Tasmanian Europa Poets Gazette No. 152, December 2016

 Tasmanian Europa Poets Gazette No 152, December 2016

Head on Rainy Day, acrylic on canvas, Joe Lake

Indulgence

I stand in morning time

Of early summer,

savouring the precious quiet

Before the clamour.

Soft sunlight salves my face

And filters through

The breathing leaves

Caressing the new rosebuds.

Amidst this placid,

Perfumed place,

I watch the spider

Spin and trace,

And deliberately wait

For the innocent

To fulfil her living need.

© Kathleen O’Donnell

Of Domestic Things

The humble pot

Would not

Be despised

Nor eulogised

’Tis a vessel utilised

Towards realms of burgeoning

Glories.

© Kathleen O’Donnell

Seven Winds In A Near Deserted Town

silent spires
and empty pews,
winds of graves

wet-wind,
rain sheets the trees,
ripples in puddles

wind leaf-strewn
in mud-prints,
a child kicks a ball

lazy gossip
verandas, old news
blows by

pumpkin scones,
smells of home
waft through the window  

visitors
in the park, sausages
in the air

sunshine tomorrow,
blow out each late-night candle.

© Mark Liston

Ocean, acrylic on canvas, Joe Lake

Untended Plot

We watched him, rain or shine, in bitter, biting winds

or searing heat, and we, the passers-by

would marvel at his industry.

This open corner-patch,

unfenced and generously shared

with wandering dogs or cautious cats,

or busy, busy folk,

who’d take a shortcut through that so-green space,

revealed a white-haired man upon his knees,

or bending on his rake.

or resting, elbow on his spade

to catch his breath before the next endeavour.

The lettuces in serried ranks,

the beetroots, kale and cauliflowers,

the radishes, courgettes and aubergines,

proclaimed their health in seasonal display.

And, past the vegetables, against a wall

were roses, aquilegias, dahlias and azaleas,

a panoply of colours

that could be shared by all.

Pre-occupied with other things,

for several weeks, I missed that piece of earth,

and realised a presence must have flown.

The patch had lost its order and its grace,

the weeds grown rank, a metre high,

flowers wilted, lawn unmown,

and all the edibles were gone.

No longer would the roses lift our hearts,

nor all that loving work illuminate our ordinary lives.

I hope the man was spared the knowledge of that loss,

and knew the benison bestowed on us, by all his toil,

and wonder if he’d find some gardens he could tend,

and even beautify,               

beyond the gates to Heaven.

© Mary Kille

Mary Kille

Blackberry Jam

An upturned kombi van on the road

wheels ferociously spinning

the driver quite dead.

Contentment wavering in the air

“Look.” I grasped my friend’s hand

shocked, she fell to the ground,

slamming her face into cement.

Blood under her skin started to ferment,

bubbling gently, splitting the skin almost.

“Your blood looks like blackberry jam!”

Maybe tastes of it too.

She opened her lips

and tasted and licked and sipped,

her tongue empowered with a pathologist’s insight

“I have cancer, it’s all through my blood!

The kombi on the road is mine

that’s how I chose to die,

not from some malignant tumour.”

“But you don’t know for sure,

you could be cured,

go into remission,

what of your husband, your children?”

“It’s my decision.

It was my premonition.”

© Loretta Gaul

(From her book that is now available.)

 Michael Garrad’s View

Death is so utterly final. We, who are left behind, ache to see that person again, to hear their voice, to bathe in their smile, no matter how faint, to revel in their laughter, to just sit and say not very much but in the lack of conversation, still communicate wholly and completely.

They are at rest, at peace. Free! But we are trapped within the memories, the hindsight, the what-ifs, the vacancy in the daily routine of our life. The gap hurts and no matter how much sleep, how much contrived activity, the hole is still there, as deep as the grave that was dug for the one gone.

No waking up in the morning and all is well. It was just a dream, a trick of the mind. Everything back to normal. No, none of that. Nothing normal ever again.

Funerals are not so much a recognition of a life ended but an explosion of emotion for those who remain. All quite convivial at the refreshments after the graveside service. Hey, ho, off we go and carry on with our lives.

For some, it is easy. Others find existence above ground one of the hardest challenges of all - to watch the sun rise and set but that person is not there anymore, not in a physical sense.

The house where they lived is empty, a shell of the home that once was. Silent, stark in its dead echo. Nothing! It is silent at the grave too and no matter how many conversations, they are one-sided. There is no reply. The howl of the wind, a bird call, machines mowing grass. That is all. Daily business continues at the cemetery.

There is no way back. All that remains are thoughts and feelings, and regrets, and what could have been. If only time could be reset.

Just one last precious moment!

Secret Garden, acrylic on canvas, Joe Lake

Don’t Be Dead

She was and she is,

In a moment gone but here,

Perfume lingers as her heart

eases into the long slumber,

Her smile through pain

blesses tear-filled eyes,

She rests, she sleeps,

Mercy!

We weep for ourselves,

Transfixed in agony of regret,

Walking with memories.

Her voice close,

Just a whisper,

Flowers speak on mound earth,

She is free,

And the butterfly is free,

Wings spread, protective,

Hallowed is this peaceful ground,

She was punished too long,

He is punished for not

reaching to arms that ached,

Selfish are the living,

Selfless are those who suffer quietly,

The grave is reality,

The tears are for her and for him,

For him in isolation,

For him, for him, for him!

Silence roars for too long.

Don’t be dead, Barbara!

© Michael Garrad November 2016

Haiku

The ice froze my heart

Until soft spring’s kiss woke it

And swept me to you.

The torrents of floods

Drowned the eager early growth

In a sea of mud.

Thunder swishes rain

At ripening fields of wheat

To whip it to life.

The coloured leaf drifts

Before the angry winter

To find peace in earth.

© Joe Lake

What I Want

All I want for Christmas

Is a big fat teddy bear

To kiss and to cuddle

And to tell him all my care.

As he does not eat,

I do not need to cook for him,

As he does not dress,

I do not need to wash for him

And when I grow tired of him I take him

To the op-shop

So that someone at another Christmas

Can have a big fat teddy bear.

Judy's Teddy

Tas. Europa Poets Gazette No 151, Nov. 16

Paintings by Joe Lake, acrylic on canvas, 30/40

Dawn

 Like Snow - Has Gone

Day, thief of time,

has stolen light

from the night

and snatched seconds

from under my feet.

              

Day, silently, inexorably,

moves all things

on a conveyor belt

encircling the sphere

The pleasant present

is only now

then vanishes suddenly

we remotely remember

how it was.

© Kathleen O’Donnell

Her Cameo Face

(View from a tourist bus: Amien, Northern France)

Window shutters open onto geraniums, I see

her cameo face; too briefly to count the years.

                              She stands right hand poised as if to pluck

the nestled petals, tuck them into her palm

and shower her sepia parade heroes with colours

to keep them from harm -

                              lipstick pink of a kiss for the lovely ones

leaving her for war,

yellow for missed courage of young men,

               red for the blood

of mothers and ghost-white for fear bled beyond love.

                              And I imagine a museum of photos

on her sitting room wall

smiling faces to tell of bone-stone houses

all before the shelling of instant hatred.

                              In this choked throat traffic we crawl by -

she waves at us with her left hand

as if to a lover leaving again day after day.

*This poem was awarded Australian Poetry Poem of the Year 2014.

© Mark Liston

The Special Gold Ring

Strong first love:

Meeting at a dance, my mother slender and fair,

Grandmother chaperoned.

A young dark-curly haired young lad eyed her.

Hesitating, he crossed the room to a pretty lass.

Mother was an only child

               but my father came from a family of seven.

She finally accepted his proposal of marriage.

Father then had to obtain a ring.

He went with his dad gold prospecting.

Mum told him she would marry

Him if he got enough gold to make a ring.

So - an elegant rose in bloom was wed.

© Yvonne Matheson

Animal Poem

Furry all over, hopping around.

You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever found.

Brown and white, black gleaming eyes.

I’ll take him back home,

It’ll give mum a big surprise.

I hope we can keep him, I want him to stay.

I’ll give him some food and then we can play.

What should I call him? Jill, Jack or James?

What are good names?

Where will we keep him, we don’t have a cage

And how will we tell what is his age?

Maybe I won’t keep him, I won’t take him away

But I’ll come back here every day!

© Daniel McAllister

Wild And Free

There was a violent storm today

And on my way home I passed by the sea -

Seething, savage and spellbinding

In its fury.

Enormous waves exploded

Against the stark grey headland,

Sending spray high into the air -

Like a white volcano erupting from the deep.

Unlike the sea, I must contain my turbulence -

I must bottle it up and act with restraint - Society dictates it, society expects it.

I just want to be as wild and free as nature

And called beautiful -

In all my moods.

© June Maureen Hitchcock

The Omniscient Omnipotent

Many odious acts are done

To appease the one with omnipotent power,

               the omniscient God.

They say he is omnipotent,

Yet he never intervenes when his soldiers

               commit odious acts.

They say that his power is omnipotent,

Yet he never intervenes to alleviate pain

Or stops his disciples from sacrilegious acts.

They say that he has healing powers

Yet he never uses them to heal the sick.

Oh, omniscient God,

Please save man from his own annihilation.

© Judy Brumby-Lake

The Crescent

I spent the early years of my life in the Crescent.

Bombs had wrought havoc with their damage during the war.

Houses everywhere had come down in London town.

People needed a place to live.

For once, the government was decisive and quick.

Buildings were constructed away from the wrecked city.

The Essex countryside became my home.

Just six houses, nothing else in sight.

The forest at the back garden.

Weasels and stoats.

Frogs and toads,

Moths and butterflies.

These were our neighbours.

We had to make room for more people.

Houses were continually built.

My mother cleaned them and scrubbed the floors

To make a little bit of money.

A new estate was coming into existence.

Meanwhile, we played in the streets.

During school holidays, from morning to night,

Stopping only for meal breaks, until we were called to bed.

The road was the goal.

The lamp post the wicket.

Plenty of space and cover for hide and seek.

The pavement ideal for hopscotch.

Gradually, it changed.

Cars started to encroach.

The robin left its perch on the tree.

Swallows on their migration flights

Flew away from progress and returned to

               a different place in May.

I visit occasionally.

Motor vehicles everywhere.

Adults drive where children used to play

Little time now for fun, down the way.

I reach the end of the street.

The sign is still there - Tudor Crescent.

The sign is the same.

The Crescent is not.

© Phil Harper

New, young poets have been published in recent issues of the gazette. “So what?” you may ask. Tried and true regulars have been contributing for years and all doing very nicely, thank you.

Indeed they have been and still are and will continue to do so. But sometimes we can get a bit comfortable and only see verse through our eyes that have been looking and reading for many years.

Ah, the wisdom that comes with long periods of time spent hunched over a keyboard.

What I like about the newer poets is their eagerness to explore new horizons (and some not so new) and reinvigorate attitudes to love and life, and dying and all the myriad things in between.

Refreshing! Yes, that’s how I see the younger poets, ready to take up the challenge of creating their stories through their own unique way of seeing what we see - but seeing as they perceive what affects them and us through an inquisitive innocence, innocence in that they have only enjoyed limited years on this Earth.

We, older ones, have been around for much longer and, of course, we have a wealth of knowledge to draw on. Indeed we do and I believe we do it very well. But there is always room, in my view, for new and exciting views on how love hurts, how the rain falls, the agony of war, the frustration that is partisan politics, the tedium of living as people within the very tight constraints of what society dictates as being acceptable.

Young minds make us stop and think, cause some of us older ones to rethink attitudes. Not to distract us from our own path but, rather, to stimulate us, make us weigh every word we write. The young writers are the poets of tomorrow (cliché, I know) but it is true and I encourage them to continue to contribute so we can blend the vigor of youth with the oaken-mellowed savvy of elder minds.

Prisoners

It rains endlessly on rooftops

and chimney pots,

Brave hats defiant as the cascade roars

on corrugations,

Runs slick on tile in eager waterfall,

Glazes windows in serious frenzy,

Drowns every earthly crevice,

Savages every flower,

Saturates every green blade in churn explosion,

Expunges every lost soul

trapped beneath in tedium;

Two are deafened by the thunder

of angry cloud-burst on iron and slate.

Forever prisoners.

© Michael Garrad October 2016

Men And Me

Sit with thy, restlessly, men plead me.

Breathe with thy, quietly, men voiced me.

Don’t give your all on the temporary him,

Don’t waste your time on the unavailable him.

Hold thy, securely, men grasped me.

Kiss thy, fervently, men propelled me.

Live life as you do, not as he does.

His birth does not command your effort.

Lay by thy, serenely, men beheld me.

Stay by thy, thunderstruck, men possessed me.

Words flow through the souls of the lying him.

Abbreviate your actions, don’t touch my hand.

Disgusted by thy, really? Men betrayed me.

Loved by thy, completely, men neglected me.

Don’t you dare deem yourself unworthy.

Don’t you dare waste yourself on men.

© Suzy Liu

Sonnet

Don’t tell me that you are a dying sun

Whose fuel and energy is running out

But condescend and love me when you’re done

And never tell me what it was about.

You need to dream that life will never end

You need to hope when no one knows of hope

You need the satisfaction that can mend,

The satisfaction that can help you cope.

So let me see which star shall be your home

And let me be with you when you are born

To visualise the bang’s expanding dome

Where life may take a better, smarter norm.

You say that all good things must have their end

But new beginnings are around the bend.

© Joe Lake

Hut

Tarkine

Lake St Clair

Walls Of Jerusalem

Tulips

joelake432@gmail.com