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