Parking Meters

 

Lined up along the kerbside

all throughout our CBD

are those hungry parking meters

charging an exorbitant fee

for that little piece of roadway

on which our rates were spent,

but if we want to use it

we’re made to pay some rent.

They say it aids the local business,

well that’s what the council proffers,

but it seems so much more likely

it’s to line the council coffers.

 

© Pete Stratford

 

 

If I Could Find The Words

 

If I could find the words

that could stop all the wars

for after all, the pen is supposed

to be mightier than the sword.

If I could find the words

that would stop any kind of violence

and end any kind of injustice.

If only I could find the words

to make the world a better place.

Of course we can all do our part

to use words wisely, to speak kindly

and to speak up for those who have

no voice or choice, like the unborn,

animals and children who are too young

to vote.

 

© Cathy Weaver

 

 

 

Itty Bitty Me

 

When guys complain us girls are scary

I can honestly agree, but surely -

You’re not frightened of itty bitty me?

I can see how you may confuse me with others of my kind,

But can I show you otherwise?

Just spare me a mere moment of your time.

Well - it’s obvious, I’m short at best, petite, if you please,

But my stature isn’t the only thing

That should be putting you at ease.

I’m rather good at talking nonsense;

It’s really all I do - so there’s little chance,

If we talk, that you will seem a fool.

Yes, there’s not much that will faze me

I’ve quite the open mind - so I’m not about to judge you

Chill, I colour outside the lines. I have no time for gossiping,

And I don’t understand “fashion”;

I wear what I like and I love sweats with passion.

I’ve hardly “Delicate sensibilities”;

You don’t have to watch what you say.

I’m not “self-conscious” and I don’t have to get my way.

Egg shells; They don’t surround me,

I’m sure they never will;

I’m not the sort to raise my voice

And it surely isn’t shrill - so your ears are safe,

But - that besides - I’d like to think I’m bearable,

If not easy, on the eyes. I promise I don’t bite,

But I’ve not qualms about hitting back.

So - If you want to start something

Be prepared to cop the flack, but no need to panic,

I can’t really hold a grudge, I’ll simply hold my own,

If push - should come to shove. There’s one thing -

You’ll have to forgive me, I’ve just a small request!

My sarcasm and sense of humour; it’s demoralising at best!

So, please refrain -  from being frightened. We’re not so

Different, see. Yes truly - You are in good hands

With itty, bitty me.

 

© Lauren Hay (Dripping Ink)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

You Temptress

 

You temptress with your siren’s craft,

You play a somniferous tune on your lyre

To lure men from their secure domestic abode

Into your soft-clothed, camouflaged female viper’s den.

With your skills you anaesthetise their brains

And re-awaken their manly parts.

 

You temptress with your siren’s craft,

Can you hear the wails of the wife you have betrayed?

Do you feel her pain?

Do you see her children’s tear-drenched faces

Who have been ripped from their father’s heart?

 

You temptress with your siren’s craft,

Your skilful words and your deceptive child-like mask,

Play with men and give them the illusion

That you are unique;

Yet when you tire of them,

You act as female viper,

For you smile as their heart dies on the rocks

While you plan to lure another man.

 

You temptress with your siren’s craft,

You feline predator who enjoys, like a cat,

to toy with your prey;

You destroyer of abodes just for the sport;

You trophy collector, betrayer of sisterhood.

 

© Judy Brumby-Lake

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sylvia

 

Sylvia dances beneath the night sky,

The silvery moonlight shines in her dark hair.

Her dark eyes twinkle like the stars.

She is dressed all in white, in a long gown.

She is all alone apart from the nightingale

singing in the tree.

Sylvia has a secret she longs to tell.

She is in love with someone who’s

on holiday far away.

He will come home any day.

Will she tell him her secret?

Does he have a secret to tell to Sylvia?

The nightingale sings so joyfully.

Perhaps he knows how love may grow.

 

© Cathy Weaver

 

 

 

 

 

 

No One Knows What Tomorrow Holds

 

She came from overseas to Melbourne,

There, she met her future husband.

I knew the family very well.

After 22 years of marriage, he died.

Every Wednesday and Sunday I visited them,

My family adored them.

So sad, so very sad.

This dear friend of mine has Alzheimer’s,

And husband dies while wife so very ill.

Moral: Treat everyone with respect

while they are alive

Perform kind deeds,

For no one knows what tomorrow holds.

 

© Yvonne Matheson

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

That miracle moment in perfect union. Yes, pregnant, planned or otherwise! It doesn’t matter. It’s so exciting! Hugs and kisses, and smiles, and teary eyes. Oh, how wonderful it all is!

 

We’re having a baby! So much to plan, whether it be the first or the third or fourth. Just imagine – nappies all over again, or not again! Nappies to learn about!

 

It’s the stuff of life and so welcomed with much fanfare!

 

The cup runneth over with sheer joy!

 

But what about the end? The death? Not the natural death. The illness death. The one who lingers on and on without relief. No celebrations, only a fervent desire to end the suffering, the humiliation.

 

A managed end. A controlled end. No one gets excited about that. Quite the opposite – life is precious. Prolong it through pain and a vegetative state. Selfish reasons dictate an obstinate abhorrence of letting go.

 

There are some good people who believe, as in birth, that death is a blessing. Good on them, I say.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Charcoal And Ash

 

Charcoal to ash,

And windswept memories,

The absolute is final,

Erasure of body without decay,

By a tree, this standard

blade of grass defies,

Nothing after green,

Past is present,

And leaves fall slowly

in constant autumn agony;

Was there ever a happening?

Charcoal and ash mark

this birth of recollections.

 

© Michael Garrad 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alone

 

Shipwrecked and stranded,

Battered and bruised…

Finally I have reached the shore

Of this lonely place,

A warm sensation creeps

reassuringly over my body,

and I realise

that I am finally at home!

 

© L.J. Barnes.  3.9.13

 

 

We had our annual concert with the Burnie Regional Art Gallery boys (BRAG) and as always, it went very well. Young Lauren Hay got into the semi-final poetry competition, SLAM, in Launceston and then through to Hobart and performed in the final in Sydney. She had a smashing time in Sydney, she said, or whatever young women call, “Having a ball”, these days. Getting up to Sydney takes genius in the first place. This young woman is going to be one of Tasmania’s major writers. She has intelligence, wit and perseverance, of which the latter is the most important necessity for a writer. She has also written a novel which I’m sure will be published before long.

                We’ve launched the Europa Poets Anthology, 2013 and Judy put out a book of per poems too. We know that few people in the north-west don’t buy poetry books, so most of them will stay in boxes under the bed. By the time you read this, I’ll have the anthology on EBay.

 

 

 

Tachymarptis Melba

 

I wish I were a swift to glide through the oceans of air,

Just like a fish in the sea, I’d fly as high as I could

To look down at the extraneous,

The animals eating each other;

Be other-worldly: a swift.

 

I’d stay aloft for six months at a time;

I’d sleep aloft;

I’d feed aloft.

Remote from the hard and hostile Earth.

 

I’d make love in the Alps

And then, with my young,

I’d return to North Africa,

From cold, to warm caress;

Never to touch land, just like a fish;

Remote from the confusion of the maggots;

Remote from the survival of the fittest or dirtiest;

Remote,

I’d fly,

Even in death.

 

© Joe 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 and journeys through space and time with John, her husband. Susan appears later as a hologram and threatens them. Julie refuses to listen when the campervan begins to shake violently. John tries to file the ring off Julie’s finger.)

 

 

                “Stop it, stop it!” cried the voice from nowhere, as Susan’s hologram image faded in and out on the Winnebago’s kitchen table.

                John kept on filing at the ring in desperation.

                “Stop it, you’re hurting me,” whimpered Julie.

                “This thing is evil,” said John. “It has some kind of transmission capability.”

                Suddenly the van began to rock violently from side to side to the extent that they were sliding about inside. The door sprung open and John jumped through it and landed on the muddy ground. It was drizzling. He called back inside, “Julie, is the van still rocking?”

                “Yes, it’s getting worse,” she called back.

                “From out here, it is utterly standing still, there is no rocking at all,” John yelled back into the van. “Come on out, you’ll see.”

                “I can’t,” Julie called back in a choking voice, “everything has started to fly about in here.”

                “Get out now, I think you’re on the other side of a brane where the other universe cuts us in two. Get out now!” John’s voice was full of fear and urgency. “Julie?” he called. “Julie?” There was no answer but through a window he could see that objects were flying about, gyrating and clanging as they collided. “Julie?” He moved closer to the door and peered inside. He couldn’t see her. Fear took hold of him. He froze, then shook his head as if to rid himself of this fear and made a leap into the van. Julie was lying face down on the floor as John brushed aside flying objects, including a pillow from their bed. He bent down and dragged Julie to the door, taking her body into his arms as she collapsed on top of him. The moment they had left the van, the poltergeist confusion stopped.

 

(To be continued next month)