~~~
Her pain was ripping at the walls of his heart, tears of despair rippled down his flushed cheek and you could see him flinch with every sharp blow she was now bound to endure. Little did she know he was desperately longing for her suffering to finally come to an end, knowing this too would bring him his antidote.
The look upon her face was agony for him to bear witness to. You could see he would not dare to draw his guilt stricken eyes away from her face. So he stood there, ankles shaking as he tried desperately to keep his feet planted firmly on the floor, instead of giving in to temptation and jumping straight out that creaky bedroom window.
He had no idea how to save her; this woman he loved so very much was slipping away and there was absolutely nothing he could do to salvage the pieces that once formed the wine bottle they shared. All that remained was two empty glasses.
Where could they possibly go from here?
Once you reach the end is it possible to find your way back to the beginning?
Thursday 19 September 2013
Imagination
Alexander Gardiner
Bullaburra, NSW
‘Imagine’. Life’s wurth without; ‘imagination’,
could we iver contemplate creation?
A gif’ to have in oor ain mind’s een,
without it, nuthin’ wundrous wid be iver seen.
Rabbie. ‘O wad some Power the giftie gie us to see oursels as ithers see us’!
Wid that no’ be a wundrous plus?
Imagine if; oor een had that gif’ tae see,
aw’ whit in life, we wid luve tae be.
As a lad, tae see aw’ lass’s ways,
tae see their mind’s een an’ beau-fait.
Tae ken whit they imagine life tae be,
whit they wid want aw’ lad’s tae see.
An’ as a lassy, tae ken aw’ Lad’s minds,
an’ their wishes, fur their ain mind’s, tae find.
An’ dugs an’ cats an’ aw’ wee creatures aw’,
tae see their wundrous thoughts we’ve niver saw.
An’ tae see through wee burdies eens,
beautiful fields below o’ verdant green.
An’ tae soar wae oor imagination free,
Tae see life’s wunders, in aw degrees.
Tae feel , the sounds, and see the breeze,
an imagine the thoughts o’ aw’ the trees.
Fur oor minds tae feel like aw’ the fluers,
tae be coloured aw’ day an’ at ivery ’our.
Banish Poverty wid a’ways be in oor minds,
nae wars tae poverish aw mankind.
Equal rights fur aw’ creatures livin’ oan this earth,
let oor imagination gei strife the widest berth.
Aye , Imagine if aw’ that an’ aw that could be,
Nae sleekit thoughts o’ oany degree.
Jist the power tae see hoo ithers see life,
Imagination tae banish, aw life’s strife.
Imagine tae rid oorsels o’ aw life’s disease,
nae mair tae pay aw thay awsum fees.
An if we could imagine ithers point o’ view,
nae need fur lawyers or the need tae sue.
Oh a wush in sum wee way,
aw’ the wurld’s folks kid be au-fait.
Oh the power o’ imaginative thoughts,
an’ fur those thoughts niver tae be bought.
See aw’ ithers points o’ view, fur free,
Ithers views, as we wid like them tae see.
Jist hoo wunnerful the wurld wid be fur us,
a gigantic, brammer, humungus plus.
A’ways, afore a lay ma heid doon tae sleep,
Imagine guid things an’ fur ma soul tae keep.
Oh whit a brammer wundrous gif’
Imagination … jist imagine … If.
Friday 20 September 2013
Steppe Surfing
Graham Sparks
Bathurst, NSW
Each and every disparate discipline I may traverse obliquely,
driven by my passion in quest of project closure
contains a myriad of details, not unlike an army,
and I, the man for pictures large not wishing for distraction
by consideration of a single soldier,
must be a generalissimo and surf the crowd,
for if I choose to focus on a single soldiers attributes
the vision will be lost as I am trampled underfoot.
This army that I speak of must be compliant and reactive
for at my merest fancy as it does arise,
that sea of men should form itself into the shape of my desire.
As blades of grass upon the steppe,
the details of a discipline are moved by thunder wind and spirit.
As roughshod do I ride across those plains, driven on by spirit,
my horses hooves make thunder, the wind is of our passing.
Saturday 21 September 2013
At A Loose End …
James Craib
Wentworth Falls, NSW
At the third stroke, it will be 9.54 and 10 seconds and my lady reckons it’s time for tea.
At the end of the day who can say what the outcome of the next election will be.
At the going down of the sun and in the morning, fawning regret, will we remember them?
At the final bell in the afternoon shall we spoon with the crème de la crème?
At times hard to handle; I am out of control and quite impossible am I – pity me.
At the 1972 Irish sheep dog trials, with smiles, I asked, ‘How many were found guilty?’
At the Star Hotel, all’s not well; the patrons are not happy ’cause the beer’s gone flat.
At the stroke of twelve fair Cinderella, lost her feller, at a long weekend in Ballarat.
At night the trees aren’t sleeping ’though the birds aren’t cheeping and so the hounds do bray.
At the crack of dawn when the dew on the lawn gives way to the promise of a fine winter’s day.
At the traffic lights there’s a momentary contemplation; alienation surrounds me on all sides.
At the final bell, it will be impracticable to know if what I’ve written is valid or contrived.
At the third stroke, it will be 11 am precisely and wisely we retreat to the terrace by the roses.
At the end of the rainbow you may find the Land of Oz, simply because, your partner proposes.
At the end of the street where the waters meet is a lake beside the hanging marsh
At the end of a love affair, recriminations come to bear upon an idyllic now turned harsh.
At the periphery, life is so slippery, fragile, transient; precarious yet serene.
At the movies, life is so groovy! Forget all your troubles by the silver screen.
‘At the Codfish Ball’ with Shirley Temple: a memorable song and dance with Buddy Ebsen.
At the end of the universe, although perverse, it’s rumoured there’s a restaurant to make mess in.
‘At the Castle Gate’, I must relate, was the theme for ‘The Sky at Night’ – a bright impression.
At the present time; at the moment; at this juncture: all will function as the same expression.
At a café in Casablanca; at the markets at Salamanca; at a pub in Parramatta – we say this ’n’ that.
At a glance, you will look askance at this meaningless dance of sentences; starting with an ’at’.
At arm’s length when you read what’s before you; I would implore you not to break the spell.
At an educated guess, even though I won’t confess ... oh, alright – it’s a mess! It’s clear I’ll be exposed at the final bell!
Sunday 22 September 2013
At Another Time …
James Craib
Wentworth Falls, NSW
At a fevered pitch, the world attempts still to enrich uranium up to 235.
At the
eleventh hour on the eleventh day of the eleventh month ... will we still survive?
‘At Last’ is an impassioned song, delivered so strongly by the impeccable Etta James.
At another time, on another occasion, there will be persuasion to participate in games.
At a standstill, the whirling dervishes were curling their moustaches with great abandon.
‘At My Desk’ sat Charlie Chuckles who darkly coloured drawings that little children fashioned.
‘At the Cross’ is an English hymn, when devotees on a whim, sing exulted praises to their messiah.
At the meditation centre, I had a dream I was a centaur galloping and neighing to the music of a choir.
At the ashram, Andris sat cross-legged at Mangrove yoga as he strove to make some sense of it all.
At one with nature? No, we are at two and nothing we can now do will reverse the planet’s fall.
At the bicentennial rally, briefly I got pally with cross-gendered protestors in Hyde Park in ’88.
At the bottom of the garden, without a ‘beg your pardon’, came fairies, hobgoblins and dykes incarnate.
At the battle of the sexes, I was struck in the solar plexus by a person of an ambiguous disposition.
At the third stroke it was apparent I was a new bloke; no need to take heed of emotional ammunition.
At the beginning, perhaps we thought that we were winning the war on world poverty.
At best it was a token gesture; a cynical brokered device to defuse adverse publicity.
At the coal face there was always a race to have a face as black as balsamic vinegar.
At the trivia night, though we had less wrong than right; it was not enough for a voucher for dinner.
At the apex was the diva who recorded the best version of ‘Fever’; of course ... she was Peggy Lee.
At twilight, you’ll just hear her singing when lights are low; always a treat for you and me.
At the looking glass stood Alice, who leapt in with no malice, and stormed the red palace of the queen.
At the hospital I had an inhospitable encounter with a physical fitness trainer who ruled supreme.
At another time and place, I’ll fall flat upon my face, heaving like a whale upon a beach.
‘At my command, I’ll have you stand and take it like a man – remember the whip’s within my reach.’
At my wild erratic fancy, an image comes of Clancy – it’s a deliberate misquote so’s to use another ‘at’.
At my knee I have an old banjo-ukulele, I like to strum from time to time and scare the cat.
At the conclusion of this verse, you could say I’ve written far worse – but after all, who really cares?
At least it mentions ‘fever’; at worst it’s like a blunt meat cleaver – chopping up ideas, my dears that I now have shared!
Monday 23 September and Tuesday 24 September 2013
The Book Of Dreams
David Anderson
Hazelbrook, NSW
Melvyn de Beer thought it was strange that he hadn’t noticed the little antiquated book shop before, hidden at the back of the arcade. The little bell tinkled above the door as he entered and a very elderly bald man smiled at him across the counter. Melvyn moved among the aisles to the children’s section and began to scan the titles. He gave a start as the old man, now beside him, asked a question.
‘Are you looking for anything in particular?’ The old man moved slightly away as he became aware of the heady aroma of alcohol on Melvyn’s breath. Melvyn answered with a touch of annoyance. One of the old man’s eyes was blue and the other was green, and it made Melvyn feel uneasy.
‘Give me a chance to have a look around will you?’
He saw the look of hurt on the old man’s face at his retort, and regretfully gave a smile. It wasn’t the old man’s fault he had had a few drinks too many; plus a falling out with his friend who saw him drinking at work.
‘I’m sorry. Yes – I’m looking for a book for a seven year old girl. She really loves the beach and the ocean.’
The old man stared into his eyes for a moment, then beckoned him to the counter.
‘That is very remarkable. Such a book I’ve had delivered to me today. It’s not yet on the shelf.’
He bent to retrieve the book from under the counter. He lay it on the bench and flicked through the pages and closed it, revealing the cover: Jenny’s Day at the Beach. He smiled and sighed.
‘Books are such magical things. The story we create from them in our minds is much more truthful to life than ones from another’s mind that we see in movie theatres.’
For a moment Melvyn could swear the cover was very yellow and worn. He blinked his eyes and the cover of the book was as if it was printed this morning. The scene was of a girl on the beach building a sand castle. Her parents looked on lovingly as they sat on deck chairs. The sun was shining and waves fell gently onto the shore and melted into the sand close to the little girl. Seagulls flew across the sky and ... He was taken aback, as he realised the book was moving like a film. He blinked again, and the book was static. He blinked a few more times, then realised it was probably the whiskey chasers he had drunk after the beers at the hotel.
‘I can gift wrap it for the little one if you like.’
Melvyn ignored the request and was lost in thought for a moment. ‘I beg your pardon?’
The old man smiled and held up some gift wrapping paper covered in little teddy bears. ‘I can gift wrap. Children love the little teddy bear paper.’
Melvyn reached for his wallet. ‘Yes. I’ll take it. Thank you.’
The old man wrapped the book and took the money. Giving Melvyn his change he smiled and Melvyn felt a slight chill come over him. He had to get away from the gaze of those strange eyes. The old man smiled and his eyes sparkled.
‘This book is very special. I’m sure your daughter will love it. They say books can change your life.’
Melvyn snatched up the gift and gave the old man a look of disregard. ‘Really? Well, no book ever changed mine. Thank you.’ He walked out hurriedly without waiting for a reply.