Shark
The shark
swims in the big blue sea
beside you
and me
So be on the lookout
for that shark
in the sea
For he might grab...
You
or me.
© Richard Griffiths 11.11.08
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 74
Those People
Those people who are blind of heart and can’t see
The difference between good and bad are staid,
They look beyond the stars where they may flee
Into themselves where fearful black holes wait.
A ship that travels deep inside your brain,
Where Grevilles of an alien world address
And prove to you that you were born to pain:
To haunting paranoiac fear, no less.
But then, when we confront and touch this fear,
We learn its weakness and its origin
And how it is created, when we veer
Away from claiming all that’s nourishing
To leave behind the chasms that are bad
To reach the summit of our destined fate.
A Dream
A dream, outside myself, of better times;
Of times, where all my cells co-operate;
A time where nothing stems the flowing rhymes;
A time when need and love communicate.
Then I shall see the sunset, hypnotised,
The glistening sea reflected in my eyes,
Then I must float on thermals, systemised,
Where souls attempt a journey Heaven-wise.
Where they use magic in this dream of life
And all hold hands and Lodge to become one,
When all belong within this merging hive
That makes life strive towards the rising sun.
I must confess that I would like to go
Where we can drown and die in life's sweet woe.
© Joe Lake
Those people who are blind of heart and can’t see
The difference between good and bad are staid,
They look beyond the stars where they may flee
Into themselves where fearful black holes wait.
A ship that travels deep inside your brain,
Where Grevilles of an alien world address
And prove to you that you were born to pain:
To haunting paranoiac fear, no less.
But then, when we confront and touch this fear,
We learn its weakness and its origin
And how it is created, when we veer
Away from claiming all that’s nourishing
To leave behind the chasms that are bad
To reach the summit of our destined fate.
A Dream
A dream, outside myself, of better times;
Of times, where all my cells co-operate;
A time where nothing stems the flowing rhymes;
A time when need and love communicate.
Then I shall see the sunset, hypnotised,
The glistening sea reflected in my eyes,
Then I must float on thermals, systemised,
Where souls attempt a journey Heaven-wise.
Where they use magic in this dream of life
And all hold hands and Lodge to become one,
When all belong within this merging hive
That makes life strive towards the rising sun.
I must confess that I would like to go
Where we can drown and die in life's sweet woe.
© Joe Lake
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 74
Teach Me
I’ve just arrived: I’m alone, and new here.
Armed only with eyes and ears, and internet.
I’m trying to discover what I should fear,
to learn what’s a worry and what’s a good bet.
I’ve faced fears before and know what it takes,
but find myself in a panic and a dither
thinking of your Devils, wallabies and snakes
and all the other evils that bite, snap and slither.
I dread it will be reported that I almost died
somewhere among your eucalypts and pine,
bitten by a strange marsupial oddly
transmogrified
into overgrown rodent or revived thylacine.
But most I fear your Aussie love of rhyming verse
will nudge my Kiwi poetry from bad to worse.
© Tim Heath April 14, 2010
I’ve just arrived: I’m alone, and new here.
Armed only with eyes and ears, and internet.
I’m trying to discover what I should fear,
to learn what’s a worry and what’s a good bet.
I’ve faced fears before and know what it takes,
but find myself in a panic and a dither
thinking of your Devils, wallabies and snakes
and all the other evils that bite, snap and slither.
I dread it will be reported that I almost died
somewhere among your eucalypts and pine,
bitten by a strange marsupial oddly
transmogrified
into overgrown rodent or revived thylacine.
But most I fear your Aussie love of rhyming verse
will nudge my Kiwi poetry from bad to worse.
© Tim Heath April 14, 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 74
I’ve put bird netting over the peas I just planted and my lawn has just been mowed, and Judy cut down some trees which she loves doing with our electric chainsaw. I’ve decided not to write my autobiography because it’d be too boring
The two sonnets on the right are reverberations of the sixteenth century poets, Greville and Lodge, respectively. Check how cunningly I integrated their names. As I’ve advertised below, we’ll have our Burnie Gold Pot (donated by last year’s winner, Pete Stratford) that will be filled by all of you with gold coins for the winner. The judging will be done by six people from the audience, so come along on Friday, July 16,
5.30 pm, at the Burnie Library.
Burnie Shines With Poetry will be held also at the library on October 22 at 5.30 pm.
The two sonnets on the right are reverberations of the sixteenth century poets, Greville and Lodge, respectively. Check how cunningly I integrated their names. As I’ve advertised below, we’ll have our Burnie Gold Pot (donated by last year’s winner, Pete Stratford) that will be filled by all of you with gold coins for the winner. The judging will be done by six people from the audience, so come along on Friday, July 16,
5.30 pm, at the Burnie Library.
Burnie Shines With Poetry will be held also at the library on October 22 at 5.30 pm.
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 74
Waiting On A Bridge
The glow from lampposts lining Le Pont Alexander 111
Was reflected on the Seine’s still night waters -
Like pearls on black silk.
I waited for a Parisian man to stop and join me
In contemplation, but on that trip long ago
Love passed me by;
Perhaps I’ll return one day
To the place where lovers meet.
© June Maureen Hitchcock May, 2010
The glow from lampposts lining Le Pont Alexander 111
Was reflected on the Seine’s still night waters -
Like pearls on black silk.
I waited for a Parisian man to stop and join me
In contemplation, but on that trip long ago
Love passed me by;
Perhaps I’ll return one day
To the place where lovers meet.
© June Maureen Hitchcock May, 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 74
Left Herself
Gulls, white, in the gather-gloom
circle and shriek,
Steady her on outstretched wings,
Even higher, she sees them,
Calling in the dream,
Feels the wind in her face
as tears of joy,
She has left the others
and herself,
Marvels through vacant cloud,
High journey is beautiful
behind closed eyes,
It is this dream that cradles,
Awake in veil sleep,
Earthly in the armchair,
Does that move, too?
Gulls are far below now,
Disorganised in order flight,
Flecks as birds that once tussled
over scraps on ragged lawn,
Long before the song began,
This living dream is exquisite,
And endures even in
Heaven’s lofty blue.
© Michael Garrad May 2010
Coalman
Black,
Skin black,
Streak black,
Sweat congealed,
Eyes peer through
mask face,
Cap black,
Shined by sack, black,
From cart to bin,
Chunk-coal
thunders into
hungry abyss,
White teeth
pierce black,
Shroud of black,
Smile warms
this bitter day
as flames
gorge precious fuel.
More snow,
White on black,
He will be back,
Thank God!
© Michael Garrad April 2010
Gulls, white, in the gather-gloom
circle and shriek,
Steady her on outstretched wings,
Even higher, she sees them,
Calling in the dream,
Feels the wind in her face
as tears of joy,
She has left the others
and herself,
Marvels through vacant cloud,
High journey is beautiful
behind closed eyes,
It is this dream that cradles,
Awake in veil sleep,
Earthly in the armchair,
Does that move, too?
Gulls are far below now,
Disorganised in order flight,
Flecks as birds that once tussled
over scraps on ragged lawn,
Long before the song began,
This living dream is exquisite,
And endures even in
Heaven’s lofty blue.
© Michael Garrad May 2010
Coalman
Black,
Skin black,
Streak black,
Sweat congealed,
Eyes peer through
mask face,
Cap black,
Shined by sack, black,
From cart to bin,
Chunk-coal
thunders into
hungry abyss,
White teeth
pierce black,
Shroud of black,
Smile warms
this bitter day
as flames
gorge precious fuel.
More snow,
White on black,
He will be back,
Thank God!
© Michael Garrad April 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 74
My comments in the May issue concerned physical pain and how people deal with it, how, in some cases, they make pain a companion.
But there is another pain - a mental pain. It is just as real but very often there are no physical symptoms. The pain is deep in the mind, affecting every facet of daily life.
Those who look on rarely have any idea what this pain is like. They say they understand but they really have no concept of this agony. It’s not a companion.
It is a cancer but not always terminal, although here are cases where it is. It’s all about the mind in chaos and if you haven't taken that journey, then lucky you.
The eyes give it away. Look deep, if you care at all, and you will see.
But there is another pain - a mental pain. It is just as real but very often there are no physical symptoms. The pain is deep in the mind, affecting every facet of daily life.
Those who look on rarely have any idea what this pain is like. They say they understand but they really have no concept of this agony. It’s not a companion.
It is a cancer but not always terminal, although here are cases where it is. It’s all about the mind in chaos and if you haven't taken that journey, then lucky you.
The eyes give it away. Look deep, if you care at all, and you will see.
Europa Poets' Gazette, No 68, December 2009
Gone, Gone Are Those Days
Gone, gone are those days
when we had a White Australia policy.
And those in power thought
That Australia should be peopled
By only the white race
And the cries of the original owners
Of the land went unheard.
Gone, gone are those days
When some job vacancies read,
"No Catholics or Jews need apply."
Gone, gone are those days
When children born before
Marriage, or without a known father,
Were shunned by society.
Gone, gone are those days
When Australians were considered to be
Sinners for marrying a person of
A different Christian creed:
For Catholics and Protestants to marry one
Another, often, from such unions,
The couples were viewed as still unwed
And their children, in the eyes of the church,
were illegitimate.
Gone, gone are those days
When a person who had
Committed suicide
Was tried in court for committing such an act
And then was buried in a non-consecrated grave.
With our nation emerging into a one-world nation,
I hope that we will soon be saying,
"Gone are those days of children soldiers."
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Gone, gone are those days
when we had a White Australia policy.
And those in power thought
That Australia should be peopled
By only the white race
And the cries of the original owners
Of the land went unheard.
Gone, gone are those days
When some job vacancies read,
"No Catholics or Jews need apply."
Gone, gone are those days
When children born before
Marriage, or without a known father,
Were shunned by society.
Gone, gone are those days
When Australians were considered to be
Sinners for marrying a person of
A different Christian creed:
For Catholics and Protestants to marry one
Another, often, from such unions,
The couples were viewed as still unwed
And their children, in the eyes of the church,
were illegitimate.
Gone, gone are those days
When a person who had
Committed suicide
Was tried in court for committing such an act
And then was buried in a non-consecrated grave.
With our nation emerging into a one-world nation,
I hope that we will soon be saying,
"Gone are those days of children soldiers."
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 74
Once Upon A Time
Once upon a time,
A long time ago,
in the 15th century,
the term boy meant servant.
"Come here, boy."
A male child was called
a naive girl.
A female child was called
a gay girl.
Gay girls wore blue;
Naive girls wore pink.
In the 21st century,
Gay girls have become
girls that wear pink.
Naive girls became boys
that wear blue.
What happened, you guessed it -
Chinese whispers.
© Dianne Woods
Once upon a time,
A long time ago,
in the 15th century,
the term boy meant servant.
"Come here, boy."
A male child was called
a naive girl.
A female child was called
a gay girl.
Gay girls wore blue;
Naive girls wore pink.
In the 21st century,
Gay girls have become
girls that wear pink.
Naive girls became boys
that wear blue.
What happened, you guessed it -
Chinese whispers.
© Dianne Woods
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 74
Bagged Out!
(From comments by a friend surviving a near-fatal accident.)
I curse this plastic bag - warm and soft against my belly.
I hate the need to empty it - a task that’s always smelly.
But it means I go on living, it has gained me added years.
Initially my future bleak, and I was wracked with fears.
I’ve somehow learned to live with it, even treat it as a joke,
But I wouldn’t wish colostomy on any other bloke.
"Will give you quality of life"; Words from this doctor chap.
"Quality be damned!" I said, "I’d rather sit and crap!"
© Pete Stratford 6.5.10
(From comments by a friend surviving a near-fatal accident.)
I curse this plastic bag - warm and soft against my belly.
I hate the need to empty it - a task that’s always smelly.
But it means I go on living, it has gained me added years.
Initially my future bleak, and I was wracked with fears.
I’ve somehow learned to live with it, even treat it as a joke,
But I wouldn’t wish colostomy on any other bloke.
"Will give you quality of life"; Words from this doctor chap.
"Quality be damned!" I said, "I’d rather sit and crap!"
© Pete Stratford 6.5.10
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 74
A Bit Of A Chat
You said:
We need to have a talk
I said:
Will this be
a walk along the beach without shoes,
feeling how soft our feet have
become over the long winter,
kind-of-a-talk?
Will this be
a climb up
a wooden hill, the deepening
of our breath making words
slow and considered,
kind-of-a-talk?
Will this be
a sit in a coffee shop
our heads drawn close over
the steam and milk-comfortable cups,
making a special little world,
kind-of-a-talk?
Will this be
a deep and meaningful,
look into my eyes session
that demands I search my soul
and memory for the truth,
kind-of-a-talk?
You said:
No, my dear, this will be a sitting
at the table with pens and diaries,
trying to co-ordinate the demands
of the coming week,
kind-of-a-talk.
© Tim Heath October 1, 2007
You said:
We need to have a talk
I said:
Will this be
a walk along the beach without shoes,
feeling how soft our feet have
become over the long winter,
kind-of-a-talk?
Will this be
a climb up
a wooden hill, the deepening
of our breath making words
slow and considered,
kind-of-a-talk?
Will this be
a sit in a coffee shop
our heads drawn close over
the steam and milk-comfortable cups,
making a special little world,
kind-of-a-talk?
Will this be
a deep and meaningful,
look into my eyes session
that demands I search my soul
and memory for the truth,
kind-of-a-talk?
You said:
No, my dear, this will be a sitting
at the table with pens and diaries,
trying to co-ordinate the demands
of the coming week,
kind-of-a-talk.
© Tim Heath October 1, 2007
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 74
Changing Places
Early morning sunlight filters through my lace curtains,
Throwing mosaics on my bedroom wall -
So that most of the painting above my bed is obscured,
But I know there is a young girl dressed in 1920s fashion,
Leaning lazily back against an old tree trunk -
Her arms, the colour of milk, are stretched out
In model pose, and in one hand she holds
A white straw hat with soft blue bow.
She is smiling and relaxed in her pastel peace
And I think she lives a life without care:
At this moment, with my heavy heart and mind,
I could easily change places with her.
© June Maureen Hitchcock May, 2010
Early morning sunlight filters through my lace curtains,
Throwing mosaics on my bedroom wall -
So that most of the painting above my bed is obscured,
But I know there is a young girl dressed in 1920s fashion,
Leaning lazily back against an old tree trunk -
Her arms, the colour of milk, are stretched out
In model pose, and in one hand she holds
A white straw hat with soft blue bow.
She is smiling and relaxed in her pastel peace
And I think she lives a life without care:
At this moment, with my heavy heart and mind,
I could easily change places with her.
© June Maureen Hitchcock May, 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 74
Feature Poet
Looking Forward, Looking Back
As we walk the path of life,
We often hit hard times
Leaving us broken-hearted.
Though we are torn and weathered,
We still have a bright future,
For we are travelling along a path.
It is long and ancient,
One that has served us well.
The path will not be easy,
But we will get there for our ancestors
Our history and our culture,
We are the Aboriginals of the land
Looking forward, looking back.
Back.
© Richard Griffiths 29.11.2008
Looking Forward, Looking Back
As we walk the path of life,
We often hit hard times
Leaving us broken-hearted.
Though we are torn and weathered,
We still have a bright future,
For we are travelling along a path.
It is long and ancient,
One that has served us well.
The path will not be easy,
But we will get there for our ancestors
Our history and our culture,
We are the Aboriginals of the land
Looking forward, looking back.
Back.
© Richard Griffiths 29.11.2008
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