~~~
The night nurse knew it must have been a tense visit when she said goodnight to Andrew as he passed by the desk, but got no reply. She glanced at the clock and realised it was time for the patients to receive their medication.
It was freezing when he walked outside; the sleet drifting down accentuated the silence. The old Holden would be a handful on the road, as the tyres were up for renewal. He felt guilty that he wouldn’t bother to finish the restoration. He had to admit the old girl really did have a beautiful tail on her. He brushed the slush from the windscreen and fumbled with the keys to open the door. Sliding into the seat and turning on the ignition, he pondered on the conversation of the last fifteen minutes as the engine warmed up. Putting the shift into first gear he drove out of the hospital towards the freeway and home.
Nurse Doherty entered Gordon’s room to see him lying on his side facing the wall, fast asleep. She had to wake him for his antibiotic and sit him up for a while.
‘Mr Bailey – Mr Bailey – Gordon. Wake up for your meds.’ She moved around the bed and lifted the sheet, screamed, and dropped the tray.
On the freeway, the Holden GTS picked up speed. He was glad there was hardly anyone on the road in all this sleet. He realised what a beautiful car it was, and how powerful the motor propelled it into the night on the straight freeway. The speedometer moved from seventy to eighty kilometres an hour. The sleet was mesmerising him as he reached in his pocket and slid a cassette into the player. The sound of a song finishing and people clapping filled the interior and then Andy’s father’s younger voice could be heard.
‘I’d like to thank you all for coming to the Federal Hotel tonight and supporting our band – The Gearshifters. Just before the last song I got the news from the barman that my wife Kerrie has just given birth to twin boys.’ More sound of cheering and clapping filled the car. The speedometer climbed to one hundred and ten. Tears ran down his face as the young Gordon on the cassette continued.
‘In honour of my wife and sons, the band would like to play our favourite Eagles song, Take It To The Limit.’
There was more sounds of cheering as the band began to play, as he gripped the steering wheel tighter, and at 120 kph, he wrenched the wheel, and the Holden GTS flipped over and rolled end over end down the highway and exploded in flames and sections of metal that scattered along the snowy freeway and onto the verge for a over a hundred metres.
Back at the hospital Nurse Doherty sped along the corridor for the night sister as Andrew sat up in bed groggily and wondered what had happened.
At the same moment Gordon was in the third of his rolls, and with his eyes shut and a smile on his face, a final thought ran through his mind .as the flames erupted around him.
‘Amazing. Andy works for a drugs company, but Colin brings me the ether.’
Friday 30 August 2013
Alan Murcott
Robyn Chaffey
Hazelbrook, NSW
There’s that Alan Murcott!
Thinks I can not see him!
Thinks that he is clever!
I’ll fix Alan Murcott!
He won’t know what hit him!
Thought I’d get him never!
I’ve been taking lessons
While Mum watches wrestling,
From that big Joe Watson.
Mum says he has demons,
But he’s always winning!
Hero is Joe Watson!
Throw him to the corner!
Put him in a headlock!
Wait! His back is turned,
Twist his index finger.
Pull his bright dyed forelock
Till all his spite’s returned.
Here comes Alan Murcott!
He’s a bully and he’s mean!
Could beat him if I want;
Big mean Alan Murcott!
But Mum said ‘Come home clean’,
So that is more important!
Saturday 31 August 2013
The Second Dispossession
Graham Sparks
Bathurst, NSW
That fateful day when oak and sheet
did bring ashore a man of lighter hue
to cast his eye across the land
and deem it to be his.
He’d raped the forests of his home
and here he did the same,
he cleared the land of native man
without a pang of shame.
And moving on a century or so
we find young Mister White
perceive his purloined land
as a nation in itself,
but he had not the guts to let go mummy’s tit
hence Britain ran the show.
Here we see Australia as a notion!
Moving on again another century
we hear much talk about republics,
but talk is all it is
because the mother country asked us
if we’d like a country of our own,
whence we declined the offer,
preferring not to let go Marm’s pink petticoats.
Here again we see Australia as a notion!
Let us now peruse a very nasty attribute
of the body governing this notion.
the selling off of land, that firm foundation underpinning nations,
and the selling off of things belonging to the people,
services, utilities and infrastructures,
all to foreign corporations,
and done without the courtesy of referendum.
Does anyone recall that there is such a thing as treason?
Why should I pay tax when all the things my taxes built have been sold off,
without my consultation?
This I call ‘The Second Dispossession’,
Australia is a notion, not a nation!
Sunday 1 September 2013
Me Mack’s Back
Mark Fowler
Magill, SA
‘Truck, YOU!’
Tom, face red with surprise and mid afternoon intoxication, slumped into his wheelchair.
‘Yeah, why not luv? I’ve grown up round trucks. We owe thousands on the rig and you aren’t much use like that.’
‘Come on Kath. Watching your Dad drive and doing the books for me isn’t exactly driving the Mack on the interstate. It’s men’s work. Trucks, and all technology, for men only. Remember that.’
‘Lots of girls do it. You know I can handle her,’ said Kath hopefully.
‘Like Fat Patsy and Joanie Mahoney. They’re really men; got the wrong name at birth. No, Kath. Not another word ...’
Kath looked at him ... big sad loser. Too much piss, too little good luck! Story of his life. And now Tom had saddled them with big debt all because of his drunken fall.
He shouldn’t have said it was men’s work. Kath had an itch to scratch now. She’d do it; not only to prove him wrong, but also to stick one up men for all the overprotective, sexist bullshit women had had to deal with from lovin’ husbands around the world.
Two days later, Tom was shaken from his snoozing by the rumble of the rig outside the house.
‘Kath, whata ya doin’ you crazy cow?’ he yelled through the open window, but Kath was far too deep in conversation with her cousin Tony about time schedules and load limits to hear her husband’s pathetic bleating.
A few minutes later, Kath popped her head through the kitchen door.
‘Potatoes for Melbourne. Due in two days. Everything ya need is in the freezer. Justin’ll be home after school. See ya hun!’
‘Bloody ’ell, Kath. You can’t ...!’
‘You should never said it was men’s work. Bye.’
And with that the Mack revved and pulled away leaving Tom in an expletive dotted rage.
He tried the mobile but she had turned it off. He tried calling his mates to block her way. But no one who knew Kath and Tom sympathised or thought it was any of their business.
Alone with his rage, Tom drank until the frid
ge was dry. His imagination was in overdrive with images of the Mack and tonnes of potatoes strewn over the highway interspersed with visions of Kath driving into headlights screaming and blubbering in confusion.
The news offered no salve to his beery imagination.
‘Heavy rain and horizontal gale force winds in Victoria’s western districts ...’ offered the cheery weatherman.
‘Multiple car pile-up, semi trailer smash, body strewn highway,’ was all Tom’s mind offered up.
The days passed and Kath was silent. Tom ranted, smashed the TV and his mobile, and poor Justin did his best to keep his father in fags and booze.
On Saturday, the distinctive down gearing of the slowing truck could be heard outside. Tom rolled to the window. The air horn blared in triumph.
His emotions were mixed by now and when Kath strolled hopefully into the kitchen he rolled past her to the Mack. His fingers caressed the chrome and he blubbered softly, ‘Babe, I missed ya!’
Monday 2 September 2013
The Tangled Wood
Virginia Gow
Blackheath, NSW
So
Slip
Slowly,
Silently,
Into wilderness.
Seek out some loquacious stream
To follow and, enjoying in its crisp babblings,
Unhesitatingly empty mind of familiar thought and futile finer feelings.
Dismiss from sight and sound civilization’s burden.
Having no hope of redemption,
Fear not, for nature,
Recklessly,
Reclaims
Its
Own.
Tuesday 3 September 2013
Capricious Weather
Jean Bundesen
Woodford, NSW
I’m a teenager
My families’ farm is sold
Goods and chattels stored.
Our home an American army tent,
Set up at Noosa Heads
Our favourite beach;
Cosseted behind high sand hills
Beneath spreading trees.
In the ambience of a golden sunset,
Reflected in the bay we enjoy a long walk,
Ignore massing battleship grey clouds.
Later sitting around the camp fire,
The radio crackles a warning,
‘Cyclone approaching.’
Dad reassures us, ‘We’ll be safe.’
We stay … other campers flee.
The cyclone hits … Earth’s belly growls
Wind a howling demented spirit,
Rain drums on our tent, like a marching army.
Terrified, we huddle together.
Morning – our tent stands firm.
Chaos elsewhere trees, tents toppled.
Jim and I clamber up the sand hills.
Exhilarating yet terrifying.
Angry wind rips at our clothes, flying spray,
Sand stings our faces. Laguna Bay, normally
Calm as a frog pond, now a churning whirlpool,
With a grating roar waves lash the shore.
Once the cyclone passes, the sun beams,
Calm sea; blue and green, a jade necklace.
Gentle waves wash the shore, drift wood,
Seaweed reminders of the night of terror.
Tranquillity restored.
Wednesday 4 September 2013
The Porcelain Doll
Jenny Kathopoulis
Wodonga, VIC
The porcelain doll lays broken
her face perfect no more.
Alabaster skin is now cracked
rosy cheeks smashed in
pink lips lie crooked,
her soft chin crumpled and split
blue eyes sunken in a hollow skull.
A tear rolls down her ruined beauty
Who will love her now?
Thursday 5 September 2013
Mr Greedy
Shirley Burgess
Rosebud, VIC
‘My dear, I thought you knew. I’ve gone back to my wife.’
The two parties were lined up opposite each other at the long polished mediation room table. Until that moment Beth had believed there might be a chance of reconciliation. She really hadn’t accepted what her solicitor, Paul, had been telling her. Now the truth hit her with a thud and she was able to see cold calculation in Jed’s cruel eyes.
It had been good to have her solicitor, Paul, at her side through this horrible business. There was always an aura of calmness about him, or was it just confidence? Always ready to help, and one step ahead of the opposition’s legal counsel, Beth had to admit she could never have coped without him.
She also noticed that when he shook her hand these days, he held it a little longer than was usual and his smile was very soft. He had suggested a meal out together after the court decision to ‘wind down’, and she found she was looking forward to it.
‘No hard feelings Beth?’ asked Jed.
She did not answer. It seemed that, because of the three years he had been with her, and the type of relationship they had enjoyed, Jed could claim half of everything she possessed as his own, even her house. She had worked very hard for many years at her business of restoring wonderful old houses to their former glory and selling them for huge profits, but it hadn’t ever been easy-going, with little time for holidays. She had reaped the rewards, only to see that the courts would award half of the result of all that effort handed over to Jed.
I know very well that my money will contribute to your future comfort with your wife, Beth was thinking. What a windfall for her. All that money must have been the lure for your wife to take you back, Beth thought shrewdly. It was just too unbearable to think about.
Jed was now absorbed in scanning the inventory list of Beth’s belongings thoroughly again. ‘No, I’ve been through this carefully and I don’t think we have missed anything,’ he said.
Beth squirmed in her seat.
A warm hand dropped over hers and Beth looked up into Paul’s worried eyes. Then she managed a smile. She noticed the slight movement of his finger on the documents, remembered the painting and smiled inwardly.
She collected herself. ‘I see you put my crystal golf trophy on that inventory list. Why did you do that?’ she asked Jed.
‘Well, it is Stuart Crystal!’ he said in mock surprise.
‘What about the cuff links, and that $10 painting I bought you? Surely you must want that too?’ Beth asked.
‘Ah, don’t be sarcastic Beth, it doesn’t suit you. No, you can give the painting back to the second-hand shop it came from and I can’t be bothered with the cuff links – never wore them anyway. Never really liked them either. Or keep them Beth; another person might like them better than I did.’
‘Oh Jed,’ Beth said with a trembling voice, ‘how can you say that?!’
Jed, apparently relenting, then produced his most charming manner and added softly, ‘We had some good times together, Beth.’
Then he added, warily, ‘I wanted to be sure that all the golf gear in the garage cupboard will be sent on to me. I’m sure you would be quite wonderful about this, Beth, wouldn’t you – just for old times’ sake? I would be so grateful. Here’s a card with my new address. I would appreciate it so much, my dear.’
She smiled back beguilingly. Well that’s what she hoped it looked like. ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ she said.
‘Good girl!’ he enthused.
Beth had given him the golf clubs, and she knew he loved them. She couldn’t stop that tight feeling in her throat as she thought about the many happy hours they had spent golfing together. Nevertheless, she was quite aware he had purposely omitted them from the inventory list, thus avoiding the inevitable sale, and sharing their value with her.
Yes, they had enjoyed some good times together. There was the European holiday tour. Jed had made a name for himself on the tour. He made a habit of flattering an irascible old woman who was giving her adult daughter
a hard time.
He would jump to his feet when they arrived in the dining room, escort her to their table as though she were Queen Elizabeth, often making a compliment about her attire, even giving a little bow sometimes. The ruse worked, putting the woman in a good mood and this gave her daughter a much-needed break. Beth had laughed when later Jed admitted that he didn’t do it for the daughter’s rescue: ‘The old bat was getting on my nerves. I was just trying to get enough peace to eat my meal in comfort. I thought I did pretty well!’
More soberly she thought of the cruise through the Greek Islands. On return he had commented, that he was ‘Glad to get back home and eat food that wasn’t drowned in grease.’ She’d remembered the trip for the loving and attentive companion Jed had been. Perhaps she, too, was getting on his nerves at that time? The lump in her throat tightened, tears not far away.
‘Well that’s it. So it’s goodbye everyone, and I can be on my way then.’ Jed shook Paul’s hand, saluted Beth, and left the room jauntily with his entourage, obviously feeling he had won handsomely.
Beth was now fully aware that this really was the end.
Even after those last few barbs, Beth could see why she had been so smitten with Jed. She knew that although her business acumen had made her tough, it had not prepared her for someone like him. Handsome, with a magic personality, she had been completely taken in. Her work had certainly made her a lot of money. In fact, it was just the money that you were looking at all the time, Jed, wasn’t it? thought Beth. How could I have been so trusting, so stupid?
Remembering Jed’s jaunty exit, her instinct was to sell those clubs anyway. Now that the Court proceedings were completed she could do that. It would be what he would do. They were no good to her – just a reminder of happier days. Perhaps bundling up the golf clubs and selling them would be good therapy in helping her get rid of those emotional memories too, she agreed with herself. And it would certainly nark Jed.
Paul was looking at her again, plainly concerned. He knew she was in some turmoil. ‘Let’s go and get a cup of coffee,’ he suggested.
Over the steaming cups he chattered on, trying to get her mind off the sadder things of the day. She was happy just to sit there calming down gradually.
Now she was more relaxed. They talked over one or two special parts of the case as it had unfolded, and agreed it was a good outcome after all. She admitted she had been a fool. ‘You know, I think I just wanted someone to spoil,’ she said finally.
‘Will you stay on in your big house?’
‘No, I’ll sell up and look for something smaller. Mind you, I’ll miss those lovely sea views,’ she smiled. ‘I’ve been rattling around in that house on my own for too long and it’s lonely nowadays. Besides, there are too many Jed memories around the place. It’s time to move on – in more ways than one.’
After a while, she and Paul walked down the corridor to the preparation room used by the legal fraternity, to find her lawyer. ‘Thank you for all your help,’ she said sincerely to Mr. Williams, QC. ‘It was good to have such solid support.’
He shook her hand. ‘Yes, it could have been a great deal worse. We’ve kept more than 50%,’ he said, ‘and your home.’ He winked. ‘Then there’s the Olsen.’
‘Oh,’ Beth grinned. ‘I’d better make that call now.’ The painting, a genuine Olsen, was worth buckets – $750,000 according to the dealer she had left it with, on Paul’s advice. And Jed had just made it perfectly clear he wanted nothing to do with it.
They all waited for the call to be connected and she heard the familiar voice. ‘I’ll take your offer,’ she said feeling much, much better.
Beth was looking forward to tonight too.
Yes, it could have been a great deal worse.
Friday 6 September 2013
The Black Pool
Evelyn MD
Newbridge, NSW
The black pool
Pulls her from her feet
Into the shadow world.
There in the dark
Only disturbing thoughts.
Death would relieve
But kill.
The pool is hidden with a smile
And sits behind warm eyes
Trying not to be discovered
It lets her appear normal.
It won’t be killed.
It takes bravery and skill
To catch the black pool.
There has yet to be a hero.
It slips like oil.
It bends and weaves away.
She swims to an edge
Climbs free
And treads carefully.
Saturday 7 September 2013
Justice
Winsome Smith
Lithgow, NSW
Richard Robertson, distinguished looking even in crumpled jeans and leather jacket, strolled along the footpath outside the school. He was early for his appointment with the school principal so had time to make sketches and take photographs. This was one of his retirement projects, a book entitled Early School Buildings of New South Wales. Richard knew this to be one of the best examples, a handsome building indeed with its solid granite foundations, twin gables, slate roof and tall chimneys. The town abounded with Victorian architecture: the Post Office, several banks and the railway station, and this school building was one of the finest.
One front window caught Richard’s attention. How well he remembered that window and the room behind it – the office of the dreaded Mr Nash, school headmaster. He had stood before that large polished desk many times as Old Nashie doled out punishments.
As he looked at that window memories came back. Like images on a touch screen, the pictures slid across his mind. He remembered the room as a commodious office, the only room in the building to have carpet. It was as tidy as could be, with its steel press in one corner and a marble shelf above the fireplace. Whatever papers that were on the desk were piled in two neat stacks. In the corner of the room three much-used canes leaned against each other.
Richard’s memory moved to the classroom which accommodated forty students and he remembered Old Nashie parading around the room between the rows of desks brandishing the cane.
He saw again his eleven year old self, a student in Year Six with the redoubtable Mr Nash as his teacher. Young Richard was bright-eyed, energetic, fidgety, eager to learn and known to be exceptionally bright.
There was subdued excitement in the classroom on one particular day because that afternoon there was to be an important football match. Richard was working away at a grammar exercise when the boy sitting beside him, referring to the football match after school, said ‘Think you’ll win this arvo?’
‘Of course,’ murmured Richard, aware that Nashie was probably watching. ‘We’ve trained so hard, we’ve gotta win.’
Nashie shouted his name. ‘Robertson, you’re talking. Thirty minutes detention this afternoon.’
Richard protested, something nobody had ever done. ‘Sir, I can’t stay in this afternoon. I’m playing in that football game.’
‘I said, “detention”, Robertson. You deaf?’
‘It’s an important game, Sir,’ said Richard. ‘We’re playing St Joseph’s.’ The local Catholic school was famous for its tough and unbeatable football team.
‘You won’t be there, Robertson,’ the school principal declared. ‘I don’t care if you’re playing the Angel Gabriel. You won’t be there.’
Young Richard rose to his feet. ‘But Sir –’
‘Get out here!’ shouted Nashie. Richard slowly walked to the front of the classroom as his classmates watched in silent anticipation.
‘Hold out your hand,’ Mr Nash ordered. The cane swished across Richard’s outstretched palm. ‘That’s for giving cheek. Now get on with your work. And forget about football.’
That night in his fantasy Richard arranged Nashie’s death. It was easy: he simply pushed Old Nashie down the front steps so that he hit his head on the concrete, never to rise again. Killing Old Nashie became almost
a nightly ritual and was a great comfort against injustice. These deaths were varied, suitably gory and were never told to anyone else.
Mr Nash was known for picking on some students and favouring others. Richard guessed that he suffered because his father had left the family and his mother worked at the bar at the local pub in order to support her three boys. Mr Nash, being a solid citizen, would have found this occupation distasteful.
Other students suffered too and the one who bore most of the brunt of Mr Nash’s anger was Gwenda, a girl with long brown plaits who sat in one of the front seats. She had freckles and never wore the proper school uniform, something that seemed to arouse the teacher’s ire.
There was the day when Gwenda was quietly sitting at her desk. She was re-arranging the pencils and ruler in the groove at the top of the desk and for some reason this irritated Nashie. He shouted, ‘Stop fiddling!’ and slammed the cane down on the desk with such force that the little ink well leapt from its hole and ink flooded across the desk.
‘Clean that up!’ Old Nashie shouted. ‘Get a rag out of that press there and clean up that mess.’ He swished the cane around as he shouted.
Gwenda did as she was told, her sweetly freckled face showing fierce resentment and anger as she rubbed at the ink.
Richard took a lot more notice of Gwenda after that, and he managed to save up his pocket money and take her to the pictures one Saturday afternoon.
Mr Nash vented his wrath on Gwenda another time. The lesson was something to do with the local district. It was a picturesque, hilly area with outcrops of lichen-covered granite. Mr Nash said to the class, ‘Of course you’ve all seen buildings made with local granite and locally made bricks, haven’t you?’
Gwenda was honest enough to say, ‘No. Sir, I haven’t.’
Instantly Nashie’s face was within inches of hers. ‘Ignorant child!’ he yelled. ‘Get yourself outside and look at your own school. Look at what it’s built of!’ Gwenda rushed from the room.
From the window beside his desk Richard could see Gwenda out in the playground. She was out of sight of Mr Nash and she was poking out her tongue in his direction and making every rude gesture she could think of. Richard could feel silent laughter bubbling round inside him. What a girl!
On Gwenda’s behalf, that night Richard had Nashie suffer a particularly horrible death, torn limb from limb by wild horses.
Mr Nash often held up Gwenda’s work for ridicule, no matter how hard she tried, because she was left-handed. He also ridiculed Richard but young Richard had a variety of deaths for him. He could have him stabbed, shot or hanged, and once forcibly drowned, ideas he got from the Saturday afternoon pictures.
When he was thirteen Richard moved to another town with his family. He never lost touch with Gwenda, however, and they were reunited when they went to the same university and both studied architecture. They were never apart after that. They had married and set up their own architecture business which thrived. They raised a family, travelled and wrote books, individually and together. There had only been fleeting visits to their hometown, with its tree-lined streets and surrounding hills, but Gwenda often mentioned it with nostalgia. Now research for the new book had brought them here for a short stay.
As Richard was sketching, he was approached by the school principal, Andrew Macintosh, with whom he had the appointment. Andrew was fortyish, navy-suited, obviously ambitious and seemingly anxious to show an ex-student the school. He led Richard to the back of the building and they entered the assembly hall.
They were greeted by a burst of colour. The walls, no longer school grey, were painted in bright pastels. In the classrooms there were samples of childhood busyness: coloured drawings, paper cut-outs, decorated boxes filled with children’s books. The classrooms were furnished with child sized chairs and tables and there were cheerful vases of flowers on teachers’ desks. Andrew explained that this building which had been the Primary School was now the Infants’ Department. Richard looked about with an architect’s eye, noticing room sizes, architraves, skirting and window sills. Andrew showed him proudly how the building’s original features had been preserved; even the corner fire-places with their marble shelves remained, in true Victorian style.
As they approached rooms at the front of the building, Andrew said, ‘This is the only room that has been changed. It had to be modernised out of necessity.’
Richard walked into the room and looked around. ‘This was the principal’s office!’ he said and as he spoke he felt the old familiar silent laughter bubbling around inside him. The laughter escaped into triumphant guffaws as he walked about the room.
Through the window Richard saw Gwenda pulling up into the kerb, as arranged. She stepped out of the car and Andrew went to the front door to meet her. She walked in – slim, lovely and feisty with her hair bundled up on top of her head. She shook hands with Andrew then greeted Richard with a kiss.
‘Lovely old building, well preserved,’ she remarked.
‘Yes, well preserved, with only one room altered,’ Richard replied. He took Gwenda’s hand and said, ‘Come this way. I’ve got something to show you.’
He led her to the front office and opened the door. Andrew, ever the urbane school principal said, ‘Yes, we’re proud of this room. It’s practical and it doesn’t detract from the rest of the interior.’
Richard opened the door and Gwenda gave a gasp. ‘This was Nashie’s office. It’s now an indoor toilet!’ she exclaimed.
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Andrew. ‘A new modern toilet block was built for children. This is the staff toilet, with three cubicles and hand-basins with hot water.’
Gwenda was not listening. She clasped Richard’s hand and said. ‘This is justice; absolute justice.’
‘Yes, justice,’ Richard agreed.
Gwenda clasped her husband’s hand even tighter, as she almost shouted, ‘Hooray! How appropriate. That old bastard’s office is now a shit house!’
Sunday 8 September 2013
Stony Waters
David Newman
Jacobs Well, QLD
I only tried – to cross a stream;
but then the stream became a sea;
of stony waters – of stony waters:
No! – I can’t breathe – not anymore;
and I can’t see – my way to shore;
in stony waters – in stony waters.
Dark Angel! – pass over me,
because I’m already down on my knees:
These stony waters – they make me bleed:
And I begged and I prayed for end of days;
but stony waters still make me pay;
rough stony waters – rough stony waters.
I tried to rise – to run and hide;
but then the night brought in the tide:
Damned stony waters – damned stony waters:
Now, I can’t walk – not anymore;
and I can’t hear – a guiding call;
on stony waters – on stony waters.
Love has no strength – with which to lift;
for it is lost and set adrift;
by stony waters – by stony waters:
If I can’t feel – not anymore;
my heart can’t beat – out to the shore;
off stony waters – off stony waters.
And if I float – I’ll be face down;
to watch the stones, now as I drown;
in stony waters – in stony waters:
’Cause I can’t fight – not anymore;
and I can’t find – my way to shore;
from stony waters – from stony waters.
Monday 9 September 2013
The Hermit
Kylie Abecca
Port Albany, WA
His face is lit by the fire’s flame,
The darkened bush around him sings,
To him life is nothing but a game,
With all the surprises his earth brings,
Cold and hunger, often felt,
&nb
sp; By only him alone,
Unlucky cards he has been dealt,
It chills him to the bone,
There is no living soul,
That knows of his existence,
He dug himself a hole,
The devil was persistent,
This hermit I once knew,
Had a love of life,
But the urgency just grew,
It was cutting like a knife,
He said he had to go,
I had to let him be,
One night he disappeared,
He’s forever free to dream.
Tuesday 10 September 2013
Quest
JH Mancy
Tallebudgera, QLD
Why are relationships difficult
And we learn our lessons too late
When will we find answers?
Is it all in the hands of fate?
How do we recognise wisdom?
That is the great debate
Where will we find solutions?
So oft’ in inert state
These four things demand answers –
All these things I rate
Shine down, shine down,
Shine down on you and me
Shine down on you and me
Why do we search for answers
That are so seldom met
When will we accept contentment,
Remember, and not forget
How do we live with meaning
From birth to our sunset
Where is wisdom gathered –
It’s such a mighty trek
The answers are within us –
Not left to fickle fate
Shine down, shine down,
Shine down on you and me
Shine down on you and me
When we find our answers
Let’s share without delay
Why be slave to half life,
If we can find the way
Where happiness is boundless
And joy fills every day
The answers are within us
Let’s not leave it too late
Shine down, shine down,
Shine down on you and me
Shine down on you and me
Wednesday 11 September 2013
Consequences
Sallie Ramsay
Torrens, ACT
It was Paris in the spring; Paris in the rain. She had lost her tour group – one minute they were there, the next vanished into the crowd milling around the exit of the Metro. She felt a momentary surge of panic – alone in Paris, alone in Paris, alone to do exactly what she wanted. Free to stop and sketch whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, without someone looking over her shoulder and making comments. Her sketch books had filled rapidly: a tiny flower growing defiantly from between the cobbles in front of Sacre Coeur, a glimpse of the Eiffel Tower across a tumble of roofs, a tiny figure almost hidden by ivy in Rodin’s garden, gargoyle faces high up on Notre Dame and in the crowds. Time alone in Paris; a priceless gift.
The day before the tour was to leave London her travelling companion caught a gastric bug that no amount of Imodium could tame. Paris was to be the last hurray before they returned to Australia after twelve months in Europe. Her friend, pale and fierce, raised her head from her pillow just long enough to growl, ‘For God’s sake, pack your drawing gear, piss off and leave me in peace.’ She did, but it was only now she knew she had made the right decision.
‘Damn, I’ll need another sketch book before we leave in the morning,’ she thought, turning a page.
She was sitting under the Arc de Triomphe in a spot sheltered from the worst of the rain, when she first noticed him, weaving his way in and out of the chaotic traffic circling the world’s most terrifying roundabout.
‘Roundabout,’ she thought. ‘Maelstrom more like it. One day they’ll just disappear down the gurgler, right here under the Arc.’
‘I beg your pardon?’ A voice speaking in a perfect ‘Frenchman speaking English’ accent cut across her thoughts.
‘I’m sorry,’ she muttered flushing. ‘I was talking to myself; a bad habit of mine.’
‘Moi aussi. What were you saying to yourself?’
She held out the cartoon she’d drawn of a whirlpool sucking cars down a giant plug hole under the Arc de Triomphe.
He looked at it solemnly, and then with a perfect Gallic shrug, handed it back to her. ‘I agree it is most likely.’
She asked if he knew where she could buy another sketch book and moments later found herself on the back of a scooter clinging to the most drop dead gorgeous man she had ever seen. She closed her eyes as they zig zagged through the traffic, opening them only after they stopped in front of an art supply store in a narrow alley just off the Champs Elysee.
Later, much later, when she tried to remember that day, she found it difficult to separate one memory from another. Riding pillion through sodden streets, stopping here and there to sketch, conversations ranging far and wide as they talked over countless cups of coffee, his fluent English more than compensating for her rusty French. What she remembered most clearly was how at ease she was, how right it felt to be there.
Just as the rain cleared and the sun was setting they climbed the flights of stairs to his apartment carrying wine, bread and cheese from a street market. Accompanied by Piaf, Reinhardt and Grapelli, they picnicked on a rug on the floor.
She woke the next morning with the sun pouring in the window. He was still asleep. She reached for her sketch book and with firm fluent strokes drew him as he lay; the rumpled twisted bed clothes partially covering his naked body. She dressed quickly, gathered up her folio, dropped the maelstrom cartoon on the bed and with only a quick backward glance headed down the stairs and out on to the street. She reached the hotel just as her tour companions were beginning to straggle out to the bus. Her roommate greeted her with raised eyebrows. ‘Thought you’d missed the bus. I brought your things down.’
She muttered her thanks, climbed into her seat and closed her eyes, Piaf filling her head. Everyone should have a day like that once in their lives, she thought. Perfect, complete and unrepeatable.
‘Bloke over there said to give this to you.’
He was standing astride his scooter, scanning the bus from end to end, but, unable to see her through the darkened glass, shrugged, revved the scooter and was soon lost in the swirling traffic.
She unwrapped the small package, the Piaf CD with the Non, Je ne regrette rien track highlighted in yellow, his name and address followed by the words, ‘A demain’ (See you tomorrow).
She smiled. ‘Who knows? Maybe? But whoever would have thought getting food from that dodgy take away down the road from our flat would have such consequences?’
Thursday 12 September 2013
Catching Up
Bob Edgar
Wentworth Falls, NSW
As I bumped into a close friend, I searched my mind for her name ... Rosemary I think
Or was it Ruby ... or Denise, I can’t recall; hope my memory’s not on the blink
‘How are you Declan?’ she said. ‘I’m altogether fine Ruby, and what about yourself?’
‘I’m good Declan, though I’m Doris ... I’ll give your best to Ruby, now how’s your health?’
‘Oh can’t complain Doris, thanks for asking, and how’s your Bert? ... Staying out of strife?’
‘I expect he’s well Declan, though you’d have to ask Mary ... his wife!’
‘Please do excuse me Doris, I’m not the same since my “op”, new knee you know?’
‘So Declan, knee-bone connected to the brain-bone? You’re such a witty fellow.’
‘What I mean to say Doris is that the pain from my knee takes up all my thinking
My mind’s as sharp as a tack, but since the “op”, it’s all I can do to stop from drinking
What with my cataracts, sciatica, arthritis, incontinence and loss of hearing
It’s no wonder the Doc had me in this morning,
to tell me what I’d been fearing
He tells me I have osteoporosis, high blood pressure, haemorrhoids and cirrhosis of the liver
Now you know me Mabel, I’m not one to complain, but I pride myself as a life-giver
So I tell the Doc, “When I’m gone they can have my brain, it’s in perfect working order
My body is shot, this I concede ... but Doc, my mental capacity has no bounds ... no border.”
The Doc looked at my file, locked eyes with me, and told me I have early onset dementia
“That’ll be the day,” I said to him, nothing wrong with my memory ... I’ll venture.’
Doris said with obvious concern, ‘Declan, is there anything I can do to ease your pain?’
‘I’m altogether fine thanks, and what about yourself ... er, what was your name?
Friday 13 September 2013
All Clerks Now
Armin Boko
Lake Heights, ACT
‘Be in nothing as moderate as in love of men.’
Jefferson Roberts
In for a lesson grey haired emigrant visits
The native land left in early teens. There on the ground
Holding cherished forty years dated photographs.
Depicted century old giant oak trees grove
Hugging lush meadows cut by a crystal clear brook,
Where waters cascading over quartz pebbles merrily
Whisper ancient tunes to the brown trout.
Children skipping school
Muddied shoes after winter snow
Along the banks we used to
Pick crocus, snowbells and violets.
Or take sides in wild geese quarrel.
With no-one on watch we would,
Tickle and poach the foolish fish.
Timber mill before closure
Gulped down them oak trees.
Men squandered the loot.
Out of place thorny acacia planted
For something to hold the ground,
Droop home sick for Africa. You look for
Lush pastures find no hoof and no paw there.
Just overgrown scrubby mess crying for one.
Where a brook used to run, water we drank,
Dead cat floats. Death is in command.
Dirty foam bubbles on the canal,
The air is hydrogen sulphide.
Unlikely to set my foot here again, my dreams
Up in smoke, crushed in defeat I return,
To the village where unfamiliar faces
All clerks dressed in starched shirts bemoan,
Loudly again and again, they bemoan,
There is no work. No money to be had ...
A grieving outsider what do I see?
More squealing piglets than teats,
Penned sow running out of milk
Tired of living refusing to eat.
Saturday 14 September 2013 4 pm
Smoke-Stacks
Alexander Ryan-Jones
Hawker, ACT
Reflections of smoke-stacks toppling down to the ground,
Red dust and mortar hangs like fog ’round the trees,
Typewritten letters with smudged ink in the spaces,
Tears stained the page that would make it all better.
Confessions to boards lined with suits and striped ties,
Black ink is dripping from the veins of the people,
From the hearts of silicon the circuits are calling,
Their blood is black oil and they’re here to stay.
Depressions and good-times the circle is turning,
Once they were slaves but now the circuits give orders,
Eyes dart left and right across TV screens broken,
Our black blood is burning as a charred heart beats.
It runs the down the roads the gutters are foaming,
It collects on the windows like breath in the cold,
We turned off the machine and tore up the page,
We set a roaring fire and let the smoke rise free.
Sunday 15 September 2013
SnoopyLoo Meets The Emperor – The Xing Saga part 5
Jane Russell
Mount Barker, SA
SnoopyLoo gasped in surprise and her eyes flashed as she downloaded the day’s mail.
Curly, her partner, regarded her sympathetically: ‘Is it the electricity bill, sweetie?’
‘Oh Curly, you’ll never guess! I’ve just received a personal invitation to the palace!’ Snoopy was squeaking with excitement.
‘Does it include a plus one?’ asked Curly, hopefully.
‘Sorry, just me. Oh great dang! I’m going to meet the emperor!!! What on Xing shall I wear?’
As Snoopy began to rummage maniacally through her wardrobe, flinging colourful items this way and that and buzzing to herself, Curly reflected on their eventful lives during the ten orbits since they had returned home triumphantly from the failed invasion attempt of Earth.
At first, the fickle public of Xing had hailed them as heroines. But it didn’t take long to be forgotten once more. Curly preferred the privacy but Snoopy had relished being in the public eye. Her brief stint as company commander had awoken an ambition she didn’t know she had. She stayed on in the military for a couple of years, training new recruits. Then she and Curly had a baby bot, and she turned her talents towards education instead. Curly had been a stay-at-home parent at the start, but then she too got a job. She set up an interior design consultancy run from home. Snoopy moved up from headbot of the local school to become the Minister for Education. No doubt she had received the imperial invitation in her official capacity. Curly was proud of her, and the kids would be gobsmacked.
‘Move along, move along. Come on, quickly now!’ commanded the bored bureaucrat at the palace gate. Snoopy had her invitation scanned and her identity checked. She was pleased to be wearing a stylish feather boa in fluorescent pink, and a new hat made of silver coins. She didn’t want to appear showy or old-fashioned. She was bubbling with anticipation.
At last she was walking up the splendid approach to the imperial dais, her eyes glued to the distant figure of the Emperor Po, resplendent in his full-length cloak of bottle-tops? No, surely her eyes deceived her. As she got closer she realised that the ‘bottle-tops’ were in fact priceless ancient artefacts, rusty and worn. It was tradition for the ruler to dress this way, but it looked like crap, she thought to herself. In a smaller throne next to Po, was his youthful heir, Mo. At barely eleven orbits, he was a clone of his ancient father, and he looked thoroughly bored.
An outsider observing this scene might notice that Xing society was colour coded, starting with the Emperor (of which there was normally only one), who was a glossy black with silver detailing around his face and eyes and a broad stripe of purple across his chest, the only bot to have three colours. Next were the nobility, a mere ten percent of the population. They were silver with detailing in red. They had great power and spent their time hunting and ruling. They were the high court judges, the poet laureates, commanders-in-chief, game show hosts, and so on.
The largest class were the workers, the bots that did almost everything: psychologists, soldiers, politicians, artisans, bakers, teachers, musicians, vending machine repairmen, etc. They were bright scarlet and comprised about 75% of the population. The remaining bots were the grey, invisible servant class. Other bots thought they all looked alike, and tended not to notice them. All levels of Xing society were present in the imperial palace.
Snoopy had, of course, done her research on imperial protocol so she knew she must not touch the emperor or his heir. She approached the thrones and swivelled her head around three times in respect. Po gave an almost imperceptible puff in acknowledgement, and then he said:
‘You are SnoopyLoo, commander of Gamma Group in the late great invasion of the alien planet Earth?’
‘Uh-hah,’ she agreed, nodding, then as an afterthought, ‘Your Highness.’
‘I promised Mo that I would get h
im a first-hand account of the glorious battles and final desperate retreat. You seem more than adequate for the purpose.’
She was flustered, and so replied: ‘What, right now? Er, Your Highness.’ She was certainly making a hash of creating a good impression, she thought, ruefully.
‘No, you can start tonight, after dinner. With your experience in the field of education, you would be ideal as Mo’s new history teacher.’ It wasn’t so much a question as a statement of fact.
Snoopy was nonplussed. Dinner? Adult bots had no need to eat, so this would be a totally new experience for her. She also realised that she had not been offered a job: she had been drafted with no possibility of refusal. What would Curly think? She bowed to the floor: ‘It would be my honour, of course, Your Highness.’
That night, she was seated at a long table among various dignitaries and nobles. She was glad to see there were also a few red bodies among the silver. She had no idea what to do, so she waited to see what everyone else did and tried to emulate them. A grey figure appeared at her side speaking sotto voce: ‘There are ten courses, Madame, so just taste a little of each one.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied, realising that it was also the first time in her life that she had ever spoken to a grey bot.
The first course was something pink, wet, floral and chewy. Interesting, she thought to herself. The second course was long and black and seemed to have multiple spiky legs, and was still moving. She jabbed her fork into one and it turned and bit her. She looked around, hoping no one had noticed. Not that she had felt anything but a tickle on her metal finger. Then she surreptitiously dropped the wriggly things under the table, which made the large metal dog waiting there very happy.
There were fine crystal goblets filled with a liquid that smelled suspiciously like WD40. The conversation was witty and sparkling, but this was only Snoopy’s opinion. She sampled some more courses and finally felt the unfamiliar sensation of bulk sitting in her innards. This got her thinking. If stuff goes in, it has to come out again, surely? The possibilities for embarrassing situations were endless.
After the meal, she was shown into a room plush with purple velvet drapes, enormous framed paintings of past emperors and a plethora of gold tassels and tiny bells. The emperor’s heir Mo and several of his closest companions, both nobility and commoners, were seated on enormous velvet cushions on the floor in a semi-circle, waiting for their story. She made herself comfortable on a purple beanbag opposite them and began.
‘As your imperial progenitor commanded, 200 metalbots answered the call to form an invasion force to travel far from Xing to the pretty blue planet of Earth. Our mission was to assess the possibility of a full invasion: checking out the life forms, the dangers, their ability to resist, etc. It was a very perilous task.’
The children were wide eyed and she had their complete attention as she continued with the tale, making it as dramatic and exciting as she could. Afterwards, it was the kids’ bedtime, and Snoopy was not looking forward to texting Curly about her new ‘job’. Mo came up to her.
‘Miss? I was wondering if I could speak to you about something?’ he asked, tentatively.
‘Of course, Your Highness, anything.’
‘How can you tell the difference between male and female bots? They look the same to me. Is it just clothes?’
Snoopy was taken aback, and hummed to herself as she thought about the answer. ‘Well, we females are much prettier of course.’ She hadn’t thought of anything more enlightening to say, when all thought fled as she gasped. ‘Oh!’
In an instant, a grey bot was at her side, whispering: ‘Do you need to relieve yourself, Madam?’
‘Eh?’ Snoopy didn’t know what she meant.
‘Do you need to discharge the waste products of tonight’s dinner?’
‘Er, yes.’ Snoopy was very uncomfortable and embarrassed. But the grey bot led her quickly to a small room and showed her what to do. Once again, she considered the inanity of eating, and hoped she didn’t have to do it again. Life was going to be very different, living at the palace, and only going home on weekends, but somebody had to do it.
Monday 16 September 2013
Swing Free
Rachel Branscombe
Quakers Hill, NSW
The ground moving, the sky shaking.
The infinite thrill as I go higher and higher. Holding on for dear life, hoping that I don’t let go. Laughing with excitement, never wanting this moment to end. Then someone calls that it’s time to go and I realise that I must stop. The chains jingle, the ground crunches beneath my feet. ‘Can I have just one more go mummy?’ I ask in my cheeky little voice. ‘No darling it’s time to go,’ comes the reply as she takes hold of my hand and takes me home.
These days I go alone, no longer the little child I used to be. I sit on the same swing set and dream of being a kid again. I push off with my feet but no matter how high I go it doesn’t have the same feeling it did when I was small. The ground is matted down by all the years, the chains are rusted with time, and it’s apparent that I’m definitely not a kid anymore.
Tuesday 17 September 2013
Thought Of Horror
Vita Monica
Southbank, VIC
Drip by drip it bleeds
A red soring wound
Bruised and rotten stripes
Who feels as I do?
From heart it’s bleeding
Like bullet shot, it’s aching
Having the heartbeats echo
Louder in your mind it echoes
What would you do at the last minute?
Have you ever passed the thought of horror?
Sleepless night, like ... it haunts you
And terrible pain, it consumes you
When you fall asleep; you fear you’ll never see again.
Wednesday 18 September 2013
The Beginning Of An End
Sarah Baker
Tullamarine, VIC
Her luscious full lips were burning an aggressive red with the crisp winter air, or was it the burn of undisguisable torment that was her life?
She broke the cold dark stare between them and turned to face the wall. Her eyes were glazed with tears, but there was a glimmer of hope, her rayless grey eyes danced across the bricks, indulging in the dream that it might actually be possible to find solace somewhere in the crumbling ruins that was once their beloved sanctuary.
Visibly reliving each and every moment in those heavy grey eyes, she obliged like a good little girl to the prison of thoughts that consumed her mind. Her immortal wounds there for all to see were threatening to take her away and she waited openly for them to swallow her whole.
Carrying a fearful look of desperation, she had never looked so exposed. She was welcoming an aggressor with open arms. Did she think there she would find her solace, in the lifeless silence that would follow?