tasmanian europa poets gazette no 180 April 2019

15 years of publication

(180 months, 180 issues, 200 poets)

Tasmanian Europa Poets Gazette No 180, April 2019

Virgins, Joe Lake, acrylic on canvas, 30/40

Tick-Tock

Christmas has come

And quietly gone

The bon-bons have snap-crackled

And life has tick-tocked along.

               This bustling time

               Of gift giving

               And crib-adoring

               Invokes both sadness

               And gladness

We are now pleasantly

Relieved and away -

From that special day

For which we anxiously prepared

Then harmoniously shared

With our fellow travellers.

               On the twelfth month,

               Return it will,

               When, we shall all, once again,

               inevitably, relive it still.           

Kathleen O’Donnell

Outside Of Time

I am lost

Light, sound, movement wash over me

I walk in a straight line

But there is no direction

I long to stand outside of time

And view its infinite slide show

To find you smiling with me beside you

There I would remain

Instead I stand staring

At the void in my mind

My tears falling like rain

Into its dark and soulless depths

Because I am lost

Lost in time

Without you.

 Catherina Burton

 To me

Just as I am

I'll always be.

For I cannot change.

I am me

And can only be

A strange messed-up puzzle

To me.

 Robbie Taylor

Life, Joe Lake, acrylic on canvas, 30/40

Dogs’ Guide To Owners

    

I watch as two dog-lovers meet and greet:

conversation flows whilst their canine companions

engage in a wary acquaintance.

The bigger bitch bestows a steaming pile

of shit on my nature strip but the humans,

oblivious, affectionately farewell each other,

whilst their dogs stand by with studied indifference,

failing to acknowledge their contribution.

    Immediately, appearing from nowhere an officious woman,

who happens to carry, strapped to her slender wrist,

a store of black plastic bags supplied by the council.

She extends her bag-coated hand to grasp

the disgusting donation, averts the package,

and scurries off to the nearest litter-bin, tut-tutting as she goes.

    The Weimaraner leads his lovely lady,

she of the sleek grey hair and smooth grey garb.

They share the same extraordinary amber eyes.

They know that they belong to an aristocracy,

and engender a generous pride in each other.

    An athletic young man, black T-shirt and shorts,

jogs past, accompanied by a lolloping Labrador,

bright-eyed, tongue hanging out, tail gaily in the air.

They share enthusiasm and a mutual admiration:

Good to be alive and in such company.

      The man with the large, unleashed Blue Heeler cross,

each with determined jutting jaw and elongated nose,

spring-heels it down the centre of the road,

oblivious to passing bikes and hooting cars,

determined to display to other, lesser folk

something of the defiant Australian character.

    A mild, middle-aged man with two miniature Pomeranians

strives to disentangle their leads, entwined in multiple knots

like an out-of-control maypole, whilst his wife strides ahead,

unencumbered and unconcerned, head in the air,

her energies centred on her own holistic health.

    Another passing male handles a magnificent German Shepherd

with consummate skill, expressing Schadenfreude at the lack of control by

a fluffy pink lady, elaborately coiffured like her diminutive poodle

which is exploring the day’s dog droppings.

    An obese young father wheels his infant son

in a squeaking stroller, talking to a friend on his mobile phone,

whilst the child sits silent, unacknowledged, like the sad mongrel,

hang-dog shoulders, and drooping tail, walking beside.

Is the man bemoaning the freedom he had previously

enjoyed before becoming so child-encumbered?

   A stranger, with the looks of a mediaeval poet,

saunters by, murmuring to his shaggy dog

of indeterminate breed but curiously attentive.

Maybe the man’s name is Dante and he shares

a canto of iambic pentameter with his canine comrade,

who looks, if Dante Alighieri ever had a dog,

as he would look, impressed.

    A hard-haired Doberman with aggressive jowls,

and weasel-faced companion with a scowl,

represent anger; the world owes them something

and they are out to prove it.

    How did they choose each other, woman, man and dog,

each an extension of their character and mien?

Maybe a sad abandoned and neglected pup

from the local pound, or animal too old, or odd,

or without pedigree, or never-trained,

or bought to match an outfit, make a show,

or to impress the neighbours.

    The house next door is home to a poor benighted stray

of mixed inheritance and undistinguished air:

Dalmatian’s spots, a Springer Spaniel’s eyes,

snout of a Schnauzer, retriever’s feathered tail.

How could they make a partnership, this most unlikely pair,

woman unassuming, dog so strange and rare?

But in spite of past vicissitudes, they’ve both found in the end,

a compassionate companion, and a true and trusted friend.

Mary Kille

  

Last Breath

The last breath,

In - and never out,

Flicker of eyelid,

And then so still,

Not a tremble,

Nothing in the roar of silence,

Not a tremor of muscle,

Chilling of body,

Never to warm again,

Not a heartbeat,

A shell in the dark room,

Death stalks, silent.

The pit hollows the resting,

Re-figures to its own shape,

To a cage housing nought,

Leftovers of a meal in degradation,

Leftovers…and remains that belong

to the final day,

When a smile is frozen on cold lips.

Michael Garrad March 2019

This Tear

Tear of sorrow dries on pallor cheek,

Indelible, this day, this tortured week,

This precious mark, in evidence, clear,

Stains, memorial, to intimacy and fear,

Death drove the stake, hope and heart,

Nailed tomorrow, cruel, on funeral cart,

How day gone reaches for ending now,

Plead, this tear, and in mourning, bow.

Michael Garrad March 2019

The Elderly Cottage

The building had trellis works

And it was so beautiful.

There were large pot plants,

Medium ones and small ones in rows,

People passing by would stop

And admire the building.

To me it had character, everlasting, I thought.

Then one day I noticed the pot plants disappeared.

The flowering pots seemed to dwindle,

People were stopping and saying,

“What’s happening?”

I was so sad, to me, my beautiful

Building had lost its character.

The building could have been a mental home

Or people coming out of prison for relaxation.

When people decide to change buildings

They should think before they move to alter.

We don’t want anymore buildings like these

In the area where we live.

 Yvonne Matheson

Snooker

Snooker is a game

That you win frame by frame

It can bring you fortune

It can bring you fame

It is a game of skill

It requires nerves of steel

You need to have good powers of concentration

To win a snooker competition.

 Cathy Weaver

Sonnet

In Dreamtime, just before the time of Oz,

Did Birraloo, the king of all, decree

That Drilling, the noble bod, was boss

As spirits from the billabong would see

The outstretched hand of Goo, the gum-gum tree

Who wished that all should live in greatest ease

Where food and dreams came flying with the bees

To free the spirit for the sake of peace.

But forces of the Doog and Birraloo

Would rise to plead with discontented glee

To cleanse the Earth of dreams and fagaloo

That all decisions and their aims be free,

So did decree, the king, when he was near

To fight the blind intruders we may fear.

 Joe Lake

Wailing Tree-Evolution

My great granny wept and wailed

When the trees near her favourite glade

Were bulldozed to build her family home.

Now I weep and wail,

Seeing my great-granny’s house,

A place of many childhood memories,

Being reclaimed by the trees’ descendants

Who once reigned there.

These tentacles reach from the earth

To destroy the house seeking revenge.

Judy Brumby-Lake

The House, The Photo,  Judy Brumby-Lake

Love Song To The Moon

Pale, parchment moon full and round,

Witness to aeons of history and love.

I believe you shine now just for me -

Forever you will be, nocturnally mine.

Your hypnotic beams light the way

Along my life’s rocky road.

But when your mood is dark,

Your shadow fills me with fear that far away

You will forsake me for another lover,

Seducing her with your magnetism -

As you have seduced me.

When you are in crescent form,

I dream that you will scoop me up

To sit on your frosty frame.

Swinging high amongst celestial stars

Pasted on the black curtain of night -

Just you and I together,

While I sing my song of love to you -

While I sing my song of love.

June Maureen Hitchcock

Hidden Pleasures, Joe Lake, acrylic on canvas

lakej5263@gmail.com