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 Barack Obama. Robert races to confront the stalker and rips a rubber mask off the person to find that it’s a blonde woman.
Robert held the full-head mask of Obama in his hands. The blonde woman who had worn the mask stared at him with aggression, then turned and ran away into the night. For a moment he thought of following. He had looked into the woman’s eyes and recognised her from somewhere in his past. Someone he had known. The rubber mask felt pliant in his hands. He was amazed as to how well it was made. Then he focused onto the place where Julie was still waiting under one of the park’s lamps.
She came towards him. "What’s this?" She was pointing at the mask.
"It’s a good likeness of the American President. Why would anyone want to stalk and frighten us? Further, I recognised the woman from somewhere."
Julie said, "Throw it away!"
"No, there’ll be DNA evidence if anything happens to us." Robert tucked the Obama rubber mask under his left arm and took Julie’s hand in his. He turned and kissed her hair, then gave her a smile just because she was Julie, the best thing that had ever happened to him. "We’ll go back to the Winnebago. I don’t think the woman will bother us again. Unless she wants the mask."
"She’d have to apologise."
"Let’s run," he said. He was worried for not being able to remember where he had seen the blonde. As they came towards the beach where their Winnebago was parked, they had to cross a busy road. They waited for a lull in the traffic and then went on. "There you go," Robert said, "us running from a dumb blonde." He checked himself because that was Julie’s hair colour too. Despite the fact that he thought that he liked brunettes, he had always dated blondes.
Julie had stopped and was staring into the darkness of the park across the road. "The woman in black is still there," she said.
(To be continued next month.)
Wednesday, September 1, 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 77. September 2010
The sun shines as I write this. Judy has gone down to have breakfast to say farewell to the paper mill that is closing for good. I’m on my eat-only-one-meal-a-day diet and I never eat anything until five o’clock wherewith I’ll take the car for a drive and have something to eat down town with Judy today. She promised me a steak sandwich. I haven’t had one in years. Make no mistake, I drink plenty of fluid - at least one litre of warm boiled water with lemons from our tree. I also drink broth, the kind you make from cubes. I was lucky enough to have one of my more modern sonnets used in Launceston for its festival, where, with other poets, a wall was painted using the poems as an inspiration. The word camouflage. It was partly about the Schrödinger’s-equation cat conundrum about the quantum-atom decay where the cat inside a box with a radioactively decaying atom can trigger a poison vial. Has the atom decayed? Is the cat in the box alive or dead? No one knows. Two states can be induced at once.
I’ve decided to publish Scientific Sonnets with photographs I took on the rocky-shale beach near Wynyard. The poems will be about scientific quantum mysteries.
Wave-Particle Duality
What is light’s substance, asked the Greek, Euclid?
Corpuscles, extrapolated Newton;
Then Young shone light through a double slit
Where it split as wave from an electron gun.
In quantum, light is particle and wave,
Where an electron beam must then diffract
Itself as to detect and then to save
De Broglie’s duality-attract.
Markus Arndt saw this as constructed tricks,
Where all this light from your twin eyes is spent
To change into a split of atoms’ mix.
There, I diffract into your sweet event.
I am the interference from your eyes,
Where wave-diffraction of our love survives.
© Joe Lake
I’ve decided to publish Scientific Sonnets with photographs I took on the rocky-shale beach near Wynyard. The poems will be about scientific quantum mysteries.
Wave-Particle Duality
What is light’s substance, asked the Greek, Euclid?
Corpuscles, extrapolated Newton;
Then Young shone light through a double slit
Where it split as wave from an electron gun.
In quantum, light is particle and wave,
Where an electron beam must then diffract
Itself as to detect and then to save
De Broglie’s duality-attract.
Markus Arndt saw this as constructed tricks,
Where all this light from your twin eyes is spent
To change into a split of atoms’ mix.
There, I diffract into your sweet event.
I am the interference from your eyes,
Where wave-diffraction of our love survives.
© Joe Lake
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 77. September 2010
Salvation
Crying clouds see Earth as salvation,
Or damnation,
Tears beat dust till torrent cascades
as angry, red river,
Like blood
haemorrhages on pale skin,
Tortuous, as with vein stretched tight,
Bursts on the dry,
Echoes down the long valley,
Where eyes peer, helpless,
And the great rain deluges,
Some dance in welcome,
Some dance and die,
Not every drop is wasted then,
Saved, this barren day,
Polluted like poison
on ringlets of hair,
As smile in reflection,
Scorned out of lust to feed,
There is the joy that is so much pain.
© Michael Garrad August 2010
Tree
A tree beyond,
And beyond the tree, nothing,
Branches stare,
The living moment,
The tree that defines existence,
Beginning and end,
Birth and death,
The marker of memory,
When eyes turn
there is no tree,
Only this other tree
that is the whole of life,
This second is the tree,
Then it never has been,
Tilt of head changes
angles on eternity,
The tree is now and tomorrow,
Where we stood when
other trees had never grown.
© Michael Garrad August 2010
Crying clouds see Earth as salvation,
Or damnation,
Tears beat dust till torrent cascades
as angry, red river,
Like blood
haemorrhages on pale skin,
Tortuous, as with vein stretched tight,
Bursts on the dry,
Echoes down the long valley,
Where eyes peer, helpless,
And the great rain deluges,
Some dance in welcome,
Some dance and die,
Not every drop is wasted then,
Saved, this barren day,
Polluted like poison
on ringlets of hair,
As smile in reflection,
Scorned out of lust to feed,
There is the joy that is so much pain.
© Michael Garrad August 2010
Tree
A tree beyond,
And beyond the tree, nothing,
Branches stare,
The living moment,
The tree that defines existence,
Beginning and end,
Birth and death,
The marker of memory,
When eyes turn
there is no tree,
Only this other tree
that is the whole of life,
This second is the tree,
Then it never has been,
Tilt of head changes
angles on eternity,
The tree is now and tomorrow,
Where we stood when
other trees had never grown.
© Michael Garrad August 2010
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 77. September 2010
We need animals.
But what do we do? We kill them for money or we commit acts of extreme cruelty because we can - we are human and powerful. It is fun and it gives us a warped delight.
Animals suffer to our pleasure. As in sport.
Cruelty is the most despicable act but laws are soft and perpetrators get away with a smile. It happens every dark day.
Commercial practices are highly questionable, all to the benefit of the person who needs to turn a gold coin. Domestic acts are unbelievable, behind closed doors, in a quiet suburban street. When the novelty wears thin, the starvation begins, the kicking begins.
It is the way we are - a kind of Third Reich. Trample the meek for they cannot fight back.
It makes us feel good. It reaffirms our supremacy as a human race.
We have the power in our hands and the awful machines that inflict agony.
We could change quite easily but that will never happen all the while our friends rely on us absolutely for their very lives!
But what do we do? We kill them for money or we commit acts of extreme cruelty because we can - we are human and powerful. It is fun and it gives us a warped delight.
Animals suffer to our pleasure. As in sport.
Cruelty is the most despicable act but laws are soft and perpetrators get away with a smile. It happens every dark day.
Commercial practices are highly questionable, all to the benefit of the person who needs to turn a gold coin. Domestic acts are unbelievable, behind closed doors, in a quiet suburban street. When the novelty wears thin, the starvation begins, the kicking begins.
It is the way we are - a kind of Third Reich. Trample the meek for they cannot fight back.
It makes us feel good. It reaffirms our supremacy as a human race.
We have the power in our hands and the awful machines that inflict agony.
We could change quite easily but that will never happen all the while our friends rely on us absolutely for their very lives!
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 77. September 2010
Road Kill
There’s so much wildlife, all the tourists say,
making their way to sanctuaries and parks,
where they may, if they’re lucky, catch a glimpse
of strange marsupials, wombats, potoree,
bandicoots, or sugar gliders, quolls,
or red-necked wallabies and kangaroo.
They’ll see echidna and will marvel at the bill
of the electric-sensing platypus,
or brush-tailed possums clinging to the trees,
or wombats blundering through the remnant bush.
The antics of the devils all delight,
they snarl and growl and tumble in their play,
the tourists think they’ve found a paradise on Earth,
and with reluctance, they all drive away.
But on the roads, there’s quite a different sight,
the smashed and bloodied bodies of the slain,
the dead and dying creatures, struck by cars
or trucks with trailers packed with logs too high.
Don’t swerve for wildlife, traffic pundits say,
or you, yourself, may be the next to die.
The politicians, ever seeking praise,
make policies for wider, faster roads,
to save the motorist a little time
in travelling, or for shopping on the way.
And so the carnage by the cars goes on,
the wildlife hassled, frightened, maimed, or dead,
their ancient crossing places all ignored
unsafe at morning, evening, night or day.
The wedge-tailed eagle, primal scavenger,
slow to take off, as over-loaded plane,
lumbers to flight, thus easily mown down;
the falcons, hawks and ravens, all postpone
to the last moment their attempt to flee,
and so they lose their chance to get away.
And in the night, the owls, caught in the lights
of cars or trucks, their great white faces glimpsed
as ghosts, the barn owl, boobook and the masked,
out on a search for moths, which, like themselves
are splattered on the glass.
Then there’s the devil, found throughout the night,
seeking to scavenge rather than to slay;
unlike the possums and the kangaroos,
which dazzled, face the lights and stay,
the devil turns his back and, if lucky,
lopes away.
But sometimes, in the pouches of the dead
are long-legg’d youngsters, weaned, or clinging fast
to nipples midst the fur, and still alive,
breathing and warm, but never with a chance,
as secondary road kill, they’ll not survive.
The tourists take away their souvenirs,
their photographs of many lovely places,
but on their cars remain the sorry traces
perhaps within an unseen tyre tread,
there’s fur or flesh or feathers, blood or bone,
mementos of the wildlife maimed or dead.
© Mary Kille
There’s so much wildlife, all the tourists say,
making their way to sanctuaries and parks,
where they may, if they’re lucky, catch a glimpse
of strange marsupials, wombats, potoree,
bandicoots, or sugar gliders, quolls,
or red-necked wallabies and kangaroo.
They’ll see echidna and will marvel at the bill
of the electric-sensing platypus,
or brush-tailed possums clinging to the trees,
or wombats blundering through the remnant bush.
The antics of the devils all delight,
they snarl and growl and tumble in their play,
the tourists think they’ve found a paradise on Earth,
and with reluctance, they all drive away.
But on the roads, there’s quite a different sight,
the smashed and bloodied bodies of the slain,
the dead and dying creatures, struck by cars
or trucks with trailers packed with logs too high.
Don’t swerve for wildlife, traffic pundits say,
or you, yourself, may be the next to die.
The politicians, ever seeking praise,
make policies for wider, faster roads,
to save the motorist a little time
in travelling, or for shopping on the way.
And so the carnage by the cars goes on,
the wildlife hassled, frightened, maimed, or dead,
their ancient crossing places all ignored
unsafe at morning, evening, night or day.
The wedge-tailed eagle, primal scavenger,
slow to take off, as over-loaded plane,
lumbers to flight, thus easily mown down;
the falcons, hawks and ravens, all postpone
to the last moment their attempt to flee,
and so they lose their chance to get away.
And in the night, the owls, caught in the lights
of cars or trucks, their great white faces glimpsed
as ghosts, the barn owl, boobook and the masked,
out on a search for moths, which, like themselves
are splattered on the glass.
Then there’s the devil, found throughout the night,
seeking to scavenge rather than to slay;
unlike the possums and the kangaroos,
which dazzled, face the lights and stay,
the devil turns his back and, if lucky,
lopes away.
But sometimes, in the pouches of the dead
are long-legg’d youngsters, weaned, or clinging fast
to nipples midst the fur, and still alive,
breathing and warm, but never with a chance,
as secondary road kill, they’ll not survive.
The tourists take away their souvenirs,
their photographs of many lovely places,
but on their cars remain the sorry traces
perhaps within an unseen tyre tread,
there’s fur or flesh or feathers, blood or bone,
mementos of the wildlife maimed or dead.
© Mary Kille
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 77. September 2010
Child Of Fortune
A sunken, emaciated,
Weather-beaten-faced child,
With festering eyes where flies linger,
Sits looking at a decrepit TV on the ground
Of the orange-coloured bare earth,
Under the blue sky near a gum tree.
On the TV’s misty screen is seen a movie star,
A modern-day lady philantropist, pleading for money from our egalitarian country citizens.
Near her, in the picture on the TV,
Is the image of an emaciated child.
The child, sitting on the orange-coloured bare earth, reaches out to touch the screen
Believing it to be his own reflection
Or his long-lost brother.
© Judy Brumby-Lake
A sunken, emaciated,
Weather-beaten-faced child,
With festering eyes where flies linger,
Sits looking at a decrepit TV on the ground
Of the orange-coloured bare earth,
Under the blue sky near a gum tree.
On the TV’s misty screen is seen a movie star,
A modern-day lady philantropist, pleading for money from our egalitarian country citizens.
Near her, in the picture on the TV,
Is the image of an emaciated child.
The child, sitting on the orange-coloured bare earth, reaches out to touch the screen
Believing it to be his own reflection
Or his long-lost brother.
© Judy Brumby-Lake
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 77. September 2010
Message In A Bottle
Tumbling in the waves as it bobbed beyond reach
its message meant for those it may concern.
Would it ever be recovered from this wild and
empty sea,
or others learn of life’s addiction spurned?
What random voyage now to travel, what stormy
tempest met,
or survive the beaching onto rock or sand?
Perhaps no mortal soul would stumble onto
this jetsam
and that note be doomed to touch no other hand?
But it mattered not, if no one read again the note,
for none would care about it anymore.
His oft repeated pledge to never drink again,
now kept, as he and bottle drifted from the shore.
© Pete Stratford. 1.7.10
Tumbling in the waves as it bobbed beyond reach
its message meant for those it may concern.
Would it ever be recovered from this wild and
empty sea,
or others learn of life’s addiction spurned?
What random voyage now to travel, what stormy
tempest met,
or survive the beaching onto rock or sand?
Perhaps no mortal soul would stumble onto
this jetsam
and that note be doomed to touch no other hand?
But it mattered not, if no one read again the note,
for none would care about it anymore.
His oft repeated pledge to never drink again,
now kept, as he and bottle drifted from the shore.
© Pete Stratford. 1.7.10
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 77. September 2010
The Keepers Of The Books
To the ladies
That work in the library,
For they are keepers
Of great wealth and knowledge;
They care for fairies,
Monsters,
Gnomes;
They care for all kinds of animals
That sit on the shelves;
They care
For art of old
To the modern art,
Art of today;
They care
For books of old
To books new,
To law,
Truth
And fiction,
But most of all
They are
About
You
And me
For they are the keepers
Of the books.
© Richard Griffiths
To the ladies
That work in the library,
For they are keepers
Of great wealth and knowledge;
They care for fairies,
Monsters,
Gnomes;
They care for all kinds of animals
That sit on the shelves;
They care
For art of old
To the modern art,
Art of today;
They care
For books of old
To books new,
To law,
Truth
And fiction,
But most of all
They are
About
You
And me
For they are the keepers
Of the books.
© Richard Griffiths
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 77. September 2010
Squash
If I was born in Hong Kong
It would be dreadfully unlucky
For I was born on the 4th;
Such an unfortunate number
For the Chinese
For four means death.
I always thought four was a lucky number.
Squash superstition, I say:
Walk under those ladders;
Embrace the number 13;
My mother was born on the 13th;
Throw the subconscious fears away
Once and for all - be liberated.
Hallelujah!
© Dianne Woods
If I was born in Hong Kong
It would be dreadfully unlucky
For I was born on the 4th;
Such an unfortunate number
For the Chinese
For four means death.
I always thought four was a lucky number.
Squash superstition, I say:
Walk under those ladders;
Embrace the number 13;
My mother was born on the 13th;
Throw the subconscious fears away
Once and for all - be liberated.
Hallelujah!
© Dianne Woods
Europa Poets' Gazette No. 77. September 2010
The Ways Of The Wind
Are those palm trees I see on a distant shore,
Bowing to pay homage to the wind -
Or are they bent over in fear?
Too much wind and our equilibrium is disturbed,
Too little wind and we stay static,
As if captured in a stifling time warp -
Not a blade of grass moves, clouds cease to roll -
And if I were becalmed, I could grow old and crusty,
Praying for a cool breeze to slap my face
And push me into new, uncharted waters.
Too much wind, as now, and my mast cracks,
My sail (my life force) rips and I lurch
Like some old drunken sailor out of control.
I struggle to keep my dignity and remain upright,
I hang onto the rails and pray for the wind to die,
Before I’m thrown head-first into a deep, black world -
Cursing the wind - and God!
When I set out to sail this ocean blue,
I didn’t imagine that any hour, any minute, any second -
Could be my last.
© June Maureen Hitchcock September 2007
Are those palm trees I see on a distant shore,
Bowing to pay homage to the wind -
Or are they bent over in fear?
Too much wind and our equilibrium is disturbed,
Too little wind and we stay static,
As if captured in a stifling time warp -
Not a blade of grass moves, clouds cease to roll -
And if I were becalmed, I could grow old and crusty,
Praying for a cool breeze to slap my face
And push me into new, uncharted waters.
Too much wind, as now, and my mast cracks,
My sail (my life force) rips and I lurch
Like some old drunken sailor out of control.
I struggle to keep my dignity and remain upright,
I hang onto the rails and pray for the wind to die,
Before I’m thrown head-first into a deep, black world -
Cursing the wind - and God!
When I set out to sail this ocean blue,
I didn’t imagine that any hour, any minute, any second -
Could be my last.
© June Maureen Hitchcock September 2007
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