Europa Poets' Gazette

Joe Lake's Sonnet

2010-11-24T01:24:00.000-08:00

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

Joe Lake's Novel, Fear Of The Dark

2010-11-24T01:22:00.000-08:00

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)

gazette no 80 December 2010, Joe Lake's Opinion

2010-11-24T01:20:00.000-08:00

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.

gazette no 80 December 2010

2010-11-24T01:19:00.000-08:00

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!

Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010

2010-06-30T02:02:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-30T02:01:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-30T02:00:00.000-07:00

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

Eurpa Poets' Gazette No. 75, February 2010

2010-06-30T01:57:00.000-07:00

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.

Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010

2010-06-30T01:56:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-30T01:53:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-30T01:52:00.000-07:00

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

2010-06-30T01:51:00.000-07:00

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

Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75, July 2010

2010-06-30T01:49:00.000-07:00

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

Europa Poets' Gazette No. 75

2010-06-30T01:46:00.000-07:00

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

Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010

2010-02-26T03:57:00.000-08:00

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

Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010

2010-02-26T03:56:00.000-08:00

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

Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010

2010-02-26T03:54:00.000-08:00

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

Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010

2010-02-26T03:52:00.002-08:00

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

Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010

2010-02-26T03:52:00.000-08:00

Europa Poets' Gazette, No 68, December 2009

2010-02-26T03:51:00.000-08:00

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

Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010

2010-02-26T03:50:00.001-08:00

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

Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010

2010-02-26T03:50:00.000-08:00

Europa Poets' Gazette No. 71, March 2010

2010-02-26T03:48:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-19T23:23:00.002-08:00

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

2009-11-19T23:23:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-19T23:22:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-19T23:21:00.002-08:00

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!

2009-11-19T23:21:00.001-08:00

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

2009-11-19T23:20:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-19T23:19:00.000-08:00

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

2009-11-19T23:13:00.000-08:00

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)

members of the Europa Poets Society

2009-10-27T19:37:00.001-07:00

Founding members: Joe Lake, Michael Garrad, Dr Vi Woodhouse, Judy Brumby-Lake, June Hitchcock; other members: Dr Mary Kille, Loretta Gaul, Neil McLaren, Peter Stratford.

Michael Garrad is a former editor, now retired of The Advocate newspaper and also the editor of the gazette. He was born in England but has spent most of his life in Tasmania. Joe Lake originally came to Australia from Austria in 1960 and moved with Judy to Tasmania in 1988. He is the publisher of the gazette and creator of self-help booklets. Vi Woodhouse is a retired M.D. and founder-member. Judy Brumby-Lake is the wife of Joe Lake. Judy was born in Tasmania. June has been with the society since its inception. Mary Kille is a retired M.D. and lives near Table Cape. She has been with the society some years. Loretta Gaul is an active contributor, so is Neil. Peter Stratford joined lately. The Europa Poetry Gazette is published by lovers of poetry and is distributed for free in the north of Tasmania.

No 67 Europa Poets' Gazette November 2009

2009-10-27T14:55:00.002-07:00

Sonnet 24
I floated, skipped and danced among the throng,
Like a child’s anticipation of a joy;
Righting all around me that was wrong
And touching the world as if it were a toy.
Come see me walk on water through the night,
Then float across the universe on stars
And pluck the flowers of the sun’s delight
To hear the songs of paper-blue guitars
Where highs and lows touch as a lover’s tease
And Earth is just a fluffy ball of foam
Among the blues of other stars’ release,
The secret breathing of the dying stone.
Come to my ship and let us sail away
Towards that neverland where we shall play.
© Joe Lake

New Day
The sky spreads wide across farewells,
And the sun smiles,
No matter where the end hides,
Rain dances on distant pastures
against renewing, banked clouds,
Birds, joyous, sing
above mountain ocean waves,
Chorus resonating in the long still,
And air is sweet and calm, and angry,
Brushing atop trees in all lands;
The gap is close and a sparkle
breaches every new day.
© Michael Garrad October 2009

No 67 Europa Poets' Gazette November 2009

2009-10-27T14:55:00.001-07:00

The Slam is over for now. I’m not going to tell you who won. Guess.
We also had the Burnie Shines Europa Poets’ Gold Pot and that was won by a deserved person.
Christmas is my favourite time of the year as I like singing and playing my little organ to the tune of Silent Night.
No inkling of Global Warming in Burnie last winter and we can only take the scientists’ word for the fact that it will get better.
I did manage in a kind of way to get us onto Google’s Blog. You’ll have to type into the Google box, “Europa Poets’ Gazette”
and that should bring you a moment’s joy or you can expose yourself by telling us how bad it all is and that Shakespeare
could do better, or was that T.S. Eliot? Never mind. Write some yourself. It will open your mind to new vistas and horizons.
You will find that after a time, the brain will write your poetry for you and you’ll think that God did it.

Sonnet Undetermined

Deterministically, life is set
As genes and software-instinct wail for me
Where childhood horrors or my social debt
Drives unrelentingly life’s goal and key.
This rule, of course, means that I cannot change
The book of life as written at my birth
And I can only wriggle in its range
As nothing alters my life’s drift and curse.
But I pretend that I can make a choice,
That I can find the good rather than bad
If I can listen to my conscience’s voice,
Ignoring all projections that are mad.
By precedent we do what we must do
As we reject conclusions that are new.

© Joe Lake

No. 67 Europa Poets' Gazette, November 2009

2009-10-27T14:55:00.000-07:00

Beyond Hunger
Beyond the hunger
it waits,
In the twilight,
Still,
Watching
as leaves rest,
Even the breeze
has vanished,
Silent stillness,
Ravenous in this
half light;
It can wait
as long as the eye blinks,
As long as the
longest day,
Vigilant,
With voracious appetite,
It listens to the rain
and counts every drop,
Seeks the weak
in a second of
crying passion,
And then pounces
when defence
is impossible.
© Michael Garrad September 2009
This Face
The sun cuts deep,
And canopy green submits
to shadow, stark,
Shaped by light and breeze,
Hollows of black are eyes,
Nose sharp in profile,
Mouth frozen in grin and grimace,
Trees and bush are this face
Mood dark, stare set,
A human image no more
than prism trick,
Silent, watchful,
Eager to play with broken mind,
Gone with the night,
Or was that the moon dancing?
Pray that slumber is peace,
When black has swallowed this shape,
By dawn, it will glare again,
As clouds clutter around this sun,
Fear the mask in green
For it moves in frightful pattern
with every whimsical element
that is the essence of tireless death.
© Michael Garrad September 2009

October 2009 Gazette No. 66, Cameron Hindrum

2009-10-20T14:49:00.000-07:00

At Storys Creek
Except for the ghosts of houses, an abandoned town
has no memory.
The footprints of man and building dissolve
into gathering ground.
An abandoned river with banks of rust
carries poison-weighted water
away from the rain off the distant bluff.
Rain is merciful, gentle here, no weeping
for open scars or lost fortunes.
The pillagers are gone, having reaped
what they could, leaving us to sow
while soft rain seeps into wounded earth
through piled waste, and taints itself.
Below the scars and wounds, and waste,
still waters in a forgotten river
watch the lazy sky.
© Cameron Hindrum

October 2009 Gazette No. 66, Joe Lake

2009-10-20T14:48:00.000-07:00

Sonnet 44
Sometimes you’re ugly; then you’re beautiful;
Sometimes you’re young and then you’re old as time;
Sometimes I fear you; then you’re wonderful;
Sometimes the world is chaos; then it’s rhyme.
I always love you even when I hate;
I always hate myself when I’m in love;
I always stop to ponder our fate;
I always wonder if I love enough.
I never thought to fall in love with you;
I never hoped for such a blissful life;
I’d never know the way, or what to do;
But always wanted you to be my wife.
Why do you now refrain from kissing me,
A lover down to earth and on his knee?
© Joe Lake

October 2009 Gazette No. 66, Joe Lake

2009-10-20T14:46:00.000-07:00

The arts are not cumulative. Just when we feel to have produced the perfect poem or painting or installation, whoosh, the arts head off in a different direction.
Here are some traditional guidelines to criticism: Be interesting; make a point, be moral; expand the mind; no prejudice or lampoons; be serious and sincere; help the reader to change for the better; write simply; don’t be obscure; make it pleasent reading; have new ideas; help people to think; help the reader to make the right choices in their lives.
Congratulations to Mary Kille and Vi Woodhouse for jointly winning first prize, and the money, in the Burnie Poetry Slam; Peter Stratford came second and Loretta Gaul third. They go on now to better things and maybe to Sydney at the Opera House where the prize is huge.
Don’t forget Burnie Shines, Europa Poets’ Gold Pot which is a glass goblet filled with the gold coins of participants. It is to be held on Friday, October 30, at 5.30 pm at the Burnie Library. Vi has organised the musical entertainment and there will be a little supper.
My tulips have turned out huge; their colours are yellow, red and mauve. The vegetable seeds in their toilet roll centres in potting soil inside the icecream container have dared to show their little green sprouts tentatively and eventually will be planted into the garden. I’ll have to cut the grass again because it won’t stop growing.
We had a blogger, blogspot site that showed the month’s poems. Now I can’t find it. I’ll have to ask my four-year-old nephew. He’ll fix it. It’s hard in old age to do what the young ones do with their Facebook and blogs and websites, and what-not so easily.
At the library, when Elaine Harris broadcast on Harry Potter, a little boy came along and recited the whole first chapter of the latest book. I won’t tell you how much I could remember.

October 2009 Gazette No. 66, Loretta Gaul

2009-10-20T14:44:00.000-07:00

Under A Streetlight
Under a streetlight
a man croons.
His eyes older
than his body
will ever be.
He sways as he sings
with the intensity
of his memories
’til the light becomes
an inferno.
He flames and flares
brightly into Hell’s
uselessness.
We made love
just one time,
and as I lean
back into that memory,
I inhale his ashes
deeply into every pore.
© Loretta Gaul

October 2009 Gazette No. 66, Michael Garrad

2009-10-20T14:42:00.001-07:00

October 2009 Gazette No. 66, Michael Garrad

2009-10-20T14:42:00.000-07:00

We stare at death the moment we are born. So, tell us something we don’t know, you might be thinking.
Even as I write this, I am older. As you read this, you are older.
Every word, every character, every keyboard stroke, ages me. I am older now than when I started writing this editorial and the same for you.
Micro-seconds we cannot buy back, no matter how very much we might yearn for things to be different.
Age is the enemy.
Young and beautiful now, with dreams stretching into infinity - only what we have is finite. Childhood becomes teens, 20s becomes 30s and 40s, middle-age becomes old-age. No escape. We are in life’s trap.
We think we can defy the odds and that nothing will ever change - we will stay as we are but now, all of us, you and me, are older.
Are we wiser? Well, that’s another matter.
These are keystrokes I will never make again, for the words have been typed and I have aged, as you have. The second hand keeps moving on the clock-face and even if we wind it back, we cannot halt time’s movement.
Think about this. But hurry, you are getting older and death is waiting patiently.

Ungiving
Suckling from the one
who cannot give,
For this one has always been barren,
And does not give life,
There is no nurture in warmth,
Just a lure to the mother
who is never there, long gone
if she ever lived,
The suckle without satisfaction,
Desire and need in arid succour,
Flesh that does not yield,
As with fruit withering on vine,
We know it lies there,
Alluring, patient, ungiving.
© Michael Garrad September 2009

October 2009 Gazette No. 66

2009-10-20T14:39:00.001-07:00

Natural Forces
Natural forces are at work today,
Trees moan, arched in battle with autumn’s moods,
Leaves whirl in motley amber cartwheels,
Seas heave in defiance of summer’s death,
But all that concerns me is my long unruly hair -
Streamers in the wind.
© June Maureen Hitchcock May 2009

October 2009 Gazette No. 66

2009-10-20T14:39:00.000-07:00

Invulnerable
You may think with my gentle smile
and appeasing way that I am invulnerable.
A steel girdle created in my infant year
from objurgation
from the cold hands of a nurturer
has camouflaged my true self.
Outwardly I may seem pliable,
Willing to be subjugated,
But inward I simmer with resentment
of you and others of your kind.
But then, again, who are the real vulnerable ones
For vulnerability has no class boundaries?
How often those who appear
invulnerable become religious zealots or socialists
To seek revenge and uplift their kind.
© Judy Brumby-Lake

October 2009 Gazette

2009-10-20T14:34:00.000-07:00

Sonnet 79
When we are sleeping in our beds at night
We drift down different rivers through a park
Where peaceful creatures play in our sight
And rainbow colours glitter, dance and spark.
We float and spin in boats of soft design
Entangled as a single entity
Where we can melt within the poem’s rhyme
To set the spirit, mind and body free.
But then cold fear is gloating in the dark
And threatens when we open our eyes;
The wrench of hate may tighten our heart,
As flies the whale from too much sun and dies.
If you’d let go then surely I would drown
Away from life where I have played the clown.
Joe Lake

October 2009 Gazette

2009-10-20T14:33:00.001-07:00

At 3 am
Shapeless silver-shod moonlight splashes
the polished floorboards where I like to stand
with you
at 3 am
while your breathing follows an arc
back to sleep
in my arms
While I wait
for an arrival of steady rhythm:
rise and fall, rise and fall
and the soft weight of sleep
to hold your weight against me.
The curtain is half-open against the quiet world
where everyone is asleep in their own silence,
Except you
and me,
But I can wait,
I’ve got all night
And nowhere else to be.

© Cameron Hindrum
Cameron is the coordinator for the national Poetry Slam.

October 2009 Gazette

2009-10-20T14:27:00.000-07:00

Feature Poet
A Whistling Kite
Soaring - swooping - tumbling flight
Airborne grace - a joyous sight.
Earthbound me, wishing that I might,
Just for a moment - be a kite.
© Peter Stratford
Dementia
Decades spent together
As life’s great tune we played
The richness of love’s memories
Into our mind’s book laid.
But, slowly, as one ages,
It seems some evil grip
Reached in amongst the pages,
And from it volumes ripped.
Then a thought comes clearly,
"I need to walk the dog."
"Our dog’s been gone for years now."
This voice sounds through a fog.
The face looks vague, familiar.
Her head just slowly nods.
Beyond my comprehension
Is why she sits and sobs.
© Peter Stratford

Joe Lake's comment in the Gazette 65

2009-09-02T01:05:00.001-07:00

Sleep Apnoea
Dreams come with bated breath
from lost memories in virtual reality
as obscure infinities.
You wake and shuffle to relieve yourself
(precise sleepwalking) then fall back into bed.
Those edifices, those early prisons
where one spends one’s working life
reward me with this restless, breathless sleep.
One would edit one’s life if one could.
The traffic moves on into the distance
as the digital camera records the landscape beyond
to focus on the dead tree of Golgotha.
On the horizon, low dark clouds creep
as the rain falls.
Joe Lake

Joe Lake's comment in the Gazette 65

2009-09-02T01:05:00.000-07:00

It is spring once more. I sit at the computer where no birds sing but the rain dribbles down relentlessly outside to fill the farmer’s and Aurora’s reservoirs that have dire need for capacity. My tulips are out; timidly they rose from the earth to open themselves to the rain. The almond tree initially had only one blossom and now more and more dare to expose themselves to the world of kissing bees and blossom-eating birds. It has been a cold, wet winter. Judy said, "Turn the heater down, the electricity is expensive." I get my blanket and watch Family Plot by Hitchcock on DVD a couple of times then pause and read New Scientist about colliders and quantum and find that we don’t know where the universe is or how we got here or when precisely since the big bang nor what we are doing here. It’s all about the atom and quantum effects and into the infinitesimally small and large, and we spend trillions of dollars on war and research into the beginning of the universe and how to build bigger atom bombs, and the string theory, and only a pittance on the cure for cancer. Humanity isn’t very bright, I suspect. No, sorry, I don’t suspect, I know.

Michael Garrad, Sept 09 Gazette, number 65

2009-09-02T00:57:00.000-07:00

End

To the end,
Which is the beginning
and the end,
When breath bursts
and gasps,
As supple body
is now flaccid, wrinkled,
When the paper
is fresh and clean,
And skin is parchment thin,
Such is the start
that finishes,
As it does with radiant sun,
And cool, damp dead air,
Where we are,
And where we are not,
The nothing
is the everything we fear,
The earth will have us
even as the womb rejoices.
© Michael Garrad August 2009

Elaine Harris's poem in Sept. 09 Gazette

2009-09-02T00:50:00.000-07:00

A couple of years ago I asked people to write a poem including the words lust,infidelity and spam. - Elaine Harris

Big Brother
In every shop the goal must beComplete consumer loyalty.

For every product we may lustand place in each our total trust.

Without this goal they soon would seeConsumer infidelity.

Be constant and they'll send emails

With news of specials, gifts and sales.

But should you go elsewhere to shop

EUROPA POETS' GAZETTE

2009-09-01T18:46:00.000-07:00