Tasmanian Europa Poets Gazette mp 187
Tasmanian Europa Poet Gazette No 187 November 2019
|Joe Lake, artist and model. acrylic on canvas|
Where are you little butterfly,
I saw you yesterday.
I want to go and play with you,
So could you come today?
The letterbox, where you sat
Still, is waiting at my house,
Without you there,
I wait and wait.
Just like a still grey mouse
Your colours bright and special are
Your wings just like some bird’s.
And should the other butterflies
Come calling here to see,
We all can get together
For an afternoon tea.
Where have you come from, my wandering beauty?
And where will you go?
You are almost lost - white, against the snow
But I see you and I wonder -
Perhaps you were once a part of some exotic bird,
A graceful swan -
Or just an unwanted feather from a domestic duck,
Goose or merely from next Sunday’s
Family chicken dinner!
But wherever you’ve come from, I envy you,
I want to be like you -
To float, to drift, to dream -
To shed my past and my worries -
And to think that wherever I land,
I might find peace - and a new beginning.
June Maureen Hitchcock
One corner of the Western Front
The trenches were not far apart
A German soldier sang from the heart,
It was not yet Christmas Day.
Just a few yards away,
An English Tommy with tears
Sang “Silent Night”, as Christmas drew near.
The next morning, an eerie peace.
Enemies mingled, played football together,
Smoked together, ate chocolates together,
Swapped photographs of loved ones.
Twenty-four hours later,
Back to the crater
Try hard, gain a few more yards
On foreign soil, for either your king or kaiser.
That foreigner who yesterday
Became you friend.
Today his life you must end
You are at war for your country
Forget about peace.
The man with whom yesterday you spoke with reason
Do the same today - you will be shot for treason.
It did never make sense.
The terror in the waiting room
The cutting sound of drill…
The high-pitched whirring all is doom!
I’m here against my will.
I’m next… and ushered to that chair,
The nurse smiles as she leads.
I can’t believe I’m sitting here,
My heart now surely bleeds.
The leather sound, as I’m laid back,
The comfort is a lie.
I’m going down that dental track
And fear I’m gonna die!
The nurse is smiling with her eyes,
A mask hides what she knew!
The dentist sits, his mask belies
What he’s about to do.
He pokes and prods with pointy things…
He comments to his nurse.
She notes them on my records there!
I think of nothing worse!
He finishes and then sits back,
(the curse is what I fear!)
“There’s no decay there, Mrs C.
We’ll recall you next year”…
The Mohawk nation flag was fluttering in the breeze
Proudly above the white cedar trees.
The colours are from their beaded wampun belt.
The purple quahog and the white welk.
The eagle has outstretched wings.
For he is their god of all living things.
He is the messenger of the creator
And most of all, the peace protector.
The eagle is enveloped by a silver chain.
Reconciliation. No wars again.
Strong. Untarnished and pure.
To maintain harmony into the future.
Both are encircled by a white ring
Unity and strength it will bring.
The cycle of life, great peace and great law.
A fascinating flag is what I saw.
A pair of plovers are resident
In my backyard.
And trying to get rid of them
Is proving extremely hard.
Apparently they are endangered
And so are protected by law.
But I don’t want to be
Those yellow-masked birds
With red stilted legs.
Don’t worry, Mr Plover,
I won’t tamper with your eggs.
I want to put my washing out.
Surely it’s not a crime!
But no! Swoop! Whoosh!
I cop it every time!
We are lucky to be alive.
Fresh air, sea breeze.
Sunshine kisses my body.
Hello sea gulls.
They love their breakfast.
It is quite pleasant today.
No loud noises.
The love is,
The memory is,
The image is,
The voice is,
The scent is,
The thought is,
In every breath,
Every bird call,
Every cool rain,
Every warm sun,
Every green haven,
In every living detail,
Michael Garrad September 2019
On this patch of green, we stand,
Smug, as humans, proud and grand,
We pay no heed to Nature’s power,
Yet, come another incidental hour,
We indulge material and other,
Leer at impossible and smother,
As universe wreaks havoc, rushes,
And in an ordinary moment, crushes.
Michael Garrad September 2019
Staring into the cavern without end,
The longest of interminable black,
The pit beckons, no salvation,
Future set to the moan of dark angels,
No touching hands, cold,
No embrace, the clutch final,
No hope, rushing of gloom,
No passion, limbs spent,
No together, even in transitory gesture,
Just the hollow this day,
Do not dream of what might be,
Only what has gone,
Welcome the nightmare,
There is no leaving,
One-way this frightful journey.
Michael Garrad October 2019
Endless is this garden,
Without a season’s change,
Vibrant and unkempt,
Without a hand upon it,
Untouched for eternity,
Without winter’s rough grasp,
Unrivalled is this cascade-green,
Without stain of cruel black,
This summer that never died,
As it was, as it is,
Without enemy of time,
Splendid in melodious chorus,
Without peer or boundary,
Without and within,
Indelible, constant and alive.
Michael Garrad October 2019
Our ancient weatherboard house’s fence
Cowers behind the university,
Afraid of exposure to the world.
The regular rain (too much this year)
Makes the lawn grow as if it should feed cattle,
Making me attack it with my recalcitrant mower.
The grass pretends not to know the warming
And keeps growing to annoy me
And my arthritic legs, one with a replaced hip.
The cold air drifts up from the Arctic,
And the rain is not allowed onto the mainland
Where it could heal the burning.
This October had the coldest day ever
As we cuddled up under two doonas
Like people escaping for a moment from the cold.
As a child I dreamt of success
Which to me meant normality.
One day, I saw marching trumpets.
That’s what I wanted to do with my life.
Positive as a dreamer, I learned to play too
But couldn't, no matter how much I practised.
They shoot musicians, don’t they?
But they don’t eat them.
Now as I sit in the gazebo,
I stare at the silence.
The Faceless Women
The faceless women
Are overshadowed by statuesque figures
They work to achieve the goals of society
And submerge their own needs to cater
To the statuesque goddess, genuflecting to her.
Ironically, the statuesque ones arrive accidentally
Just before the entourage of the cameramen
And appear to be praised
For the work of the faceless women.
Often those who succeed belong to organisations
Where they, as figureheads,
Sign their society’s success.
Whence the faceless ones, those behind the scenes,
Do the toil and sometimes, when they die,
They may be immortalised
Through literature and imagery.
|Judy Brumby-Lake, Faceless, acrylic|
|Joe Lake, Contemplation acrylic on canvas, 30/40|