The twins by Wendy Williams

My second cousin, Billy Bob,
Twice removed on my Daddies side,
Took his uncles’ sisters’ niece Daisy May,
To be his blushing bride.
He had to, Daisys’ daddy Bubba,
Was right behind him with a big gun,
When you mess around with hill folks,
You have to pay for your fun.
Daisy was nearly over the hill,
She was almost 12 years old,
But Billy Bob was as sharp as a marble,
So he just did as he was told.
In a couple of months she was ready to hatch,
So they sent for old Doc Henry Swan,
He poked and prodded and pulled and pushed,
And said you got two for the price of one.
They were like two little peas in a pod,
No-one knew which one of them was who
Until the day of their christening,
When the whole clan were invited to the do.
We all seem to be related to each other,
Our gene pool don’t spread very far,
In fact my mamas’ my auntie, and cousin,
And my sister is niece to our Pa.
Daisy May waylaid the Doc,
Said they couldn’t tell which twin was which,
He said Billy Jo’s the boy, Bobby Jo’s the girl,
You hillbilly dumb assed bitch.
　
　
　
　
　
　

　

The Demise of the Yoga Class by Terry McLafferty

Jim used to like his yoga…all that twisting up and down

Three times a week he used to go…in a hall just north of town

He was pretty fit then…jumping out of his skin

And all the little fillies…well…they’d often invite him in

He gobbled down his muesli, had fresh fruit every day

He stayed away from caffeine… and beer…well…no way

He kept a secret diary…logging all his attributes

With notes of all his measurements…from his head down to his boots

Now this went on for many years…until a class a while ago

When stretching out upon the floor…Jim felt his bladder go

He could feel it coming…but he couldn’t do a thing

Well, not in that position…with his legs wrapped round his ring

A little show was followed…by a great enormous gush

There wasn’t much that Jim could do…but just sit there…and blush

The gush became a torrent…it flowed across the floor

And before too long the whole damn class…was washed out through the door

But the tide of piss kept flowing on…it became a raging flood

It knocked down four old shearing sheds…that belonged to Farmer Rudd

It carried all before it…now the whole village was in strife

The Council crier yelling…“Run for your bloody life”

Helicopters flew above…with a host of TV crews

Jimmy’s little piddle was about…to make the National news

The drought has broke one farmer called…but I cannot see a cloud

Just a lot a people swimmin’…jeez there’s sure a bloody crowd

Then it seems that poor old Jim…was now busting for a fart

He tried real hard to stop himself…but then his cheeks began to part

But his gut was in no mood for stop…that gas had to escape

And so it did…and when it did… was like a cyclone from the cape

Now the flood that had engulfed the town…was joined by a wind so strong

That it blew down all before it…it even carried sheep along

The air was full of pigs and ducks…and an old lady in a chair

It gusted high…it gusted low…it gusted everywhere

Now it took a while for that urine flow…to eventually recede

People started asking questions…to find out who had peed

And who had dropped that darkie…the fart that came from hell

And smashed their town to smithereens…it seems that nought would tell

Jim had crept home and stayed alone…to avoid the nasty jeers

Of that terrible experience…so unpleasant it brought tears

But then…all of a sudden…the deadly gas built up again

And Jim had to let another one go …this one a damn force ten

It took him out the window…he was headed for the moon

He flew around the district…like a jet-propelled balloon

He ducked and dived and when he’d run…out of that odorous gas

Landed in the vestry…of the church…during morning Mass

That event is still remembered by the town…I’ll tell you why

Because on the day the district flooded…without a cloud in that sunny sky

When the wind blew fierce and people ran... now it’s come to pass

It really was just piss and wind…that ended the yoga class.

The Robyn Kellner collection

Glass I am

Robyn Kellner 2010 ©

  

At last, a place to rest. My journey has seen many lifetimes pass, it has been long and arduous. The years have taken their toll, but oh what wonders I have seen. The hidden treasurers of nature. The song of the whales. The acrobatics of the dolphins, the colours of the sea as it changes with the blue of the sky and the black thunderous clouds that role across the heavens and deliver the wind and rain. The sea, as it churns and throws sprays of white topped swells in response. Hidden below are the scars and terrors of man’s  toys and tools.

My broken and ill shaped remains shimmer and glisten in the shallow crystal water. Alas, in my tattered and shattered condition my days dwindle, only chance and the elements can enable me to cling a little longer.

How fortunate I am to having been able to listen to the ancients with their stories of their witness to history.

The great pyramids of the Egyptians and the dainty glass beads to adorn their costumes.

Romans citizens watch through cast glass windows, Christians singing praise to their God as the soldiers march them to their martyrdom.

Venetians who developed the clear colourless Cristallo glass, the lead crystal from England and of course the French who invented the technique for casting and rolling to make plate glass for mirrors.

Then there are atrocities, when during the second word war in Nazi controlled areas, Jewish shops and department stores had their windows smashed and contents destroyed, this is recalled as ‘The Night of Broken Glass’, let us hope that such memories  remain as a reminder and warning of potential evil deeds.

When I was made, I was without name. Used for such a short time and then discarded. I can remember the young man dressed is his battle fatigues grabbing me and swilling my contents so fast that some of the brown sweet liquid spilled across his tanned face. I can remember him saying how good it was. Then my contribution to the battle was over and just like thousands of bottles with no brand was left on the shores of the South Pacific island when the soldiers returned home and the war ended.

How far I have come to rest on this gentle shore with its silky white sand. I am sure I will come to life again one day, I can only imagine.

Cleansing the Soul

Robyn Kellner 2005   ©

         

Below the clouds of times life tree

          We subsist in landscapes barely seen

          Deep gorges steeped with hidden caves

          Majestic mountains so whitely paved

                  

          Aghast he stands on the brink

          A mind so turbulent, lacks time to think

          Of all the wonders life invokes

          There is no boundary range or scope

          So much pain and hidden tears

          Buried deep within the untold years

          Release the shackles, raise the curtain

          Time has come to acquit the burden

         

          Look far beyond the rising sun

          For a new day has begun

Light for life from night time terrors

          To cleanse the soul of manly errors

          Hallowed faith that never fades

          The innocent love of a new born babe

          A land in which to grow and prosper

          An everlasting love to cherish and foster

          Remember the Spirit within our being

Strength and fortitude bring forth meaning

          Wisdom that comes with the age of reason

          As love endures for all seasons

         

                                               

Shades of White

 Robyn Kellner     2010 ©

White a reflection of visible light

Feng Shui of purity and innocence

Spectrum to the eyes

Snow against sky of blue

Clouds that hang like powder puffs

Robe of bride immaculate hue

Christened Child

Innocent of world unspoiled

Rose of white

Glorifies the Love

Without the flesh

Yet a simple daisy

Shows a wealth of loyalty

Pure in Death

Oh Lilies white

Release the soul

In feathered flight

The Symbol pure

Alas in days long gone

Feathers white a shame for some

Conflict with the shed of blood

A flag of surrender

Is the colour white.



ARACHNECIDE JUSTIFIED

Spider why

Stray into my shower-box

Dark, in the pre dawn ?

- Shaded with my unillumined fears

Of things beneath the bed,

Around the corner of my grown maturity.

Naked in a chilly morning,

Shivering wet-fleshed in my shower-spray, up I looked

And froze:

Trapped in the splashing water heat,

The blanketing clouds of steam,

Large - on my ceiling, overhead

You quivered;

Disdaining gravity’s demand in confident contention

With your eight legs spread secure.

Reassured you’d soon retreat

To refuge in your dry dark hiding place,

My calmness too returned

With watered warmth, yet watching still.

But as you sensed the moisture-weighting risk

In protest did you raise one anchoring foot

And then another, till you FELL !

Web-slowed, leg-spread in your descent toward my feet !

- my panic flinging me outside

- to stand soap-dripping in my angry fear

- to see you scramble round

Shower-drop confused and frightened on my shower-box floor.

What choice had I, but desperate defence by aerosol ?

(- as thoughtless of the ozone layer’s loss as you had been)

Smothering your legs,your head, your jaws

In poisoned suffocating fear until you stumbled,

Now malfunctioned in your heaving arcs,

Turned in tighter silent-gasping circles,

Wound down and locked into your leg-clenched toxic death.

Why ?

We could have co-existed in my house;

Warily esteeming all your craft and skilled co-ordination

As I do :

But your folly was to so

Intrude into the shadow of my childhood fears,

Your trespass danger to my clothed and certain years.

-----------------------------------------------------------------

G D Bolton                 1978

GOLDEN YEARS by Wendy Williams

I think my get up and go

Has finally got up and left,

So have my hair and teeth

And I’m feeling a little bereft.

Now my memory is not so good,

When I’m here, should I be there,

Am I coming or going, now what did I want?

I’ll think of it later, I swear.

I take a pill to make me sleep

And another to keep me awake,

Pills for my heart and kidneys’

And pills so my bones won’t break.

I hobble cross-legged to the toilet,

So my bladder won’t start to leak,

I think I’ve shrunk six inches,

And if I walk ten steps I feel weak.

But I still feel great for the shape I’m in,

I’m not one to whinge and fret,

There’s still some life left in this old girl,

So don’t write me off just yet.

17/5/ 2011.

Stories from 4 May 2011

  FIVE HANDS by Jo Ball

 

 

On the street a skeletal dog upturned a bucket in its effort to find a morsel.  The dog ran off yelping with its tail between its legs, as dog do if they are guilty or innocent of wrongdoing.  An orange flushed from the bucket was rolling toward the gutter.

 

A girl in a green dress put her foot out quickly.  She bent and grasped the fruit.  Curiosity caused her to catch this wonderful thing:  the brightness of it when it caught the sun waylaid fear.  Someone watched from behind the edge of the stone building. His hat jutted out, a torn brim, a grimy twisted section of band - the hat was the watcher's only joy.  There were few men's hats left in Warsaw.  He could feel the saliva beginning to slip from the cracks in the conrners of his mouth and he put up his hand to wipe it.  As he did, the girl raised her head and looked directly at him.  Fear flew into her eyes.  She had forgotten to keep her head up, to be alert to trouble on the street, but then she was young - she had never seen an orange until now - and she dropped ita as she ran without a sound, to disappear into a laneway.

 

Behind her, the man had immediately sprung upon the orange, too hungry at last to forget who might be watching.  A shot rang out.  The man in the hat jerked backward with the orange clutched in both hands hard to his chest, and then he tumbled sprawling to the footpath, silently.  His fingers opened.  The orange rolled to the edge of the gutter.

 

A soldier in a dirty uniform limped to the gutter.  He cradled his rifle in the crook of his arm as he bent to pick up the orange.  He smiled, he smelled it, his dark eyes closing in ecstasy, head inclined back as if that enabled the sweet citrus perfume to travel more easily to his brain.

 

He was not aware that someone was watching.  Someone who had seen him shoot the man in the hat.  His eyes were on the fruit, nothing else existed.

 

The soldier put the rifle on the ground and remained squatting as he attempted to peel the orange.  But his nails were broken and sore, the flesh reddened and infected.  He picked up his rifle, balancing it on his knees as he knelt.  He would use the tip of the bayonet to cut his piece of fruit.

 

Hunger had, at last, made him forget to see who was watching.  His eyes were on the fruit, nothing else existed.

 

Just then a great stone whistled through the air from the same side of the street where he had hidden.  The whip of the missile's firing pouch made a cracking echo in the alley where the soldier had waited.  He would spy no more, he would cut no more.  The stone opened the back of his head and he fell forward.  He did not move.  It was a clean kill.  The orange slid from his body to the road. 

 

It did not roll.  Someone was approaching stealthily.  Someone who bent, picked up the fruit, wiped it lovingly with a rag scrap, put it in the pocket of her green dress, and returned to the spot where she had been only six minutes ago when she dared to pick up an orange.

 

She knew now what it was.  Her grandmother was waiting for her at home so that they could have a rare feast.

Inanimate objects and other stories from 20 April 2011 meeting

                               Sparkling eyes - Helene Gaul April 2011 ©

I am tall, slim, pale and elegant with neat grey waves on top. My profile is trim and also curvaceous. My eyes are outlined in royal blue, highlighting my sparkling clear panes.

Each morning I sigh in pleasure when my eyes open to enjoy the view.  I love my cottage garden full of purple lavenders, white camellias, pink diosma and yellow roses. I enjoy seeing people strolling in the sunshine. At night I gaze in awe at the black velvet sky studded with diamonds.

I am aware of the sweetness of my garden, the perfume of roses and lavender and the fragrance of eucalyptus from the trees. The smell of tea and toast starts the morning, followed by a cake cooking and roast lamb with rosemary for dinner at night. Those delicious aromas seep into me.

Sometimes I crave company and feel happy when visitors arrive with laughter and good cheer. When I feel the vibrations of children running and people dancing, it is like a therapeutic massage for me. The friendly sensation of possum feet scampering sends a shiver of pleasure up my spine.

I feel happy to hear the sound of birds chirping and whistling in the nearby trees. The sound of washing flapping reminds me of the ocean waves. The sound of good conversation with the chink of crystal is like music to my ears. 

On a hot summer afternoon I enjoy an ocean breeze to cool me. I don’t like the cold wind of winter whistling around me. A layer of insulation and a cosy fire keep me warm. The feel of rain cleanses me.

When the wind coats me with dust and spider webs irritate my sensitive parts, a good scrubbing with bristly brush and warm soapy water invigorates me.

At the end of each day my eyes close and I rest for the night.

                    Keep to the left unless overtaking 

                                  Mandy Byrne

I stand alone everyone sees me but rarely am I acknowledged. It is an interesting life and one that I quite enjoy. I am often a hero yet never get recognized for it.

My large yellow face gives meaning to life and it is often said without me a catastrophe might have occurred. A man once hung flowers around me, he was crying. That could have been because his son didn't heed me and was killed just on the corner.

Some days when the sun beats down I feel I could doze off and I think others do the same only you can't do that when you are driving, it makes for very noisy consequences. My face gets dirty and it is always welcome to feel the rain cleaning me and freshening up the area.

At my base a dog, he lives near by, likes to give me a golden shower so it is just as well the rain cleans it away. During the drought it stunk and more animals came and seemed to think I was a public urinal.

Old age has weakened my pole with the help of urine, and I now lean rather drunkenly to one side. The council man came and wrote something down. Another man came and measures me. Yet another came and put orange beacons along the road and another sign saying road works, of course nothing happened for ages.

           

Then one sunny morning along came a truck with three workman. One held me and another got a very noisy machine and loosened my concrete base. The third man seemed to be the supervisor and told them when to stop and they drank several cups of tea over a period of several hours. A concrete truck came the next day and I was taken completely out and thrown on the back of a truck. Me, thrown away with no regard to all my years of dedication.

           

I looked back and saw the new sign. Bright yellow with Keep to the left unless overtaking.  I was just so much junk now.

Hold it I was not thrown on the scrap heap. Some intelligent person put a preservation order on me and now I stand tall and fresh in the museum of ancient road signs. There is always an idiot for everything I guess.



Dark Circles                                       by P.I. Relli   (aka Terry McLafferty)

When I was young I was pretty groovy and travelled in the best circles.

Some thought I was full of hot air, yet, though I was consistently under pressure I seemed to get round okay, in fact, most of the time I was pretty pumped.

Life was often in the fast lane although too much left me a little deflated, and sometimes actually feeling quite flat.

Some said my ego was over-inflated yet the odd flat spot still occurred. Mostly life was a spin out which is probably why today I fell wheely tired.

I saw my cousins Bob and Jane the other day. They’re quite racy you know, a pretty slick pair but (and you didn’t hear it from me) they’re pretty wide and definitely not groovy. Too many donuts if you ask me but as skids we rolled around a fair bit together. They’re not publicity hunters that’s for sure, keep a low profile actually.

It’s sometimes quite hard being black and, of course, always having to be up.

Oh well, it’s been a good year really, even though someone nailed me at the tip recently.

I guess I’ll soon be off, what goes round comes round. It’s sad but it now looks like I’ll end my life at the end of a rope.