Melaleuca Number 8: February 2010 Table of Contents Gulls Miami Sweat Pictures from Hanging Rock The Gods

Throw Dice As if a Jacket cock a doodle, dont ask, its obvious deciduous magazines as mood-prep With swamps, quiet is not a quiet word Kathleen Bleakley Kathleen Bleakley Kathleen Bleakley Leigh Blackmore L. S. Fisher Margaret Owen Ruckert Margaret Owen Ruckert Margaret Owen Ruckert Margaret Owen Ruckert 3 4 5 6 7 8 10 11 12 Editor: Phillip A. Ellis

All works are copyright by their respective creators, 2010; the arrangement of this collection is copyright by Phillip A. Ellis, 2010.

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 2.5 Australia License <http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/2.5/au/>.

Gulls So much depends on the juncture in time the road we drive towards Port Arthur. Tourists like us signs instruct not to ask about the massacre. For the few convicts who could swim there were sharks or toiling the years on an island off an island. The sky is too blue sandstone prison walls golden frames for photographs who do we ask permission? The lawns are made for picnicking our tomatoes ripened in a Hobart garden the bread still warm but my belly lurches like the boat tilting on our way here. The seagulls too are turning cavorting, red beaks in the memorial pool. Kathleen Bleakley

Miami Sweat Jogging, sweat stretching across my chest glancing down heart shaped across my Miami Beach sweat-shirt heart pounding loud as the squawking gulls Running, sweat pouring down my chest onto my stomach taut as my cock past the beach boys glistening bronze towards golden gals in bikinis one waving at me then pointing to the man racing off her bag in his hand Running, with a pistol in my pocket the crowd parts way for me like The Red Sea Jesus or a cop on TV Catching him pinning him against the wall handcuffed & into the cop car siren on & flashing red through the city Smelling my sweat its not fear but exaltation riding the lift then cyber waves of global economy and corporate policy till tomorrow when Im back @ the beach sweating it out Kathleen Bleakley

Pictures from Hanging Rock Cousin Isla and I clambered up rocks shadowed by Macedons wintry face peered into crevices she called Miranda in the echo of stone. Isla became Irma Aunt waited at the mountain foot brow furrowed, cross as a headmistress as we emerged at dusk. Next summer Isla, a private school girl caught in stairwell secrets hushed on arrival of her small city cousin. Bored with Toorak talk and shopping I snuck into Islas older brothers bedroom, mesmerised by his swarthy eyes he showed me his drawings and how to kiss him all over. Aunt discovered the Valentine She & Uncle laughed at girls infatuations. Next summer hed gone to art school and Isla, like Irma returned, remote and older. On Easter Sunday, cousins walked up to Hanging Rock pictured at the top - elated as Irma, Miranda and pals Miranda, nowhere to be seen we returned to picnic on hot cross buns children searched for chocolate eggs melted into coloured foils, scattered confetti like. Kathleen Bleakley

The Gods Throw Dice I was a traveller on far seas I tasted salt on many a breeze From land to land The hot winds fanned My lust to find lifes inner keys. In old Khartoum I met a mage, A wizened and forbidding sage Who bade me drink Fore I could think A potion put me in a rage. In Xanadu I told the stars And read mens fates by Sol and Mars Thought not I fell Thought I did well And sealed my findings fast in jars. Upon the plain of Leng I rode Neath skies where vast dark forces strode Searched ever on And came upon No inner keys, no secret code. Now I am old and now I know It fills my soul with naught but woe The inner key Is you and me. The gods throw dice, laugh as they throw. Leigh Blackmore

As if a Jacket 1 Speaking pretty clearly at last, in the dawn of the day, steam slips as through frosted fingers into the air. I am mesmerised, my eyes following curlicues of white mistiness. Some days, what I see around me is as thin: a fine veneer of colour, or maybe dye, tricked out in perspective, as if a jacket worn by deeper, mathematical daydreams. 2 Revolution may not come, for those who dream of it for too long, something they may never see until the dream has gone the way of mist in the morning sun, with the songs of magpies. But there is a point to such dreams, in the night hours before the waking dawn, with the cold air rubbing its belly, and growling with empty hunger over the frosted land and paddocks. 3 Growling over high country, the fogs arrive in the dead hours of night, when the frosts settle onto the leaves of grass, the sticks and twigs, beige, hardened leaves of the dry gums leaning over. It is not too hard, then, in those hours to hear the trees whisper each to each in the cold air, not so much secrets, but the same words, message-'I know,' according to some, 'I know nothing.' 4 When, at last, the dawning rays of the sun strike the softness of the skin of the eucalypts, downy against them, nuzzling as if for warmth, the thin and fragile dew is quickly uttered. Then, then, the eucalypts are silent, and speak not a word of knowing, only quiescent-tongued voicelessness, even if breezes will rattle their drooping tongues into both sighs and murmurs. L. S. Fisher

cock a doodle, dont ask, its obvious

the alarm clocks of childhood are all set to protest a Christmas aunt tattoos a kiss on your cheek uncle wraps you in his celebration-best Hawaiian shirt

will their presence will be different this year different as your body? youve circulated a wish list a list to be accepted as serious literature

but never is after festivities, your chances of Dad saying yes to a garage sale are greater than sum of all your never-used gifts, the combs, the handkerchiefs and now

incongruous timepieces, a cartoon clock from your jovial aunt with a habit of laughing every half hour, your uncles antique alarm in mock-crocodile and gold for the budding collector

have crocodile, will travel, but why these generous monstrosities, gifts from sisters and brothers of your parents people with power to punish their sentences

rival siblings with a claim on history and a miners license to explore their version of events, the how and why of fathers scar, mothers pessimism; relative people

who love you from a distance, watching out for the perfect present, rite of passage, responsibility and the rooster Margaret Owen Ruckert

deciduous his dealings with me if you see through the forest to the word deciduous youd think it robust decisive in its growth but words are the giants unreliable as leaves envelopes unopened he cultivated silence said he was studying computing for a job but to casual observers his computer offered more grin than grit end of summer he changes channels a new breed of sycophant might look for work in the mountain valleys reverse holography create your own hole he absorbed media like trees take to water theres a hungry half-world between city and rustic blank of expression hes someones son hes not a typical Margaret Owen Ruckert

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magazines as mood-prep a bottle of hair shampoo is 80% water according to an article which immersed me while waiting at an unknown doctors surgery I chanced the man after coming in contact with his highly infectious advertisement his degrees listed like tropical diseases perversely, I desired everything about him a time-slot in his professional life, his art gallery a magazine from his timeless collection being new, I craved a phrase to prepare me for his variable fees and his prognosis shampoo is 80% water was suitably shocking ~~~~~ finally inside, I learn why doctors are fast learners while I undress in one cubicle of a room he works a patient in the other he strips you of every laypersons word terms you possibly read while waiting he translates to medico-lingo while you watch your pulse, I have finger pimples and a rash, he suggests I switch my brand allegiance my condition is related to strong shampoo he suggests I come back in a month if it persists even if it doesnt, I could have my protein levels rebalanced, blood enhanced, wallet scanned next time I visit a doctor Ill expect a waiting room enduring magazines as placebos, free water and no discount for a multi-user Margaret Owen Ruckert

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With swamps, quiet is not a quiet word Gentle is far more the adjectival tonic. Quiet drinks at the end of a workaholic day in a back bar-garden or finds herself trailing wistful fingers in the ripples of a lake, watching the sun disappearing like a distant cousin; she drifts through maternity wards where mothers are scheming, peeps into nurseries, library cubicles, cuts off her feet and blushes that the reading room might hear her think. One night, she rows with quiet awe to reach the backwater of her birth. People had warned, Keep away from the swamp. She goes alone. But is that a bird or pig? Monstrous frog? A night of honks and squeals. Quiet moans till morning, rips the language seal from her lips and lets fly Q-U-I-E-T. The water explodes. Shes two-faced liar. Margaret Owen Ruckert

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