Wordpictures

I took his hand lest he slip or fall
He was old now but
Surely needed the exercise;
So, I thought a quiet stroll down to the railway
Would be really good for him.
We walked hand in hand past so many houses
Down and up the inclines
And chatted as we went
Until we were beside the line.
It must have been time for a train to come
I could hear its whistle sounding
Further down the line,
And soon it did come
With its flurry of steam and smoke
And all those train noises trains make.
When the driver saw us,
He sounded the whistle again
So loudly this time
And almost played a tune upon it.
As the wooden carriages passed us
Ladies waved to us, smiling and mouthing:
“Hello you two!”
It was a sweet experience, but I thought
I should get him back home now.
Again, hand in hand, we walked slowly,
He was old with grey hair and
I didn’t want to hurry him.
I’m sure he really enjoyed that
He probably had not ventured there
For a very long time.
He was tired now and sat down
When we got back.
I was tired, too.
It’s a long trek down to the railway.
Especially when you’re
Not yet three years old!

Where’s that old album
It was here, I’m sure, or
Did I put it somewhere?
They’re always cleaning up
Around here.
Ah! Found it. I
Just want to look again;
Great memories, every one
Now, where’s my glass?
Oh, here we are.
Now, see…
How tiny! Huh! How helpless I was
Held close like that to Mother
She had counted every toe, every finger,
Checked every crease and moving part,
And she knew how to handle
This frailty that was me.
It was safe there then, so safe; and
That warm maternal scent
Added sweetness to the milk
That came from her breast.
Fancy remembering that now!
Oh, dear…
The light is so poor in here
I wish this glass were stronger
Look at that!
Ha, Ha! The bath…just look
At the mess I made!
Can’t you just hear it? The water
Swishing and splashing over
The bath’s rim as I thrashed
Both arms and legs into
The warm liquid;
Sploosh…Hih, hih, hahhh…
Oh, bathing was such fun, kicking
And swirling the miniature sea
As the duck-boats tossed and rolled
On my waves. And when I squealed,
She’d laugh. She seldom laughed,
Poor mother, but a sweet laugh it was
When she did. I hear it still.
Ah, poor tired one; she was
A good mother; yes, tender
But strict, too. I found that out
Soon enough, didn’t I,
When I grew older?
Ah, those years-years that brought
The grey streaks to her hair
And the wrinkly little lines
To her lovely, sad face…
She’d lost one child
And now I was there.
Tired she was, always tired
And wheezing, too. Perhaps I
Was a worry to her
With all my tricks
And silly adventures.
More than likely; I’ll probably
Never know, really.
Sorry Mother, I never meant
To try you so. Just now
I’d love to tell you about that,
You know, Mother…
Quiet birds! Noisy creatures that you are
Squawking, squeaking…why don’t you sing?
There’s Cousin Jane there,
Yes, I’m sure.
Strange one, that; so podgy; she
Walked funny, always complaining
Of pains in her back, and wearing
Those loose, floppy clothes that
Made her stomach stick out; awful,
And didn’t want me to bump into her
When I ran about.
Disappeared one day she did,
Just like that. Mother said she was okay
But never told where she went,
or why. Hospital I think.
Saw her once, later on,
Thin and sad looking,
Always sad after that
Like she’d lost something.
Oh, I… I often wonder
About people and things
Ah, what’s this? Oh, yes
The old swing.
Father put that up in the back yard.
That’s Mother pushing me on it, see?
When we learned how, we thrust
With all out might, us kids,
Contorting our bodies to get
Old gravity to work it up for us.
Ooh; our stomachs went queasy
The moment it stopped up high
Falling back until next time.
Like Pegasus from a cliff-top
We flew from its seat to the ground,
Rolling on the grass and laughing.
I loved that swing, it was fun
Pity Cousin Fay never learned
To jump right, the scaredy cat!
She only let go with one hand.
She always seemed different after
She bloodied her knee on the ground
And the seat hit her over the head.
“Why didn’t you look after her,
Doing such dangerous things?”
They screamed at me
As if I’d clobbered her with it.
She wasn’t my sister, anyway.
I’d shown her how to do it,
Silly girl she was.
Haven’t seen her for ages, either,
Come to think of it. Strange, isn’t it
How people forget you?
I wish those people didn’t chatter so
And moan like they do over there…
Now look at that: Our fireworks night!
The big bonfire and the bags of crackers
To be let off one by one.
They weren’t big like today, I suppose.
No, but exciting just the same.
We were allowed to touch them,
Even to light some,
If Father was there.
That part was just great…
There were Roman Candles and bungers
Catherine Wheels and Jumping Jacks,
And the ones that made bright big balls
High up in the sky;
Green, Orange and white,
Shooting up like
Brilliant star-forms in the dark.
The rockets, too, and the one
at landed in the plum tree
Startling the fruit bats
And resting birds.
Hah, didn’t they squawk
And squeak as they flew for dear life!
We squealed and laughed until
Young Katie’s sparkler spat
Its fire and stung her on the leg.
She shrieked in fear and threw it away,
Setting fire to the paling fence.
Panic and shouting and pails
Of water, and the hose!
Dad made us help him
Put the fire out.
Good fireman, Dad; strong and quick
We shivered because
We thought he’d be real mad
At us all. But no,
It all seemed part of the fun.
Good days, those. And who’s that?
Stupid hat she’s wearing; gloves, too.
Don’t remember her at all.
Must be somebody…
What day is it now, Sunday?
No, we’ve had Sunday, I think…
What’s this over this page? Oh, yes,
Here we are, it’s Jesse. Poor thing
She’s old there and losing her hair.
How good she was as a youngster.
Most were afraid of her, but not me.
I knew her. Oh, how she would growl
When I took the bone from her mouth
And teased her, pretending to eat it;
No one else could do that, only me.
She loved me. A playmate, that old dog;
It’s sad, she’s gone; so sad.
Wish I could pat her right now.
Damn the light; even with the blind up
The window’s no help.
Who’s that in this one? Never mind;
Here’s one of Elsie. Dear Elsie.
She’s gone now, of course. I’m glad
She didn’t suffer very long.
Why do these pages stick together?
And these fingers, they shake so much
It’s hard…Ah, there we are:
I’ve opened it. Good.
Yes, those were good days…
Just look at us all;
And this one here. Mum thought
We’d never survive but we did,
Somehow.
We worked and saved
What we could stash away
And look at the old car I bought!
Cheap, really, considering.
Big and grand it was and Janice,
She liked it, too. That was
The best part of it, I suppose,
As I think about it; the two of us
Gallivanting all over the place
Pretending we were posh, then
Kissing in the park after dusk. Ah,
My lovely Janice, why are you
Not here, Dear? I miss you so
And cry for your comforting touch.
Sometimes it seems you’re coming
Back to me again…
…Ah, even now
I hear your footsteps, I think. Yes,
Darling, you touch me, and I can’t
-do forgive me-stop those tears,
These love-tears coming…but…
Wait, you’re not Janice!
Who are you, woman,
In your white coat?
And what’s that you’re shoving
Into my mouth? A drink? A drink?
I didn’t call for a drink.
“Drink up, Henry. It’s nearly time
For your shower, Dear.
Come on, now.”
Okay, okay, I’ll drink it, if you must.
There, see, I’m drinking it now
Whatever the awful stuff is.
Yes, wipe my chin, won’t you?
Then I’ll wheel you down.
Oh, don’t dribble Old Fellow;
There’s a dear. Oh, I’ don’t know;
Now you’ve spilt it. That’s
Another top you’ve spoiled today.
I’ll have to change you again, But
I suppose, at least you try…
Poor old thing.”
Yes, yes, all right. All right!
Shower; toilet; bed; sleep;
That’s all I have strength for now, isn’t it?
Oh, I…I don’t know!
“Well, Henry, that’s another day
You’ve been graced with.
Isn’t that wonderful, Dear?
Now, let’s go down for that shower…”
Then we’ll get you back to bed.
Oh, I…okay, I’m coming
But, but where am I?
Okay, take my hand…
Ah, damned nurses!

A A Fishburn 07.03.1995. Reviewed. © Copyright 2017

When the first faint gleam of pre-dawn light
Filters the shade of the fading night
The fish are still in the glass-like pond
And a slight stir is heard in the green beyond.
Mopoke and Possum slip quietly away
To settle and sleep in their hides of day
The low east clouds turn pink and fawn
And silence prevails before the break of dawn.
Then, from the top of a nearby tree
Far up high, too high to see
The silence is shattered by the vibrant trills
The thrilling, trilling song that loudly fills
The air with its lovely melodic chime;
It’s Blackbird’s song, in avian prosodic time
Rejoicing that a new day has just begun
And the course of Nature can still be run.
Sing high and low and soft and strong
For we rejoice that here we belong
Where tolerance, liberty and justice alight
And peace for all is a daily right.
Sing loud; sing long you dull-plumed bird
That your beauteous voice may be widely heard
Sing bold, Mr Blackbird, sing strong
The world is in need
of your hope-filled song.
‘Tis joy of which you rightly sing
That every soul rejoice and, living, bring
Hope and joy to their but meagre sphere
To better by one the atmosphere
Of our troubled world and its hapless throng.

© A A FISHBURN 2017

(Something in rhyme with no metaphor or political or social implication, just a feeling for the beauty of Nature.)

With silent control of her pinion spread
Her neck drawn in and her bill ahead
She soars in silence from the river bends
Side-slips and circles where the channel ends
With confident control of her outspread wings
She circles and glides and quietly brings
Her flight in line with her chosen place
And lesser birds relinquish her space
Each feather contributes to her inbound glide
Majestic bird that needs no guide
With total control, she prepares to land
In the river channel beyond the sand
She planes the water with her broad webbed feet
Then settles there as if it’s a seat
Sending ripples behind and out each side
She preens her plumes with avian pride
A glorious creature beautifully fletched
She yawns and shakes with beak outstretched
Her sight acute she now needs to eat
Will she find fish or cretaceous meat?
She probes the water with barely a splash
Making the most of the tidal wash
Paddling now she seeks to find
Nearby creatures of similar kind.

AAF 1980/Reviewed 2016 © 2017

Despondent and lonely he shuffles his feet
The disheveled old vagrant is wanting to eat
His raggedy overcoat hangs on one side
A pocket distended with a bottle inside
Downtrodden shoes and socks with great holes
His gait is awkward as he dodges the poles
The creases and wrinkles in his battered old face
Tell a story of sadness, and none of life’s grace
His leaden way wending to the city refuge
He carries a bundle of sorrows so huge
As soon as he’s eaten the craving he’ll sate
His bottle’s his friend and God knows his fate
Once tiny, like all, just a babe in arms
A mother’s delight with his naïve charms
A child that grew, was vibrant and fast
All was normal back there in his past.
Yet now, the sweet charms and childhood joys
That build the character of little boys
Have gone; he grew to be a gutsy, testy lad
Who knew all answers to the options he had
But something somewhere went terribly wrong
Something dastard has carried him along
Now he lives in shadows on the lonely street
Parading the signs of a man in defeat
Did someone destroy the love of his life?
Did he tangle with police, and end in strife?
Did he place his all on a fruitless bet?
Or was it a job he could never get?
His troubles gathered till he could not cope
Depression took away any chance of hope
There was no one there in his time of despair
No one to listen and no one to care
Lost his manners through loss of pride
The mystery is locked firmly away inside
Nothing’s been written, not even a note
Described only to the friend inside his coat
Whatever the reason the cause or the cost
Who can say what a life has been lost
There in his bosom, so soggy and sad
Hideth a man whose life has gone bad.

AAF 1980/Reviewed 2016 © 2017

Shrieking and shouting of children at play
Echoes all over the sand of the Bay
Telling of pleasures these little ones meet
Bracing the chill of the surf on their feet
Curling green combers white crested with foam
Heading ashore from the oceans they roam
Swirling green lips that are gurgling with tales:
Fishes and seashells and dolphins and whales
Relentlessly, rhythmically waves wash the shore
Heaving and bounding with crashing and roar
Driven by winds from storms out to sea
Surge up with seaweed and minute algae
Crashing and crumbling the rocks as they land
Shimmering sluices that slide up the sand
Ending their life-force with hissing and quave
Ebbing asunder another curled wave
Driftwood and seaweed and beautiful shells
Brightly hued remnants death’s mystery spells
Strewn out at random by Nature’s own guide
Make shadows and patterns inscribed by the tide
Here in this haven, the spell of the bay
Salt smell and sea breeze life’s stresses allay
A moment of solace relaxing the mind
Something each heart hungers to find
Going on home after time has run out
With holiday over its time we must rout
Back to our home in the city profile
Straitened by our modern hectic lifestyle
To work for employers who hold us in fear
To struggle and sweat for another whole year
To garner funds as we strive to gain
The chance to come back to this pleasance again.

A A Fishburn © 2017
Created 1974 Reviewed 20

I was thinking the other day of the number of words we use to describe the “past”, the “now” and the “future”; words like then, now, soon, projected, unforeeen, immediately, currently, present. There are dozens of them, far more than I realised, and they are there just to orientate our minds into specific points in the time continuum.

This reminded me of an occasion when a devoted, older brother was effervescent about the spiritual stilulus he had received from attending the meeting. He was a sweet old man, it was pleasant to see him so absorbed in his spirituality.

It was when he ventured a remark about the wonder of the ‘”coming into this world of the Son of God” and how this had divided Eternity into past and future, that I was jolted. He had been carried away with his thoughts but had certinly not thought realistically about this statement.

We live, breathe and exist within time; time is a function of creation so that aside from the “Big Bang” time’s bringing it into being, there would have been no time. It is so familiar to us that it is hard to conceive of something or somewhere where time does not exist.

Eternity?

Eternity is the constant present.

At the Big Bang the Creator IS there. Today the Creator IS here; in a thousand years from now the Creator IS there.

If the Creator had to give up on mankind as irretrievable and had to start again, it would happen as if it was now.

That creator we have called God, and diferent peoples have perceived the word’s meaning in different ways: Jews, Christians, Muslims, Hindus, and so on, attributing in most cases, qualities related to humanity, even if in a supernal way. 15 billion creation years means nothing.

Because there is God, there is existence. No God, no existence, nothing. Beause there is God there is existence for what God chooses to exist. Existence of anything is dependent upon God. Eternity flows from that. So, whatever else is said and believed, without God none of us, nothing at all can or could have existed and because God exists we have the wonderful Universe and Earth to enjoy and marvel at. “the works of his hands” as one writer put it.

God is so far above our mortal understanding, our capacity to conceive, that the anthopomorhism of imagining God as some sort of super-human is no longer acceptable. Almost every religion and culture has accepted the existence of a god, or gods, and have attributed these anthopic qualites to it, but it is becoming clearer, as one other writer put it: “…none has seenGod at any time…” and “God is a spirit…”.

It is a wonderful contemplation! But what controversy must follow as the implications of this simple fact are considered and worked through.

With due repect to brilliant scientist like Richard Dawkins and similar atheists, they have not explained to me the source from which what does exist emanates.

Perhaps we can pursue this fascinating issue further at another time.

A A FISHBURN © 2022