he Girl I Used To Be
I’m not old - don’t call me old -
I’m just an antique little girl - that’s all I am!
I don’t exactly want to be wiped and dusted
As other antiques,
But I do want to be treasured, adored
And kept on show by those who love me -
Not with all these wrinkles,
But for everyone to see -
the girl I used to be!
© June Maureen Hitchcock
(first published in issue No.47)
Sunday, January 31, 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 70, February 2010
It’s a summer’s day and the crickets are chirping in one continuous sound similar to a jet-engine’s whine. The dog is asleep at my feet and the television rambles on about some indigenous tribes in South America. I’ll be bowling tonight. This is the only way I can tell whether I can concentrate. If I bowl well - all is well. Never mind.
We’ll have some greengages soon. The branches of this tree are pliant and the possum has just eaten every leaf of another plum tree and has killed it but finds it hard to balance on the greengage because if it falls off, the cat is waiting underneath to scratch it. I’m giving the tree lots of water and liquid fertiliser that makes the fruit grow and then I go down each day and feel each plum whether it’s soft and if it is, I eat it. I could do this all day. What a wasted life.
I’m writing two booklets. One is made up of children’s poems that have no meaning, only sound like music. A bit like the Jabberwocky. The other is filled with short-short stories and I seem to procrastinate with that one.
On this page are another two of my philosophical sonnets. I haven’t published the book because I can’t find the sheet with my ISBN numbers. I will, don’t worry, eventually.
From Joe Lake’s Philosophical Sonnets:
First Cause
As everything on Earth must have a cause
Then this first source could be a deity
But here we cogitate without recourse
For what was there before this entity?
If God, omnisciently has always been
The cause and therefore all creation’s birth,
What would it mean if God Himself is seen
As not a beneficent ruler but its curse?
Aristotle thought the world goes on
With no beginning spirit in its dance.
And deity? There never has been one
For life is chaos at creation’s chance.
If everything has; then God has a cause,
But it’s much more likely that He never was.
On Being II
Our lives are drawn towards a central core
To reproduce a substance into life
And here to form and open up a door,
The first beginning of that human hive.
We congregate and mingle and we make;
Constructing structures that sustain the cell
To reproduce from blueprints in its wake
And stimulate to feed and know and tell.
Yet soon enough the wheel grinds to a halt
So that the substance must be dissipated
Where Being and its essence may be culled,
Decayed into its parts, disintegrated.
But other templates rise to build these blocks
To make a different substance from these stocks.
© Joe Lake
We’ll have some greengages soon. The branches of this tree are pliant and the possum has just eaten every leaf of another plum tree and has killed it but finds it hard to balance on the greengage because if it falls off, the cat is waiting underneath to scratch it. I’m giving the tree lots of water and liquid fertiliser that makes the fruit grow and then I go down each day and feel each plum whether it’s soft and if it is, I eat it. I could do this all day. What a wasted life.
I’m writing two booklets. One is made up of children’s poems that have no meaning, only sound like music. A bit like the Jabberwocky. The other is filled with short-short stories and I seem to procrastinate with that one.
On this page are another two of my philosophical sonnets. I haven’t published the book because I can’t find the sheet with my ISBN numbers. I will, don’t worry, eventually.
From Joe Lake’s Philosophical Sonnets:
First Cause
As everything on Earth must have a cause
Then this first source could be a deity
But here we cogitate without recourse
For what was there before this entity?
If God, omnisciently has always been
The cause and therefore all creation’s birth,
What would it mean if God Himself is seen
As not a beneficent ruler but its curse?
Aristotle thought the world goes on
With no beginning spirit in its dance.
And deity? There never has been one
For life is chaos at creation’s chance.
If everything has; then God has a cause,
But it’s much more likely that He never was.
On Being II
Our lives are drawn towards a central core
To reproduce a substance into life
And here to form and open up a door,
The first beginning of that human hive.
We congregate and mingle and we make;
Constructing structures that sustain the cell
To reproduce from blueprints in its wake
And stimulate to feed and know and tell.
Yet soon enough the wheel grinds to a halt
So that the substance must be dissipated
Where Being and its essence may be culled,
Decayed into its parts, disintegrated.
But other templates rise to build these blocks
To make a different substance from these stocks.
© Joe Lake
Eurpa Poets' Gazette No. 70, February 2010
A new year and a merry Easter to you!
Well, you can still buy handsome Christmas hams, plum puddings and the like.
And, of course, the icing on the cake, so to speak - hot cross buns! Hop in for an Easter egg real soon, too!
Never mind getting the children back to school (uniforms, fashion shoes, books, fees!) or that wildly romantic (and commercial) moment we call Valentine’s Day on February 14 (what was it way back when, the Valentine’s Day Massacre?).
No, we are in a constant state of celebration. We’ve had Australia Day and what a proud day that was - flags flying, snags sizzling on barbecues and copious amounts of alcohol flowing to keep the long weekend lingering longer, naturally. And new Australian citizens, of course, swearing their allegiance.
As I said, merry Easter to you! Oh, and by the way, have you paid off the credit cards from 2009?
Doesn’t Know Why
He walks the walk,
But doesn’t know it,
Breeze bathes eyes,
He doesn’t know
what seeing means,
Sweet air hones his scent,
Doesn’t know why,
Feels the rain,
Doesn’t know how
cold is wet,
Basks in sun’s warmth,
Glow means nothing,
Just there,A
As with food and need,
But what is need
and nourishment?
All in an instant,
Like every breath,
What is breath?
We know,
He lives and dies,
And doesn’t know why.
© Michael Garrad January 2010
Requiem
Go gentle into the good ground,
Not a whisper, not a sound,
Hush!
As waters rush
above,
And angel dove sighs
in distant azure skies,
Leaves in shaft shadow
tease
this cool and sweet air -
And there
the safe place,
And the still face
in the dark,
Peace upon the green park,
Quiet now, on a long day,
Not a word to say;
Go gentle into the good ground,
Not a whisper, not a sound,
as angel dove sighs
high in distant azure skies,
Grief, as our tears fall,
And dance on beloved trees, tall;
Please hear us in the quiet
as frail emotions rage in riot.
© Michael Garrad December 2009
Well, you can still buy handsome Christmas hams, plum puddings and the like.
And, of course, the icing on the cake, so to speak - hot cross buns! Hop in for an Easter egg real soon, too!
Never mind getting the children back to school (uniforms, fashion shoes, books, fees!) or that wildly romantic (and commercial) moment we call Valentine’s Day on February 14 (what was it way back when, the Valentine’s Day Massacre?).
No, we are in a constant state of celebration. We’ve had Australia Day and what a proud day that was - flags flying, snags sizzling on barbecues and copious amounts of alcohol flowing to keep the long weekend lingering longer, naturally. And new Australian citizens, of course, swearing their allegiance.
As I said, merry Easter to you! Oh, and by the way, have you paid off the credit cards from 2009?
Doesn’t Know Why
He walks the walk,
But doesn’t know it,
Breeze bathes eyes,
He doesn’t know
what seeing means,
Sweet air hones his scent,
Doesn’t know why,
Feels the rain,
Doesn’t know how
cold is wet,
Basks in sun’s warmth,
Glow means nothing,
Just there,A
As with food and need,
But what is need
and nourishment?
All in an instant,
Like every breath,
What is breath?
We know,
He lives and dies,
And doesn’t know why.
© Michael Garrad January 2010
Requiem
Go gentle into the good ground,
Not a whisper, not a sound,
Hush!
As waters rush
above,
And angel dove sighs
in distant azure skies,
Leaves in shaft shadow
tease
this cool and sweet air -
And there
the safe place,
And the still face
in the dark,
Peace upon the green park,
Quiet now, on a long day,
Not a word to say;
Go gentle into the good ground,
Not a whisper, not a sound,
as angel dove sighs
high in distant azure skies,
Grief, as our tears fall,
And dance on beloved trees, tall;
Please hear us in the quiet
as frail emotions rage in riot.
© Michael Garrad December 2009
Eurpa Poets' Gazette No. 69, January 2010
Grandchildren
Just looking at our grandkids, it’s clear that in God’s scheme
Who they’d be, that now they are, was written in their genes.
Familiar traits we notice, and there, so plain to see,
There are little bits like grandma and even some like me.
Random issues from their gene pool, they were not given choices;
Some have lovely hair, or eyes, or golden singing voices.
There’s studious and quiet, and some with poise and grace,
Practical and patient, and all with friendly face.
Those qualities that we admire, they fill our hearts with pride,
While others, we convince ourselves, come from the other side!
They’ve individual looks and likes, yet it’s quite clear to me,
They’re simply just some fresh new twigs on our old family tree.
So family traits are handed down, from each age to another,
Just as it has always been since Eve became a mother.
© Pete Stratford
Just looking at our grandkids, it’s clear that in God’s scheme
Who they’d be, that now they are, was written in their genes.
Familiar traits we notice, and there, so plain to see,
There are little bits like grandma and even some like me.
Random issues from their gene pool, they were not given choices;
Some have lovely hair, or eyes, or golden singing voices.
There’s studious and quiet, and some with poise and grace,
Practical and patient, and all with friendly face.
Those qualities that we admire, they fill our hearts with pride,
While others, we convince ourselves, come from the other side!
They’ve individual looks and likes, yet it’s quite clear to me,
They’re simply just some fresh new twigs on our old family tree.
So family traits are handed down, from each age to another,
Just as it has always been since Eve became a mother.
© Pete Stratford
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 70, February 2010
Hooray! I’m A Gold-Card Girl
Hooray! I am a gold-card girl.
The old codger is dead.
Now I can let down my curl and have a young lover in bed.
I don’t have to listen to
war stories where everyone dies.
I can see my future glisten,
never mind about those French-Kokoda Track lies.
I’m grateful he didn’t share my bed.
I was his princess wife;
unlike the old hag ex-wife
who believed his night-horror’s strife.
I’m a gold-card girl.
I can dance.
I can dance on my dainty legs in a whirl,
right past his ex-wife, a wife of forty years; I can prance.
She, the old hag, stands at Centrelink in line to simply beg
while I live a life sublime.
I can dance with a sneer on my face;
Past my halitosis, menopausal
Step-daughter who is in a daze;
Unlike her, I have free dental care at my disposal.
And when I'm her age, I won’t have to work,
So I will rage,
For my card’s such a lurk.
Hooray! I’m a gold-card girl.
The old codger is dead.
Now I can let down my curl
And have a young lover in bed.
And won’t have to listen to tales of old.
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Hooray! I am a gold-card girl.
The old codger is dead.
Now I can let down my curl and have a young lover in bed.
I don’t have to listen to
war stories where everyone dies.
I can see my future glisten,
never mind about those French-Kokoda Track lies.
I’m grateful he didn’t share my bed.
I was his princess wife;
unlike the old hag ex-wife
who believed his night-horror’s strife.
I’m a gold-card girl.
I can dance.
I can dance on my dainty legs in a whirl,
right past his ex-wife, a wife of forty years; I can prance.
She, the old hag, stands at Centrelink in line to simply beg
while I live a life sublime.
I can dance with a sneer on my face;
Past my halitosis, menopausal
Step-daughter who is in a daze;
Unlike her, I have free dental care at my disposal.
And when I'm her age, I won’t have to work,
So I will rage,
For my card’s such a lurk.
Hooray! I’m a gold-card girl.
The old codger is dead.
Now I can let down my curl
And have a young lover in bed.
And won’t have to listen to tales of old.
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 70, February 2010
Gone Fishin’
The frogs are croaking
In C, D and F sharp,
With the odd B flat for good measure,
Blowflies not a definite A.
A high C tweet of swallows
And the soft mosquito whine.
No other sound
Save the blur of a gentle wind
Blowing off the lake.
All else is silent. None here
But myself and the fish,
And frogs and flies,
Mozzies and skimming swallows.
I’m home again,
Drowning in traffic sound,
Intrusive, abrasive,
Omnipresent, overpowering,
Killing all attempts at quiet thought.
I sit in my car,
Try to exclude it.
I can’t! I can’t !
Oh, for the loud frogs of yesterday!
© Vi Woodhouse
The frogs are croaking
In C, D and F sharp,
With the odd B flat for good measure,
Blowflies not a definite A.
A high C tweet of swallows
And the soft mosquito whine.
No other sound
Save the blur of a gentle wind
Blowing off the lake.
All else is silent. None here
But myself and the fish,
And frogs and flies,
Mozzies and skimming swallows.
I’m home again,
Drowning in traffic sound,
Intrusive, abrasive,
Omnipresent, overpowering,
Killing all attempts at quiet thought.
I sit in my car,
Try to exclude it.
I can’t! I can’t !
Oh, for the loud frogs of yesterday!
© Vi Woodhouse
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 70, February 2010
Sausage Rolls
Take the pastry from the fridge
Let it stand and melt away.
Peel away the purple paper
Wash with beaten egg.
In a bowl put sausage meat
Onions and breadcrumbs, add
Lots of spices and an egg,
With hands, squish all around.
Lay a tube of sloppy sludge
Along the pastry spread
Roll up and cut in even bits
Stab with a fork and bake.
After 30 minutes’ moderate heat,
Golden brown on top,
Cool on a pretty tea towel
And eat with tomato sauce.
© Patricia Turner
Take the pastry from the fridge
Let it stand and melt away.
Peel away the purple paper
Wash with beaten egg.
In a bowl put sausage meat
Onions and breadcrumbs, add
Lots of spices and an egg,
With hands, squish all around.
Lay a tube of sloppy sludge
Along the pastry spread
Roll up and cut in even bits
Stab with a fork and bake.
After 30 minutes’ moderate heat,
Golden brown on top,
Cool on a pretty tea towel
And eat with tomato sauce.
© Patricia Turner
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 70, February 2010
Feature Poet
The Happiest Man I Ever Knew
The happiest man I ever knew
Sits in jail, guilty, free
Metaphorically, charged as was his due. The Newspaper headlines proclaim:
"Murderer jailed for life!"
Truth is, he ended his own life
And the guests gather to gorge
Sumptuously, viciously,
On the vulnerability
Proffered gently through iron bars,
And with insatiable cherry-stained mouth,
They drive away
In the metal and glass prisons
They call cars.
© Loretta J. Gaul January 2010
The Happiest Man I Ever Knew
The happiest man I ever knew
Sits in jail, guilty, free
Metaphorically, charged as was his due. The Newspaper headlines proclaim:
"Murderer jailed for life!"
Truth is, he ended his own life
And the guests gather to gorge
Sumptuously, viciously,
On the vulnerability
Proffered gently through iron bars,
And with insatiable cherry-stained mouth,
They drive away
In the metal and glass prisons
They call cars.
© Loretta J. Gaul January 2010
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