Participants in the Burnie Gold Pot from left to right in back: Pete Stratford, Friedl Rice,
Leigh Barrenger, Vi Woodhouse, John Duncan, Cathy Weaver, Brenda Slavoff, Bill Ryntjes,
Ruth Standrup, Brian Reader, Yvonne Matheson, Charley Trafford, Front: Angel Harvey, Lauren Hay.
Equal First Burnie Gold Pot Winners, from left: Lauren Hay, Pete Stratford, Charley Trafford
Gazette No. 111 Vol 10 ISSUE 7
The Volunteers
Oh, let us rise and give three cheers
For all the unsung volunteers,
For those who don’t just stand and stare,
But offer up their time and care,
For those who never count the cost,
But run to help the ill, the lost,
For those who work with quiet grace
To make this world a better place.
Oh, let us all, as best we may,
Employ our gifts the finest way,
And, if we can, to take our part,
And give our help with willing heart.
© Judy P. 17.5.2013
Home Late
Being with you,
Sharing the breath
of your life exhaled
from the heart,
Hearing what you heard,
Seeing what you saw,
Feeling more than both.
It is dark outside
now everywhere,
the wind’s sigh
shivers as I
stumble up my steps.
© Brenda Slavoff
A Change of Heart
Seeking to force a change of heart,
Protestants and Catholics, Islamists and Jews,
have waged their wars on witches
and philosophers, astronomers,
seers and scientists ahead of time,
burning their books on bonfires
and their bodies at the stake,
offering their martyred flesh
to the avenging gods
for personal salvation.
There was no hope a change of heart
could stop a mad dictator,
Hitler, Stalin, Nero or Pol Pot,
from massive slaughter
and extermination of opposing men
or poor and humble peasants,
those deformed, disabled,
dispossessed, or mad.
Sometimes a change of heart comes slow
as ice-cold water dripping on a stone;
Aung San Suu Kyi in house arrest,
without her children or her man
for over twenty years;
Mandela as a prisoner for life:
neither lacked courage,
but the outside world oft-times forgot,
until the force of free democracies
assured release
and vindication of their strong belief
that justice would prevail,
and freedom, even partial,
win from the generals,
and the race-oppressors,
late acknowledgment,
and most reluctant change of heart.
But now our masters, mega-rich,
the bankers, politicians who’ve become corrupt,
trashing the planet to enrich themselves,
dealing in drugs or diamonds,
arms, or oil,
these are the ones who wield the power,
and these the ones who set themselves apart
from cries of help from disenfranchised,
suffering, or sick.
Is it too late to ask of them
a change of heart?
© Mary Kille
Home
What I call home,
It is a friendly, relaxing dome.
No need to roam.
It is a lived-in place,
It is not a running race.
Nor is it just like a sterile instrument
that reminds me of hospitals and basements.
It can be big or small,
But it must have a welcome call.
Animals—maybe a couple of cats,
Or maybe a couple of dogs,
At least that is much better than frogs.
Some flowers have fragrance,
It isn’t extravagance.
A herb garden is pleasant to have near
when making a stew or casserole, so do not fear.
Home is one man’s castle
where you not have to be put on a pedestal.
There is no need to put on airs,
People accept you no matter what you wear.
If in a tent, you are content,
Home is where the heart is not bent.
Magnificent houses do not make a home,
You might as well be in Rome.
© Yvonne Matheson
Inspiration
Where does inspiration come from?
Perhaps it comes from dreams when you’re sleeping
Perhaps it comes to you in daydreams
Maybe music inspires you,
or the sweet sounds of nature
Such as birdsong or the sound of a waterfall.
Perhaps inspiration comes when you’re
relaxing in the sunshine or walking in the rain.
Perhaps it comes from gazing at stars.
Wherever it comes from, I hope inspiration finds you.
© Cathy Weaver
Michael Garrad: My View
How old?”
“Old enough - obviously.”
“You’re joking! I thought barely 40!”
“Sixty something.”
“My God! But very attractive for their age.”
Whether it be he or she, age (lack of years or a multitude of years) becomes a focus of conversation between the sexes over a languorous coffee.
Age shall not weary them – or it does.
How we wear the years seems to count for so much. Going grey with style and grace; going grey and, plainly, looking old (quick, hand me the hair dye!). Grey means pensioner – and stuffed! No, grey is distinguished!
Looking good but feeling grey!
Age is all in the mind. You’re only as young as you feel. Wrinkled skin means nothing! Of course it means something – we are older, every day.
She’s too young for him, going on dementia he is. The multi-facelifted lady and her toyboy! And he’s too old for her, flaccid, searching futilely for his youth.
Sad but true – age defines us all in the moment. The mirror does not lie (well, maybe a fib or two now and then).
“But so attractive - for his age.”
“So attractive - for her age.”
Thrash
Thrash goes the whipping cane,
And only a fool would deny the pain,
Was the law and the rule,
It was the rule of thumb,
Those in the group who were dumb.
The gifted played a cruel game,
To stifle innocence and pass the blame,
That left the many of the others
prostrate to a dangerous mercy,
Vulnerable, head bowed in a curtsey.
Swish the cane, buttocks bruised, welts red,
Skin broken and how it bled,
Searing heat, this flagellated flesh,
Crimson lesions bathed in blood,
Trickle stream to raging flood.
Intelligentsia thrived on platitude,
Gained reward, some favoured latitude,
But in the chaos of confrontation,
With weak and strong in the tumult nigh,
In sculptured corners, solace, there to die.
Face up, be brave and call him “Sir”,
Do not resist, do not demur,
Take it as a boy, you should,
Remember what your father said,
Exist and suffer boldly, or be dead.
© Michael Garrad April 2013
(Unexpurgated version of Thrash)
Sonnet In Defence Of Women
The female apes created silverback
For purity and their protection;
Allowing him the strength which they must lack
To seek for balanced vivisection. 4
He shows his harem what they want to see,
To prove his tadpoles worthy of their course
For these must swim towards the ovum’s sea,
To enter there towards the software’s source. 8
The human female makes the human male
For her protection as a body guard;
Now he, as bully, has her in his jail
Not knowing that she’s God in this regard. 12
The male has overstepped his mark
And lies with Holy Books’ pretentious bark.
© Joe Lake
I’m So Glad
I’m so glad I wasn’t an attentive child
For if I’d paid attention to what was taught at school,
I’d have regurgitated that
There were no Aborigines left in Tasmania;
That atheists were evil for they were Communists;
I would have believed
That the White Australia Policy was right
And like those in our mother country,
We were superior to all dark-pigmented people.
I would have learned
That there was only one true religion
And that all others would go to hell.
Yes, I’m glad I wasn’t an attentive child,
For today,
If I regurgitated what I had been taught,
I would be breaking the law.
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Fear Of Darkness A serial novel by Joe Lake.
(So far: Julie meets Susan, who is from five hundred years in the future. She gives Julie a ring to travel in different parallel universes. Julie turns the ring. Susan appears as a hologram and tells Julie and her husband, John, not to use it. The next morning, John tells Julie that the hologram appeared and asked him to join her in this other world. Julie tells him teasingly that he is welcome to go.)
John sneaks outside the van to have a cigarette as Julie makes the bed, the glittering naked bust of Susan’s hologram appears on the kitchen table.
Julie walks over and swipes her hand through it. “Why don’t you make trouble in your own universe, aren’t there enough men where you are to tempt my child husband, who can’t stop smoking and who would die if you’d ever be able to take him away - come to think of it, maybe you would deserve John and his whiles.”
The voice of the hologram appeared suddenly from nowhere and everywhere. “I don’t want your husband. Now, in the future, we don’t need men. There is only one sex and children are made perfectly and artificially in incubators. We have conquered the viruses and therefore have eliminated the itch of sex which gives your people so much trouble and disease. No, I want you both with me. I like your quirkiness, John’s addiction to cigarettes and your addiction to John. We wouldn’t actually want you here, but we’d clone you and then you’d both exist in this universe and in yours. You can just go on as you are and travel in your excremental little box all over Australia.”
“Don’t you call our campervan a shitty little box, or I’ll... well, I don’t know what I can do to get rid of you, indecent and half-naked as you present yourself as a silly, glittering hologram. Can’t you put some clothes on?”
“We don’t need clothes in the future, we don’t need breasts either, I’m only showing you what you’d expect me to look like.”
“Well then, go look like someone else.”
“Who?”
“Lady Di.”
In an instant the face of the bust projected onto the kitchen table turned into a half-naked Lady Di.”
“And put a top on her to make her decent.”
Susan voice replied, “Where does all this aggravation come from? We have none of this in the future. Everyone is perfect here. We watch you sometimes making fools of yourselves because you can’t control your feelings.”
Julie snapped back, “Go and watch someone else and leave us alone.”
“If you give me back the ring,” said the hologram.
(To be continued next month)
Burnie Regional Art Gallery Saturday, July 6 2-4pm, Next poetry reading.
