Wednesday
Jul312013

Packing A Punch. A Poem By Louise Moriarty

They couldn't see her
She was a super hero
Heart shinning it's light
to bring her gifts to the world

Attention captured each moment
How does that fly
She wanted to know
Learn what it would take for her to grow
Into the lady at the shop
the beautiful girl who sang
The one with the surfboard

She was watching very carefully
and she saw lies leaking out
the corner of their eyes
and their mouths

It was confusing
because sometimes
their heart was right
and that would give her a fright

who to trust
who to turn to
sometimes
they were so angry

she wanted to hide

but her angels
were always there
travelled with her
showed her how to care

and as she grew she knew
they were mainly just scared
some damaged too

she peered around the facades and saw dreamers, weavers, creators
She saw designers, growers, healers and makers

She knocked carefully on the glass
to see if she could get past
But their eyes were
telling her not to
break the illusion they
had so carefully tended
if the illusion got shattered
How could it get mended

She fell to her knees and yelled out please

and then she got mad
and refused to be sad
if you can't be glad
I'll destory everything you could have had

I'll swear and Ill sulk an I'll throw the first stone
I'll scream in your face
till you have to get out of your home

Because I am sick and tired of being crazy
and feeling that reality is altered and hazy

She picked up a stick which she crashed on their head
only two of them noticed most fell into bed

Overwhelmed by their complicit guilt and shame
They took it all seriously not just part of the game

So she tried another tactic
She opened them wide
Climbed into the space
Where they were certain to hide

Sitting down with a big cup of tea
She asked them if ever
they had wanted to be
things other than where
they come to be trapped
things which with her they
could make a pact

To spread out those wings
Escape and then fly
Safely holding her hand
as they hovered in the sky

Once they got the big picture
Surveyed the terrain
their life would never ever be the same
and she'd let go of them with a little swift kick

She'd leave them alone hoping they would fly
Truth be told she didn't want
them to see her cry
Because they were now a competent
angel in her eye

Some poems
are made for telling
Some poems are made for care
Others are made just to let
others know your there
Some poems are made
for loving some poems
are made for fun
Others poems are made
to give you a swift
kick up the bum.

Find
"The Poet" Louise Moriarty
on facebook  to request your own personal poem
or busking in Byron during the writers festival

Wednesday
Jul312013

Scarlett's Love Letter To Her Ex Husband - Georgina Wellwood

This is a love letter from Scarlett to her ex husband of 7 years. The diagnosis just this week, of one of their three teenage children, Alex, as having dyslexia, has created an further opening of Scarlett's heart to see the patterns of her own misjudgments towards John when they were married. What was not resolved in healing over the marriage, this masterclass with Catherine Deveny has opened a window for some more love! Scarlett came to the Masterclass without any expectations, and in her own co-creative way, allowed the flow of writing. Scarlett is well aware that healing has many layers.

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Wednesday
Jul312013

Senior Retired Pensioner - Robbie Weasley  

I am concerned about the somewhat derogatory interpretation of a couple of words which arose during a workshop at the Byron Bay Writers’ Festival. The first was “senior”. According to my Collins Australian Gem English Dictionary, the first meaning is “superior in rank or standing”. Well! In the land where tall poppies are snipped at the stem, we wouldn’t want to be accused of that! The second meaning is “older”. I would have thought this to be a mere descriptive statement of inevitable fact and nothing to be ashamed of, or concealed.

My beautiful old Encyclopedic World Dictionary goes one step further. The “higher rank or standing” is “esp. by virtue of longer service.” This brings me to the second word which I feel is sometimes regarded with disrespect. The Gem defines “pension” as “allowance for past services; annuity paid to retired … old people etc.” “Pensioner” is a noun derived from this. Personally, I am ecstatic to have survived the rigours of the working world long enough to retire from it, and grateful to a social system which regards my attainment of a certain number of years worthy of financial support. I consider there is a degree of hidden prejudice against older people in the dislike expressed against these purely factually descriptive words.

To my surprise, the alternative suggestion, “vintage”, does not appear in the Gem at all. There are fifteen possibilities in the Encyclopedic World Dictionary, twelve of which refer to wine and one to motor vehicles. The only complementary definition, “of high quality; exceptionally fine”, is offset by “old fashioned; out of date”.

Bearing all this in mind, my preference is to be regarded as a “senior retired pensioner”.

 

 

Wednesday
Jul312013

Byron Bay Deveny Writers Masterclass Reflection-Elspeth

The traffic pushes politely into the roundabout at Byron Bay. We complain on cue, it’s July, and cold rain as fine as fairy piss is wetting the streets and making the tourist town look a bit blowsy and hung over. I watch as young girls pause in the mid stride to drag at this year’s short shorts which have wedged themselves (yet again), firmly into butt cracks, while au contraire, the guys try not to trip over the forks of their baggies. Some walk their surf boards towards the beach; others are shopping for gear and talking to their i phones, the coffee shops are already full of observers. But we’re in town on business, we old ladies in our stockings and comfortable undies. We don’t come here often, our hunting days are over and the scent of testosterone and the shops that specialise in rainbow anything have lost their allure.

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Monday
Jun102013

The Boxed Heart - Caitlin McGrath

He looked up the steps to the church, out of breath. Gus had had to leave the house, which was full of his divorced parents. His mum, Helena, had been asked by the officers to identify the body which had infuriated his father who felt left out. Sean argued that if the kids had lived with him, none of this would have happened. All unfair. And all about them. Gus had no air there at all. So he had slipped out, and ran, and ran and ran, gulping down the air. Until he ended up here, looking up the steep hill at this weird-looking church in the cold, autumn afternoon sun. He was still fuming, so angry he hardly felt the hot tears on his cheek grow cold quickly. He legged it up the stairs, two at a time, and started gritting his teeth, and walking around the base of the building. He couldn’t be still for long. Even just walking, the images replayed in his mind. His father, Sean, coming to collect him and his sister for the weekend. His mother grumpy that he hadn’t packed his stuff, and always referring to Dad as “your father”, as if blaming the kids for their father’s faults. It was early days of the separation, as his friend Joe had said.

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