Europa Poets' Gazette No 73

I Was Not Shocked
I was not shocked to see the queens of night
As dancing Gascoigne tops stir up the dust
And so immerse into the flashing light
As floating, spicy bodies cherish lust.
These hot abstractions in their swaying song
Are focused on pure pleasure’s dream.
They mingle there as maggots’ wriggling throng,
Their heaven’s paradise as angel’s beam.
For every girl there were two boys to love.
The young and innocent enfolded face
That was most happy dancing in a huff:
The symbiotic itch must have its ways.
These pleasure pills are served on golden plates
To start the slide towards the hellish gates.
I Love You, Dear
I love you, dear, and so I must proclaim
That you, as Venus goddess, pity me.
Therefore I write, that you may know my claim
And tease me not with spurn and cruel glee.
I write these poems to express my grief
To conjure up these words of wit and charm
Where I have searched the dictionary leaf
To emulate our Sidney’s churn and yarn.
And still, the muse avoids my steaming mind,
Presents me with a pop of sterile song
Where others’ rhyme and reason may be kind
As scribbled fictions, they seem staid and wrong.
I hypnotise myself with laptop’s ware;
This poetaster’s brain is void and bare.
My God Awoke
My God awoke within my mother’s womb;
My father’s software swam to bring the key
To make a photocopy-double tomb
Into those billion gods that are now Me.
My God, whose ROM knew how to multiply
From deep within, constructed cell by cell
Its image from the software to the eye
To grow, like yeast, into a churning well.
Sometimes the ROM rebels into a crash
And misconstructs in just so many ways
That evolution is not always rash;
Its software drowns in viruses some days.
We are the sons of God as are my trillion cells;
All have the software that creates and tells.
© Joe Lake

Europa Poets' Gazette No 73

I was listening to ABC Classic FM. They were discussing religion. It was said that if Jesus could have done anything for humanity, he would have told people to wash their hands. Millions have died and still do from infections they pick up with their hands. Semmelweiss, a Hungarian, in the middle of the nineteenth century, told his fellow doctors that dirty hands were the reason that half the women died in childbirth. They locked him up as mad. In Basic Poetry, I said, some years ago, that the Gospels were short stories written by poets. They are poetry. They make us feel good as fiction. Matthew Arnold said that all religion is poetry.
Winter is coming to Burnie. Judy found one bacon-and-eggs; this isn’t supposed to come out until spring. Is it global warming? You tell me.
I’ve put seaweed fertiliser onto my vegetables. It’s supposed to work miracles. I’ll let you know. The nashi fruit is finished and the pears on the tree are weary and ready to fall off. The birds have a feast. We intend to hold the Burnie Poetry Gold Pot on July 16. Join in, please.




The Happiest Man I Ever Knew
The happiest man I ever knew sits in jail
Guilt-free, metaphorically charged,
as was his due.
The newspaper headlines proclaim:
"Murderer jailed for life!"
Truth is, he ended his own life
And the guests gather to gorge
Sumptuously, viciously on the vulnerability
Proffered gently through iron bars.
And with insatiable cherry-stained mouths,
They drive away in the metal and glass prisons
They call cars.
© Loretta Gaul

Europa Poets' Gazette No 73

Damp Grey
"Rag ’n bone",
Voice echoes
in the still, damp grey,
Pacifying melody
of hooves on tarred road,
Steady is the pace,
Snout in feed bag,
The old horse
never steps above a walk,
"Rag ’n bone",
This gravel voice moulded
out of grunt and grit,
pitted against chill air,
The cart creaking,
The old iron, outlived,
tossed up at the back,
A carrot for this eager friend,
The horse draws the crowd,
Not the man, gentle of rein,
Always the horse,
Steady and measured,
And willing, and living forever,
Clip-clop, clip-clop
on this hard road,
And excited children pleading,
"Can we give the ole man something?"
This old iron will do -
And a carrot, of course,
And those loving eyes,
And a pat, and a hug
until the next time.
Michael Garrad March 2010
Golden Goodbye
I watch the setting sun shimmer on the water -
Layers of molten gold, appliquéd on green velvet,
And I remember how you adored gold -
You were always swathed in it from head to toe.
Now, your dust scatters in the summer breeze,
Settling on the gold you loved so much.
© June Maureen Hitchcock

Europa Poets' Gazette No 73

When you can’t bear pain anymore, it's time to make the enemy your friend.
Sounds convoluted? Well, for many of us you’d be right. How can we ignore pain - chronic, ongoing?
Physical or mental, the limits are so hard to endure, even more to comprehend how some can live the agony day after day, unrelenting.
Pain won’t leave, like a visitor who’s outstayed their welcome. Pain persists, insidious. The long pain is unimaginable.
There are those among us who deal with pain as a companion. Pain won’t go, so they embrace it, learn to understand it, accept that it will tap the shoulder at any moment.
Pain is as they live. I am humbled by all those who bear it and can still smile.


Step Softly
Step
into the mist,
Let it kiss
your face,
As gossamer lace
on cool glass,
Let dew grass
bathe
in bird-call dawn
when hope is born,
Live the mist,
Feel it kiss
on closed eyes,
As soft veil sighs
’neath forgiving skies,
And lilting breeze
stirs tissue leaves,
This mist caressed,
By Nature blessed.
© Michael Garrad April 2010

Europa Poets' Gazette No 73

Dream On, Silk Knickers
Dream on, dream on, silk knickers.
Your use and youth has gone
Like the form you once enhanced,
Gone all saggy.
Your elastic expanded and your shape warped.
You have served your purpose.
Once, you enhanced a youthful, slim, form
Which was to entice a man.
Your history is like that of your owner - short.
Where once you had a designer label
And had residence in an elite shop,
Your style, sought by many, now is faded and dated.
And unlike your poor cotton-tail cousins,
You, with your moth holes, are no use to mankind,
Not even in domestic service as a dust cloth.
So dream on, dream on, silk knickers.
© Judy Brumby-Lake

Europa Poets' Gazette No 73

Music
"Music hath charms to soothe the savage breast",
or so was written in sixteen ninety-seven,
and truly, music still retains that gift
to loft our flagging spirits unto Heaven.
Notes drifting to our ear when we are down;
What secret does a simple sound possess
that sends us soaring up amongst the clouds?
A change from melancholy idleness,
to there with angels gaily sing and dance,
our cares abandoned, scarce cannot intrude.
With souls and minds set free at last,
for joyous spirit’s healing interlude.
© Pete Stratford 11.3.10

Europa Poets' Gazette No 73

I Read It In The Advocate
I read it in The Advocate.
So does that mean it’s true?
Can you trust a news sheet?
Is the answer there for you?
If you read The Advocate
Believing every written word,
Chances are that’s OK
News better seen than heard?
Yet reading through The Advocate
You’ll occasionally see
Some errors in reporting
That bothers you and me.
But as I read my Advocate
I seldom criticise.
For all the local news I need
Is there before my eyes.
So I’ll always read The Advocate,
Cartoons and crosswords, too.
And as for criticising,
Well, I’ll leave it up to you!
© Vi Woodhouse