Speaking for those Who are gone

I speak for those who have gone from my life.
What would they have said? I cannot know.
But knowing them well is the key that tells me what they may have said.

What would they think of life today?
I speak for them when I say the best times are gone.
The days they cherished, they are gone.
The courtesies of those days and many other things, they are gone.

They may wonder why it is so – that so many things have changed.
So I speak for them when I say,
I wish they would return, those days they cherished.
But they are gone. Maybe never to return.

I speak for them at times, when I think something should be said.
And say something that they would have said.

I can only assume what they would have said,
and that is what I bring into my conversations.
But it is only with love that I speak their words,
and that is why I do – when I speak for those who are gone.
Vivien Owens

Listen to Questions

He asked me.
I secretly asked myself.
He asked me why I was so needy.
He who had never, ever strayed far from his own suburb.
Let alone travelled 15,000 kilometres.
Trying to settle a new home.
Knowing no one.
Having no History
Having no History.
I did not deny that there was some truth in what he observed.
It made me angry
I asked him what he thought might be the reason.
A moment’s thought would have provided an answer.
The insecurity of the migrant.
The loss of Relationships and Neighbourhood – and History.
New History takes a long time to become History.
The old History is an unknown land that no one cares to study.
Is that really the desire of the migrant?
A moment’s thought would have provided an answer.
Rendering his question superfluous.
Beyond that?
Why did I put myself in this situation?
To make my life harder?
Because if I had thought harder about it back then
it would have given me an insight into what would become a lifelong habit.
To keep on moving.
Leaving all things behind.
Leaving ALL things behind.
Looking to some half-dreamed future.
A History to make.
That would have been my answer to his question.
Tony Wright

My Dear Friend

She comes knocking at night and
I welcome her in.
She is my dear friend,
We have a lifetime to share.
She is a huge part of my life,
creating much joy, wonder and renewal.
She is life sustaining for me,
a dear old friend I cannot live without.
My life long companion.
Sleep.
Mim Forrest.

Glass

We have all been lowered into an atmosphere of glass.
We are all looking at each other, willing someone to speak,
but no- one does. It is as though our thoughts are frozen in our heads,
with no way out.
Maybe we should concentrate harder, maybe one thought,
one remark will lead to another.
Maybe we are all too aware that
we have been lowered into an atmosphere of glass.
Maybe we are too afraid of the glass shattering, so to speak.
Maybe.
Heather Love

One Stormy Night

I am woken from my slumber – startled I listen. I reach for the lamp switch. Nothing –
The old slatted timber shutters – paint flaking – bang as they swing on rusted hinges. The gentle breeze becomes a strong wind sending curtains billowing (twisting and twirling.) Lightening streaks and flashes in a zigzag pattern illuminating a darken sky. A loud thundering rumble crashes above me – ever so close. Deafening. I slip out of bed and gingerly creep to the window.

Holding the curtains firmly – I summon courage and peek ou. The smell of rain is in the air and then it comes pelting down on the rusted galvanised tin roof. Gutters clogged by leaves –overflow. Water splashes onto the window sill. My face and hair – become drenched as I poke my head out quickly to take a look. Refreshing in this summer heat. I think of the song “raindrops keep falling on my head”. Were the raindrops in the song this heavy?

I take a step back and continue to peer out. Torrents of water begin to make rivets in the hardened red soil. Muddy puddles form. I reach out and struggle to shut the window. Window firmly shut – I find a towel in the dark – dry off, and sneak back to bed pulling the covers tightly around me – I lie there wide awake now – safely cocooned – listening / waiting – waiting for this storm to pass. The rain and wind continues to lash the house. Branches creak and leaves scatter.
Geraldine Paine

Appreciation

Walking along Spencer Street, Melbourne I saw a group of children who appeared to be on an excursion. As I walked past them, a young boy asked if I was from Melbourne. After replying yes, he kept pace with me telling me he was from Darwin and it was his first time visiting Melbourne. I asked if he was enjoying his trip to which he replied that he was very excited to be here before running off to catch up with his group.

As I started to cross the bridge over the Yarra River I stopped and looked around me. The sun was shining giving the river a golden colour, not the dull brown we often see. A flock of seagulls swam casually along as a few boats passed them. I watched people as they sat on the banks of the river chatting, with what seemed like not a care in the world. I looked up at the buildings gleaming in the sunshine.

Continuing my walk, I passed the young boy who was waiting to go on the Ferris Wheel and view the city from up high. He saw me and with a cheeky grin, gave me a wave. Smiling and waving back, I realised his exuberance, and the scenery around me, instilled in me an appreciation of our city – something I felt I’d recently lost.
Cheryl Neenan

Desert Thoughts

I wish they would stop. All the thoughts. Swirling words in my mind.

I understand it when there is so much to do.

Though it doesn’t help. But here I am

In the open Red desert. Silence.

All around me. Nothing to do.

But being in the presence . In the silence.

The noise in my head seems louder

But then, for a brief nanosecond

thought is banished.

The deep silence grows loud, grows louder

Deafening

Like the heaviest downpour of rain

My brain is humming. I can hear it.

Amazing. My body is an electrical machine.

Oops. There it goes again.

Could I have done better?

Where did it all go wrong?

Did I check the wheel nuts this morning?

This dance between silence and noise

Is this what it is to be human?

Tony Wright