Responses to the Geelong Writers Ekphrastic Challenge #4
Entanglement (image by Jenny Funston)
We invited everyone – members and non-members alike – to respond to the Entanglement image and we publish the best entries below, for your enjoyment.
We thank all those who accepted our invitation to submit to us using up to 300 words, an original response to this image ‘Entanglement’ (Photograph courtesy of Jenny Funston)
We publish below the work of the following contributors, and congratulate them on their varied submissions on the entanglement theme. In particular, we welcome new contributors to our challenge. Thank you all for your tangled tales.
David Bridge Howard Osborne Rosi Kurt-Weller Mary Szymanski
Catherine Mahar Allan Barden Jan Price Hilary Guest
Katrina Debby Kerstin Lindros Bev Blaskett Gail Griffin
Ian Stewart Glenys Robins-Ward David Jones Russell Abbott
Deb Lucas Adam Stone Lynne Tatam Dulara J.
John Heritage Caroline Florence Pauline Rimmer Phoebe Rose
Julie Edmonds John Margetts Geoffrey Gaskill Iris Quinn
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Lost and Found
The remains of my wife’s woven hanging basket lay strewn on the deck, torn apart by the storm. Of the planter there was no sign. It was only when my wife phoned from work and told me that the pot had been her hiding place for our spare front door key that I developed a serious interest in its fate.
The odds of it being found and the key linked to our door seemed relatively thin, but the bother of replacing the lock and a number of others keyed alike enlarged my sense of our fates being intertwined, or at least bound by visions of the hardware store bill and hours of prying out screws embedded in layers of paint.
The planter had been a plastic affair, and minus its payload, it could easily have taken flight beyond our garden. Following the direction of the wind, I concentrated my search along the receiving fence. Ineffectually scouring the ground amidst a multitude of seemingly identical plants, tempted me to await my wife’s return, but there was one option left.
My son’s simple metal detector lay abandoned in the shed and miraculously beeped once a new battery was inserted. Four hours, twenty nails, and umpteen ring pulls later, I found the key embedded in a root clump. With a glow of accomplishment, I burnished the corroded trophy and secured it in a lock box screwed into the wall.
Proudly, I revealed my endeavours to my wife. Her pleasure turned to puzzlement as she inspected the key. “John, it’s not ours.” The remains of the hanging basket confirmed it as one given to our neighbour. “That’ll be Mrs Jenkin’s key.”
And so it proved. Five more ring pulls later, I climbed in the car and set off to the hardware store.
David Bridge
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Strange visitor
It is a puzzle, set by someone deranged
And almost a jigsaw in three dimensions
Perhaps reflecting a disordered universe
Or thought processes twisted by a curse
As if beset by unwelcome interventions
With fantasy and reality now estranged
A ball carrying a quite disturbing vision
What started out straight now are bent
Sharp needled twigs that prick a thumb
No sensible explanation seems to come
Suggested overtones of a wicked intent
As strange haunting images have arisen
One wonders what was trapped within
A tortured life held in a cage of thorns
Now empty, it seeks another to capture
Perhaps by casting some spell of rapture
But alone with it here, realisation dawns
All kinds of weird magic may just begin
It’s a strange presence one will concede
There’s a hint of dust on the cabin floor
A warm dry wind blows in from outside
Perhaps it merely came in here to hide
But I’ve seen things just like this before
A sigh of relief, as it’s only tumbleweed
Howard Osborne
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Entanglement
Nest of birds?
Crown of thorns?
Dead twigs twisted and dry on their own
But like Aaron’s rod that budded
Harbor promise of new life.
Rosi Kurt-Weller
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Labyrinth
Father and son searched for dodder vine. To make the unruly open-weave baskets his father sold at markets.
Small boy fallen in bushland. Air knocked from lungs by the slip and plunge. Foot caught in a snare of awkward tangles. Tasting earth and slapped by twigs. Dirt and bugs at eye level. A shifty land of imagined monsters.
He panicked. Scrambled against imagination. Trapped in a jumble of dodder vine and roots. Tried to call out. Voice absent, refused to function. Where was his father? Began to cry. An eternity. Clothes damp, hands cold and muddied. Tried to push upwards but his body refused, stuck on a carpet of leaf litter. Painful warmth in ankle and heel.
And then, ‘Where are you son? The ute’s full.’
A flood of sobbing relief. Voice unchained in anguished tears for rescue. Loud and shrill in nature’s labyrinth. Then freed and lifted into the strength of fatherhood. Soft male banter of consolation. And it was okay to be a crying boy, a slobbering child.
No one loved him more.
Saw the landscape from a new perspective. Way up high from the twined arms of his protector. Warped trunks and snaking branches. Eucalypts reaching untidily, praising the cool winter sun. Fragments of cloud and sky.
Leaves sparkled like wet eyes. A petite yellow bird skipping boughs in winter song. And the breeze, soft like a father’s murmur to a son.
Then he saw the woman with her bundle of dodder vine held close to her body. He frowned as his father’s voice put all in order and comfort. She turned and withdrew into the web of scrub. Gone.
His father’s gift of protection, instinctively tainted and smudged in that moment.
‘Now we can finish the basket we left on the veranda, son.’
Mary Szymanski
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The things we do for love
It was a matter of pride, getting this thing right, working from a corner of nowhere. He was a young god, assigned the task of making a world. He began with air, but it didn’t hold. Thought was next but it flew away as fast as he put it together. Hope followed but it proved unstable.
Renewing his efforts, he teased apart a black hole and drew out photons. Their beauty and brilliance were dazzling but they wanted for a name. Humbly he went to a greater god to ask how to name something. “Use your imagination”, the old one said.
He named it light. So pretty, sometimes blue, sometimes black. He waved his arm in a great circle and made things he named firmament and ocean.
Now came the hard part. Something solid to be in the light. Something he could love that would love him. He travelled to the next universe, half-built, still chaotic (managed by a school friend), and begged for some soft, loose sticks. He entwined them into an airy orb and in it he placed a tiny bud of green growth. So much fun creating things.
Ordering a sun, moon and stars to sweep through the firmament, he made more light
From his corner of nowhere he toyed with the idea of what else the light would shine on. He created a tiny animal under the bud. Soon there would be swarms of living creatures. So simple and yet magnificent.
Our little god had been a lonely boy at school. Some company would be nice. Weaving his magic thoughts, he made a thing with arms and legs. It was quite a success, so he made another. He made a garden and placed them there, then he rested, unseen but near, and he was content.
Catherine Mahar
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Entangled grief
She wakes each morning to the weight of his absence. It isn’t just the silence of the house, or the stillness of his room, but the deep hollow that pulses behind her ribcage. Grief resides in her body, an invisible companion that walks with her through the hours, entangling her very being and all her thoughts. At Coles, she buys food for one less, but her hand still reaches for the pastry for his much loved curry puffs. In conversation with others, she nods and smiles, careful not to let her voice break. One day follows another, unbothered by her heartbreak.
There are days she feels like she’s treading water – slow, uncoordinated, detached. Bills don’t stop. Neighbours still smile as if nothing has changed. It’s in these moments, the contradiction of grief bites most: how life goes on, even when hers has been upended.
She has learned to carry it, not move past it. Some mornings, she presses her forehead to the bathroom mirror and whispers his name into the glass fog. Other days, she cooks, volunteers at the Temple, or tends the garden more ferociously than required. These small tasks keep her grounded, remind her that she is still here – among the living.
People say time heals. She doesn’t really believe it does. How can that be? But time does seem to soften, ever so slowly, but nevertheless it does. It makes room for memory without immediate pain. She laughs more now, and the guilt doesn’t bite quite as hard. She’s not okay. Well, not exactly. She read recently that many dolphins die from entanglement in fishing nets, but she’s still functioning, still battling on, despite her own entanglement. She’s learned that grieving and surviving are not opposites – they’re twin paths, moving forward together.
Allan Barden
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The crown
Oh! The journeys
You have survived
over land and water!
What an entanglement
of protectors
You selected
to carry You
through
the Centuries!
One of which was
Napoleon Bonaparte
who removed You
from Notre Dame
and stored You
in the National Library
then delivered
and reinstalled You
back to Notre Dame
upon the signing
of that Treaty.
But now
Notre Dame
has burst into flames!
Again
You are being saved
by a fast-thinking priest
leaving You
on a decking-ramp
about 12 Franks away
from a water puddle
left after an attempt
to put the fire out
while the priest
returns into the burning
Cathedral
to save other relics.
Perhaps one day
if Notre Dame is rebuilt
the Crown will be
reinstated and the Thorns
will regrow.
© Jan Price
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Fate
Her father assured her that she would be settled for life when she went ahead with the marriage. Her desire to stay at school was impossible, he said: “I have four more daughters to feed, as well as their dowries. It is a good family, respected in the village…They have even accepted fewer cows than is usual.”
She enjoyed the ceremony: the procession, the dress, the Fire Ritual, the feast, all went well. There was pain that first night, but it was over quickly. She saw her husband for the first time, a short, quiet man – he spoke little. He did not look at her; not in bed, not out of it.
It was his mother who glared at her, complained of her cooking, her cleaning, her lack of beauty. He acted like a pale shadow of his mother’s wishes, a doppelgänger who shuffled round the house, never disagreeing with her shrill endless attacks.
The elders conferred together at mealtimes, eating her food, avoiding her eye. That they were plotting against her was obvious, but she was powerless. To go back to her family would bring shame to the people she loved.
Dully she recognised her future. A motorbike would tear through the village, knocking her over. A kitchen fire. Acid in her face. A fall out in the fields. An accident. Unmourned. These things happen, every day they happen. And for her in-laws? Another girl, another dowry.
The appearance of the warm embrace of security would become her funeral pyre. Why weep? She continued, cooking, cleaning, opening her legs, bowing her head against her mother-in-law’s screaming, waiting for what would be.
Hilary Guest
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Seek the light
Missing pieces, yet to be returned
Damaged by too many to mention
Development turned to survival
Alternate pathways created to sustain life
Heart always open, though subtly guarded
Loving soul, not completely destroyed
Entwined is the pain and need for love
Search for the light, it is there
The dark does not exist without it
The future is yet to be determined
Surrounded by possibilities, endless
Hope can be seen all around
We are only fractured, not broken
Katrina Debby
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Never the same again
when young, we make plans
have ideas
ideals
as we push on
turn off the path, wander valleys
climb mountains
encounter twists
go in circles
we touch on with others – neutral, friend or foe
make choices, enter contracts – formal, or not
keep veering and weaving our story
and with every move, every decision,
every life event
every day
we change course
and the path can be traced back in the mind, but never
undone
for it is now profoundly intertwined
and life will never be the same again
WE
will never be the same again
Kerstin Lindros
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Fortunately
Fortunately, I see the coiled mesh at my door before it snares my feet. I side-step, dodging just in time. I cannot summon the confidence to kick it away. Involuntary and momentary panic jolts me as I halt my forward motion. My centre of gravity shifts at the mere thought that my feet might falter. I organise myself to avoid entanglements; my feet are in practical shoes.
Shaken, I scan the decking for other snags. I will choose a clear path, without complications.
The world is full of connection; everything occupies its place; each atom on its trajectory, an essential component in the interlocking continuum that enables a butterfly to flap up a hurricane.
Experience has shown me that connections can be positive, electric and supportive, but they can also be – or can become – constrictive and smothering. In seeking out like-minded people for meaningful, lasting connection, we may stumble on encumbrance and constraint.
Those who have experience of rigid constraint guard their freedom with great care.
With all my senses alert, I gather myself and step out. A million nerves blaze, basking in the sunlight, breathing in the fresh air, seeing diamond droplets light up along the casuarina needles, hearing birdsong and rustling in the slight breeze. Alive to possibility yet accepting the inevitable, I hold the whole of the day before me, with no appointments, no expectations, no demands. I relish the sweetness of liberty, the improbable chance that I find myself here, now. Although deeply ensnared in time and space, I feel myself ever more indebted to the universe for my existence.
Bev Blaskett
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Entangled
Alarm bells were ringing inside Lydia’s head. The machinations of the toing and froing of daily life around her seemed to fall silent. All she could hear now was the sound of her breath escaping. She became aware of the pulsative beating of her tinnitus. A tightness gripped her chest.
Then, like a jigsaw, the pieces were joining up and everything was starting to make sense. What she’d dismissed as being synchronicity was gradually becoming a clear string of planned, deliberate meetups. Orchestrated. Designed. Entangled. And all on Maddi’s part. It had to stop!
The big question though, was, how did Maddi always seem to know where she was?
For once, Lydia initiated their contact, texting: Bruno’s at 6. By the time she arrived, Maddi was already there. She greeted Lydia with ‘I ordered us both a risotto.’
‘How did you know that’s what I’d want?’ asked Lydia.
‘I guessed.’
‘Well, you guessed wrong.’
‘Sorr—ry. Had a bad day, did we?’
‘More than a bad day. A bad 3 months. With your stalking of me.’
‘Stalking?’ Maddi laughed. ‘Are you serious?’
‘You’ve been trying to manipulate me. How could you? I went to a computer techie before meeting up with you now. He found you’ve hacked my phone. You’ve been reading my messages. Watching me. Tracking me! He told me to wipe everything from my phone. My computer. I’ve had to lose all my photos. Contacts. Messages… What you’ve done is illegal.’
Scoffing at Lydia’s accusations, Maddi said, ‘Settle petal. You’re being more than a touch paranoid.’
‘Paranoid, am I? Well, you’re dangerous. Obsessed. Jealous. Any wonder you’ve no other friends. You’re trying to isolate and monopolise me. I don’t want to have any more to do with you. Consider us disentangled.’
Leaving Maddi behind, gobsmacked, Lydia exited.
Gail Griffin
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Enclosed
Enmeshed by tangled cords of cane
A space, love-filled, along with time
My hope, from you, a force sublime
Oh, would it be devoid of pain?
My thoughts, my longing, all in train
I aim at you, O love of mine
May I hope; no longer pine
Or must I promise, once again?
If it helps, my soul I’ll drain
Of all my love, in language fine
No need, you say. My love is thine!
Upon you daily it will rain
Relief is strong, and smiles are broad
To have those words, and such accord.
Ian Stewart
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Working my way out
Life is full of entanglements. The tall poppy syndrome sometimes comes from the envious people who get on my goat and always want to pull me down, no matter how hard I try to climb.
It can be a thorny road when I try to climb through the branches of life. It has certainly been that way with my life, but as each thorn that scrapes the side of my leg, I have found the courage to patch the wound and continue.
Many times, the thorns have pinched me hard, and many times, it has been harder to get those tiny little spikes out. Even though they hurt, I continue and let those nasty wounds subside.
For many years, I have flown solo in my life. My children have all grown, and one or two have passed on, but those who are left have been a tower of strength to me. Now I know the next generation has reaped my strength and endurance, made their mark on society, and raised their own families, with some getting nearer to adulthood than I would like, as this makes me feel older than I want to be.
So, when I think of the entangled lives that I have led and those of some of my forefathers and foremothers, I thank my lucky stars that I am still able to write about them and do the creative things that I do in a small way.
Glenyse Robins-Ward
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The kraal
Entwined truths
of woven lies
a thicket formed of branch and thorn
circle of words and prose
The thorny crown
upon yolden heads
acquiescence to deluded mores
Placed by twisted minds
to keep thoughts in?
or to keep thoughts out?
A crude line of faggots form
this kraal in which we dwell
woven gyves
of chosen words
Within this circle we lie
sup our fill on ‘Victory Gin’
free from veracity of that beyond
Our minds kept in
locked without
our minds kept out
of this kraal in which we repose
David Jones
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The little red car
Mike lived on, and operated, a Hotel Barge on the Thames River.
Mike tied up downstream for the night ready for tomorrow’s charter. Strong winds were forecast so he lowered the large main anchor for extra protection. On a whim he also put down the smaller stern anchor.
Early next morning he untied the mooring lines, wound the bow anchor onboard and started to proceed upstream, however after a few metres the barge slowed dramatically barely making headway, more power to the big diesel didn’t help. Concerned that the propeller had been fouled he looked back over the stern only to see a small red car following closely behind. The morning mist on the river added to this surreal sight. Mike put the barge into neutral, went back on deck to send through, what he assumed was a rarely seen amphibious car. However it had disappeared again, “must have gone back downstream”.
So Mike began his slow way upstream once more. A few minutes later he looked astern and the red car was back! He stopped the engine and the car disappeared again! What was going on!
Then he realised what had happened, he had neglected to pull in the stern anchor which had now hooked a submerged car that had been dumped into the Thames. No wonder the Barge was struggling to make headway. Mike shut down the engine and drifted back, the red car sank with his anchor entangled within the car. He cut the anchor chain. The car then sank, along with his entangled anchor.
He collected his guests from the Red Car and Anchor Pub.
All aboard and they started their cruise up the Thames River.
Russell Abbott
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15 Days
‘The Scream of Nature’
[Der Schrei der Natur] a painting by Edvard Munch
15 days it took, a slip in the shower a gash to your head
15 days it took, advocating for you dying in your bed.
A cauldron of emotions all simmering in my head,
I called you my Dad for 55years, yet you were more
of a Jekyll and Hyde, garrotted and twisted inside.
Your truth, your beauty, mouldering in a dank prison cell
you escaped for a time, you crossed continents, a breadth of air
but your prison was vast, a clinging construction of cells, universal.
You managed a life, long with a wife, children, a house and garden
your garden of sweat, your garden of pleasure, your garden of tears
your truth, your beauty exposed, in the lushness of a red rose.
Then, the inner torment, ‘The Scream’ eking from Edvards’ painting
like a twisted ti-tree shaped by fury, of the wind-borne sea.
Altered, you became someone else, something other
than the man I imagine with joy, frolicking in his own Eden.
15 days it took, smiling with you dancing your secret in bed
15 days it took, with rainbow-coloured angels in your head…
Deb Lucas
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Relics
‘Matthew, Mark, John! Will one of you come and clean up this mess? And I’ve asked you for a millennium, please don’t leave the crown of thorns lying around. Tomorrow is the first Friday of the month, and you know what that means – we need to have it back at Notre-Dame tonight. The worshippers will go spare if it’s not there. You know how passionate your father is about his work, and he takes a great risk letting you play with it. If he got caught, he’d surely lose his job.’
‘Yes, mum,’ the three boys mutter in unison.
‘You do realise,’ the mother continues, that they didn’t sift through the sands of Egypt so you could disrespect such a relic. Discarding it on the deck, like it was a broken toy. Well, I never! It’s a wonder the birds haven’t come for it. Too thorny, I suppose.
Now, you can redeem yourselves if you return the crown to your father and apologise.’
And with that, the triumvirate sheepishly enters their father’s den, each with a hand delicately placed on the crown. They kneel before him, heads bowed, and utter a quiet, but meaningful apology.
‘That’s alright, my sons. Just be careful, eh? Now, here’s a piece of timber and some nails to hone your carpentry skills.’
Adam Stone
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Cycles
Winds whistle around my naked body, the sound is plaintive, almost mournful. An ancient promise of things to come…
My babies, tiny sleeping buds, are lying quietly, waiting for spring’s arrival. One by one, coaxed by the warming sun, they burst into dazzling, green jewels, quickly covering their proud mother. Small birds find shelter under welcome, leafy shade, nesting and raising their young.
Bees buzz and hum, heralding summer’s return. Verdant green, my canopy shimmers in the heat, while butterflies dance crazily on a slight breeze. Late summer, I feel a change; the children are restless, preparing to leave. Sighing, as sadness nips at my soul, this is the way of things, the cycle of life.
Melancholy, I watch autumn arrive, touching all before it with creeping decay. The air is damp; frost covers the hard ground. A flock of birds migrate to warmer climes, their iridescent wings glow in the dying sun. My children, in their brilliant vestments of red and gold, shiver as one by one, they pull away. Some fly into the cloudy sky, tossed around by strengthening winds, whilst others lie tangled, caught in my thick branches. A mother’s unwillingness to let them go until they, too, succumb to the earth’s pull,
Winter marches in, harsh and unforgiving, bringing gales and blinding snow. Eventually, all sound is muffled by deep, white drifts, nothing stirs in this pristine world.
I’m weary, it’s time to sleep, and contemplate the new life ahead.
Lynne Tatam
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The briar arch
I hum to myself as I thread together bramble vines, paying no heed to the tiny scratches marking my skin from the thorns. They will heal soon enough, once my gathering is done, and the berries collected.
Daisy chains are pretty, but weak. One wrong movement and their frail stems snap between your fingers, petals falling limp. Brambles are much more efficient; when picked at the perfect time, the vines are thick and strong enough to withstand pressure, yet not too wooden so they snap easily, or are hard to mold, they are malleable, just pliable enough to weave them into baskets or wreaths.
As a bonus, they come with delicious blackberries, ripe and fit to burst, tart, sweet juice hidden in those beady little drupelets. Perfect not only to eat, but for potions too.
Unfortunately, they only grow on this side of the Briar Arch.
Only this season are they ready. The humans, oblivious as usual, do not understand their magic, and come at this same time of year to harvest them for themselves. It is why when I cross, with my bramble wreath and baskets to carry as many as possible, I must come as careful and as quickly as I deign, for the consequences for both me and this primitive species will be dire if they spy me outside the Faerie realm, on the wrong side of the Briar Arch.
So with these brambles, safe in the Faerie Realm, I pull my creation, a freshly woven bramble wreath, and place it in the hole I had dug in preparation and chant the incantation.
O Briar Arch,
with berries black and blue,
Part your brambles,
and let me through.
The arch opens and I step through, ready to harvest, when I hear-
“Who the hell are you?”
Dulara J.
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Our legacy
our legacy we gather
to fly south found materials
each northern winter twigs
to breed grass
the next generation leaves
in a variety woven together
of well designed structures from plans inherited
not build a safe
constantly mismanaged and secure
homes environment
with overworked for our young
underpaid to be nurtured
cutting corners and grow
at the behest of
money sucking developers
John Heritage
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Basket of memories
Nerys stood next to the roaring fire and tapped her old pipe against the edge of the mantlepiece, tipping its contents into the grate. Then, opening a small, battered tin, her fingers deftly pinched out threads of sweet-smelling tobacco. She’d always loved the smell of pipe tobacco, just as she’d always loved this place.
Built as a holiday cabin by her grandfather and tucked away on the edge of a secluded beach, it was now her home. Tiny but perfect – she’d filled it with a lifetime of memories, her few precious possessions, and the treasures she found on the beach.
Driftwood always caught her eye. Gnarled and twisted branches smoothed by the waves and bleached by the sun. They all found a place somewhere in her little home. But her most prized possession was the basket, which sat proudly by her rocking chair.
Fashioned over many months, it began with one sturdy branch. It reminded Nerys of her grandfather – strong, solid, supportive. Her grandmother’s, knotty, tough but beautiful, entwined easily with his. Her mother was next – a delicate, fragile twig which arched and curved gently, touching several others. And so it went on.
The last piece had been her sister Mary – stiff and difficult to bend – just like the day when, together, they’d found the coin on the beach which Mary refused to share but lost anyway, through the hole in her pocket, as she skipped to the lolly shop.
The people closest to Nerys were all there now, along with her most precious memories – the threads of her life woven into the driftwood basket – a little imperfect but beautiful – just as it should be.
Caroline Florence
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Reckless reaction
It was hot. So hot that even the flies were listless. I sat on the tailgate of my ute and watched a tumbleweed roll slowly across the dusty carpark. The garage was not open yet, so I had time to reflect on why I was sitting in the middle of nowhere instead of at home in the suburbs. It had started with a misunderstanding and escalated to an all-out fight.
Dad had a small business selling car accessories. It was my Saturday to work, but I couldn’t be bothered, so I conned my younger sister into covering for me. I signed the books so Dad would not know I wasn’t there.
It was working well until the money went missing.
‘Where did you put the takings, Debbie?’
‘Um, in the safe as usual, Dad.’
I looked at Karen, but she shrugged.
‘You remember putting it in the safe then? Are you sure?’
‘Um, I think so…..’
‘I called in this morning. Karen was there, not you?’
‘OK, I asked Karen to do my shift. It’s not a big deal!’
‘Money is missing! It is a big deal! You are so irresponsible!’
Long story short, Karen dobbed me in, Dad yelled, and I stormed out, got in my car and just kept driving. I was nineteen, too old to be yelled at. I had ignored numerous messages from home, determined to get a job and never return. The truth was, I was already regretting my decision. I needed my Dad! I picked up the next call.
‘Sorry love, please come home. Mum told me she came in and banked the money earlier.’
‘I’m sorry too, Dad. I shouldn’t have lied. Um, speaking of money, can you please transfer some money for fuel?’
We both laughed.
‘Sure, just come home safely.’
Pauline Rimmer
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Sandy feet
Like a fancy bottle of perfume
Or a top-shelf bottle of wine
You felt so out of reach
I sometimes want to give you up
Remove the sand from my clothes
Dry the sweat off my back
And move on
Finally, I would have a clean car
I would no longer miss outings with friends
Or leave parties early
Now that you’re here, though
I can’t stop thinking about you
I had always wanted to build myself up
To get better, to get stronger
To feel like I had achieved something
But nothing has made me feel more defeated
And nothing has occupied more of my time
Than you
Phoebe Rose
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Christmas blackbird babies
She was hosting Christmas. They’d be sheltered on the deck; the garden stretched before it, lush, treed, alive with birds. Preparations began. She decluttered the deck and cleaned the BBQ. On a table beside the BBQ, a maiden hair fern was thriving. She stopped to admire it; movement drew her closer. Hidden amongst the foliage was a blackbird on a nest incubating eggs, its eyes focused on her. She backed away to avoid stressing it.
Thoughts of the blackbird distracted her. When would its eggs hatch? Panic set in. Christmas celebrations were imminent. She feared their intrusion into the lives of the blackbird and its babies.
She considered moving the fern. But the blackbird had chosen to nest there.
So, she left it. Preparations continued. She was excited to discover three babies had hatched—when she checked the nest from the dining room window, the blackbird was caring for them, alert to its surroundings.
The day she heard the blackbird’s anguished cry frightened her. The nest was empty. The babies had fledged. Two survived. They were safe and uninjured. Sheltering in the corner of the deck. She resisted the urge to interfere by retrieving and returning them to the nest, hoping the blackbird would find them.
The next time she checked, the babies were gone.
Relieved, she looked forward to Christmas celebrations.
She shared the blackbird’s story at Christmas lunch, eliciting the predictable range of responses from compassion to disdain.
The birds continued to shelter, nest, and forage in her garden; she enjoyed their antics and their songs. Sometimes their lives became entangled, but she did her best to observe and respect Nature’s ways, despite the opinions of others.
She wondered if the Christmas blackbird babies had survived and were singing their songs in someone’s garden, maybe her own.
Julie Edmonds
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Entanglement
Tumbling Tumbleweed was the song’s name.
See them tumbling down
Pledging their love to the ground
Lonely but free, I’ll be found
Drifting along with the tumbling tumbleweeds.
Gene Autry, a Western from childhood days.
One was on the deck. Winter- wet merbau boards, sunroof dripping, it twitched to a breeze not to be felt. Strange. The Coonara crackled, warmth bathed me, roasting beans summoned.
Yet it stood on the deck, twitching, maybe alive? No. Sun wasn’t up, yet light blazed on its northern side, not melting the rime it sat on.
“The structural members of tumbleweed, Salsola tragus, are primarily its branches, which form a spherical, interlocking framework that enables the plant to roll with the wind. These branches often have barbs or hooks that latch together, creating a strong, truss-like structure that maintains the tumbleweed’s shape during movement,” says Asknature.org.
Six am, another chapter. another 1500 to put down; a character to kill off, a false trail to lie.
But why a tumbleweed? Maybe that was a clue to structuring this chapter –
‘branches often have barbs or hooks that latch together, creating a strong, truss-like structure that maintains the tumbleweed’s shape during movement’
Mug placed in the round stain of many other early mornings, its steam alternately revealing and hiding Salsola tragus outside on the deck as my keyboard bypassed conscious thought and dictated what sleep had generated.
It twitched in the corner of one eye.
Tap,tap,tap,tap.
Twitch.
From somewhere far away the words of a poem returned –
‘Though paths may twist and hope grows thin,
And doubts assail where faith has been,
Still burns a fire, soft and akin—
And yet, the light within’
I looked up chapter finished, neck stiff, coffee cold. Time to stretch.
But out on the deck the tumbleweed had gone.
John Margetts
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Entanglement
Well, I gotta tell ya, out here we’re a singing lot. Music. Always music. They don’t call us the singing cowboys fur nuthin. Just between you and me, they don’t call us the singing cowboys a-tall! Always get a laugh from the tourists over that one!
But we do like to sing. Lemme see. Hmm. Hm-Hm-Hm-Hm-Hm- Hmmm. Yup, yup. That’s it. ‘See them tumbling down …’ Bob Nolan and the Sons of the Pioneers right there. Then there was that fella way out west, a fella by the name of Jeff Lebowski in that there fillum. Hmm. Hm-Hm-Hm-Hm-Hm-Hmmm. Famous all over agin.
There’s probably lotsa songs about prairies, but I gotta say, right off the toppa my head I can’t think of many … There’s that Tumbling Tumbleweeds song.
But, song or no song, this is the first time I seed anyone who kept a tumble weed as a pet. Nearly bust my sides when I seed it out there. You startin a noo trend? Must be one of them big city things? Pet tumbleweeds? I remember hoola hoops a few years ago. And then there was those Tamagotchi things. And what about those ridicoolus pet rocks?
Just between you and me, I got more tumbleweeds at my place than you could poke a stick at. I reckon tumbleweeds is just like seagulls at a picnic. Can’t git rid of um. But, if you wants a few noo pets, just come on out. I’ll give all you can carry, or load on yur truck. Fur free.
You ever tangled with a tumbleweed? Nasty scratchy things. Always better in songs and the fillums.
Geoff Gaskill
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We thought love
On whorl of mind
not knotted,
wreath part-spherule
of my years
at night
with you.
Sunlight entwines shadows as
dream entwines memories.
Crossovers on the same plane,
level and inseparable.
The boards of sleep.
The waking into motes
going nowhere.
The day-to-day
broken orb language
filled by the empty spaces,
caught newly again;
old turn in turn
dry twist twirl
wed contained in
whorl of ideas.
Knit notes of hope,
airs of knowing, Muse,
around artistry bound.
Someone will twig.
Scions crowned you,
you growing bolder,
boldness becoming
eons found to
forming
without roots or shoots.
Hard to break. Easier to roll
with it. Spiral trap of worry ensnares,
ensures escape of truth.
Fingerprinting the future,
your accidental transgressions.
When you scattered my spiders
I silenced resentment
like dust settled.
So spins a skin of lies
into a skein of reason
to keep us together still
where minds’ whorls entwine.
Iris Quinn
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