gazette no 185
Europa Poets Gazette No 185 September 2019
Burnie Regional Art Gallery
Sunday, October 6, 2-4.30 pm
with Michael Cannon, MC
Readings by the poets
Tea supplied by Friends of the Gallery
$10 entry (includes tea)
In Cohort With God
(Launceston earthquake 1893)
Is it right or is it wrong
When a man of the cloth asks his friend, God,
To punish wayward folk
To redeem their ways?
In Launceston in 1892,
A reverend asked God
To bring on an earthquake
To shake these wayward folk into submission.
This reverend man was granted his request
With not only one earthquake but two.
Then, to the reverend's surprise, he was issued with
A writ for scaring the good people of Launceston.
King O’Malley, an insurance Yank,
Later our Commonwealth Bank creator
And Labor leader, was helped by his lawyer friend
To bring legal redress
Against the reverend for the damage caused
And scaring the elderly and children nearly to death
As solid buildings cracked.
A chimney at the hospital fell
And the doctor fled the town in fear.
Is it right or is it wrong
When a man of the cloth
Gets favouritism from God?
From gazette No 65
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,
From gazette No 39
Little Bird Sky
I was just walking
A little bird landed
On the ground near my feet
The little bird looked at me
Why are you sad?
I don’t know why, I just am
The little bird said
Look up at he sky
And you will feel better
So I did and I did
When I looked down
The little bird had gone
But I continued to look up at the sky
The saxophone leads this jazzmical helm
commanding the song with its tone.
The bass player slaps in his musical realm
and makes this journey his own.
The drummer is chuffed by his cymbalic choice,
as he clocks on the rim of his snare.
The drumhead reverbs with a resonant voice
of flams, paradiddles and flare.
The singer slides in, absorbing the scene,
fondling the microphone lead.
She waits for the offbeat to join in the theme
and sings it like smooth honey mead.
Piano man plays a riff on the keys
unlacing the melody line
He substitutes chords as he beats with his knees,
then ends with a piano slide fine.
The music now fills the room with its scent,
as the jazz fans cuddle their booze.
The air radiates, as though Heaven sent,
of wine and smoky-note blues.
In The Rain
Smiles die in the rain,
Washed away, as with incessant tears,
In waterfall cascade of sorrow,
In the torrent where all is misshapen,
When sparkle eyes dissolve,
As with lips that don’t belong,
Fluid in this silent surrender,
An image in departure,
Under weight of weeping clouds.
And the rivers run without end,
Cruel, this crying sky
when smile vanishes in raging deluge.
Michael Garrad July 2019
Scream Her Name
Scream her name,
Resonating in valley green,
On wall of trees,
Birds flock high, messengers,
Carry to the blue,
They sing in sky orchestration,
Wheeling and soaring,
Precious the cargo,
The name, above verdant pasture,
To her belonging place.
Scream dies on the echo,
She whispers, consoling,
in gentle rustle of leaves,
Close now, on the cusp,
This majestic deliverance.
Michael Garrad July 2019
Think, Think, Think
What has become of this supreme race?
Wired up to apps, iphones
More electronic devices than
A patient in an intensive care ward
Where even flowers are banned, yet
Still people tear them from the ground
And force them into containers,
flowers crying and dying
Never able to complete their earthly cycle
And because of our shameful ignorance,
Neither will you and neither will I.
Band, bang, bang. What’s going on?
It was about seven o’clock in the morning.
I thought it might have been a leaking roof.
I turned on the wireless
To try to drown out the noise
But all I heard was politics.
Malcolm Turnbull is no longer prime minister.
I made a cup of tea
And the noise stopped.
I haven’t had a chance to talk to my neighbours
But it’s all right.
The girl when drawn into the computer’s face
Is hypnotised by its alluring smile
To signal noughts and ones within its trance.
It spits its binaries with eager guile.
Expostulating all that’s real and true
Into a dancing and confusing fog.
It reaches out, pretending to be new
In this seductive and confusing blog.
Yet I sit here, at this electric trap,
Believing that it’s God who Googles me,
A net that may entwine me in this rap
Where I now live, much too afraid to flee.
I have a home that is secure and warm
And that may never try to do me harm.
Anger so deep
The journey so far
The pain so real
Pain so real it makes time stand still
I am overwhelmed by my demons
I am forced to question the person I am
I question why, just why, I seemed to be far removed
From this place
Dark cold and lonely pain is my new place
The fagus is turning!
When autumn days begin to chill
The beech leaves turn from green
To rust, then gold.
The forest floor looks like a carpet
Of autumnal hues
What a sight to behold.
|painting by Robbie Taylor|
|Selfie, Joe Lake 30/40, acrylic on canvas|
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