Infectious Rhythms
Infectious rhythms beat
to the cycles of nature
to intertwine
and become one
as they give birth
to other seasons.
© Judy Brumby-Lake
My Little Brown-Eyed Child
I often see a forlorn look in your eyes
and have noticed that a tear has caressed your coat
and then I wonder what troubles you,
my brown-eyed child.
I may have adopted you
when you were only six months old
and have tried to compensate you
with love and gentleness to obliterate
the scars from your past
but nothing seemed to evaporate
your perpetual sadness.
A voice inside me wants to scream out,
“Who are you, my little brown eye?”
I have noticed, when we are out walking,
that instead of you tracking for pooches’ perfume,
your eyes scan the road for human forms.
To me, it is as though you are
looking for someone who once loved you -
someone who held you against their breast.
I have also noticed that when the door bell rings,
your body trembles.
Then you seek refuge behind a chair.
Were you, my little precious one,
an over-energised Christmas toy
whose spirit would not, even with punishment, run down?
Did your mistress/master take a lover
and their need for you was obliterated?
Did this lover torture you?
Sometimes I think,
my precious little pooch,
that you must feel like
some mail-order child
even though your new owners love you,
and shower you with gifts.
You must be trying to reassemble your past
through a haze of fragmented images and smells
to get back to your roots.
© Judy Brumby-Lake
I’m resting on my sofa right now
and it might be my age -
Or perhaps the soft strains of music playing on my turntable,
But in any case, I’m in a somnolent mood -
Sliding dreamily back to my past.
I’m at my first school ball, wearing a ballerina-length
gown -
Pink tulle over blue taffeta my mother lovingly made for me,
Accompanied by a shy young man, who didn’t speak to me
All night, leaving me wondering - was my dress not good enough?
Or worse, was I not good enough?
In any case, I never saw my beau again -
I realise now that my shyness was only
outdone by his.
I see me now at other balls, dances and parties -
Never quite “fitting in” with society’s swing -
My shyness has practically ruined my life,
And somehow, slowly, and barely aware, I became a target -
Much too easy to domineer and control,
So, late in life I’ve decided to change -
The mouse residing in me must go -
It has squeaked its last squeak!
From now on, let anyone try to squash me and they will confront -
A new me!
My music spins to a stop and I emerge from
my reverie -
Like the lioness I’ve become, sleepily roaring, teeth bared,
As I step out with confidence from my cave!
© June Maureen Hitchcock September 2012
Blackness -
absolute and total
surrounds and
envelops me
while sounds - surreal in this void,
are only my steady breathing
and rhythmic thump of pulse
at my temples.
From somewhere within this
fathomless space -
another sound, loud
hollow splats, as water
obeys gravity and drops
unseen to the floor.
At the scratch of a match
sudden flaring light
blinds my eyes
while acrid sulphur fumes
assail my nostrils.
Then a lamp is lit.
Light - an alien in this place
but welcomed by me.
I no longer steady myself
with hand against cold, wet stone.
I have vision now
and balance is restored
All around me - glistening
are grotesque shapes
sparkling and pristine
stalactites reaching down
in time to meet their
slowly rising counterparts.
Overhead, unknown depth of rock
separates this wonderland
from day or night.
Neither exist within
these twisted entrails
of Mother Earth.
But with light
amazing beauty stuns the senses
as memory struggles
to preserve sights
that so few mortals
are blessed to see.
© Pete Stratford 30.6.12
Raindrops trickling down your face
leaving a teardrop line trace
Raindrops bouncing down the street
Creating puddles at your feet
Stormy grey clouds overhead
You wish you could have stayed in bed
But you’ll have to walk through the rain
Till you’re home and dry again
A vibrant rainbow appears in the sky
Making you smile and somehow
You see it’s all worthwhile.
© Cathy Weaver
We go almost ballistic for a wedding – guests, food, drink and dancing, not forgetting the newly-married couple!
We gather in celebration (solemnly or with levity, or a combination of both) at a funeral. Time to remember.
We mark anniversaries of every description.
We jump for joy at the birth of a new son or daughter – wetting the baby’s head, as they say!
What we don’t celebrate (or at least not very publicly) is a Decree Absolute, when divorce becomes a reality, when whom God has joined in matrimony is rent asunder!
There may be sorrow for some, a reflection of what might have been, but there would have to be couples who just can’t wait to enjoy their new freedom!
So, why don’t we have a ceremony to mark this? “By the powers invested in me, I now declare that you are no longer husband and wife.”
Hooray! Everyone claps and cheers! No, that’s not how it happens for some inexplicable reason!
“Unto you and you, the property is divided as thus…”
And the lawyers, of course, are laughing all the way to the bank!
Divorce means money (somewhere along the trail) and, of course, money talks!
Money or your wife, or your husband!
See you at the barbecue!
Michael Garrad
Party Mood
Young soldiers in uniform and excited,
To war for fun and delighted,
Home soon when battle won,
And proud the father of the son,
Home to celebrate mad adventure,
Task accomplished, this indenture
signed, well meant, and fulfilled,
Though others’ blood was spilled,
Bodies tangled on wire mesh,
Bullets tearing at yielding flesh,
Yet joyous was this party mood,
No reflection, no time to brood,
They all returned, well, just a few,
To bosom family and to renew,
Naïve young men from town and farm,
Amputated leg and shattered arm,
Danced with shells, so enlightening,
Humdrum, helter or was it frightening?
Those fragile officers, as babies, led
country’s youth to a place called Dead.
© Michael Garrad August 2012
Very Dead
In red tunics, they marched as one,
Military and correct,
Not hunched, their shoulders back,
Military and erect,
The order was to advance,
They obeyed,
Stout of heart, to die by blade,
Bayonets fixed, they stepped their tread,
Eyes affront and in a moment, dead,
Soldiers through, they enjoined the battle
against all odds and without relent,
Fixed of purpose and with proud intent,
Clash of steel, their blood was spilt,
Bayonet into flesh and to the hilt,
River red upon yielding grass,
How did this slaughter come to pass?
Was it victory or was it worse?
The dreadful death and history’s curse?
Body count in tunics, red,
They lay there, soulless, and in ranks were dead.
© Michael Garrad May 2012
Fragile
The sun, hot and eager,
burns its spot in canvas blue,
Devours the timid night,
Hungers for the clarity of day,
Raging at the centre,
Cruel upon parch-white sand,
Gentle in radiance,
Forgiving and beautiful
on lush valleys,
Creation’s centerpiece;
And wilting clouds
on their journey to oblivion
accept their destiny
at the door of death,
As does fragile flesh
upon human foot.
The sun succours and denies,
Rejoice in the birth, bright,
for in a blink the graveside is where we lay.
© Michael Garrad August 2012
Sleeping
Let sleeping dogs lie, which is especially true if they happen to be on the savage side. Let them snooze in the sun.
But Heaven forbid if they’re rudely awakened – well, not necessarily rudely but woken up when, perhaps, they’re dreaming of a juicy, marrow-enriched bone straight from the once happily grazing beef beast who happened to be caught napping by the slaughter man. Kind of sleeping on the job, so to speak.
Dogs like to bark (in case you didn’t know) and quite loudly when they’ve been interrupted in their daily routine – when, perhaps, a cat innocently strolls across their path, steps, dangerously, into their territory.
Then it’s sheer pandemonium – dogs, hair bristled, teeth bared, are certainly not lying there sleeping. Far from it! In fact, they’d tell you, if they could speak our language, that sleeping dogs don’t lie, as in telling an untruth. They mean business, true as I’m writing this!
Dogs have an honest anger. They can draw on a strength that would make an Olympic gold wrestler look like a wimp!
So, when the cat transgresses, either out of pure mischief or in pursuit of a fluttering bird, in the hopes of not disturbing the said canines, it’s a case of jumping for the high ground, maybe to sleep on the idea for a moment or two – or several hours.
Dogs one side, cats the other. It’s like sleeping with the enemy.
(Created after a lunch chat with Burnie author Allan Jamieson)
Basic Playwrighting, I should be qualified enough. Anyway, it’s all planned and will be finished within a few weeks. It sort of has to mature in the mind.
The sonnet, published on this page, from Songs Of Love, Contemplative Sonnets, came to me without prompting. I’ve been doing this for nearly fifty years. The brain takes over and does it for me. I’m not saying that the sonnets are any good but I’m amazed at my creativity.
Joe Lake
Girls Paint
A girl paints an orifice to tempt a mate
Pretending an arousal of the womb.
She flashes eyes and wiggles hips as bait
And turns away and hides inside her room. 4
There, in her nest, she plans the spider’s trap
Where unsuspecting males are magnetised.
As hair comes down to lure him on her lap
Where he must climb and fall as hypnotised. 8
But he may take his chance for offspring’s sake
To prove to her as worthy supplement.
Her aim is guided and may then awake
A brand new human as a compliment. 12
All women tempt the male into their womb
That they may spin a life within this loom.
© Joe Lake
(So far: Julie meets Susan, the social worker, who says that she is from five hundred years in the future. Susan gives Julie a ring to travel in different dimensions. They step into a parallel universe. Susan warns Julie not to turn the ring. When Julie’s husband, John, returns from a walk, he hears a noise outside the Winnebago and on investigating, he sees a person in an Obama mask running into the darkness.)
“The police took it when it went off accidentally, remember?” Julie said.
“It’s all a blur. I remember nothing. I think we’ll leave Burnie and go to Stanley for a while. I wouldn’t mind a stint of fishing.”
“All right then. We’ll go today.”
“I’ll get dressed and check whether there’s anything wrong with the van.” John had a quick shower in the van’s cubicle, got dressed and stepped outside. It was nearly dawn. The air was chilly and he snuggled into his all-weather jacket. One could hear the waves crashing steadily onto Cooee beach. His face felt the icy cold of a biting wind from the south-west. He stomped about a little and then went to check the Winnebago’s tyres and whether the motor scooter, attached to the rear of the van, was securely fastened. Out of the corner of his left eye he saw a man in a long overcoat standing some ten metres away with his back to him. There were other caravans parked at Cooee which wasn’t quite a caravan park but was made available by the council for the occasional tourists as there was no park in close vicinity. He decided to walk over to the man to say hello. As he approached, the man turned towards him. He had the face of Barack Obama, the American President, and John remembered in an instant how Julie had ripped this very same rubber mask from a woman’s face only a few days ago in Burnie Park. John was stunned. He froze. Then raised his right hand and pointed a finger at the mask. “This is a joke, right?” The man in the mask, or woman, as far as John could tell, said nothing, then ran away. “Ratbag!” John yelled. “Show me your face!”
John stepped back into the van. Julie was still asleep. When she woke, he said, “I just saw the woman in the Obama mask.”
“Outside?”
“That’s right. She ran away. It could have been a man because the person wore a long overcoat.”
“Come back to sleep. It must be five in the morning.”
“I can’t sleep. There is some kind of a conspiracy going on.” With this, John opened the door to the caravan and tried to take a step down when he was confronted by an invisible barrier, much like a solid glass panel at the opening. The glass was solid. When he kicked, it wouldn’t move. Through the glass he could see the waves pound steadily onto Cooee beach like a giant breathing. “Julie, come here a minute!”
“Let me sleep,” she grumbled.
“There is a glass barrier at the door that wasn’t there ten minutes ago.”
“Leave it alone. Come back to bed. It’ll be gone in the morning. You’re having a nightmare. Come to bed.” She patted the place on the mattress next to her.
“I’m not dreaming.”
“No, you’re not,” said the shimmering apparition, the hologram, which had appeared in the motor home the day before.
“What do you want?” snapped John. “We
haven’t worked out how you project yourself and where your voice comes from but I won’t be fooled by silly tricks anymore.”
“It’s not a trick, John. All we want is to have your wife’s ring back. It causes fluctuation in the ether. It makes it unstable.”
Julie had gone back to sleep as her slight snore indicated to John.
“Take the stupid thing!”
“You know I can’t. She was told to throw it into the ocean and yet it’s still on her finger. There will be consequences.”
“Go project yourself somewhere else,” said John.
(To be continued next month)
Beauty is a perception. We choose to be happy or sad. We choose and force ourselves to think of sunshine and a positive future; the mind will oblige then by spiralling on towards that star. This is called the Categorical Imperative. We have to aim towards the perfect in music, literature and the arts. The aim is everything, the journey towards the ideal in literature with Shakespeare, Emma, The Heart Of Darkness or Beethoven’s symphonies (I prefer Mozart). If you don’t like classical music, or the best of literature, then make an effort anyway. We can get marvellous tapes and CDs and DVDs from the library. Persevere. It is worth it because it will open the mind towards different perspectives, to perspectives where lies ultimate beauty and satisfaction. Where the perfect waits, or at least to see from a distance that it exists and is worth the trouble.
I’m still on my no-breakfast-no-lunch diet and eat only one meal a day in the evening. I also ride my bike up and down the boardwalk on Burnie beach. I’ve lost fifteen kilograms. Put that in your pipe and smoke it for an out-of-fashion cliché.
As I type this (I have the computer in my sunroom), my hands are freezing as there is no sun, but the almond blossoms I can see are breaking out branch by branch and I’ve seen the cherries blossom in gardens and my vegetables are still struggling against the cold. I had to put down some snail pellets yesterday. The snake that lives there is still hibernating. I take my cat, Seceena, with me. The cat shows me where the snake is. It’s protected, the snake, only I’ll have to wear gum boots down there, just in case the snake tries to bite and put poison into me.
In Love
In love we merge two beings into one
Where one calls siren-like into the dark
For your reciprocation when it’s done
Like salmon that return and find their mark. 4
The goal, like all migrating creatures’ aim
Is to arrive at that unerring call,
Like the Olympics, it’s the only game
And means oblivion to those who stall. 8
Your father heard the call and beat them all
To enter into union with his mate
Who fostered this one multiplying ball
Before it opened that protective gate. 12
Your mother’s bits and bytes had made you see
That love must postulate. It holds the key.
© Joe Lake
(from Joe Lake’s Songs Of Love, sonnets)
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