gazette189
Tasmanian
Europa Poets Gazette
No 189 January 202
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| Hermione, Joe Lake, acrylic on canvas |
The World
Between
Between life
and death is the clinging -
Unless the end
is instant.
A desperately
ill person clings
With all the
tenacity and strength within,
Knowing
probably the end is inevitable.
No one wants to
leave loved ones home -
And the
possibility of a miracle - the gift of time,
Unless, of
course, a personal choice is
to leave, willingly,
With no care
for the pain left behind -
Though in some
cases, there might be
no one left to care,
No family or
home to treasure.
When someone clings to
life,
Knowing full
well the eventual outcome -
Do they imagine
a clash between angels
and the devil
Until arriving
in ‘the great unknown’?
Who can dare to
assume?
My friend is far away,
clinging to life,
I am told.
There are many
to care, many who will grieve
When he finally
leaves - I am one of them.
He is deemed a
‘foreigner’ in the Asian country
He has called
home for twenty-five years,
So does he wish
to be part of its soil
Or to be
returned to the country of his birth?
Does he hope to
be in angels’ care
In view of his
intriguing, shadowy past?
I will never know now how
my friend
feels and thinks,
Or the thoughts
of anyone clinging to life -
Until I am
faced with the same dark dilemma.
June Maureen
Hitchcock
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| Follies, Judy Brumby-Lake |
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| Judy Brumby-Lake |
Summer’s
Follies
Seasons seem to
accelerate their returns
as we move
through the cycles of life.
Summertime is a
time to shred our winter cloaks
And dispense
with modesty
By allowing
nature to embrace our skin.
Summertime to
self-indulge,
Immersing the
body in water
And also for
frolicking and rollicking
In amongst
nature’s natural flora
For summer’s
freebies are a recompense
For all those
bleak winter seasons.
Judy
Brumby-Lake
 |
Robbie Taylor
The Line
Markers
We had been
doing the lines for twenty years.
Persevering
through blood, sweat and tears.
Pushing the
machine in the driving rain.
Just for the
love of our Rugby game.
In sun, wind,
sleet and snow.
We measure
where the lines must go.
With string and
a marlin’s pike.
4 km of lines.
Now that’s a hike!
5, 10 and 22.
We picked up
sticks and dog poo.
Paint on our
shoes and our jeans.
Easy task by no
means!
We filled in
the holes, nuts and skids.
Ambushed by
dogs and quizzed by kids.
Any crooked
lines were blamed on Robbie
Even though
painting is my hobby.
Sometimes the
machine got bogged
And other times
the jets would get clogged.
Cleaned the
jets with a toothbrush.
Then the
machine was ready to push.
The cops were
called by a lady
Who thought
that we were being shady.
The council
guys would bring us the gear.
When the
plovers swooped we knew
we were too near.
We are tired
now but the lines will be done.
We hope someone
will have as much fun.
Robbie Taylor
 |
| Kathryn Conlin |
Sunrise
Sunrise again,
on time for the season,
Today,
tangerine starts it all for no reason
Except it must
choose its colourful hues
And wade
through the choices with colour chart blues!
Light grey and mushroom,
spawning to pink,
Then flashes of ruby, rose
and red ink,
Burnt ochre, tiger and
wild wicked honey,
Magenta and amber peel off
like blood money.
Oh that our
days were filled with such vibrancy
Of colour that
daily becomes mental influence.
So, at sunset’s
recall of the painting that day
We sit back in
awe of the master-class play.
Kathryn
Conlin
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| June Maureen Hitchcock |
A Letter To Mother
Mother dear,
You’ve been
long gone from this Earth -
But I’ve been
thinking about you.
When, as a
girl, you came with your parents
on a ship from America -
A perilous
journey while World War I raged around you.
It seemed that
instead of a new beginning in Australia,
Life here ended
for you.
I look at your
photograph and weep
For the sad,
unhappy woman you became -
But if you’d
stayed in America - where would I be -
And more than
that - who would I be?
Many times, you
planned to return to the place of your birth -But sadly, your dream was never
fulfilled.
As an adult I
went, on one of my sojourns,
To your home in
‘Fruitvale’, a suburb of your beloved city
In Oakland,
California -
A place where
ladies, wearing elegant gowns
and buttoned boots,
(Bought from
the smart fashion houses of San Francisco -
A ferry trip
across the bay), strolled on the arms
Of their
gentlemen companions, along the lovely avenues
Lined each side
with fruit trees.
I took a
photograph of your old street corner
And showed you
the image when I returned
And you cried
for your lost happy childhood -
But what I
didn’t tell you was how ugly your city had become
The fruit trees
had disappeared
And on those
bare avenues,
Throngs of poor
black people shuffled along -
Aimless, as if
they had nowhere in particular to go.
What once was
your magic city was now a ghetto.
You asked me
whether Oakland was still lovely -
I lied when I
said, ‘Yes.’
I was with you
when that uninvited guest, death,
Waiting to take
you from me, hovered just above your head -
And then in a
second - you were gone.
It’s a comfort
to me now that your soul rests
In the place of
your memories -
A place that
was once just perfect for you.
June Maureen
Hitchcock
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| Michael Garrad |
In
The Name Of The End
When death’s stare is fixed,
Jesting, callous, in the name of the end,
The pause in a breath and a dead dream,
It becomes the judgment
that stifles air’s sweet elixir,
That snuffs a rose scent,
This stale perfume lingering a lifetime,
And that blinds sight as witness to high green,
That deafens nature’s ornate chorus,
That takes all that lives
in one powerful movement of time,
Brings to equilibrium mortality’s sober reign.
Michael Garrad November 2019
Temperate Mist
This valley, green, ’neath temperate mist,
This singing river in the midst
of wooded cheeks,
snakes in joyous recognition over pebbles, kissed,
That human hand, ever eager, missed
such verdant pasture with a cruel and crushing fist,
While all around tin gods in secret tryst
despoiled for riches on unwritten hunter’s list,
But fate, in sweet and generous twist,
froze precious stroke of time on Nature’s wrist,
And boldly, with emblazoned wand, did nought but to insist
this collage of living lush be veiled in glorious, temperate
mist.
Michael Garrad December 2019
Not
This Day
She didn’t choose this day,
Could have,
The day chose her,
And did,
Before the sun rose,
In the loneliest dark,
Had been her wish to die,
Not this day,
Could have wakened to dawn’s call,
But didn’t,
Death stalked in sleep,
Act of subterfuge.
She never missed him again,
He missed her, stunned in solitude,
In the torrent of raw grief,
Unimaginably hollow.
He sensed her from beyond,
Never a touch,
But there,
Jigsaw of extraordinary perfumes,
At a moment,
As one, in silence,
She could have lived,
But didn’t,
He died inside,
Hides behind a necessary smile.
Michael Garrad November 2019
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| Joe Lake |
Sonnet
The warm air
inside the ten-seater
Made me feel
sleepy, dreamy and content
I raised my
face up towards the heater
Giving myself
to creative portent.
With eyes
closed, I meditated gently.
The current of
heavenly warmth stroked me
And made me
sleep as life hesitated
I flew through
turbulence I couldn’t see.
Then the bus
hit a bump as if so fated
From meditation
into wakefulness
As peaceful
landscapes passed the window screen
To hypnotise
within my helplessness.
Keeps moving,
floating past, eternal greens,
To drift away
towards my weariness.
Joe Lake
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| Lovers, Joe Lake, acrylic on canvas |
 |
| Yvonne Matheson |
Home
What I call
home.
It is a
friendly, relaxing dome.
No need to
roam.
It is a
lived-in place.
It is not a
running race.
Nor is it just
like a sterile instrument
That reminds me
of hospitals and basements.
It can be big
or small.
But it must
have a welcome call.
Animals - maybe
a couple of cats.
Or maybe a
couple of dogs.
At least that
is much better than frogs.
Some flowers
have fragrance.
It isn’t
extravagance.
A herb garden
is pleasant to have near
When making a
stew or casserole, so do not fear.
Home is one
man’s castle
Where you do
not have to be put on a pedestal.
There is no
need to put on airs.
People accept
you no matter what you wear.
If in a tent,
you are content.
Home is where
the heart is not bent.
Magnificent
houses do not make a home.
You might as
well be in Rome.
Yvonne
Matheson
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