Rear from left: Michael Garrad (editor), Judy Brumby-Lake, Cathy Weaver, Loretta Gaul. Middle from left: Pete Stratford, Bill Rentjes, June Maureen Hitchcock, Dr Mary Kille, Dr Vi Woodhouse, Yvonne Matheson.
Front: Joe Lake (publisher).
Voices Without Words
The morning breaks with the still of frost as
Angels descend from the heaven on the cries of the lost
For those who are full of fear and freak
To guide those who seek
Towards tranquillity, love, courage, happiness, peace
And the wisdom to be free.
Beside you, unseen, whispers in the breeze.
Give your pain and suffering ease
Listen silently to the heart without question;
Don’t second-guess: that’s my suggestion.
These are the secrets of the first feelings of thought,
Messages of the untaught;
Call it intuition, angels, God or someone from the past.
Don’t listen to a mind created by the past
As those secrets would not last
Felt, not heard,
These are the voices without words.
© Grant Lee Kenny
 |
| Judy |
Your Sins, Their Sins
What was your sin?
You small distorted form -
Middle-aged child.
Were your parents
Or ancestors sinners?
And you are the special one,
The one chosen by God for punishment
To pay for your sins - their sins?
How can you,
Small distorted form,
Middle-aged child,
Address your sins - their sins,
When you have never even been able
To talk
To walk
Or even to hold a pen?
© Judy Brumby-Lake
 |
| Mary |
Poetry Is Always Dissident
True poetry is always dissident -
Stirring and arming the rebel,
Encouraging those at the barricades,
Or the lonely man fronting the tank
In Tiananmen Square.
Sometimes the resistance is passive,
masking the strident call for reform,
Like Rosa Parks on the seat of the bus in Alabama,
Or the considered courage
Of Albie Sachs Mandela,
Self-immolation, oneself the human candle;
there’s an overt poetry in that.
© Mary Kille
Down And Out
If you are down and out
and find yourself in a deep hole,
 |
| Bill |
turn to music - it’s nourishment for the soul.
For depression there is no
better remedy
than a beautiful melody:
Mozart, Beethoven, Bach
or even Amazing Grace
will light up your face.
Music makes plants grow better;
and cows give more milk;
even the worms spin more silk.
Music makes the world
a better place to be.
So make more music, shouldn’t we?
© Bill Ryntjes
 |
| Cathy |
Lazy Day
From my bed I don’t want to budge
I would rather stay here and bludge.
I don’t want to get out of bed too soon.
I want to sleep in ’til noon.
I want to waste some time away,
So, in my bed I will stay.
© Cathy Weaver
My View
with Michael Garrad
The porker, like the chook (not that they are related in anyway whatsoever) roam free on the range – hence the expression “free range”!
Chomping, pecking. What a great life! Fed well, perhaps too well. Pampered even! Fatten them up!
What animal or bird could ask for anything more! Sheltered, cosseted! Fresh air, green grass!
The porker is lulled into a false sense of security, like the chook, because all good things eventually have to come to an end and what an end it is!
The same can be said, of course, of cattle and sheep, quite obliviously grazing on a wonderful open land. How many days has it been? It doesn’t matter – life is for living and eating.
Ah, yes, eating! Eating!
When all is said and done, the pig, the chook, those cattle and sheep have been told one gigantic porky! At the very last moment, it’s lights out. Crash, bang, wallop!
Dead! On the dinner plate.
So that’s what free range means – tender of meat, calmer of eating! May those animals and birds rest in peace in the digestive systems of all who are the biggest con artists of the lot!
Free range is just a comfortable way of saying birth is for death in the slaughterhouse.
I think I’d rather go cold turkey on this sweet talk of home-grown beef and lamb, and bacon and eggs – oops, meant to say bacon and juicy chicken breast!
 |
| Michael |
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,
To be vulnerable - and some were brothers.
The intelligentsia thrived on every platitude,
Gained, as reward, some favoured latitude,
But in the chaos of confrontation,
With weak and strong in the tumult nigh,
Some sought black, arched corners, 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
Castaway Island Paradise
People wouldn't want to live
anywhere else where they build home.
This is King Island.
For writers and painters, a good life,
To store manuscripts, a dry safe place,
To cope, one needs stamina and determination;
A vegetable garden is a must,
And so wonderful to grow your own;
Marvellous, lovely, romantic sunsets;
The waves come on the shore in different forms,
It is not all the time smooth and perfect;
Managing your life is hard work;
Human companionship makes life
Worthwhile but it feels empty on one’s own;
Supplies come by boat or plane -
A castaway paradise island is a perfect lifestyle.
© Yvonne Matheson
The Face Of Anger
The face of anger confronts me, distorted with rage
Gaping mouth screams words of abuse,
 |
| June |
Gypsy eyes burn into my soul,
Hatred springs from every part of your wracked body
And oozes from every pore of your skin.
What bitterness you must feel -
What jealousy burrows into your flesh?
What evil lurks within you?
If I can’t escape you, then I must escape within myself,
I must recapture peace and harmony, at all cost -
I just hope that cost is not too great.
I have become your prey, hunted by the hunter -
But my death will not be your victory!
© June Maureen Hitchcock April 6 2013
Mystic Pond
Morning light filters through dew-laden leaves, giving forth a haunting spectre amongst the rising mist from a mystic pond.
Moving gracefully between shadow and light, a mirage of floating grey ghosts rise from the placid waters to the languid branches spread above.
A distant maniacal laugh of a Kookaburra, a cacophony, breaking into the dawn silence, gives life to a backdrop of a misty hue, bringing forth life to a new-born day.
Insects walk on water, as small bubbles emanate from the murky depths below, popping with a minute echo, their tiny footprints encircled by watery tension,
Aquatic creatures watch the silhouettes dance on the surface, creating the shimmering face of the sky above, smiling down at the morning pursuits.
Hyacinths float on their verdant green pads ready to display their myriad of exotic colours, breaking open the greyness of the day’s awakening.
A ripple breaks as the dew drops from leaves fastened to a gnarled branch above, its limb mirrored in a broken reflection of a wobbly tree.
Its banks afford a place to sit, to watch with wonder at nature’s early morning show, my eyes in awe as I behold this Mystic Pond.
© William Law
Joe
Joe Lake’s Opinion
I hope you like our photograph on the front page. It shows us as a motley crew and that’s what we are. We are the people of the future, poets who reflect the general feeling that purveys our Tasmanian culture, ironically, of course, because the reason is that most of us are immigrants to this wonderful country and make our mark in literature for future generations to know and understand us.
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. John and Julie decide to leave Cooee but their campervan won’t start.
“John, John!” A mechanical voice was calling.
John, who had been asleep in the double bed in the Winnebago, next to his wife, Julie, sat up in alarm, wiped the sleep from his eyes and concentrated on the glittering image that presented itself on the kitchen table on the far side inside the van. “Yes?” said John.
“Over here,” the female voice called.
John focused and spoke to the hologram they had seen there once before. “Why do you bother me in the middle of the night? Don’t they sleep where you come from?”
“In the future, people don’t sleep. There’s no need for it once we’ve shed our animal nature,” replied this image of a woman that faded in and out similar to a bad television reception in the old days. The image was bare-breasted. Only her torso could be seen. “Why don’t you join me here in the future, John? I can make this possible.”
“I’m married,” said John.
(To be continued next month.)
Some of Joe Lake's Aphorisms
A poem is a dream put to words.
The poet awaiting inspiration often finds that phantoms and horrors will fly free.
People love the poet if he stays in his cage; they will shower him with empty beer cans and other precious gifts of their culture.
A poet should be a keeper of images; handing them out, as required.
With rhyme, a poet may stumble onto truths by accident.
If the poets are ignored by their peers, it is best to proclaim the poems to sheep or the waves of the ocean.
(from Joe Lake’s Aphorisms)
End Of Summer
 |
| Pete |
When starlit nights are chilled by autumn’s cooler breath
leaves put on their finery, dress for their dance of death.
Deep burgundies and umber, bright reds and golds, rich brown,
each clad in autumn splendour before they flutter down
to form a magic carpet beneath trees’ slow turning plain,
where once was earth and grasses how a rainbow counterpane.
Wile overhead, quite naked, reaching into the frigid sky,
branches in deep torpor wait as winter months go by.
Yet soon will come the warmer, refreshing springtime rains
then dormant buds will swell and burst, green leaves unfurl again.
© Pete Stratford 8.4.11
