xxx Just Updated August 2008 xxx
Something To Write About!
 One of the many discoveries I made during the time I worked on the printed magazine version of Rick Rutherford's Country was the enormous talent of readers who delighted to write in and express their views … in verse! And so I offered the opportunity for all to send in their original poetry and prose, with a view to publishing it for the enjoyment of other readers. As more and more respondents took up the challenge, a whole chapter within the magazine evolved.
And now, translating the magazine to the world wide web offers ever greater opportunities for budding poets to have their work viewed by the widest possible audience … across the globe. So if you have a piece of poetry or prose that you have penned – or want to give the process of writing a go – and would like to share it with the thousands of viewers who are already a part of the Rick Rutherford's Country family (not to mention the thousands more yet to hook up), all you need to do is drop me a message, together with a copy of your original verse. You can email it in to rick@rickrutherford.com or post it in the old fashioned way to PO Box 27, Lawson 2783.
Following are just a few examples of the beautiful verse recently received from readers.
Firstly, our latest contribution is by Helen Woodward. It's a moving and powerful story of love I'm sure will inspire all. It's called ...
The Eagle and the Dove
The Eagle stood proud beside his copious nest
While the Dove sat quietly at her mountain base
She knew he was there by the call
She had not answered him
Was it her he was summoning?
Surely not…but then…
All at once she knew with certainty
That her delayed response was for him and no other
With wings puffed and eyes steady
She flew half way
She waited for him to urge her on
And did not have long to gather her thoughts
His call was strong…beckoning…longing
She wondered if she had a right to love
One so gallant and imposing
Her heart took her the rest of the way
Then, as his large wings stretched out before her
She succumbed with awe
His advance powerful…his love true
Her heart swelled at his captivating touch
Love had been born and valued
All others left exempt from opinions
It was their miracle…she was home
A proud descendent of eight Irish grandparents, Clare Milesi of Hepburn Springs, Victoria, took the opportunity afforded by the Poetry and Prose section of the eMag to pay tribute to the legacy of her forebares. As she states " In my poem I have tried to pay tribute to the great legacy and tradition of Irish spirituality that has survived so many centuries; a spirituality that is not separate from, but rather, integrated into, all aspects of the great circle of life. In particular, I appreciate the beautiful work of Irish poet and philosopher, John O'Donohue (sadly now deceased) who inspired so many with his writing, and is a present-day example of how much Ireland has to offer a world that is becoming more and more secular, yet where there is a greater need than ever before to find that place in ourselves where our treasure lies ... and be at home there."
Soul Searching
Some say our soul lies deep inside us
I know that we are inside our soul
Always searching for that something that is missing
With a burning yearning to be whole
Standing in the forest on a summer's day
Underneath a canopy of green
Listening to the branches as they bend and sway
Knowing how truly blessed your day has been
And when you take some time to listen for the quiet time
There's a still time between each rustling leaf
That's the time you'll grow a little closer to the mystery
That's silent time
That's sacred time
That's soul
A mother holds her baby for the very first time
Precious body warm against her skin
Every heatbeat helps her to discover
The link between divine and divine within
And when she takes some time to listen for the quiet time
There's a still time between each vibrant beat
That's the time she'll grow a little closer to the mystery
That's silent time
That's sacred time
That's soul
Two lovers lying in the early morn
Longing, belonging, soul meets soul
Each one reaching out with love for the other
Two halves aching to be whole
And when they take some time to listen for the quiet time
There's a still time between each whispered word
That's the time they'll grow a little closer to the mystery
That's silent time
That's sacred time
That's soul
Some say our soul lies deep inside us
I know that we are inside our soul
Always searching for that something that is missing
With a burning yearning to be whole
And when our life on earth is done
And we've moved back where we started from
All the pieces of the mystery
will unfold
No more seeking, no more turning
No more searching, no more yearning
For our souls have come full circle
And we are whole.
 When Mary Beness discovered that the printed version of Rick Rutherford's Country was to come to an end, and that the transition was about to occur into the world of ‘cyberspace', she took the opportunity to pen the following words which wonderfully embrace the transition of the seasons. In her message Mary said that she felt that the new version of the magazine online not only represented a major shift in the life of yours truly, but also hoped that it embodied a new ‘spiritual spring' where life is fresher, more calm and filled with contentment. I can but join Mary in sincerely hoping that such will be true as the season moves on and the work progresses to create what I pray will be our collective ‘country place in the sun … in cyberspace'. Mary's delightful, original prose follows:
For All There Is A Season
Birds sweetly sing to welcome spring,
The daffodils are blooming.
Our spirits lift, we make a list,
Dreams they are awaking.
When summer's new and lilies blue,
Busy hands are toiling.
But rising heat, ensures defeat,
Ambitions now are fading.
The winds of change are here again,
Autumn days are dawning.
They pause to play, but cannot stay,
The hands of time are ticking.
Come the cold, the dreams we hold,
Safely now are sleeping.
When winter's gone, they'll be reborn,
Sunny days are coming.
It's time again for spring dear friend
Within there is a stirring
In earth and soul, let life unfold
Warmth it is returning.
When F. Young of the NSW Central Coast moved to her own little bastion of peace and calm in the country in order to, as she says, “escape some pretty awful stuff”, the experience ultimately moved her to pen the following which, in many ways, sums up the way many of us feel about our own humble little home and all that it represents: safety and peace, a sanctuary from the world beyond.
Keeper Of The Key
I am the Keeper of the Key
This little house belongs to me
It's far away from all I know
But soon the peace and love will show.
Its olde-world days are long gone now
Surrounded by green grass, brown cow
I wonder what lives used to be
Entwined within these walls to see.
Its soul is here and I can tell
This house has served its tenants well
So hear my prayers for peace and love
I send to you, my Lord, above.
I'm asking not for gain nor wealth
I'm asking not for fame nor health
But give me room to grow and mend
Hope, peace and rest, I beg you send.
You are the Keeper of the Key
Lord, to my soul, my sanity
But to this house, my sanctuary,
I am the Keeper of the Key.
To the challenge of sending in a piece of original verse, Leanne Kuczma of Sunbury (Vic) decided that she would not only try her hand at creating her own piece of prose, but would also use the opportunity to send a message of hope and encouragement for, as she stated in her accompanying letter, “life is so precious and unfortunately short, so why not share knowledge, love, conversation, jokes and poems with one another.” Leanne's very special offering, called ‘Life's Too Short' follows:
Life's Too Short
Life's too short
So stop and smile,
Watch some children
Play for a while.
Really look at your garden
And knick-knacks too,
Remember the fun things
You love to do.
Walk the dog
Pet the cat
Call someone
Just to have a chat.
And when life gets you down
Remember to smile
And not to frown.
Take some tea with a friend
And wish the day would never end.
Because life's too short
For worries or strife.
Live it right.
After all
It's your life.
Venturing Forward In Verse
A book of verses underneath the bough,
A jug of wine, a loaf of bread,
and thou beside me singing in the wilderness -
On, Wilderness were paradise enow!
(Omar Khayyam 1048 - 1122)
 It really is amazing the numbers! It seems that country followers in their hoards are avid lovers of verse! It’s an assessment that I’ve made as a consequence of the many wonderful submissions I’ve received to the Poetry and Prose section of the online magazine. Maybe it’s because prose and poetic expression allows one to be more intimate about one’s thoughts and feelings than the normal written word. Maybe the lyrical rhyming so typical of much poetry allows one to convey a message more easily and succinctly. Maybe traditional prose and poetry helps make a direct link with the past and the ways of old when such styles of writing were a much more essential part of common communication.
Whatever the reason, the great delight is that more and more people are taking up the challenge to ‘venture forward in verse’, as the following latest offerings reveal. If you too have a piece of poetry or prose that you have penned – or want to give the process of writing a go – and would like to share it with the thousands of viewers who are already a part of the Rick Rutherford’s Country family (not to mention the thousands more yet to hook up), all you need to do is drop me a message, together with a copy of your original verse. You can email it in to rick@rickritherford.com or post it in the old fashioned way to PO Box 27, Lawson 2783.
The first submission following comes from Debbie Young of Greenslopes (Qld) who took up the opportunity to send in a piece she penned in memory of her grandmother’s kitchen. It’s like a lyrical reminiscence. As Debbie states “As so many people would attest I am sure, the memory of one’s grandmother’s house is ever etched in the memory and is probably – in many instances – more defined than one’s own home.” The following is Debbie’s piece, entitled:
My Grandmother’s Kitchen
In my grandmother’s kitchen were all the ingredients for a perfect adventure.
The room was large on the southern side of the big colonial wooden house. Dominating the room was the very long rounded oblong table conveniently topped with linoleum. From left to right around the walls ran the banks of cupboards with thumb-press metal handles; the sink – a favoured site for play not least, of course, because of the sweet tank water served in the little ETA peanut paste company glasses decorated with native birds; the wood box – a true treasure trove filled with empty grocery packets with which one could play shop by lining them up on top of the box; the wood stove complete with its own decorative summer doily made from lino.
More built-in cupboards; a small electric stove for hot water; finally and especially the free-standing dresser with its variety of special and different compartments in which were such luxuries as a wad of folded paper packets; bundles of wound string, Minties for anyone who was good; and a wonderful red plastic tomato contraption which held the sauce for the saveloys always eaten for lunch.
The treadle sewing machine, for me, reigned in the last corner of the room. As grandma sewed we sat under her table and caught the scraps of material as they fell and played shapes with them.
Last came the ice chest, forerunner of the refrigerator, which had a weekly appetite for a large block of ice – 12ins by 9ins by 6ins – to cool the food in the lower compartments. It was, of course, always important to remember to empty the drip tray!
Not only were the room’s contents magical but the fact that everything always remained as it always was gave great stability and reassurance.
On the cupboards to the left stood a number of favoured glass dishes. My father remembered early visits to the house when he was served pickles on one those dishes by my great grandmother. He was perplexed to discover in his food … pen nibs!
Grandma’s whole house had adventures in each of its rooms but none so loved as those in the heart of the home, her kitchen.
Despite her self-confessed computer illiteracy, Cathy Robson ‘logged on’ to “get a country fix and receive kind encouraging words” and in so doing submitted the following:
He Knows The Seasons
Summer, a memory of happier times
of laughter and picnics and bubbly wines.
Our hearts were warm and our spirits high
and sometimes it felt like our love could fly.
I gazed at the sunset, with its magical glow,
and peace came over me, as I thought –
"He knows".
Autumn soon came with a chill in the air,
Alone I stood wondering, does anyone care?
The leaves so bright soon faded away
as I held on so tightly and begged them to stay.
The gentle cool breeze knew they were to go,
and tears flooded my heart with the thought –
"He knows".
Winter, the season for snow, rain and frost.
The silence reminds me of all that I’ve lost.
I stare at the embers and breathe out a sigh.
Yes, deep down inside I still wonder why.
So where is the love I knew long ago?
Its all turned so cold as I cry out –
"He knows".
Spring comes with the hope of a brighter tomorrow.
Forgiveness like jonquils can heal the sorrow
with fragrance so sweet, you soon will see,
that the river of life isn’t up to me.
So I trust in the one who controls the flow
of the streams of love – you see –
"He knows".
Last time around I featured a beautiful piece by Frances Young of Karangi (NSW) entitled ‘The Keeper of The Key’. This time I’m delighted to include another wonderful submission by Frances which is so profound as it tells of moving on, of change and new directions. It’s filled with notions of bravery and simple things, of optimism, new beginnings and a sense of serenity for future days … a very impacting poem that I am sure will resonate deeply with many.
Had To Go
For the very first time in my up and down life
I’m just being me – not a daughter nor wife.
Not a teacher nor guide – not needing to hide;
Just sitting here, gazing at life.
It’s selfish, they say, to while away time,
Doing nothing but relaxing here.
Do you think that it’s wrong, a heart full of song,
‘Cause I’m free of my worry and fear?
It’s not that I’m ready to party and sing
I’m happy not doing so much
One day when I’m ready, I’ll do something steady
For now it’s just gazing and such.
You say to me now “All is lost – tell us how
You can give up the places you know?”
I’ll say “back to you – You haven’t a clue –
Sometimes you just have to go!”
It won’t be forever – or maybe it will –
I haven’t a clue where it’ll end.
But somehow I know it will work out and so
“not to worry – it’s all right, my friend.”
So don’t shed a tear or hang onto the fear
I know what I’m doing is weird
But it has to be done and sometimes it’s fun
And that’s nothing at all to be feared.
‘Cause I’m safe and I’m glad. And that can’t be all bad.
Surely peace is its own reward.
I’m gone – I’m here – and I still hold you dear
But my face is now turning toward …
… The sun and the moon, the stars in the sky,
I’ve finished my needing to cry.
The rest – I don’t know – I’ll see how I go –
But it’s time to stop asking me why.
Nancy Boyd also embraced the opportunity offered by this section of the magazine to put her thoughts into poetic verse, her piece – entitled ‘Tribute To A Treasure’ – presenting a very special mark of respect to an Australian icon: the swaggie. Can’t you see him? There, trudging wearily along the dusty track, his shoulders bowed under the weight of his swag, looking for a place to rest for the night? Swaggies first called the swag 'bluey', then they became 'Matilda'– much more romantic! 'Waltzing Matilda' is thus surely far more evocative than 'humping bluey' when you’re carrying all of your belongings along the dusty track!
Tribute To A Treasure
Now there surely was a swagman there beside that billabong
a’boiling his old billy, just as happy as could be;
but bein’ very jolly, he committed one big folly
– an unsuspectin’ jumbuck he was known to grab for tea.
Then his gladsome song was heard: nearby trooper said “my word,
you can’t be thievin’ jumbucks so you’d better come with me!”
But our swagman took a dive: “You’re not takin’ me alive!”
and quickly submerged himself to keep his spirit free.
Eerie sounds still waft up high to all the passers-by
who happen to be strollin’ by the waters merrily,
for the swagman’s restless ghost is ever acting as a host
and invites “Who’ll come a’ Waltzing Matilda with me?”
And we’ll be singing of his fate till two thousand eighty eight:
now click your glasses to Banjo through one hundred years of time,
– Christina’s tune was great – we should really celebrate
and lustily proclaim to all our much-loved Aussie rhyme!
As we gather neath the coolibah, hear my constant plea
“Will you come a’ Waltzing Matilda with me?”
Sharon Coleman on the NSW Blue Mountains sent in the following entry which she tells she wrote for her young daughter Mikayla in celebration of her birthday. A special party was thrown, the occasion having a tulip theme. As Sharon tells “The children made a tulip collage on one side of their lolly bags (plain brown paper) and on the other side we pasted this poem. I wrote it as if it were an old fashioned piece that children a century ago may have been told.”
When the cold winds blow
And the clouds carry snow
The tulips appear
Bringing winter cheer
They light up the garden
When few flowers bloom
And warm our hearts
Through winter's gloom
So the Lord God brings life
To our cold lives of strife
When hopeless we lay bare
Our own lives we despair
Then does our Saviour Jesus
Push through the cold dark earth
Of hearts unloved and hopeless
Turning grief and tears to mirth
Finally, a teaser! The following has been penned by yours truly. It is the preamble to the book which I have had on the burner for some time … perhaps it is part of my next published work which I’ll release once the last copies of ‘Rick Rutherford’s Country Christmas at Wroxton’ are sold. Presently, I’m not sure, but I really would love to know what you all think of it. It’s called ‘Between The Silences’.
Starting is always the hardest part.
A hundred paths present themselves, each one inevitably leading to the same destination, albeit at different places in time, but the same destination nonetheless.
To a place of silences.
The unspoken, that which is locked away and denied – a place where a key to being free is guarded with the strength of a life force … and the noise goes on around.
Loud noises, hushed noises, secret whispers and judiciously-edited words.
Between that which is spoken, that which is felt, there’s the silences that ring out
through the core of one’s being.
Between the silences, there is the noise that only the heart can hear.
A Story of Life
At 82 years of age, Cathy Robson’s beloved mother, Nora Thomas, has taken up pen and paper to write the following delightful piece of prose … proving conclusively that one is never to young, or old, to harness one’s creativity and revel in a passion for poetry.
The piece has also prompted a rather personal revelation for Cathy. As she tells “It is rather interesting to note that, after knowing my Mum my whole life (well of course!) she has had a hidden gift I knew nothing about … What a lovely surprise I received when she gave me a copy of a poem she wrote for a seniors’ gathering she was attending, so it really is an honour to be able to share her verse with you.
“Something my Mum has been able to do over the years is to face the coming years with dignity and grace and as she faces another ‘change’ in her life, she shares her ‘secret’ in the lines ahead. I hope it encourages all who will read it … She hasn't given her poem a name, but that really is quite like her. Such a kind, gentle lady, never wanting to draw attention to herself, but always wanting to be there for others!” The delightful ‘story of life’ by Nora follows:
Life is not all froth and bubble,
Sometimes joy and sometimes trouble;
Ups and downs – a daily thing,
Sometimes we cry, we sometimes sing,
Things do come that bring a grumble,
Tricky paths can cause a stumble;
What we need to heed, I see,
is which to learn from – which to let be.
We cannot see the path we travel,
We need a guide to help unravel;
Rest assured, God knows each day,
so hold His hand, He'll show the way.
A ‘Well Versed’ World View
If Galileo had said in verse that the world moved,
the Inquisition might have let him alone.
(Thomas Hardy 1840 – 1928)
 The wonderful original verse keeps coming, proving that those with a country bent can do much more than just decorate and adorn a home. Your creativity knows few limits! The other thing that is so obvious from all the new pieces of prose and poetry I have received is the fact that, by taking up the pen and writing down one’s thoughts and feelings in verse, the process helps one deal with – and process – a multitude of life’s experiences and occurrences. As 20th century American writer John Cheever said, when words are written down as a page of prose, “one hears the rain and the noise of battle. It has the power to give grief or universality that lends it a youthful beauty.” And when poetry is the instrument of expression, it, according to Canadian musician and lyricist Leonard Cohen “is just the evidence of life – if your life is burning well, poetry is just the ash.”
And the difference between the two forms of verse? As famous English writer Samuel Taylor Coleridge proposed back at the beginning of the 19th century … “I wish our clever young poets would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; that is, prose equals words in their best order; poetry equals the best words in the best order!” Some may disagree, others may wholeheartedly concur. But whether you choose to express your feelings and views in poetry or prose, there is no getting away from the fact that both these forms of creative verse quite often take on a power all their own once that have been formed as words on a page, and can often take on a whole new essence and meaning – as interpreted by others – soon after they have left the mind, and the finger tips, of the author.
Take, for instance, the new additions to what is fast become a true ‘RRC Anthology Of Verse’ following! In these submissions, the creators have found a voice for thoughts and feelings regarding certain issues and scenarios within their lives and the world. Read anew by another, the words have power and implication far beyond the original intent. This is the power and the magic of creative verse – poetry and prose alike … to relay feelings and emotions of the author and have them reinterpreted according to the life experience and world view of another.
Julie Craig has taken the opportunity offered by the Poetry & Prose department here to submit a beautiful piece she penned in tribute to her late father. As she told in her message, she wrote the verse on the occasion of her beloved Dad’s recent birthday and put it down in a card which she and her mother took to the Memorial Park where he is laid to rest. The card read:
Today I'm thinking of you Dad,
Because it's your special day.
I want so much to be with you,
But you are far away.
Today it is your birthday,
And I can't share it with you.
You left this life four years ago.
I'm just left with the memory of you.
At times like this I miss you
And wish that you were here.
I can't even give you a birthday hug
And it makes me shed a tear.
So I'll stand beside your graveside
And look to the sky above.
I'll blow you a special birthday kiss
And send with it, my love.
Then I want to thank you
For all the things you mean to me,
And for being so special.
In loving memory.
South Australian Donna Bridges took the opportunity offered by the Poetry & Prose section to send in the following piece which she specially wrote for her two daughters Amy and Erin in celebration of their Cornish heritage, doing so on the occasion of a special May biennial event in which they were involved called ‘Kernewek Lowender’. The piece is entitled ‘Maypole’.
Flowers encircling flowing tresses,
fresh white aprons over
pretty printed dresses.
Skipping 'round to an ancient tune.
Round and around they go,
over, under, to and fro.
Ribbons of satin skipped up in a dance.
Hours of patient practice,
just for the chance,
To be a Maypole Dancer.
Having read a copy of my Christmas book ‘Rick Rutherford’s Country Christmas at Wroxton’ – which she tells she had to prise off her mother to read, Mary Benniss was inspired to complete the following delightful poem which she tells she was working on when she started to read the book. As she told in the message she sent with the poem “You impressed me no end with your handmade wall hanging as featured in ‘Country Christmas at Wroxton’. I was touched by your reflection in the book and strangely enough was already well on the way with the following poem called ‘Count Your Blessings’ which echoes in effect what you said. Hope you enjoy it”. Though the sentiments of Mary’s work may be prompted by the time of reflection that Christmas brings, they have pertinence for each and every day of the year.
Count Your Blessings
The world we know is all consuming
But make time for the joys of life,
Too many things we take for granted
Count your blessings, in them delight.
A heart is meant to have another
That one to share, the good, the bad,
When heaven sends ‘that one’ love calling
Count your blessings and be glad.
Be thankful for the gift of family
Be mindful that they do not stray
Nurture, trust and love each other
Count your blessings every day.
By nature kindred spirits gather
How cold the days without a friend
The warmth they bring makes each day brighter
Count your blessings once again.
On life’s great journey take a moment
Once a day, before it’s done
Your soul will be the better for it
Count your blessings, one by one.
Challenged to likewise 'write in prose', Michelle Walker of South Australia has offered the following contribution. With little knowledge of, as she put it "writing poems" and little experience doing so, Michelle's piece came about as a consequence of emotions and thoughts which embraced her in a moment of creativity one evening. It's a beautiful piece with a stirring message that is almost a prayer. Her piece is thus appropriately entitled ...
Love and Hope
Can a broken heart learn to love again.
Maybe time is all that’s needed,
So that it can mend.
How do we stay open,
To experiences that may come.
When all we do is fear,
The pain that may be done.
Does true love really exist.
The kind that makes you ache inside,
When someone is missed.
Do you believe that love goes on forever,
Ever in time and space.
Searching, waiting to reconnect,
With your one soul mate.
I can only hope,
The future brings to me,
A rare and very special love,
So my heart can finally be free.
On similar issues of harnessing courage to go on ... to face the issues of life, especially when one is confronted with death, Destyn McMinn has written the inspirational piece following, so suitably entitled ...
Grief’s Light
Another death, how sad.
Where are they,
Those who have died?
Some say they are spirits
Floating around on clouds up high!
I call them the untouchables.
Others say they’re in heaven,
Watching over us.
But I say how horrid,
That they should still see
Such unrest of loved ones
Crying in distress.
A Friend once told me,
Read 1 Thessalonians Chapter 4,
Verses 13 through to 17,
And one more.
There you will read and find much peace,
Our loved ones indeed are asleep;
Until our Lord and Saviour come,
To wake them and take us to Heaven above.
In gladness shall we hug each other;
All our fathers, mothers,
Sisters and brothers.
One more thing I would say
To the grieving is
Read Psalm 4, Verse 8
And keep believing.
Grief’s Light is Jesus Christ,
So rest in peace, all you who sleep,
For the resurrection
Is sure and sweet.
One of the earliest contributors to our Poetry and Prose section - Mary Benness - has taken the opportunity of recent chapter updating to submit another of her inspirational works, this piece reflecting the joy there is in sharing friendship. Inspired by the close ties that have developed between those who regualarly chat on the Rick Rutherford's Country Forum (many connecting here daily), Mary's new piece evokes images of a cottage on a sunny day, its drawing room filled with love and laughter shared over scones and sugary tea!
The Brew Of Life
Oh how poetic life would be,
A cup for you and one for me,
Not bound by time, it’s standing still,
And mind and soul will get their fill,
For brewing here’s not only tea,
It’s life and love and familiarity,
The smiles so wide upon the place
Where the warmth of friendship smacks our face,
And hearts aglow and sparkling eyes,
Reveal what’s often in disguise,
Dare to venture, surely gain,
There’s endless chatter, no refrain,
Until the pot draws to an end,
The brew of life, this unique blend,
The sweetest taste you’ll ever find,
When friend and friend akin combine.
A much cherished supporter of Rick Rutherford's Country, Val McKenzie sent in several poems some time ago and, sadly, they disappeared into cyberspace, never to be seen again. Thankfully Val kept a copy and has, with encouragement, re-submitted them, the first having been written at a time when her dear country friend (whom she met via the Rick Rutherford's Country Forum) was in need of comfort and encouragement. It's fittingly entitled ...
For Cathy
The Lord is walking with you today
In everything you do and say,
When you feel anxious or feel stressed
The Lord is there to give you rest,
He sees your tears and hears your sighs,
He holds your hands and wipes your eyes,
So lean on Him and you will find
The Lord will give you peace of mind,
Your constant friend along the way,
The Lord is walking with you today.
The following three inspiring sets of prose are also by Val who, with all modesty, was not sure if they 'measured up' to appear here in the Poetry & Prose chapter. Her creativity and evocative use of words certainly suggest otherwise!
The Carnival
I look across the fields and there I see
A host of caravans and trucks,
Amidst a mess of tents and gaudy signs,
Proclaiming the arrival of a fair,
The joy that comes with carnival is not there,
Just silent stillness.
Sometimes a worker seen, in vain attempt
To brighten up the place with light or flag,
To tighten up a rope or bend a peg,
But over all, an air of desolation hangs,
The drizzling rain, like clinging gossamer thread
Enshrouds the whole.
The giant 'sizzler' standing in the midst,
An octopus, its tentacles unused,
Like crippled, broken arms,
It's lights, like eyes put out,
And tents with sagging, soaking walls
Bestrewn with rain.
Yet, on the morrow when the rain is past,
And sunlight spreads a glow across the earth,
And dewdrops glisten like diamonds in the grass,
And jewelled cobwebs stretch between the trees,
The workers set about their task once more
With new resolve.
Then when the work is finally complete,
And flags and bunting decorate the whole,
When pegs and ropes at last are all in place,
And music fills the air with joyful song,
The coloured lights, like myriad Christmas trees
Illuminate the night.
Before The Storm
A dozen seagulls circled overhead
Then turned, and headed out across the sea,
Toward the far horizon -
That place where ocean meets the sky - in one endless line,
And as I watched they vanished from my sight
Amidst the salty haze.
The waves rolled in upon the sand,
Each following the one that went before,
Each crested with foam.
The sky, a murky grey, embossed with clouds,
Forewarns a storm is brewing, somewhere out to sea,
And soon that far horizon will disappear from view,
Blotted out, by driving sheets of rain.
A crowd of tiny fishing boats comes into view,
And each one threads its way before my eyes.
Toward the harbour,
Their lonely whistles blow,
Their ghostly sound is carried on the wind
'Midst cry of gulls, and roaring of the sea,
Gone - but forever to remain - a memory,
Imprinted on my mind.
Seascape
The storm is over, the clouds have disappeared,
Gone are the glorious blue-green hues of the sea
Back to the endless watery depths
And in their place, the ocean, murky, brown,
Gently caresses the battered, tortured sand.
The tide is low, and scattered all around
Are stones, worn smooth by years of watery beatings,
As though cast up by some huge unseen hand
To lie upon the sand, until repentant
The ocean draws them back to her watery bed.
If you too would like to share your thoughts and feelings with fellow countryites by way of your own original prose or poem, I would love to hear from you and have the chance to publish it here for the enjoyment, enrichment and sharing of all. Whether you have an important message to state through your work, would love to reflect on matters of life or pay tribute to a special loved one – the podium is yours! All you have to do is drop me a line via the website here, email rick@rickrutherford.com or post a letter to PO Box 27, Lawson NSW 2783. |