Click here to read Thuy's Review

Here's a review of Verandah 24 which featured my short story. It's a sort of backhanded compliment in a way but I'll take what I can get! :)

Three Poems Accepted

My latest news is that I've had three poems accepted for inclusion in a Regional Poets' Anthology Chapbook. Two of them have featured here; 'Little Pig' and 'After Wandong', the third is below.

Cheers,

Deb

Money for jam…

Like money for jam –

a stupid saying really

because I’ve made jam

and it’s not that easy

First there’s all that

chopping of fruit

into tedious pieces

then accurate weighing

and measuring

(never my forte)

matching fruit with sugar

and doesn’t that look like an awful lot

of sugar?

surely a bit less would be healthier

Then stirring-waiting stirring-waiting

for the right consistency

– the one that matches the vague

description in the recipe –

which can be difficult

if you don’t have a natural tendency for patience

and you think it looks right

(good enough anyway)

but when it cools in the jars

 – the ones you nearly scolded

the flesh off your hands trying to sterilise –

what you’re left with is fruity slop

which calls for some creative marketing

You transfer the sludge

into bottles

relabel it “Real Fruit Topping –

great on ice cream,

made with real fruit”

and give it to friends for Christmas,

they smile and say, “Thank you”

but they know it’s really

your failed attempt

at money for jam

Backyard Cricket

A glorious hook shot
Over his left shoulder,
A nod to his batting partner
They take off like sprinters from starting blocks
Runs on the scoreboard
Knowing nobody is fielding
On Risnich's front lawn.

I stand at the crease
Frozen
Watching the shiny new cricket ball
Leave my hand
Bounce once
And the hit.
The arc of the ball's flight
As it takes to the air
Over the letter box, front garden, lawn.
I could see before it happened
The disaster
Of broken glass. 

moongirl

there’s a girl in the moon
she lives there, she likes it
it’s quiet and she can see
for miles and miles
all the way to the stars and back

and the Earth looks like a ball
that she’d like to play with
if only she could reach
but she can’t so she contents herself
with wielding power over tides
and menstrual cycles

the girl in the moon
isn’t lonely or sad
and she likes her own company
and she wants you to leave her be
she likes it if you gaze
at her pretty complexion
but she doesn’t care if you don’t

and the Earth looks like
it could just fall out of space
and she’d not be bothered
by telescopes or lunar modules
by pimple-faced boys staring up
up, up, up at her in a cloak of black

she isn’t embarrassed
when they tell her their secrets
or whisper an Earth girl’s name
with such longing that would
break any promise

there’s a girl in the moon
she lives there, she likes it

In the hospital

In the hospital you said,

“We used to have fun,

you and I,

when you were little.”

you held my hand tightly

and I couldn’t feel

my fingers

You said,

“You were a terror

knocking down

the houses

I’d built of cards.”

I leant forward

in the uncomfortable chair

left for uncomfortable visitors

smiled

and laughed too loudly

agreed

I talked about the kite

we made

together

that wouldn’t fly properly

until it’s frame broke

in a spectacular crash landing

you did a hasty repair

and finally

it flew

You held my hand and said,

“Anyway, ninety-one’s pretty good,”

and I laughed as if you were joking

kissed your cheek

and left

as if nothing was wrong

Somewhere a house

of cards

fell down

**************************************

Background:

Recently my Pa wasn't very well and the conversation we had before his operation to remove a bowel obstruction frightened me so I needed to write about it. The ending is about my fear, not Pa's demise & in fact, he's doing very well.

Act 3, Scene I

At high tide the curtain falls
rocks disappear
the coast is smoothed out, ready
Beneath the water, behind the scenes
a second sky
the sea lettuce
sways and fish dart in preparation
anemones are all tentacles
reaching, groping
keeping time to the
beat beat backbeat beat backbeat
of the waves – a rehearsal of repetition

Rock pools reappear
as the tide rolls back
a blue theatrical curtain
reveals the next act
the sea lettuce lays limp
flaccid on the rocks, slick underfoot
– victim of a tragedy at the end
of the previous scene
jelly domes stand in
understudy of anemones
children squeal
amongst the weed-slippery pools
– an animated audience –
to find the coral red seastar
sucker-foot walking
amid the shells,
centre stage is now hers.

splashing

Hi Everyone,

Here is a poem I'm thinking of submitting to a new Literary Journal called Esprit de Corps.
Cheers,
Deb


Splashing

ocean calling backward and forward
indecision; the curse of not knowing
sand sticks to wet feet
splashed in shallows and shells

indecision, accursed not-knowing
dash of vodka and tonic
splashing shallows and shells
seastars cling under cocktail umbrellas

splash of vodka and tonic
slice of lemon for garnish
seastars take cover under cocktail umbrellas
neck to knee in hysterical giggles

slice of lemon for garnish
- a fishy nightmare soon forgotten
neck to knee splashing in giggles
wash of the tide drags you away

murky nightmare soon forgotten
of ocean calling backward and forward
as the wash of the tide drifts me away
and sand clings to wet feet