taseuropapoetsgazette194
Tasmanian
Europa Poets Gazette
No 194 June 2020
No 194 June 2020
Michael Garrad
Clouds
Clouds climb
mountains,
Kissing them in mist,
Bathing ancient
peaks,
Untouched, unhewn,
unreachable,
Sanctuary for unique
life,
Unseen, unknown,
precious,
Haven for Nature’s
rarest riches,
Brushed by thin, pure
air,
World above green-top
canopy,
Masking lust of man
and machine.
Michael Garrad May 2020
I Am
In the shadow of the
end,
I am,
The truth of me,
Shed of camouflage,
Divest of superficial
words,
The who, unburdened,
It is time,
Shadow stirs,
stretches,
Rush from cover, this
identity,
The one, as born,
The being, hidden,
revealed,
Joy of the seed that
is me,
Shadow falls,
overwhelms,
I am.
Michael Garrad
May 2020
Night Must Fall
And night must fall,
The puzzle pieces,
components of life,
implode, explode
in glorious, gruesome
sequence of
uncontrolled
symmetry,
fired by rage of
imagination
and futile hope,
the remains of an
existence,
once orderly,
without future’s
glance,
only now to cascade,
downward, in spiral
of regret.
Jigsaw pieces in
confusion,
tumbling in the dark
of a chaotic mind,
heard and seen,
touched in endless
room
that never stills.
At pale dawn,
nothing is
substantive,
puzzle pieces in
pattern,
precise in still-life
portrait,
where they were
arranged
at memory’s
beginning.
Michael Garrad
May 2020
Ilford
in Essex
Lidcombe and Auburn in Western Sydney.
Long Pond in Jamaica.
Umina-Central Coast, New South Wales.
Penguin-Central Coast, Tasmania.
In my life, I have been privileged
To have called many places home.
In each one, something different, something special.
Certainly some problems but far more pleasures and
treasures.
Home is where your heart is.
You and your family make your own home.
Phil
Harper
 |
| Robbie Taylor |
Wanna
Bet?
He was sitting on his chair outside,
We were on the ramp
With smiles on our faces,
For we had a magnifying glass
Shining on his bald head.
He only got a few wins
But he got a sunburnt spot instead.
He was sitting on the roof
Listening to the races
We were down below
With smiles on our faces.
‘Ha! You kids can’t get me from down there!’
he said smugly, as he relaxed in his chair.
We removed the ladder
So he couldn’t get down.
I reckon you could hear him swearing
All over town!
Now mum would often say,
‘Robbie loads the gun and Alan pulls the trigger’.
I wasn’t always guilty, mum.
Well, that’s what I figure.
Robbie
Taylor
Cracker Night
Cracker night was on May 24
Until the Government had its way.
A neighbour would build a bonfire
And we would bring our crackers along.
There were fireworks, marshmallows
And a singalong.
One year went to Foster’s farm
Up Ridgley way.
I was disappointed
Seeing as we’d come a fair way.
There was no bonfire,
Or a singalong
But we brought some food
And our crackers along.
I sneaked up to the dairy
And pinched a clean cream can.
But the dog chased me
And I bloody ran!
Once the cream can was in place
We put six bangers within.
After the mighty boom
The cream can began to spin.
The lid hurtled into the air
And came down with a clang.
Our ears were buzzing
From the loud bang.
Ranting in dismay.
“You could have been killed,” was all that mum could say.
When I look back on cracker nights
I particularly remember this one.
Despite there being no bonfire
It was the one where we had the most fun.
Robbie Taylor May
2020
Ronnie-bell
We’re on the sniff trail
At the edge of the bitumen
With all the sights, sounds and smells
Of the forest to pique us
You lead a wandering path
My patience is to follow
You discover all sorts to eat
Most of them yucky
A burr gets caught in your coat
I remove it gently
You press your nose against my leg
And we continue on our wandering way
Catherine
Burton
Dinner, Joe Lake, acrylic on canvas
The
List In That Damned Bucket
I’ve had a bucket list for a while,
I think, since I was about ten.
I’ve thrown some wishes in at times
But pulled them out again.
The bucket changes over time,
Sometimes it’s a coloured bowl
But importantly I’d grab new dreams
And place them in that hole.
The biggest dream I wished to tick
Was to climb Mt Everest,
To be first woman to that peak…
But didn’t…as you’ve guessed!
So then I thought, Antarctica
Would be the place to see.
So I set sail in ‘92
And got there in ’93.
And then I went to Canada,
And skied in minus 20.
I ‘tried’ the Olympic downhill run…
I figured that was plenty!
My final bucket wish would be
To see the great aurora,
The dazzling colours, pink and green
…that amazing curtained aura.
I haven’t seen it yet but know
That magic will transpire.
And whilst I’m nowhere near those poles
That dream will never tire…
Kathryn
Conlin
 |
| Kathrin Conlin |
Tasmanian
Tiger,
Joe
Lake, ink on paper.
Ode
To The Tasmanian Tiger
Tasmanian tiger in the night,
Its eyes shone strong, its eyes shone bright
But then what mortal hand or white man’s gun
Did kill the tiger, bitch and pups, for fun.
And now, the tiger’s gone,
The devil rules alone.
The human presence killed the dream,
The tiger can no more be seen
And yet the tiger’s ghost, at first daylight,
Moans in the contemplation of his plight.
The tiger’s shade sneaks through the night,
As spectre staying out of sight.
Bemoaning the glory of a by-gone age
Before its death within a prison cage
When once it ruled supreme
Within the forest’s dream
Where only black man was its peer
Who ruled the forest with his spear
To contemplate, there, all of nature’s laws.
The tiger took its kills on silent paws.
To roam the rained-on forest wide
To be the pack’s most faithful guide
To see the awe within a holy place,
To free the race towards a lunging chase
To kill and be content
But never to torment
To feast and to be done with it
One chase and then one instant hit
That cured the hunger for another day,
This was the law, the rule, this was the way.
Tasmanian tiger in the night,
Its eyes shone strong, its eyes shone bright
But then what mortal hand or white man’s gun
Did kill the tiger, bitch and pups, for fun.
And now, the tiger’s gone,
The devil rules alone.
The human presence killed the dream,
The tiger can no more be seen
And yet the tiger’s ghost, at first daylight,
Moans in the contemplation of his plight.
And quietly at morning time,
The tiger still, when in its prime,
Would roam beside the Cradle Mountain Lake,
Much silent stalking would be now at stake,
Past paddymelon herds
And screeching flocks of birds
As slowly lifts the rising sun
Into the sky, the day’s begun
As lofty breezes stir somewhat discreet
Towards the morning and the rising heat.
The places where the tiger calls,
Lake Pedder and Detention Falls
The Gordon River, Table Cape
Before the wilderness subdued to rape
At Waldheim and Guide Falls
Jerusalem’s high walls,
At Burnie, Wynyard, Devonport
With Stanley had a true rapport
Yet nowhere is the tiger to be seen
But in a self deceiver’s hopeful dream.
Tasmanian tiger in the night,
Its eyes shone strong, its eyes shone bright
But then what mortal hand or white man’s gun
Did kill the tiger, bitch and pups, for fun.
And now, the tiger’s gone,
The devil rules alone.
The human presence killed the dream,
The tiger can no more be seen
And yet the tiger’s ghost, at first daylight,
Moans in the contemplation of his plight.
Joe
Lake
Joe Lake
Abstract,
untitled, Joe Lake, acrylic on canvas
 |
| Abstract, untitled, Joe Lake, acrylic on canvas |
Meow, Meow, Me Am, Me Am
Meow, meow, me, I am daddy’s boy, me am.
He doesn’t mind my smell
And doesn’t put me in a smelly bubble bath.
Meow, meow, me, I am daddy’s boy.
When I was just a few weeks old,
He took me from my feline mother
and put me in his bed
And allows me to smooch
up to him even whilst he snores.
I love the way he cuddles and cradles me
up against his woolly
jacket as he walks around the house.
Meow, meow, me, I am daddy’s boy, me am.
The only time he is cruel to me is when his
Macho friend comes by then he throws me outside
Because he likes him to think he’s a man not a sissy cat.
Meow, meow,
There are times when
his music-making drives me mad
And I have to scratch and meow, meow
and rip at the carpet
outside his door
until he gives up the racket –
perhaps this is because my name is Mozart
and so he wrongly assumes that I am musical.
Meow, meow even though my time on Earth will soon be
over
I like him to be proud the way he brought me up.
I hope he doesn't get another cat when I die.
Judy Brumby-Lake
Email:
lakej5263@gmail.com
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