tasmanian europa poets gazette 190 February 2020
Tasmanian Europa Poets Gazette No 190
February 2020
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| Leigh, Joe Lake pen on paper |
The Reverend
When the reverend strode into our room,
I could sense impending doom.
A fire and brimstone preacher
And not our regular teacher
Of religious instruction.
“Dirty
people who use their left hand,
Have evil ways that should be banned.”
With piercing eyes he stared at me,
I glowed red for all to see.
“This school must make a firm stand
Everyone must use their right hand.”
Mendacious words for a child of eight
Turned friend into foe. Mate against mate.
“Don't play with her. She’s not your friend!”
How I wished this all would end!
What does it matter which hand you use?
No-one has the right to abuse.
Robbie Taylor
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| Wynyard, Joe Lake, acrylic on canvas, 30/40 |
A new life
She still had shreds of heaven
about her,
p’raps intercepted on the way
and redirected back to Earth.
So long-awaited, first in joy,
then latterly anxiety
intervened.
But now she’s here and fears
are dissipated,
for she is delicately made.
Perfection cannot be defined
without intrinsic goodness.
If we accept there is no god,
we must perforce invent one.
Either way,
this child will be
much loved.
(Published in The Furgling
Fairy-wren, 2017, by Mary Kille
Mary Kille
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| Painting by Kathryn Conlin |
Sailing Our Solar System (a brief
journey)
I leave the last planet, though it’s no
longer so…
...where the cold and beyondness is more
than
we know,
A dwarf it is called now (so planet is
dropped)…
No Disney life here! To the next one I’ll
opt…
Neptune
is named, after god of the sea…
Though its gaseous surface hides more than I
see.
No depth of an ocean, no waves of delight…
I think I’ll head closer, to where there’s
more light.
Uranus…
the god of sky is a liar…
...its uncommon title is no ring of fire.
I’ll pass by this planet, my foot is down
flat…
I could never live on a planet named that!
Saturn
is halo-ed… a sight to be viewed!
The problem is this though, I’m not in the
mood…
To dodge through those discs of ice rocks and
crap
I just might fall through the Cassini ring
gap.
Jupiter,
a monolith, large and unblinking,
Overrides all that a human is thinking.
To sightsee a bit would take thousands of
years
And Jovian travel would cost a few beers.
Mars
is a planet, we’ve touched down before.
We drilled a few holes in the hope to find
more.
No caramel, nougat or milk choc delight!
Ain’t staying here if there’s nothing to
bite!
Earth,
I’ll bypass, I know what lies there…
Have not seen it all but its absence of care
And neglect for the planet, is constantly
seen…
I’ll head for the sun now… and have an
ice-cream.
Venus,
the goddess of beauty and love,
She plays in the night sky with nothing to
prove.
She hides her secrets in overcast skies.
She’s worth just one visit, before one dies!
Mercury
should be the Gold Coast for heat,
Though its hot crispy surface not good on the
feet!
I think I’ll move closer, to where I am
going,
though my future is probably less than I’m
knowing.
The
sun is now close and so is the heat,
I’m fast funning out of a cooling retreat…
I’m melting… and so is my pen and this paper…
The last words I’ve written…
...have
now become vapour…phhhhht.
Kathryn Conlin
Compassionate Times
A girl child and her companion, a teddy,
is thrown violently, bleeding and torn, to
the ground
As baby boomers, anti-conformists,
Dress in similar-hue dark clothes,
surge over her and onward, oblivious to their
surrounds, with animated lips
their fashion-accessory mobile phones pressed
to their faces.
Life is suspended - existing elsewhere.
No one is engaging either physically or with
their eyes.
The echoing sounds of the surging crowds’
chattering voices mingle
with
their rhythmical pounding feet on the pavement’s concrete.
A pubescent-boy offspring, a creation of
these baby boomers, a skater boy,
is dressed in the floppy clothing of his
clan.
He meanders through the labyrinth of legs
like
a slalom skier.
His hips and shoulders sway to rapper-sound
music
from the earphones of his portable CD player.
The music overshadows for him the rhythmic
pounding of the trampling herd.
He communicates through a mobile phone.
He is oblivious to the blood on the wheels of
his skateboard
from the sprawled, run-over, bleeding child
and her torn teddy.
In a disused doorway, a weathered
rubious-faced
man squats.
He stares with bloodshot eyes at the scene.
His comforter amber fluid is by his side.
He is dressed in the style and colour of
the once-working masses.
Through a fragmented haze of residual
compassion,
he attempts to rise towards the bleeding
and sprawling,
otherwise ignored, child.
Judy Brumby-Lake
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| Skater, Judy Brumby-Lake, oil on canvas |
Skater, Judy Brumby-Lake
Grieving
Silence
Melancholy
fields raped by hunger fire,
They
lie black now,
Stench
of hot coals gag at the throat,
Fill
nostrils with acrid smoulderings,
Leftovers
of a scorched Earth,
Coals
that once lived, green,
A
canopy of foliage that smothered delightfully,
All
consumed in the unforgiving maelstrom,
Sanctuary
trees now skeletal,
Death
markers after the inferno,
Not
a sound in summer’s blister haze,
Grieving
silence.
Michael
Garrad January 2020
That
Look
Missed
that look,
Softer
shade of love,
Diluted
over arc of weary years,
Passion
dormant in winter ravage,
Pain,
in ascendancy, consumed,
Eyes
saw only memories,
The
two were without end,
Words
changed the between,
In
blink of dark, there was death,
After-look
etched in eternity.
Michael
Garrad January 2020
Burnie
Hospital
Thanks
for the Burnie hospital workers.
Cleanliness
is a necessity.
Nurses
are there the moment you ring a bell.
They
work very hard, sometimes two shifts.
Doctors
who perform necessary operations.
We
are lucky to live in Tasmania.
I
was there to receive two operations.
In
eight months I had my right hip operated on
Then,
later, my left knee.
Now
I feel a different person,
Walking
and other duties are slow
But I’m getting there.
Thanks
to the Burnie hospital workers.
Health
is our birthright.
Yvonne Matheson
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| Flowers, Joe Lake, acrylic on canvas |
Joe Lakeian Sonnets
Behind the skyline lurks the sunrise
Waiting
to devour the night
As
if a tsunami were descending
To clean all towards a new beginning
But
when you look again it is a chimera
That
nevertheless swallows all
But then you turn your back and close your
eyes
And
it’s not there - gone
As
if you never existed
Like a gift from God where you find peace
Way
beyond the universe
Only
all is in you - when the curtain never rises.
________________
You aimed too high
And
the bullet missed its target;
The
discerning eye you trusted let you down
As the ocean had turned to ice
Where
you could walk over crags
Only
you were made of flesh
And if you stretched, you could part the
horizon
Where
you gathered strength from the void
Like
a colostomy bag
Walking erect, pretended control
And
where wishing made dreams come true
When
you let yourself be frozen.
_________________
You sometimes wonder where you are,
Where
in the universe, precisely - now
And
what time it is on Mars.
The solidity of water, frozen in time,
Made
rocks melt to be ejaculated by a volcano
But
they were vulnerable
If you reached up, you could touch hell
And
force it to compliance
Like
a maxi-yacht reaching towards its goal
Where the pain in your knee made you aware
That
wishing was no cure
When
you’re an Instagram millionaire.
Joe Lake
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| Ulysses And The Siren, Joe Lake, pen on paper |
joelake5263@gmail.com
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