Look at the land
That nurtured the child
The great silkie oaks that shared your smile
Stores your secrets
Still do
But can give to me
No answers
Just silence be
You said I’d know
After you go
You gave to me
It washed over me
The emptiness you felt
The stone walls
A castle
Around you built
A citadel, a fortress, a fort
We were there with you once
Protected by your love
But as we grew
Two individuals that never knew
The secrets of the family
They couldn’t wouldn’t talk
It was left to we younger ones
To ponder the answers
That we’ll never understand
The aggressive stand
Of just one man
Your eyes held a light
Through that last night
I’d never seen
A brief moment in time
Your love will survive
That love we’d shared
When I was a child
Too brief
Those last few days
Before you left
And went your way
I promised you no pain
Never again
We will go on
Protected by your love
Carry this this burden
No longer an encumbrance
We will protect our own
And like we didn’t
They will know
All that we
We should have known.
Wednesday 13 February 2013 4 pm
Ode To The Fledgling Flown
Ruth Withers
Uarbry, NSW
Do I sound bitter, do I?
Do my words sound harsh and accusing?
Do you wonder why you bothered calling home?
But it isn’t home now, is it?
It’s just the house where your mother lives,
And you don’t need her now; you’re on your own.
But did you think I’d worry less,
Not knowing how or where you were?
Do you think the mother also leaves the child?
If the fledgling’s wings are but
Half-grown the day he leaves the nest,
Don’t you know the worry drives her nearly wild?
And should it be a comfort;
Should I be pleased and proud to know
That strangers do for you what I should do?
Am I such a lousy mother?
Have I given you so little
That what they give is more than I gave you?
And do you begin to comprehend
The futility of mother love,
That has one use in life, one thought in mind?
That works so hard for oh, so long,
That breaks the spirit in the quest
To make the fruit far better than the vine?
So yes, perhaps I’m bitter now.
I will admit to the shame and pain
Of seeing yet another fruit fall green;
Of yet another fledgling flown
Before his wings are fully grown;
Of wondering what the point of me has been.
I was supposed to raise you up;
To build you strong and good and wise.
I was supposed to make you ready for the world.
I was supposed to guide and nurture;
To keep you safe from pain and harm.
I was meant to get to watch your wings unfurl.
In your undue haste to leave me
You have robbed me of my purpose.
You have told me that I wasn’t up to scratch.
Just because they said you could do,
You decided that you would do,
And as you left too soon I had to stand and watch.
Thursday 14 February 2013
A Flash Of Red
Naomi Fogarty
Perth, WA
The sound of the wind as it rushed up behind her was like a jet engine roaring towards the ground about to crash land. The noise was terrifying and as it hit her back, it whipped her long hair viciously around her face. Her hair looked like a pile of writhing snakes and for a split second you could almost swear she had become Medusa. Her large, green eyes had gone from bright and joyful to a darker shade of wrath and it seemed like they were daring you to stare right into them. Begging you to so she could turn you into stone. The bright blue sky that previously had birds flying and singing so sweetly about had quickly disappeared as the black clouds started to form around her.
She loves the mixture of danger and excitement that lightning brings when, for just a bright, blinding second, it zips across a dark menacing sky. It tantalises her and leaves her wanting more. She loves the power of thunder, the way it seems to vibrate through her bones as it releases its fury just above her head. In the middle of this chaos she stands strong and firm, not afraid, feeling no fear of death, just empowerment with every single breath. This is exactly where she wants to be, this storm is a part of her. The icy cold wind felt refreshing on her skin and she inhaled it deep into her lungs and just like a balloon she suddenly started to grow with every breath she took.
She had become the storm and towering over the landscape she looked down and chuckled with glee. The black clouds around her head were thick and dense so when her chuckle rumbled through them it echoed around and around never seeming to stop. The wind stopped blowing as she looked down at something right in the middle of what would become her path of destruction. Her dark eyes squinted into a sinister glare as one corner of her mouth lifted into a smirk and she rubbed her hands together in anticipation. Very slowly she raised her giant hand up high and with a click of her giant fingers she brought the storm down upon it.
The rain was pouring down so thick and heavy it was impossible to see what was in front of you. But not satisfied with this she blew the clouds an icy cold kiss and the rain then turned to hail and with a damaging force it fell to the ground. Spinning around in a circle she then became a tornado ripping everything apart at the limbs. This seemed to please her and, looking smugly around, she thought that from now on she would call herself The Tempest, like the storm from Shakespeare’s play. This part of her could be conjured up any time and any day. But like all storms they eventually run out of force. The rain became lighter and the dark clouds were slowly starting to drift away as she became small once more as the damage she wanted to inflict had been done.
She had used all the power that the storm had provided her and with The Tempest inside her now kept at bay, out of nowhere came a piercing scream. Blinking her eyes as if waking from a dream she glanced around at the mess she stood in. She was standing in the kitchen where cups and plates were smashed all over the floor and whatever food that had been on them was now smeared on the walls. The kettle on the stove behind her had finally reached its boiling point and the steam pouring out of it was starting to fog up the room. As she looked around the damaged kitchen she saw something cowering in the corner. It was the same thing she had brought the storm down on, and she was quite sure it was the same thing that had just screamed.
His eyes were big and bulging right out of his head and his mouth had dropped down to the ground. Sitting on top of his head was half an egg shell, while raw egg yolk dripped off his face. With a shaky finger he pointed down at something she was holding. Gripped tightly between her white knuckles was a sharp, deadly knife. With a nervous laugh she dropped it onto the table and looked back at the frightened man, her green eyes full of innocence. Sighing with satisfaction she said, ‘So … I have a temper.’ As an awkward silence filled the room between them, one of her delicate fingers brushed a lock of hair out of her face. It entwined itself around her finger and looked like it flicked
out a forked tongue at him. Then with a shrug of her shoulders she said, ‘The red hair really should have been warning enough.’
Friday 15 February 2013
Croak
Robertas
Drummoyne, NSW
God’s a practical joker
He’s the Phantom Croaker
There is no frog
And I can sense His
Self-satisfied smile
As he watches me peering here
Staring there
Aiming my antennae ears
At the CROAK-CROAK-CROAKS
Hours pass
As does eventually my persistence
My Absolute Determination
To see one of the little bastards
How many times
I’ve focussed and zeroed in
And silently edged toward
A CROAK – one of the Chorus
I know it’s coming from there
That half-sunken log
That weedy place
I’ll spot you ... you @!#* ... FROG
But when I’m almost there ... can’t fail
The Chorus stops
Silence reigns
Except for the hiss of steam from my ears
God’s a practical joker
Making noises to suck me in
Contorted-mouthing clever CROAKS
Slapping His sides and rolling with laughter
Another sucker! ... Gotchew-a-Beauty!
CROAK CROAK CROAK
Friday 15 February 2013 4 pm
Rain
Jennie Cumming
Blackwood, SA
The gentle rain on the tiled roof
wakes me with memories
of soft slippers in the hallway
and a child needing comfort
in the night.
No children now.
Only the rain to comfort me.
Saturday 16 February 2013 4 pm
The Milliner
Henry Johnston
Rozelle, NSW
Long gone the drowsy days of selling newspapers to the young and the arthritic old. Days of meagre wages saved for the months beyond schools’ end and finding a job on Courland Street. Dim, dusty, dark days when I would collect the ‘inkies’ from a Greek newsagent who stacked my shallow yellow pushcart.
With pea whistle in mouth, I would traipse the neighbourhood, seeking out regulars, swapping stories and teasing barking dogs.
The run began at 7 am, rain or shine. I remember a woman with curlers trying to coax me inside to fetch a non-existent cat out of a tree, the happy chappies and tired workers and the occasional kind-hearted soul with a 50-cent tip.
The frail elderly waited by their letterboxes, coins clenched in withered fingers.
I would flick one from under my arm and watch, as they hobbled back indoors, not a word spoken between us.
I liked the Europeans. I imagined they bought a paper to enjoy the pictures and break up their day. Perhaps they kept it for a son or daughter away at work. Some smiled and tried to tousle my hair, others pointed at a car parked in the street and said in halting English, ‘bloody fast mite’.
Mrs Frankel spoke with a German accent. She too waited outside, tapping her coins on the metal fence once I came into view. With newspaper in her grasp, she’d snap it open, and scan the headlines all the while muttering in my direction. I walked on when the tension eased from her face and I sensed our one-way conversation fade into the bustle of the street.
One Saturday morning Mrs Frankel lost her temper.
‘You are late. Where have you been?’ she demanded.
‘It’s raining,’ I shot back, ‘and my barrow is full of water.’
She snatched the sodden newspaper from my hand, relented and beckoned me in doors.
Most of the homes of the old town boasted three ducks hung on floral wallpaper with matching Formica furniture, but Mrs Frankel’s house displayed none of these niceties.
Faceless wax store dummies lined the hall, each in perfect proportion to a female head. Hatboxes filled the parlour and in the next room stood neat piles of newspapers. Mounds of sheet music rested within easy reach of a black upright piano.
I towelled my hair, and sipped a mug of sweet coffee. A song tinkled in another room.
‘Never be late again,’ she said.
‘All sorts of things happen around here, and besides,’ I said, ‘I’m leaving in a few weeks, and I’m not sure who’ll take over the run.’
‘I must read the paper every day,’ she said. Her words shot into my eyes.
Mrs Frankel led me to a room filled with hundreds of multi-hued hats made of straw, felt and taffeta. She walked to a dressing table unlocked a drawer and lifted out a green cardboard box, and chose a handful of yellowing papers which she fanned and gave me.
I read out the unfamiliar shorthand code.
‘Your last received first inst. Stop. Cabling 50 pounds to Olga Frankel c/o Austerlitz Hotel Friedrickstrauser. Stop. Regards, Leopold.’
Each telegram – there were at least 30 – looked and read the same. The sequence of days of the week did not vary. Short, curt details of money transfers, ticket sales and hotel bookings, signed ‘Leopold’ or ‘L Gottlieb, Sydney, Australia’.
The stamp of an ornate double-headed eagle gazed from the right hand corner of each document.
Then the telegrams changed. The deep imprint of a cobalt blue Nazi Swastika suffocated the words printed on the parched pages.
‘See the date,’ she said.
‘March 12 1938,’ I replied, a date which meant nothing to me.
Mrs Frankel then spoke two words in her precise Austrian accent.
‘Anschluss Österreichs. You understand,’ she said, as a sobbing tremolo caught her voice. ‘I designed hats for the daughters and wives of the elite of Europe. Marlene Dietrich visited my salon, and the wife of the Austrian president Madame Schuschnigg. And that doe-eyed whore,’ she paused and bit her lower lip, ‘Eva Braun. Do you know these people or are you too stupid?’ she said. The words struck me as if a whip across my cheek. ‘I survive by knowing everything,’ she said, gesturing toward the street.
I walked to the front door and into the pouring rain.
A few days later, I told the Greek my time as a paper seller ended once my trial final exams began. He blustered and called me a lazy so-and-so, but he understood the ritual. Sure enough on my last day, a friend accompanied me to the newsagency and volunteered to take over my run.
We met up again during a brief summer of long hot blue-sky days. I asked after the newsagent and joked about the bald man in the Onkaparinga dressing gown, but his gaze dropped when I mentioned Mrs Frankel.
He described how a council truck pulled up outside her house and a crew of men wearing facemasks wheeled trolley loads of junk on to the street.
Three weeks after Mrs Frankel’s death, the gramophone short-circuited the flimsy fuse box, blacking-out most of the street. Curious electricity workers traced the fault back to her house.
They found Mrs Frankel upright in a chair, a newspaper in her hands. A blistered 78 record had melted onto the turntable. No one could read the title on the label.
On those rare days when I return to the old city, I strain to hear the paper sellers’ whistle; a shrill modulated toot followed by a pause then a trill, now close by or distant, and I recall Mrs Frankel’s favourite song, and think of her as I hum the tune under my breath.
Sunday 17 February 2013
Dispatches
Peter Goodwin
Warilla, NSW
There may already have been something wrong with me when I came ashore. I was making my way through the docks, along dark passages, when someone hit me from behind. I was warned to stay away from such things. I was left bleeding among bags of imported floor. On exchanging signals, the night watchman let me pass. I greeted the morning sun, my shaking arm raised above me like a flag. It had been a long campaign in countries too small to name, on se
as too vast to chart. Our king in exile, our palaces in flames, we abandoned our posts, and fled the capital. We suffered terrible defeats from town to town, village to village, our broken and bleeding bodies strewn across the untilled fields of abandoned farms. On tree limbs bound with vines or curved planks nailed together, we set sail, the open sea our safe haven, but each landing, on various islands, the president’s militia set upon us again, slashing us with steel blades. Our harvest gods silent, our stone temples ruined, we scattered and went our own way. With fake papers, I boarded a cargo vessel. I needed a modest port away from the shipping lanes, a place to write dispatches to the king. The voyage was rough, without women and decent wine. I found both in an underground bar in the poor part of town. It was dark, secluded, little alcoves, a candle on each table. The woman behind the bar, draped in the coloured garments of her island civilisation, approached again, and gave me another glass of wine. A gesture from me, she sat down. I was tired of crossing borders by night, hiding in cellars by day, drinking dangerously by choice. I had nothing to say to her. I was already drafting my dispatches. She took command, told me the story of her life, the plot long, the theme intense. I let myself drift towards her as though I was lost at sea. It was not her words that tempted me. I had heard too many confessions, unsolicited, unhinged, to fall into that pit. It was her body, dark, beautiful, unknown to savages, a peaceful shore, where I could lay down, close my eyes. By the hand, along a dirt track, out of sight, she led me to her isolated shack by the river. I wrote my dispatches at night, the witnesses gone, the town dead, the lights extinguished, the roads too dark to walk, the ships in the bay rusted, empty bulks long neglected, the captains drunk, unfit to voyage. Night after night, while I wrote my dispatches, her olive skin glistened in the lamplight from my desk. Night after night, my dispatches became stories, my stories poems, my poems fragments, my fragments broken lines, even I, one day, would no longer be able to read.
Sunday 17 February 2013 4 pm
Trapped
Athena Zaknic
West Beach, SA
He feels he is choking
Escape is the only way out.
The lure of the unknown beckons
beguiling and welcoming
His paralysed guts
nullify all courage mustered.
The rope of his efforts
loosened, is now giving away.
Failing to divert his path,
defeated he falls back
onto a wayward world
that is devoid of reverence.
He’ll never be anointed
by exotic fragrant balms
in far away places
where the daring are rewarded
with a simple tune
on a four holed flute.
Monday 18 February 2013
To Those In Need
Connie Howell
Wentworth Falls, NSW
Come, let me touch you
And heal your hurts,
Let me spread my wings around you,
Protecting you from life’s sad days
And baffling ways,
I am a shelter
Please come,
Abide within my loving arms
Secured against my breast,
I’ll love you and enfold you
Until it’s time to go
To meet again the challenges
With strength renewed once more,
And as you go along your way
Look back from time to time,
And see me as your beacon
Between this life and Divine
For I am in the middle
Of this world and the next,
And I can help you always
By bridging rivers deep.
Monday 18 February 2013 4 pm
Bend In The River (A Bent Sort Of Hymn)
James Craib
Wentworth Falls, NSW
Brethren Divine there’s a Bend in the River,
Revert In Behind and thou shalt be saved.
Taste of the sacred wine ~ Dei Herb Vintner,
Never Thine Bird shall be kept in a cave.
That’s where we should meet ~ Bend Thine River,
Dive In Brethren the waters shall cleanse thee.
Never Bind Their clothes – they shall not shiver,
Words In Thee Verb Rind like the bark of a tree.
It’s time to forgive and Rebind The Riven,
Let’s meet for a drink at The River Bed Inn.
Wine, whiskey, song and Thin Beer, Driven
Divine Brethren to where the River Be Thinned.
Tuesday 19 February 2013
Paradise
Judith Bruton
Lennox Head, NSW
If paradise was just across the road
What would you do?
Admire it?
Dream upon the ancient pines and birdsong;
Feel the cool sea breezes and misty mornings
Photograph the dawn
Paint midday?
Maybe venture into the archetypal forest
to touch the afternoon?
Immerse yourself in the warmth of tropical air
Feel leaves and grass moist beneath your step
Watch light dapple your body with myriad shapes
Look into infinite seascapes, rivers and bays of changing hue
Paint twilight?
Perhaps you would capture
the spirit of paradise in words?
And plant a memory seed
in places afar
where paradise once was.
Tuesday 19 February 2013 4 pm
Summer Storms
Lynn Nickols
Griffith, ACT
Wading through whiting in warm water shallows
Watching the fish whisk away, shadows fleeting
Wondering why they are nervous like swallows
Waiting for whispers of wind, heartbeats heating.
Suddenly up comes the southerly buster
Showering its leaves across water and sand
Soon we retreat to some shelter, protection
While Summer’s hot swelter turns cool on the land.
Cumulus clouds brilliant white, growing darker,
Fluff across forest and sweep across scree
Water first sprinkles, then splashes, then rushes
Through everything, everywhere, down to the sea.
Soon there is lightning and rumbles of thunder
Crashes and flashes and tumbling branches
Then it’s all over. The sun bursts asunder,
Sparkles and shimmers and rainbow enhances.
Air smells of greenness and life in the earth
Crickets go crazy and fish head to sea
It’s summery season, the wildness, the rebirth
Vigorous nature enjoying a spree.
Wednesday 20 February 2013
Puzzle Of Life
Jadei Brown
Edgeworth, NSW
Life is a puzzle of many pieces
Some days pieces fit easily
Other days we struggle to match
At times we feel we have lost pieces
And the puzzle will never be complete
I thought my puzzle was finished
Until you turned up
With you came a picture of a puzzle
That looked similar to mine
Just a few different pieces
I didn’t wanna change mine
As I had taken so long
To put the pieces together
Although the new one looked much clearer
I struggled for a day or two
As I was over putting the pieces together
When you said though you would help
I chose to start again
Together we worked day and night
So many times I wanted to give it away
The puzzle you bought me was too hard
But you stayed strong and by my side
And together we put the pieces in place
Now I see the complete picture
Without your pieces my picture
Would never feel right
So thank you for helping me
To join the pieces tight.
Wednesday 20 February 2013 4 pm
Tripping Over Rainbows
NaNaG
Springwood, NSW
Tripping over rainbows, falling down the cracks ...
Offer an arm to lean on thru these roaring years,
mirror my mirth, lend comfort to my deepest fears ...
when dreams are shattered, old friends prove untrue,
give me your smile to stir the pulse anew
Thursday 21 February 2013
Daisies For My Daisy
Laura Brown
West End, QLD
Darcy stood awkwardly at the light post, his walking stick barely holding his dense frame upright. He squinted through the cloud haze until the dancing man turned from red to green. Large figures, void of expression, shoved past him in efforts to make time go faster.
Drivers yelled at him, at each other. A symphony of horns filled the canvas of white noise coming from the secret box behind his right ear. His feet had stopped moving forward across the asphalt. Instead, he was moving on the spot. A flash of yellow screeched to a halt. Daisy Dogs Car Wash was painted on the side, in letters large enough that even he did not need his trusty magnifying glass.
‘We better get you checked out,’ a voice called out above him.
‘Daisy … I knew one once. A bright young thing. Down on her luck, even to the very end. She won the lottery, you know. Then it came – the real bad luck.’
‘Don’t move. Help is coming.’
‘She hit her head on the side of the coffee table. Mild concussion was all she was told at the hospital. Next thing, she was dead.’
The clock tower in the distance sent out its hourly chime – four gongs in all. The first drops of rain sliced his skin as around him, the brown landscape softened. His brittle fingers stretched, their warmth contrasted against the sharp concrete.
‘Daisies for my Daisy,’ he gasped. A warming smile came over his face. The stranger’s brief chuckle turned to a sob when the lightness of the hand within hers grew heavy.
Thursday 21 February 2013 4 pm
Gran’s Billy Lid
Julie Lock
Box Hill South, VIC
‘I see Gran!’ Billy shouted joyfully as he ran onto the front lawn.
Gran pulled her car up in the driveway and clambered out. Ten year old Billy rushed to greet her. ‘Hello Billy,’ she said, leaning down to give him a huge hug.
‘Hello Gran,’ he replied meekly.
‘What’s up? Where’s that lovely big smile of yours today Billy?’
Maree, Billy’s mother, appeared at the front door. ‘Hello there, now don’t you sook him up too much Gran.’
‘Why not? My dear Billy,’ said Gran, giving him a big kiss on the forehead.
Billy stayed close.
‘He’s been a naughty boy,’ said his mother.
Whenever Billy was badly behaved a favourite toy would be placed up high out of reach.
‘What’s all that, Billy?’ asked Gran, looking up at the garage roof. On the top of the corrugated iron shed were Billy’s bike, his ride-on tractor, his scooter and all his cricket gear.
‘It’s been a really bad week Gran,’ he replied.
Friday 22 February 2013
My Friend The Yowie
David Anderson
Woodford, NSW
While walking below the Three Sisters one day,
Through the mist a tall bloke came heading my way,
I said, ‘Mate, how come you’re so bloody tall?
I’d hate to face you in a bar room brawl.’
He said, ‘I’m hungry. You got something to eat?’
I laughed. ‘Where’d you get those huge hairy feet?’
‘I’m a Yowie, Son, don’t you understand?’
he said, as he reached and held my left hand.
‘I’m lonely, where’s a girl to be my sweet wife?’
My other hand reached for my Swiss Army knife.
‘I’d be your friend, but then I would worry,
That I could end up in a Yowie curry.’
He laughed. ‘I can’t cook to save my own skin’
I relaxed and said, ‘Don’t you have any kin?
No brothers or sisters, parents, or mates,
To line you up with some promising dates?’
‘That’s the problem, Son,’ he sadly replied.
‘You see, every last one of them has up and died
Now what do you say, will you be my friend
And bring my solitude to an end?’
I assumed a facade of being really brave,
When he lead me to his Mt Solitary cave.
I said, ‘Living like this could send you quite mad,’
He hung his head low with a look oh so sad,
His eyes welled up, and he started to weep.
‘In Megalong, they blame me for killing the sheep.
But I’ll tell you true, that’s no work of mine,
That’s the black panther living in the Jamison mine.’
narratorAUSTRALIA Volume Two Page 23
