Acceptance
Mark Fowler
Magill, SA
As grey goose down skies of winter passed,
And supple warmth of spring came nearer me.
The months of cold and darkness asked
Is this all there is? Is this my destiny?
And then he came within the sight of dawn,
Tiny grey bird, red splashes on the wing.
No plumage bright nor plain tail adorned,
But when he sang, ’twas though the world did sing.
New days of brilliant light and softly breeze,
My tiny bird appeared at morn each day;
Danced and hopped among the sunny trees,
Calling sweetly, ‘Come now with me and play?’
Summer came, broad blues filled the open sky,
Birds of lighter song and brighter feather came.
Yet ’twas the plainest creature coming by
Who won my heart and always called my name.
The leaves shook cold and crispy in the air
And autumn colour washed away the green
Chill breeze upon my cheeks, and through my hair.
Bird flits in golden shadows, and is seen.
The greyish tones of winter bleak and strong,
Enter again my world of love and grief.
My friend who drew me with his trilling song
Left me empty; summer romance very brief.
Grim skies and wintry dreams move slowly by,
Once again I watch the trees stripped bare.
No bird of hope, grey and plain; just sky.
Empty place that draws my saddened stare.
Seasons pass – garden grows again with love.
The stirring sounds of magpies’ morning song.
The warbling trills of flapping spotted doves,
The honeyeaters enjoy the blossom’s throng.
Again, life reveals not its reason nor its rhyme.
Love’s bloom, like sadness, will always pass in time.
Ed: This was another of those entries that swirled around for a few days, bouncing back and reminding us it was there. We thought it was a beautiful way of describing the heartache we all endure from time to time in our lives, and an inspiring way of reminding us that if we accept such losses as part of life's cycle, rather than trying to fight them, that the pain will ease more quickly.
Monday 17 June 2013
Henry (In honour of Henry Lawson’s 146th birthday)
JH Mancy
Tallebudgera, QLD
Life too quickly passes,
We too are growing old –
So let us raise our glasses
To friendships etched in gold
Your spirit lives in men of grit
And women share it too
The words you wrote ring chords in us
Today they still hold true
You died young, with work undone,
And yet you live on still!
We were honoured by your presence
On our old ten dollar bill
You are worth much more than that
If mateship be the gauge;
Touching countless lives,
Words speaking from the page
The faces in the street still rush
In auto-coloured hue;
No time to stop, no time to rest,
No time for pleasures new
So rest in peace dear Henry –
The world’s become insane,
Weapons of mass destruction;
Leaders play a deadly game
Sleep my friend, your journeys end,
May your dreams be sweet refrain
Hope strength and courage will prevail,
Serenity our domain.
Monday 17 June 2013 4 pm
The Puling
James Craib
Wentworth Falls, NSW
Puling: to whimper; to whine, as a complaining child.
I pulled one thin leg up and out of the covers, wondering what I would discover today.
Opened the shutters, with a touch of the shudders and found: ‘Uh pelting down rain as always!’
Thankfully it was Sunday, no commitments to keep – maybe more sleep? I then plug in my blanket.
But in came the wife, said ‘Get up Jesse – god you look messy; you have to play today for the banquet.’
Indeed I had forgotten it was Senior’s week; the band was due to squeak during morning brunch.
So begrudgingly I showered and shaved, primmed and powdered. Then I gulp down some toast and munch ...
My way to the garage, load the car with drum kit, the sound system, my ego and other bits of gear.
So with a crocodile tear, off I went to spend a dreary hour or two and plunge hitafter hit into their ears.
We played a few tunes (one old fat bloke played the spoons), and for a moment I saw myself pull gut in: help!
As if things couldn’t get any meaner, I got an award for being a senior! I s’pose I’ll have to stick it on the shelf.
‘Aw, lighten up!’ said the cheese ’n kisses, ‘It’s not the end my cherub, listen, people love to hear you chirrup.’
‘And be glad that the old tunes were sung,’ and so with all the words hung I pelt upon the skins and usurp ...
Their indulgence, I presume as they shuffle ’round the room; I wonder what became of the young crooner I was.
Now with tinnitus, infinitus, day and night my hearing’s at crisis: I’m not Beethoven, rock ’n roll’s the cause!
Well I never made a million and never had the thrill of being on the telly belting it out with JO’K.
But I played the Capitol Theatre in a witch’s outfit: ‘Hubble bubble and Hoadley’s Crumble bars all the way!
But at the Capitol in Washington they have squandered all their capital; Obama has a drama on his hands.
Just lighten up Barack, there’s no turning back, your gun: the lip can’t flip the obsequious rifleman’s demands.
The gulp in my throat caused me to splutter on my coffee when I read softly about America’s huge debt.
It’s next to impossible to grasp or understand the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan that still continue as yet.
In the decades still to come six trillion dollars will be the outcome; that’s a six followed by twelve noughts.
Just picture an international telephone number; longer than a Lebanese cucumber, so – care to join the dots?
And now the new Pope divine can now gulp thine wine amidst rejoicing in Argentina that continues still.
But I hear that old Frankie still frowns on hanky-panky and still won’t compromise upon the pill.
But it’s rather commensurate of this Pope Jesuit to settle his newspaper account from the Vatican palace.
And he still stays at the Vatican hotel thus far; maybe George will get him a room gratis at Domus Australis.
So lighten up you silly fools, there really are no rules; thine plug should be removed from your orifice.
Leave the angst to Tony and Julia and don’t let their ‘spinsters’ fool ya, lighten up orletup nigh you come adrift!
Tuesday 18 June 2013
Naked Options
Judith Bruton
Lennox Head, NSW
If I were to think of and dwell on disastrous possibilities, I could do nothing. I throw myself headlong into my work, and come up again with my studies; if the storm within gets too loud, I take a glass too much to stun myself.
~ Vincent van Gogh
Beth twisted her long dark hair into a loose plait and fastened it on top of her head with a Japanese-style clasp. She donned her paint-encrusted overalls and strode across the study into her studio.
For several days Beth had been feeling down, but today she was determined to capitalise on the unexpected rush of positive energy surging through her body. She was looking forward to preparing the background of a new canvas. An idea for a painting series had been percolating in her imagination, but recently her time had been eroded
by depression and niggling financial fears. All week a cacophony of media had been whipping up a storm surrounding the latest global financial crisis.
This morning with radio, television, computer and phones switched off, Beth could finally retreat to her quiet studio to focus on painting, provided her new buoyant mood did not crash and end shredded in negative territory.
Up, up and away … Beth hummed as she selected a tube of Prussian blue and Mars black, a couple of large flat brushes and a large palette. She was about to fill a plastic jar with water when she heard a distinct crunch. The sound came from behind the large white primed canvas propped up against an easel.
Beth’s heart sprinted. She walked over to the canvas and peered around it.
‘Oh my god! she shrieked. ‘Who in the hell are you?’
A naked stranger lay sprawled on a yoga mat, eating a green apple and casually reading her copy of Van Gogh: Masterpieces. Discarded clothing and a knapsack were carelessly draped over an old bicycle parked against her etching press.
‘Hi, the door just pushed open …’ The man leapt up and extended his hand. ‘I’m Adam by the way. Gecko couldn’t make it to the session today. I’m his flatmate.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Beth gave a quizzical look and a reluctant hand shake. ‘Gecko’s got a cheek. Anyway, I wasn’t expecting him ’til tomorrow.’ Beth eyeballed the stranger. ‘Have you ever modelled before?’
‘No, not exactly, but Gecko says it’s a breeze.’
‘Well, I hope Gecko has told you about the finer points?’
‘Eh?’
Beth flung Adam a bright red sarong. ‘Cover yourself with this when you’re not posing.’ Beth glanced at the lean body of the not-so-young man as he tied the sarong around his waist. He seemed about forty, probably a few years younger than herself, tanned, had a shaved head and was in reasonable shape.
‘You seem ready to go. I might as well start with a few quick sketches. Just stand still with your weight on one hip,’ Beth instructed.
Beth selected a piece of compressed charcoal, flicked her A3 sketchpad to a blank sheet and was about to make some warm up marks when a desperate scratching sound on the outside door attracted her attention. ‘What now?’
The door edged open to reveal a large black panting Labrador sitting on the step.
‘I suppose this is Eve?’ Beth hoped never to see a black dog again after her recent downer; her inexplicable plunge into the dreaded abyss.
‘This is “Faith”, she’s old and almost blind – we’re kind of a team.’ Adam smiled.
‘Alright … bring her in. I’ll get a bowl of water, and make us a pot of coffee.’
An hour later, with no painting and little drawing achieved, Beth had resigned herself to going with the flow of the day. She was instructing Adam in the subtle art of being an artist’s model and he seemed a natural. His eagerness to learn motivated her and lifted her spirits even higher than they were earlier in the day. His nonchalance mystified her.
‘But why model? Money worries? Art lover, perhaps?’ she delved.
‘Yes and no. Believe it or not, I’m a broke ex-stockbroker – can’t make a go of it, particularly in the current financial bloodbath.’
‘Ah. A stockbrocker, hey? Don’t get me started. Thanks to your kind, I’ve lost half the worth of my investments, my inheritance and my main income. So it’s back to the drawing board for me.’
‘Remember, it’s only a paper loss,’ interjected Adam.
‘Next you’ll be telling me it’s not timing the market but time in the …’
‘Okay, I admit the market’s a lot of bull,’ snorted Adam.
‘I wish.’
‘Anyway, the art market’s also a sham,’ he retorted and nodded his head towards the book he had been reading. ‘Poor ol’ Vincent died a pauper and now his paintings sell for millions.’
Beth gestured to the stacks of unsold canvases and framed prints impinging on her workspace. ‘Shoot me. These may then be worth something. I’ll give you a sketch before you leave … may make you a fortune some day.’
‘The money or the Monet, eh?’
‘Nothing Toulouse,’ Beth quipped as she picked up her charcoal and sketchpad. ‘Enough about the stock market, let’s begin the session, again. Down with the dax, up with the footsie and steady with the …’
Faith groaned and settled down on a stack of black conté drawings for the duration.
Several sketches later, Beth was in fine form and her painting ideas were beginning to gel. Linear marks leapt energetically across the white paper leaving trails of smudged tone in their wake. Bone and muscle were highlighted with white pastel.
Adam appeared exhausted but Beth reminded him of Gecko’s mantra, ‘Posing’s “a breeze”. Right?’
‘Yeah! But swinging from the lights upside down … please, please Mistress Beth …’ he moaned from his upturned position draped over a wooden chair.
‘Don’t cross the line!’ Beth frowned at him. ‘Just hold on another minute, I’m getting some great studies for my new “falling figure” series. Now twist your trapezius to the right and adapt a plunging pose, more plunge, more attitude … got it. Five minute break coming up.’
Adam unwound his body carefully. ‘Whoa! Easy money this ain’t … wait ’til I see Gecko, the snake. And if he thinks he’s getting 20 percent of today’s payment … “Greed is good”… I don’t think so.’
A persistent scratching and scraping near the back door interrupted Adam’s tirade.
‘Don’t tell me,’ laughed Beth. ‘The dreaded bear has arrived.’
Adam, partially collapsed on the yoga mat with the sarong as a pillow, wearily raised his aching head. ‘I’m the only one bare around here,’ followed by a feeble ‘Grrr.’
It was now early evening and Beth’s trusty Airedale terrier had joined the artist, her model and blind Faith in the studio. To avoid meltdown, Adam had finally halted Beth’s drawing frenzy by pulling on his jeans and draping the red sarong over his shoulders like a defeated matador.
Beth poured a couple of generous glasses of whiskey and handed him one. ‘Let’s celebrate our triumphant day of art-making … on Fall Street.’ She laughed at her own feeble pun.
They clinked their glasses and surveyed the drawings pinned in a row on a white wall lit by two overhead spotlights. Beth had turned some of the drawings upside down and interspersed them with the others. Together they formed an erratic chart of falling and soaring figures, ending with a positive image of ascension.
‘Some of these will make good paintings. What do you think, Adam?’
Today’s session with Adam had revitalised Beth’s interest in her art and taken her mind off the turmoil of money matters and the woes of the last week. Her depression seemed light years away. Having a different model had definitely paid dividends and she was beaming.
‘Same time next week, Adam? I’ll begin an “ascending figure” series.’
‘Maybe … if you teach me something about art. I reckon I’d be terrific as an artbroker.’
Beth downed her whiskey and let out a loud hiccup, while the hungry dogs growled into the descending night like a couple of ravenous bears.
Wednesday 19 June 2013 4 pm
Broken But Not Beyond Repair
Connie Howell
Wentworth Falls, NSW
There once was a man who once was a boy lost in the wilderness. For thirty years he wandered from dark place to darker denser void. Dead to his family who could neither find nor reach him he stumbled through the bracken with no compass to help him find his way back home.
Often was the time that family called to him with no response, regrets and sorrow their companions until the time came when they no longer cried out in despair, hope abandoned for the most part with only a glimmer left from time to time. Prayers sent out for this lost and lonely boy, not knowing if they would ever be answered.
Cruel though life was both the boy and the family survived each in their own way. Thoughts
of the boy put aside only surfacing around birthdays and Christmas. All efforts to search for him gone, while day to day life called them to be present without looking back. Dreams sometimes reminding them of what was lost and perhaps what could have been. Hearts covered over with stitches to keep the wound from gaping open.
In the wilderness the boy growing to a man had all but forgotten who he was, living under an illusion that he was someone else and that he belonged in the wilderness and yet something stirred within him every so often and made him want to reach out but he had forgotten the language of the normal world and couldn’t make himself heard or understood and the family didn’t know how to speak the sounds of the wilderness which to them was a wild and desolate place that they couldn’t and did not want to enter. It frightened them and they knew that people that lived in the wilderness knew only darkness.
And yet one day someone came across the boy who was now a man and helped him gradually come out of his dark universe and showed him that there was light and with their help and a lot of time he once again re-entered the normal world and though it was hard to adjust he began to realise that he had a family who had been longing for his return.
Step by step they became acquainted and tentatively they walked towards each other and although the boy who was a man was broken he was still able to be repaired and with love and understanding his days of drug filled stupor were now behind him instead of in front and though fragile he had the will and the strength to leave the wilderness behind.
Wednesday 19 June 2013
Where Have They Gone?
Vita Monica
Southbank, VIC
Where have they gone ... all the noble ladies
Spotless, pure, and virtuous maidens
O where have they gone?
The old love story
Has it faded away? Blown and tossed by the wind?
Is love hanging under its definition?
Love
Enfolded by the shadow of lust
It sweetness turns bitter and numb
In the age where commitment is death
Self with no discipline
Like an old warrior riding its horse, his back crooked
Will there be someone standing up?
Bearing the pain of the battle in the midst of dying warriors
A brave princess
A virtuous man
Someone who cherishes and embraces true love
When everyone turns their back and starves for desires