Paintings by Joe Lake, acrylic on canvas, 30/40
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| 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
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| Hut |
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| Tarkine |
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| Lake St Clair |
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| Walls Of Jerusalem |
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| Tulips joelake432@gmail.com |
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