gazette 188

Tasmanian Europa Poets Gazette No 188 December 2019

 

Model, Joe Lake, acrylic on canvas 94/94cm

Tewkesbury Gold

Though the mountains tower old

And the rivers run cold,

I’ll never stop searching

For Tewkesbury gold.

               Gold in the bright eyes of

The people that live there,

Gold in their smiles and

Gentle hands that give care,

               Gold in the harmony and

Peace that surrounds men,

Gold in the fat cattle and

Pastures that sustain them,

               Gold in the daffodils

Singing up to the sun,

Gold in the purest air

Breathed by everyone

               Though the mountains tower old

And the rivers run cold,

I’ll never stop yearning

For Tewkesbury gold.

Catherina Burton

Lights Up!

(Burnie High School’s Hansel & Gretel)

What a show!

What a crowd!

Excited parents so very proud

Great music, large and loud

               The score was batonned with precision

Never a note of indecision

               Brilliant costumes

Goblins, butterflies, clowns

And sparkling diamante gowns

               Jocose remarks projecting well

The audience is pleased and laughter swells

               Little dancers stepping heel to toe

Movements rhythmic ebb and flow

With skirts aswirling gymnasts twirling

And flooding down lights all aglow.

Skilled changes by the backstage crew

Grant the stage a lowering hue

For where had been a forest dark (and) green

Appears by magic, a village scene

               The chorus, in rousing solos, is ringing

Bodies swinging, atmosphere zinging

And painted girls with much vivacity

Leap, tumbling and splitting with superb elasticity

               Artful, wily witch is vanquished

Those lost have been found

The village rejoices royal romance abounds

               When the last footfall has departed

And images are but transient dreams

Faint remnants of song with liltings of laughter

Are echoing still through those lofty beams.

Kathleen O'Donnell

Jennifer

White spirit of the phantom waves

Who lives in the twilight of zone.

She walks in the room with a mask and a wine

And waits there to meet her own clone.

               Her head held high in her own belief

But her losses are low in her heart.

She sidles up to another like-soul

And waits for the mind games to start.

               We just don’t know those, who are passing us by

As we can’t walk a mile in their stride.

We can only observe what she wants us to know

And to trust that…she wholeheartedly tried.

               They say the devil is in the detail

(or perhaps in the deepest blue sea)

But Jennifer smiles to herself, just once more,

As she looks in the mirror…at me.

Kathryn Conlin

We Have Blood On Our Hands

We have blood on our hands!

We have blood on our hands like Lady Macbeth!

A reminder of what we have done to our planet,

To fauna, flora and to each other.

We are supposed to be stewards of God’s creation

But we wanted to be demigods,

Do our own thing

Go our own way

Only care about ourselves.

We are so ANTHROPOCENTRIC.

 If humankind keeps going this way, what will remain?

Dianne Woods

Robbie Taylor, Survival

 

  

Mum’s Poem

Echoes of the past. September 15,1940.

Like graceful birds across the sky,

Flashing silver as they fly.

There they go, the people cry.

               “Spitfires!”

Winging in an endless flight,

Keeping guard by day and night,

Swooping low or gaining height,

               Our fighters.

Battle of Britain waged and won,

Valiant men, their duty done

This above all and second to none.

               Our pilots.

Heroes all, so brave and true,

Eternal thanks are due to you.

We all owe so much to ‘the few’

In Hurricanes, Blenheims -

Mechanics and crew.

               We salute you.

Anonymous

(I found this poem written on an envelope by my mother,

in an old book. I am unable to find out as to who wrote it. )

 Robbie Taylor

Tap On The Shoulder…

Death: Morning!

Me: Morning!

Death: I’m Death..

Me: I beg your pardon!

Death: I’m Death. Boat 13, come in, please!

Me: I’ve only just got here.

Death: All over, Red Rover! I’m sorry if it puts you out.

Me: Well, it does put me out. I’m just having a coffee. And I’ve got a scone coming.

Death: Should’ve thought about that earlier.

Me: Do I get another chance?

Death: Not in this life! Not in this death either!

Me: I’m not ready yet.

Death: No one ever is but I am!

Me: I haven’t had a shag today.

Death: Should’ve done that sooner. Morning glory! Know what I mean?

Me: I just didn’t think. And I’m not even sick. Fit as a raging bull! Who wakes up in the morning thinking oh what a beautiful day, I’m going to die? Can I borrow some time? I can give you cash. Just between us, nudge, wink, say no more, eh, eh?

Death: Money can’t buy you love - or anything else! You’re toast or, depending on where you end up, burnt toast! Three score year and ten plus five! No more bonuses, no more borrowing. Wealth counts for nothing. Lucky old family, I say. And the lawyers!

Me: What about my mate here? He’s older.

Death: And wiser! He’s got a few long black and whites to go yet. No queue-jumping for him. You’re next cab off the rank, old son. One-way trip. Flag fall, dollar down and a dollar a week for eternity. And the best balcony seat in the auditorium! Looking down and never up!  Death’s a great leveller!

Me: I still need a shag. And who’s going to feed my cats? And do the washing-up? And make my bed?

Death: You’re on the list, my list! And not Schindler’s list either! Besides, there’s no such thing as a shag in the after-life. No primal urges! No nothing really.

Me: Can I have a last cigarette?

Death: Smoking will kill you. And it probably has!

Me: I need to say goodbyes.

Death: You already have.

Me: Here’s the lovely lady with my scone.

Death: Your mate can eat it. You couldn’t now, even if you wanted to. See? You’re not there anymore. Welcome to my world - if you can call it that.

Me: Do I get to go back?

Death: Sorry, mate. The best peas went to Farrow’s…when they made peas like Farrow’s did. When you were barely podded!

Me: Where to now?

Death: Nowhere. On with the show! Who’s next?

 Michael Garrad

Joe Lake, Ulverstone, acrylic on canvas

Equality

A human has the right to be human.

And still, some steal this right from others.

We think ourselves the epitome of nature

Yet born out of wedlock, you are of lesser value.

We believe males and first-borns to be superior

We value widows but not  the abused.

We persecute and feel sorry when it is too late.

We worship fashionable pretenders.

We hate changes and differences

And we don’t feel appreciated enough.

The Declaration of Rights is a new path

Of love and wisdom and has no bias nor dogma.

Our future could be without prejudice

No matter what other humans believe.

People, born free and equal,

prejudice themselves and others.

 Joe Lake

Hunchback Of The Street

Crouched on the pavement

Near the entrance to the railway station tunnel,

A distorted hump-backed form

Caped in black rags appears to be cradling a child.

She holds out her mitten, her hand dirty and covered with mucous.

She piteously cries out for money, revealing her

Distorted black and holed teeth.

From beneath the cape came the wailing cry of a baby.

The beggar woman coughed and splattered,

               as she wailed.

Even though this cry alerted passersby,

Her gasping, rasping  splattering, wheezing,

               coughing

kept people from getting too close

They threw coins into the beggar’s bowl

               And then hastened on.

A lone, well dressed man,

               with tailored blue jeans and jacket,

brazenly got too close to her

And hisses, ‘Get a job, get a job, you vermin.’

At dusk, this pathetic form draped in black -

with red-tipped shoes, like a cockroach,

scurries and disappears into a tunnel.

No one seemed to care were she would sleep.

At the end of the tunnel some ten minutes away,

A petite well-groomed woman with a backpack

And red-tipped shoes appears

And goes into the units nearby

Where she dances around to tango music

and says aloud, ‘I’ll go out and dance tonight.’

She empties a beggar’s bowl of its contents.

Then says, ‘Oops, before I go, I better

Take out those awful teeth and remove the

make- up,

Especially from my hands,

And I shall hide the doll.

 Judy Brumby-Lake

 

Confectionery Days

I have a bad habit - I’m a secret compulsive eater

And often snack on sweet treats at all odd times

Of the day and night.

Today, on a perfect winter’s day that felt like summer,

I found something much more satisfying than fudge and Mars Bars!

I drove into the north-west Tasmanian countryside,

Got out of my car and lay on sweet-smelling grass ‘

               ’til sunset.

Mesmerised by marshmallow clouds

Drifting along in a bright lollipop sky.

Warmed by a large penny sun,

(Like those chocolate discs in gold wrappers

               I know so well).

And with the upturned ice cream cone of

               Valentine’s Peak in the distance.

I decided that no comfort food I’d ever consume

Could match nature’s delicious confectionery -

I must indulge more often!

 June Maureen Hitchcock

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