Fear Of The Dark, (a novel by Joe Lake)
(So far: Julie and Robert take an evening stroll in the park, away from their mobile home, when Julie notices someone stalking them who looks incongruously like Obama. Robert races to confront the stalker and rips a rubber mask off the person to find that it’s a blonde woman who races off into the night.)
Robert and Julie turned towards the path that led to their parked Winnebago mobile home by the sea.
"When it’s completely dark," said Robert, "the penguins will come out of the water to feed their young that are now hidden in hollows in the sand-dune embankment." He took Julie by he hand and they faced the dark beach. The regular swish of the incoming waves and the chirping of the baby penguins could be heard. They stood, hypnotised, staring into the dark.
"There they are!" Julie pointed at the beach where a group of penguins had emerged from the waves. "Why are they just standing there?"
"They look out for dogs and other predators before they waddle towards their burrows," said Robert. And sure enough, the group approached the sand hills where the gentle chirping of the young was heard.
"More mums and dads will come for some time yet," said Robert. "Let’s go to bed."
They unlocked their mobile home where Julie threw the Obama mask into a corner and soon they were lying on the bed without taking their clothes off. The bed and van started to rock. When the bed stopped rocking, the van continued to move.
"There’s someone rocking us," said Julie.
"Where’s my shotgun?" whispered Robert. Julie pointed to the drawers under the bed. Robert rolled off, opened the draw and took out the gun. Julie peeked through the curtains and whispered, "The rocking has stopped."
Robert stood up to cock the gun which snapped onto his hand and he let out a yelp of pain, stumbled and fell backwards, and hit his head on the gas stove. He collapsed onto the floor.
"Robert!" gasped Julie. She slid off the bed and shook him. He was unconscious. His head, as she touched his hair, was oozing blood. The gun was still in his hands. She reached onto the bedside table and dialled 911. There was no answer. She slowly counted from one to ten. 000, in Australia, that was it. She dialled. Emergency answered. "My husband fell backwards and hit his head onto the stove. He’s unconscious. Will you send an ambulance?" She gave the position of the van at the beach and the woman advised her to put Robert into the coma position onto his side with one leg drawn up.
The police and the ambulance came at the same time. A policeman entered the van first. He saw the gun and gently tried to pull it away from Robert when it went off and narrowly missed the constable. Julie thought she could hear a woman’s fiendish laughter in the distance.
(To be continued next month.)
Thursday, September 30, 2010
The Neuron
The Neuron
Each living cell appears autonomous
As single neuron, able to compute,
As sentient and so ingenious,
They are like entities with attitude.
Each neuron is a small computer
To act, repair and to communicate,
To reproduce and justify this suitor
To solve all problems and to regulate.
I am this most developed neuron’s drive
That is in love and wants to procreate
With you that our neurones live and so survive.
I therefore wish for you to reciprocate.
I am the neurones so in love with life;
That I will call like sea birds to your hive.
© Joe Lake
Each living cell appears autonomous
As single neuron, able to compute,
As sentient and so ingenious,
They are like entities with attitude.
Each neuron is a small computer
To act, repair and to communicate,
To reproduce and justify this suitor
To solve all problems and to regulate.
I am this most developed neuron’s drive
That is in love and wants to procreate
With you that our neurones live and so survive.
I therefore wish for you to reciprocate.
I am the neurones so in love with life;
That I will call like sea birds to your hive.
© Joe Lake
Joe Lake's Opinion
Joe Lake’s Opinion
We’re having Burnie Shines With Poetry this month. I’m going to do my Tiger poem to the beat of Hip-Hop Groove. It sort of brings it alive.
In New Scientist here was an article to my liking which said what I’ve published some years ago that the egg cell in the womb is he most important cell. This cell, once it has accepted the DNA of the male, contains the software to create a human being from the inside out. Further, each cell that splits from it contains all the software of the original which includes instructions. Brian J. Ford says hat each cell has its own decision-making processing power. The brain is not one entity but each neuron is a fully functioning individual and contains the software and intelligence of the totality. In consequence, a human being is a conglomeration of billions, no, trillions of individual, problem-solving capable personalities who choose to live in harmony. Each cell seems to be capable of reproduction, as every ten years all cells are replaced; in consequence, we all die and live again regularly. Each individual neuron is itself a computer within a community of microscopic computers, says Ford. He also says that one should experience the symphony; the combination buzz between the neurones which sounds like sea birds calling. Here is one of my sonnets.
We’re having Burnie Shines With Poetry this month. I’m going to do my Tiger poem to the beat of Hip-Hop Groove. It sort of brings it alive.
In New Scientist here was an article to my liking which said what I’ve published some years ago that the egg cell in the womb is he most important cell. This cell, once it has accepted the DNA of the male, contains the software to create a human being from the inside out. Further, each cell that splits from it contains all the software of the original which includes instructions. Brian J. Ford says hat each cell has its own decision-making processing power. The brain is not one entity but each neuron is a fully functioning individual and contains the software and intelligence of the totality. In consequence, a human being is a conglomeration of billions, no, trillions of individual, problem-solving capable personalities who choose to live in harmony. Each cell seems to be capable of reproduction, as every ten years all cells are replaced; in consequence, we all die and live again regularly. Each individual neuron is itself a computer within a community of microscopic computers, says Ford. He also says that one should experience the symphony; the combination buzz between the neurones which sounds like sea birds calling. Here is one of my sonnets.
My View by Michael Garrad; poems, Soldier and Whispers.
My View with Michael Garrad
Yes, you’re more than likely right - the older we get, the more precious the memories.
It’s as if it was yesterday, crystal clear and, perhaps, modified slightly for our own pleasure.
It’s that one special moment or moments that are hidden safely in the mind until, for whatever reason, a very real picture is triggered - or that picture can be the fuse which ignites recollection and the wonders of imagination.
In a split second, it’s a return to childhood or those hazy, summer-drenched adolescent years - a picnic in the local park or that first realisation that when boy meets girl, it can be quite exciting. Exquisite even!
These camera captures are precious as rubies because they’re part of us, of who we are, and we can touch that frame of time - live it and savour it, and know that it did happen so very long ago!
How many seasons have gone by? It doesn’t really matter because that season is now.
Soldier
The long savage day
cuts ice-cold to the heart,
Urgent breeze shapes tears,
Stings eyes that cannot close,
Bitter is the harvest on the hill,
And windmill turns without rhythm,
Slices freeze air until turmoil is a gale,
This dark monument to withered corn
that waved goodbye before morn
had breathed on aching clouds;
Hurricane blows on urgent waterfalls,
Frozen fingers grasp at rotting reeds
and scale, insidiously, the tall bark,
As a soldier on dead feet.
© Michael Garrad September 2010
Whispers
Ghosts in a cacophony of whispers,
Long after machine-din
has spun, controlled, in death throes,
Echoing in cold, salty air,
Carried a-top mountain waves
and put quietly to rest
in distant, howling ocean gale,
Now shadows trick the eye
against grey, monument walls
seeped in history’s damp,
Perhaps these shadows
dance to sun’s whim;
Shoe leather is as dust
in forgotten corridors
and dead laneways,
So many people, back and forth,
Feeding starved mechanical creations
in a frenzied hunger,
Cruel the appetite,
Even when others slept,
The roar silenced conversation,
And humanity ducked and weaved
in endless, tedious shifts,
Until exhaustion and slumber,
Until it all began again,
Hear the hush of silence now,
Was that a tree branch as finger
pointing in winter light?
Imagination, memory’s re-birth?
Or are these shadows much more?
© Michael Garrad August 2010
Yes, you’re more than likely right - the older we get, the more precious the memories.
It’s as if it was yesterday, crystal clear and, perhaps, modified slightly for our own pleasure.
It’s that one special moment or moments that are hidden safely in the mind until, for whatever reason, a very real picture is triggered - or that picture can be the fuse which ignites recollection and the wonders of imagination.
In a split second, it’s a return to childhood or those hazy, summer-drenched adolescent years - a picnic in the local park or that first realisation that when boy meets girl, it can be quite exciting. Exquisite even!
These camera captures are precious as rubies because they’re part of us, of who we are, and we can touch that frame of time - live it and savour it, and know that it did happen so very long ago!
How many seasons have gone by? It doesn’t really matter because that season is now.
Soldier
The long savage day
cuts ice-cold to the heart,
Urgent breeze shapes tears,
Stings eyes that cannot close,
Bitter is the harvest on the hill,
And windmill turns without rhythm,
Slices freeze air until turmoil is a gale,
This dark monument to withered corn
that waved goodbye before morn
had breathed on aching clouds;
Hurricane blows on urgent waterfalls,
Frozen fingers grasp at rotting reeds
and scale, insidiously, the tall bark,
As a soldier on dead feet.
© Michael Garrad September 2010
Whispers
Ghosts in a cacophony of whispers,
Long after machine-din
has spun, controlled, in death throes,
Echoing in cold, salty air,
Carried a-top mountain waves
and put quietly to rest
in distant, howling ocean gale,
Now shadows trick the eye
against grey, monument walls
seeped in history’s damp,
Perhaps these shadows
dance to sun’s whim;
Shoe leather is as dust
in forgotten corridors
and dead laneways,
So many people, back and forth,
Feeding starved mechanical creations
in a frenzied hunger,
Cruel the appetite,
Even when others slept,
The roar silenced conversation,
And humanity ducked and weaved
in endless, tedious shifts,
Until exhaustion and slumber,
Until it all began again,
Hear the hush of silence now,
Was that a tree branch as finger
pointing in winter light?
Imagination, memory’s re-birth?
Or are these shadows much more?
© Michael Garrad August 2010
Aphorisms, excerpts.
Aphorisms
Poetry can sum up a whole life in three lines; emulating a person’s understanding.
The people who chide the poet reject the sensitivity in their soul.
The person who doesn’t believe in dreams is most vulnerable to their revenge.
A poem should have no meaning, as music has no meaning, only feelings.
People are often shocked and surprised that something inside them can write poetry.
It is the cunning poem that confuses.
The poet sings his song first by imitating his species; later, he listens only to the best, and later still, he listens only to himself.
© Joe Lake (From Basic Aphorisms)
Poetry can sum up a whole life in three lines; emulating a person’s understanding.
The people who chide the poet reject the sensitivity in their soul.
The person who doesn’t believe in dreams is most vulnerable to their revenge.
A poem should have no meaning, as music has no meaning, only feelings.
People are often shocked and surprised that something inside them can write poetry.
It is the cunning poem that confuses.
The poet sings his song first by imitating his species; later, he listens only to the best, and later still, he listens only to himself.
© Joe Lake (From Basic Aphorisms)
Digging For A Heart
Digging For A Heart
The hidden archaeologist in me wanted to dig,
So I chose a small plot of land, rich and soft
And sure to yield something amazing -
It was to be my unique discovery.
Growing in the topsoil was a wild rose bush
Of exquisite colour and form,
But so as not to disturb its perfection,
I dug carefully all around it -
And in my naiveté, I wanted to believe
That what I might find could alter my life
And the life, too, of that rose bush,
So inch by inch I dug deeper and deeper.
Then one day my small spade hit rock,
And to my dismay, my disappointment,
I found no treasure there,
No natural wonder, no ancient relic, no revelation -
Only hard, hard rock.
Suddenly the roses lost their bloom,
Their petals withered, bruised brown
And curled in ugly shapes as they fell to ground -
Along with my bitter tears.
Is it the same with people?
Can you dig and dig, and dig,
Ad in the end you see surface beauty
So loved, so admired, lose all intrigue, all charm,
When you eventually find that underneath -
Lies just a heart of stone?
© June Maureen Hichcock June 2007
The hidden archaeologist in me wanted to dig,
So I chose a small plot of land, rich and soft
And sure to yield something amazing -
It was to be my unique discovery.
Growing in the topsoil was a wild rose bush
Of exquisite colour and form,
But so as not to disturb its perfection,
I dug carefully all around it -
And in my naiveté, I wanted to believe
That what I might find could alter my life
And the life, too, of that rose bush,
So inch by inch I dug deeper and deeper.
Then one day my small spade hit rock,
And to my dismay, my disappointment,
I found no treasure there,
No natural wonder, no ancient relic, no revelation -
Only hard, hard rock.
Suddenly the roses lost their bloom,
Their petals withered, bruised brown
And curled in ugly shapes as they fell to ground -
Along with my bitter tears.
Is it the same with people?
Can you dig and dig, and dig,
Ad in the end you see surface beauty
So loved, so admired, lose all intrigue, all charm,
When you eventually find that underneath -
Lies just a heart of stone?
© June Maureen Hichcock June 2007
Advertising
Advertising
Millions go on adverts, it’s part of our web of life.
The majority just go unheard, though a few of them survive.
Unless you only landed on this planet this past week,
you’ll know the famous spread that puts a rose in every cheek,
and even in those days before anyone had telly.
But I sometimes think those Ad-men miss their intended goal,
when we remember their one-liners, but forget what was their role.
Think of those super tissues with their one wipe and it’s clean,
that was meant for every surface, not one private spot, it seems.
And when Paul was at his barbie, an iconic phrase was born,
but the aim was for more tourists, not a rush on buying prawns.
Our great Road Safety Council, in an effort to save lives,
implored us all so earnestly Don’t Drink and Drive.
It was pretty obvious to do so would cause woes,
that stuff was only useful for cleaning dirty clothes.
How many do remember the purpose of the ad
from where we get the catchphrase we use when things go bad?
If little things throughout our day don’t fit into our plan,
we say with mock sincerity NOT-HAPPY-JAN.
Thus companies spend their dollars to woo us through their doors,
so they can fondle happily that money that was yours.
Yet even if their message doesn’t change the brand you’re using,
Their ditties and one-liners can still be most amusing.
© Pete Stratford 29.8.10
Millions go on adverts, it’s part of our web of life.
The majority just go unheard, though a few of them survive.
Unless you only landed on this planet this past week,
you’ll know the famous spread that puts a rose in every cheek,
and even in those days before anyone had telly.
But I sometimes think those Ad-men miss their intended goal,
when we remember their one-liners, but forget what was their role.
Think of those super tissues with their one wipe and it’s clean,
that was meant for every surface, not one private spot, it seems.
And when Paul was at his barbie, an iconic phrase was born,
but the aim was for more tourists, not a rush on buying prawns.
Our great Road Safety Council, in an effort to save lives,
implored us all so earnestly Don’t Drink and Drive.
It was pretty obvious to do so would cause woes,
that stuff was only useful for cleaning dirty clothes.
How many do remember the purpose of the ad
from where we get the catchphrase we use when things go bad?
If little things throughout our day don’t fit into our plan,
we say with mock sincerity NOT-HAPPY-JAN.
Thus companies spend their dollars to woo us through their doors,
so they can fondle happily that money that was yours.
Yet even if their message doesn’t change the brand you’re using,
Their ditties and one-liners can still be most amusing.
© Pete Stratford 29.8.10
Dawn Chorus
Dawn Chorus
Moon shadows vanish
In the east
The fine web of opal light
Tells us dawn is coming
From tall green minarets
Square Doric temples in the fence
Cardinals in green robes
Line the paths.
From secret niches, heavenly holes
Floats music from
Throbbing orange pipes
Silver rivers of melodies
Each one interrupting the others
In the sweetest way.
Punctuated with cheerful chirps
And chatters to keep our souls
Safe under the blankets
I watch the leafy ponies
Quietly grazing up high
Tethered by golden poles
Topiary of the earth and sky
And I know that paradise
Is as fresh as ever
Has never gone away.
© Patricia Turner Sept. 19 2010
Moon shadows vanish
In the east
The fine web of opal light
Tells us dawn is coming
From tall green minarets
Square Doric temples in the fence
Cardinals in green robes
Line the paths.
From secret niches, heavenly holes
Floats music from
Throbbing orange pipes
Silver rivers of melodies
Each one interrupting the others
In the sweetest way.
Punctuated with cheerful chirps
And chatters to keep our souls
Safe under the blankets
I watch the leafy ponies
Quietly grazing up high
Tethered by golden poles
Topiary of the earth and sky
And I know that paradise
Is as fresh as ever
Has never gone away.
© Patricia Turner Sept. 19 2010
Torture In The Suburbs
Torture In The Suburbs
The quivering form of an elderly lady
Crouches inside a large disused fireplace.
Her wrinkled hands are tightly clasped over her ears
As her heart beats rapidly
In a chest that convulses with pain.
A whimpering, quivering dog presses against her.
A mattress covers the entrance to the fireplace
To deaden the torture of the grinding,
Repetitive, invasive sound intruding from outside.
She is not in Iraq or Afghanistan
Or any other war zone,
But in a quiet Tasmanian suburb,
As she tries to escape the sounds and vibrations
Of her neighbour’s menacing,
Manicuring, grinding manufacturing machines.
© Judy Brumby-Lake
The quivering form of an elderly lady
Crouches inside a large disused fireplace.
Her wrinkled hands are tightly clasped over her ears
As her heart beats rapidly
In a chest that convulses with pain.
A whimpering, quivering dog presses against her.
A mattress covers the entrance to the fireplace
To deaden the torture of the grinding,
Repetitive, invasive sound intruding from outside.
She is not in Iraq or Afghanistan
Or any other war zone,
But in a quiet Tasmanian suburb,
As she tries to escape the sounds and vibrations
Of her neighbour’s menacing,
Manicuring, grinding manufacturing machines.
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Obsidian Abyss
Obsidian Abyss
I awake, lying broken, senseless in the dark
The desolate stone beneath me, my non-existent heart,
All around the blackness clings to the air
As I lie in the dark, victim of my lair this, my empty void, I am all alone
Held prisoner in my body by a shard of blackest stone
The flow of life is waning, ebbing to and fro
My ragged breaths are painful, shallow, sharp and slow
Though my eyes are closed, what I see is clear
Watching life outside my hell, fan the fires near
In the rampant storm about, I’m defenceless to the pain
Revenged by the icy winds and spears of ember rain
The wild waves throw me, toss me to the rock
And there amongst the darkness, my heart stutters to a
Stop...
© Lauren Hay
I awake, lying broken, senseless in the dark
The desolate stone beneath me, my non-existent heart,
All around the blackness clings to the air
As I lie in the dark, victim of my lair this, my empty void, I am all alone
Held prisoner in my body by a shard of blackest stone
The flow of life is waning, ebbing to and fro
My ragged breaths are painful, shallow, sharp and slow
Though my eyes are closed, what I see is clear
Watching life outside my hell, fan the fires near
In the rampant storm about, I’m defenceless to the pain
Revenged by the icy winds and spears of ember rain
The wild waves throw me, toss me to the rock
And there amongst the darkness, my heart stutters to a
Stop...
© Lauren Hay
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