Tasmanian Europa
Poets Gazette No 158, June 2017
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| Broken Hill artist, Pro Hart and family, Joe Lake, 1974 |
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| Sister's Beach, Tasmania, Joe Lake |
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| The Birth Of Venus, Joe Lake, 1980 |
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| Forbidden Love, White Australia, 1966, Judy Brumby-Lake |
Don’t Pick The Dandelions
Don’t pick the dandelions
For the bee,
His golden bed,
You’d deprive
And he will return naked
to the hive
Winter sun remains
ambushed by myrtle
and pine
Through leatherwood
the winds whine
Ah! Buds are reborn
In spring
When blossom comes
Dancing in. The bee?
He will survive
and return
with harvest
to the hive.
© Kathleen O’Donnell
The Bloody Swimming Pool
Two brothers with their
billycart
Were scavenging in the lane,
Christmas crepe paper
That shops couldn't use again.
"Only get the red
bits,"
Said one brother to the next.
The younger boy nodded,
Although he looked perplexed.
Later, when the night air was
cool,
The boys put the paper
Into the swimming pool.
Next morning when people were
swimming
The water turned deep red!
One boy cried, "I think
someone is dead!"
"Who did you come
with?"
yelled a frantic Brumbies Hill.
Oh what pandemonium
The boys did instil!
The boys were perched in a tree
To watch the commotion.
Teenage girls screamed
In hysterical emotion.
A rotund sergeant
Was throwing his weight
about.
"You've got to drain the
pool
And call the ambulance
out."
When the pool was drained
They expected to find a body.
Instead there was red crepe
paper
That was thick and soggy.
© Robbie Taylor
Try Or Quit
I am a tryer, not a quitter.
When I write poetry I think of Henry Ford.
He never gave up and neither will I.
Life has many ups and downs - but never give
up
Some will love your poetry - others will not
That’s life.
What a terrible world if we all liked the
same things.
Send your poems overseas
Or interstate,
Someone is bound to enjoy your thoughts on
paper.
Do not say you are a failure
Or that you are not a tryer.
Never be a quitter.
© Yvonne Matheson
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| Yvonne Matheson |
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| Judy Brumby-Lake |
How Many Philanthropists?
How many philanthropists
Throughout our history
Have given money
To worthy causes?
Money they have accumulated
From the sweat of the masses
Of blue-collar workers
Who went
To an early grave.
How many philanthropists
In their twilight years
Gave money to worthy causes
As a bribe to their god
So that they, the philanthropists,
Can have a good afterlife?
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Transience
I’m sitting on a park bench with you,
Quietly observing the scenery -
I see white feathers floating above my head,
Twisting and turning at the will of the wind
-
Where did they come from and where will they
go?
Bubbles from a child’s pipe hold spinning
colours within -
Only to burst and disperse in seconds,
Clouds streak across an arch of blue,
Instantly changing form in their quest
To be some place else,
Vivid flowers, in neat beds, wilt in the heat
-
They might be dead by tomorrow,
And I think - everything around me now is
so
transient -
Except for one white feather that somersaults
onto your shoulder
And settles there -
Will it weigh heavily on your conscience?
Why is it that nothing seems to last?
© June Maureen Hitchcock
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| Michael Garrad |
Michael
Garrad’s View
On One Side - Part 3
They don’t visit you much, even now.
They
never did.
It
was always you and me.
Yes.
And Mickey and Smokie, the faithful pets.
Yes.
You and me, and them.
Family.
Yes.
Love me, love my dog - and cat!
Yes.
And
the goldfish!
I
just wanted you to be well.
I
know.
It
never happened. As good as it gets.
I
knew that. I don’t know why you stayed.
Because I loved you.
Yes.
“Yes”, you loved me back? “Yes”, you knew I loved you?
Yes.
I did get lonely. Why didn’t you stay longer?
Habit. Visit. Go home. Are you lonely now?
No.
We
were lovers, partners, friends, companions. Then carer.
Altogether.
Yes.
You always cared.
Did
I care enough?
Only
you can answer that.
Yes. I was never far away. I loved you every day.
Yes.
I was the happiest I’d ever been when we met.
And now?
I
was happy you were there.
I
should have done more.
You
did what you could.
It
wasn’t enough.
I
always looked forward to seeing you.
Too soon gone again.
You
stayed as long as you could.
Was
sad when I left. Could have stayed a night.
But
you didn’t. That’s how it was.
You should have said.
I
did once but you just wanted to be friends.
The love never stopped.
I
know that.
I
will care for you, even in death.
Yes.
____________________________
The
Fading Mind
The
endless ticking of a silver-rimmed clock
gives
voice to this place’s heartbeat.
A
sound contested only by the cricket’s song.
His
mind goes limp, brought to its knees
by
the endless questions,
The
whispers from behind his eyes.
Like
a persuasive anchor, the urge comes again,
Stronger
than the desire to love,
Then
the will to draw breath.
This
was the silent song of sleep,
A
temptress never resisted,
Kept
from her prey only
By
the warm glow of his bedside lamp.
© Harry Oldaker 2017
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| Joe Lake |
Sonnet
The tired sun expires in the west
Towards another realm to droop its head,
Ashamed for leaving as it has to rest
Forever seeking for its own sweet bed.
Precariously it has slunk away
Considering its age, it had to go
Where wrinkled cares, tattooed as marks will
stay
Needled with pain and hurt of long ago
But, when from memories we pluck for youth,
As a newborn’s dream races towards its life
This heart will tell you how to find the muse
From vantages before one has arrived.
When
then our souls are seeking for their rest
We
should not let them die on vain request.
© Joe Lake
The Little Windmill
The little windmill was born in China and was
sent here with children’s toys or garden ornaments. little windmill had always
thought herself as special. She was given as a present to a four-year- old girl
who whooshed her about or blowed at her sails, her wings. The little windmill
ended up stuck on top of a fence post where, with a gentle breeze, she happily
turned and turned her many-coloured little sails. Sometimes the colours of her
sails would merge into white. With no wind, the little windmill would sit on
her fence post forlorn and yet would dream of being able to fly like the birds,
bees or butterflies. Those times were for meditation. She would sleep and in
sleep would conquer the universe beyond the clouds and the stars, and would
whirl on forever and ever but soon enough the wind would come again and the
little windmill would happily rejoice, turning her sails into the breeze.
Then,
one day, the sky darkened and thunder and lightning broke through black clouds.
The little wind mill was frightened. The storm tore her sails half off and when
the storm had moved on, the little windmill was all in tatters and her sails
wouldn’t turn anymore. The little windmill cried for having lost her purpose.
She was taken off the post and put in the garbage where she ended up right in
the middle of the city dump deep under other refuse.
Four
billion years passed. The sun exploded and with it the Earth, where all
particles were dispersed. The fragmented atoms of the little windmill were now
blown out into the universe towards the stars where she now dances and sings,
and whirls with the stardust of Heaven for all eternity.
© Joe Lake
Letters to God will be answered by God next
month.
Dear God,
I’m writing because there are some minor
problems in our lives. First of all, I must tell you that I had a left hip
replacement. It went smoothly. It’s been some weeks now and I practically walk
without crutches. There are so many questions I would like to ask, for example,
did you really make the world in six days? Awesome. You said in one of your
last letters that you wouldn’t interfere with foolishness because that would
only make us worse. There are many good things happening down here but you know
all about that and some bad things are happening too. I suppose they are to
test us.
How
is Vi and all the other people we have lost? She used to write letters to you
and you said, I believe, that she’ll be sitting beside you as an earthly
adviser. Could I write letters to her and would she answer? That would be nice.
I have so many more questions. How long is it before Jesus comes and would then
the Earth be a better place?
Remaining Yours...
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