GOLFING GAGGLE
They talk about the state of greens, how fast or slow they run,
About the time they hooked the ball as to the left it spun.
They gather in the club house for a drink and bite to eat
Replay their games ad nauseum, relive their finest feat.
That tee shot on the 14th hole was something to behold,
That chip from out the bunker, an eagle hole unfold.
I sit in silence while I pray that soon they'll make a move -
Considering the pros and cons if I should join their groove.
At last we part, but just short term, for we must gather still
When trophies are presented to those with golfing skill.
And so the day's relived again - their company I disown;
I pay no heed to their good cheer while inwardly I groan.
I close my eyes, transport myself to camp beside a creek
Beneath the stars where no one dares indulge in "golfing speak".
The air is wrapped in silence as I sit beside the fire,
But soon the voices of the bush resound in tuneful choir.
Cicadas pierce the stillness as they buzz their mating call,
A dingo howls into the night, as shadows rise and fall.
An owl lands in the tree above, disturbs the cockatoos
Whose screech is answered from afar by sorrowful curlews.
A fish jumps in the water and I hear the ripples play
Against the bank where small brown frogs, concealed, await their prey.
But what is this? My name is called, composure try to snaffle:
"Wake up, you git, wake up, for you've won first prize in the raffle."
CATHERINE'S CHOICE
The lass was young and starry eyed, believing every word
the handsome seaman uttered - his the only voice she heard.
She heeded not the counsel proffered by her dad and mum;
they pleaded, threatened and cajoled, but she would not succumb.
She left her home in Durban never more to see her kin,
she was but 16 years of age, this girl named Catherine.
With John she sailed to Sydney where they found a flat to rent,
run down and less than basic – its better days were spent.
Sporadic pangs of loneliness and doubts she put aside
for she believed his promises that soon she'd be his bride.
The reason why he wavered was he had another wife,
but she was unaware her lover lived this double life.
In all they had five children within some seven years,
the third one died at two months old – a time for grief and tears.
John spent more time away from home and cash was pretty tight;
to supplement the budget Cath took cleaning work at night.
Before she left, she bathed the kids and popped them into bed,
She kissed each precious face: "Be good. I'll be home soon," she said.
At four years old young Marie died a firey, painful death;
"Please save me, Mummy, Mummy, please!" she screamed with her last breath.
John's spineless spirit surfaced as the household scene he fled,
left Cath and three young children little hope for times ahead.
The kids grew wild and boisterous, survival was their goal,
but bonded and supported, Catherine mostly kept control.
In time she met a miner who’d been on the wallaby,
and when the kids went separate ways she had Jack’s company.
They shifted house so many times, tried to improve their lot,
were happy with each other but their past days ne’er forgot.
Jack died and Cath was once again left on her own to cope
but happy memories of her Jack would always give her hope.
At 89 in cancer's grasp Cath's life was on the wane;
her last few weeks in hospital were drugged to ease the pain
Beside the bed her daughter knelt, emotions hard to hide;
"I'm leaving home for one last time," Cath whispered as she died.
THE POET
As the poet writes his verses
so his mind in words immerses;
many topics he traverses
in his quest
to arouse his reader's senses
far beyond their mental fences
and with feeling he dispenses
words compressed
which create a lively story,
sometimes funny, sometimes gory,
tales of mishap and of glory
well expressed;
when a poem is concluded
to each aspect he's alluded
feels no facet's been excluded
he can rest
but he's woken from his sleeping
as new thoughts and rhymes come creeping
in his mind, and then they're leaping
with a zest
he must write them in a hurry
or they'll disappear and scurry
and he'll lose them in the flurry
of protest
so although he sleeps but poorly
be the weather fine or squally
as a poet he knows surely
he is blessed.
DESTINY DELIVERS
She raked through fuzzy cobwebs in her mind,
the snatches of reflections mal-aligned;
just here and there a thought,
escaping e'er it brought
the lucid image that she sought to find.
Who is that man whose face bears well-known lines?
it flickers in her memory, defines
a sense of trust, but why? -
too late, the pictures die
within dementia's dim confines.
A country cottage set beside the creek,
a vision which recurs from week to week;
she struggles to recall
before the shadows fall –
who is it there with whom she wants to speak?
These jigsaw pieces hang in limbo's realm,
there's no connection, no one at the helm;
just now and then a spark
of logic cuts the dark:
a precious moment charged to overwhelm.
And so he sits beside her bed each day,
runs fingers through her hair now dull and grey;
she lives within a world
fragmented, strange and furled
unknowing of the folk who pass her way.
He wonders if his visits are worthwhile,
or is his time there wasted and futile?
he lives with memories,
and in each one he sees
love once portrayed within his dear one's smile.
He curses fate which brought them down this road,
the demons in her head which taunt and goad;
accept it as God's will
life deals this bitter pill
and He will give the strength to bear the load?
He thinks not as each day he leaves her side
and passes rooms where folk alike abide;
the tragic ripples spread
from those confined in bed
immersing loved ones in their downward slide.
STORMY MEMORIES
Wild memories invade his mind when he's alone and still
as vivid recollections stir and churn the memory mill.
He lies in bed, his mind afire with visions of the past;
chaotic dreams disrupt his sleep, each by the next surpassed.
He sees himself a child of 9 crammed in a cattle train,
exiled from Poland headed for Siberia's harsh terrain.
The labour camp was sparse and cruel with bare enough to eat;
the overcrowded barracks oozed a mantle of defeat.
He lives again the day the Russians set his people free,
that day his dad joined Polish troops in fighting Germany.
He sees his grieving mother with his sister at her side,
"He's gone to fight the Germans leaving us alone", she cried.
They packed their few possessions, leaving with the caravan
of weary Polish exiles travelling on to Khasakstan.
This journey brought more sorrow; on the way his mother died;
her body dragged away, he and his sister pushed aside.
He screams his anguish in the night: "Don't take my Mum away!"
his sweaty body thrashes as he wakes and fears allay.
He sees again the orphanages where they were consigned;
his sister's safe survival always central on his mind.
From Khasakstan to Persia they were shoved from place to place,
bereft of love, malnourished with no parent to embrace.
From Persia to Uganda; on the way his sister died:
"We're sorry, son," the matron said, "just take it in your stride."
"There's nothing more that we could do, life's tough, now be a man;
these warring days will soon be past, just do the best you can."
And so he did, he made a life, lived well but in a haze
of ever present anguish which the years could not erase.
His final energies were spent upon the hospice bed,
his flailing arms a sign of turmoil raging in his head.
It's 60 years and more now since such families were displaced,
but still we see and hear of human tragedy and waste.
The storms of war bring clouds of blood as lightning missiles rage;
young children's lives are torn apart within their fear-filled cage.
Midst greed, revenge and cruelty, kids are abused and starved;
vain hope the road to peace and freedom ever will be carved.
AFTERNOONS AND RHUBARB PIE
"Good morning, Mrs Barry," said the driver of the bus.
"Just take a seat, pay later for there's no need to fuss."
"Oh, thank you Mr Cousins," said my mother as she sat
While greeting other occupants all ready for a chat.
"Good morning Mrs Cooling, Mrs Abbot, Mrs Fry."
"Good morning Mrs Barry," they all chorused in reply.
Though they'd all known each other for a rather lengthy time,
These women never used first names, no, that would be a crime.
For this was in the 40's not long after WWII;
Formality prevailed, to show emotions was taboo.
Each woman had her knitting and the needles clicked an air
Of business while family news and chit-chat they would share.
They talked about their ration cards, the immigration law,
And where their men were working since returning from the war.
And as the old bus rumbled on, as people came and went,
Exchange of chit-chat made the ride a sociable event.
Now Mrs Barry's stop was on the very edge of town
And it was near an hour before the driver set her down.
"Be back at half past two," said Mr Cousins with a wave,
And smiled as he accepted the threepence fare she gave.
Now this was Mrs Barry's monthly visit with her friend
From school days, and throughout the years they'd shared a trusted blend
Of plans and dreams, of marriage, motherhood and family life,
Shared topics sometimes not discussed between a man and wife.
These visits were a welcome respite from the average day
Around the house where those times women were obliged to stay.
While Mrs Barry prized the times she visited her friend,
So did her children for they knew that at their school day's end
Whenever Mum went visiting, she'd lovingly prepare
A treat, a rhubarb pie, because she felt that she must share
The happiness of her day with her kids; she loved them all -
Those eager faces rushing through the door to brightly call:
"Is there some rhubarb pie this afternoon?"
