegrated. 12

   But other templates rise to build these blocks

   To make a different substance from these stocks.

© Joe Lake

Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 97

My View with Michael Garrad

We all play up and play The Game. Society sets the rules. But who is Society? What is Society?

We are constantly under pressure to conform. How we behave in public - even how we behave in private!

As we grow up, we are taught the rules -through school, to early adulthood, to being a responsible family person, to minding what we say and how we act, to body language! There is not an aspect of our lives that is not governed by what is considered as “acceptable”.

If we try very hard not to conform, we are labelled a rebel, odd, different, outlandish! It is most important that “we do all the right things”.

Who dictates what is right and what is not? Who determines we must be this or that? Societal pressure - that’s what!

Oh, but we have freedom to think! We live in a democracy! How wonderful is that! Democracy is just another way of controlling us because we are so grateful for that, we accept the constraints that go with it. Freedom with conditions!

We never are who we truly are. From birth to death, from Labor, Liberal, Green to “don’t know”, from the most intimate moments in our lives, to our sexuality, to the workplace, to leisure space, to financial space - to head space!

Yes, please, I’d like some head space right now!

Showers

May I sit upon your bed

and nurture you now you’re dead?

Post-mortem, still, I can be near,

Dare I, in anger, with a tear

dress your brow in cool delight

and wonder, ponder, how it might

have been, those early hours,

’midst early morning showers

as you slipped violently away?

Naught a word that I could say,

Regret sits heavy in my head,

Your body’s here but you are dead.

© Michael Garrad March 2012

Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No. 97

Red-Hot Mama

I sat at my home computer, with mail I was about to write,

when up pops a little panel saying someone wants to

        Skype.

Now I didn’t know this stranger, with the oddest sounding

        name

of “Smoulderin’ Red Hot Mama” saying “call me - if you’re game!”

But I was feeling cautious, despite this inviting hype

and wasn’t sure this was for me, or if this caller was my

        type.

Then giving it some moments thought, I responded

        to the call,

since this was all anonymous no harm could come at all.

Well, Red Hot Mama’s picture really took me by surprise -

a teddy bear, in lingerie, with bright shiny button eyes!

Red Hot Mama had no video, but in a husky voice

said my Skype name sounded interesting -

“Sugar Daddy” was such a lovely choice.

Now this was getting scary, so I promptly stopped the call

for this sort of thing can get you into trouble

and it’s not my scene at all.

I was really quite upset and shaken

so went outside and took a stroll,

to avoid some online porno scheme

to end up chased by Interpol!

As I wandered through a car park

an old Classic parked there caught my eye

and with an interest in old motor cars

I sneaked a look inside, as I walked by.

There, sitting hunched up in the front seat

with a laptop on her bony knees

and typing with arthritic fingers,

a great grandma, if you please!

But, there on the seat beside her -

and this fairly took my breath away -

A eddy bear with shiny eyes,

and all dressed up in lingerie!

© Pete Stratford 22.3.12

Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No. 97

Hot Stuff

I’m not that keen on summer, you know.

I almost prefer to have frost and snow.

The only good thing about summer for me,

I can roam the house in my shortie nightie!

I hang clothes on the line in my nightie so    fine,

But I have to wear clothes when we go out to

        dine.

Then I eat like a horse and sweat like a pig!

What a pity that nighties are so infra dig!

© Vi Woodhouse

Finding His Way Across

Finding his way across

Lands near and far;

Drawing power from the sun

And the most distant star.

Carried along by the wind;

Nourished by the rain,

Filled with scent from flowers,

Birdsong and all of nature’s

Sweet refrain brings forth memories

Inspired by wishes and dreams,

Imagination is woven

In mysterious colours and seams.

© Cathy Weaver

Towards The Morning

Towards the morning,

pink fingers intrude the night,

prising the horizon

open.

Nothing new today. Grey.

Early fog and drizzle,

and rain in the afternoon -

as though we might have spoken yesterday,

any day, when the sun was smiling.

As if we would.

© Kate Ahearne

Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 97

Domesticity

The sun stole through the curtains

Competing with the glitter of the gowns

Of the ladies on the TV set.

Smoke spiralled towards the ceiling, creating

An atmosphere of a Chinese den.

Books about the world’s history and the working

Of man’s mind are neatly stored behind glass doors

Whilst women’s magazines, fresh off the press,

Coffee stained and dog-eared, are sprawled on the floor.

A woman dressed in housewife’s uniform,

Sombre coloured sloppy track suit (no-brand name)

And down-trodden slippers,

Is oblivious to the traffic outside,

For she sits with eyes transfixed to the box,

The box, a provider of her mental stimulus

And the soul of her survival.

The phone rings, she does not respond for

The problems of her friends in the box are

Too enormous to ignore.

Also, her mind is not in this world of mortgages

And housewives’ toils, but the world of Hollywood -

A world where her life would be insignificant.

As she immersed in the world of glitter,

The doorbell rings - she does not hear.

A woman in housewife’s uniform enters on tippy toes

So she too can enter the world of glitter,

The world of strained emotions

Where the world’s problems are so gigantic compared

To the women in housewives’ uniforms.

© Judy Brumby-Lake 1992