It's Been a While Since My Last Post

The Orb of Infinity

A few months back my granddaughter and I had an idea for a book that we should write together. India is eight years old and by her ninth birthday would like to have finished a 30,000 word manuscript where a character with her name is the hero. 

Here is just a taste and part of a rough first draft.

Chapter One

The soft green glow from the digits of clock on India’s bedside table had only blinked three am when a flash of silver and blue light filled the room. She woke to the feel of someone blowing softly on her cheek, stoking her hair and the soulful voice urging her to wake up.

‘Princess, it is written that you are the chosen one and you must come at once.’ A person no bigger than India’s arm was bending over her, repeating the plea.

Believing it to be a dream India tried pulled the bedclothes over her head and follow these visions until morning. The covers as if pulled by an invisible thread, rolled back.

Having gained India’s attention, she spoke, ‘My name is Xlora, special envoy to the Prime Minister of Astranada,’ then standing back, bowed. ‘and ten centuries ago it was written that one would come and free our people from the tyranny of Rahn.’ Xlora took her gloves off and hoping India would not fall back into sleep, slapped them against her thigh ‘You Princess India, are the chosen one and just as the ancients decreed. You will come.’

India started shaking, and fearing another nightmare sat on the edge of the bed. Her feet feeling for her slippers. Xlora used her frog like index finger and thumb to prise India’s eyes open, it was no use as India slipped back into a slumber. Taking a vial from the pouch on her belt and waved it under the girl’s nose. India looked around as an aura of calm washed over her.

She looked at the voice’s owner, a person no taller than her favourite doll was standing in front of her. Xlora wore a silver-blue flying jacket, an airman’s helmet, leather pants and flying boots with stiletto heels. Everything matching, only her navy-blue cravat broke the monotony of colour. Even her skin was silvery, her eyes and lips matched the cravat.

‘Go away, I have school tomorrow.’

‘You’ll have time for school later, tonight we have a planet to save.’

India reached for the light switch. ‘I’d better tell Mum.’

Xlora’s hand stopped her. ‘We have no time for that, quick we must go now.’

‘We’ll be back before they all wake up.’ She opened the closet, ‘now what have we got for you to wear?’ The envoy tut-tutted, saying, ‘No that just won’t do.’ pulling things out, one after another until a mountain of clothes covered the floor. ‘Stand still, we’ll need to kit you out and, Uniforms On-line won’t cut it.’

Pointing to the mess in her room, India said. ‘Who’s going to put all of this back?’

‘It’s a little girl’s room, they’re always messy.’

‘Put all of it back now.’ She managed through a yawn.

Clicking her fingers Xlora huffed, ducking and stepping out of the way as India’s clothes flew back to where they came from.

‘You’ll just have to come in your pyjamas. We’ll have to pick up something on the way.’ She took India’s hand and snapped her fingers again. ‘We have to hurry.’ And with that, she started rubbing the screen on India’s iPhone until a whirlpool appeared, took India’s hand and stepped into the swirling black hole of nothingness engulfing the room.

Father's Day

Lionel & Terry Probert 1949
Symes Home
Government Road Orroroo
South Australia

It takes awhile to appreciate
all the things that made you great
Meeting mum then the wedding
and making a home
Showing me through thick and thin
You'd be there
No matter the trouble I was in

I was nearly thirty the night you died
And the way I felt I could not hide
It was your funeral first
and things to do
A million things to fill my mind
all the tasks I took for granted
Blossomed in the seeds you planted

Now sitting here on Father's Day
To talk to you and the things I'd say
I'd show you photos of my family
Their homes their cars
But most of all
I'd show you photos of
My grandchildren growing tall

To young to die when you went away
Your values make me
The man I am today

A Marriage

 A MARRIAGE

The Pain You Bear, Is the Pain We Share

It’s that pleasure and pain time again

Her head will for days now thump

She lifts her hand to feel blood pump

It’s been with her a long long time

She smiles and says

“Long enough to call it mine”

I look at her and she at me

Pain was writ where her smile should be

She’s tried a vast array of pills

Pounded pavement round the doctors

And paid their bills

It’s not a migraine or so they say

Take this pill and it’ll go away

Another year and the pain’s still there

And silver streaks highlight her hair.

Her smile is still where it belongs

And she takes my hand and makes me strong

I find comfort in what she can do

She smiles and gives my hand a squeeze

And we turn our faces to the breeze

While the sun begins to set upon our life

I gaze at her and see all the wonder

And the beauty of you, my wife

EDNA PROBERT
Orroroo
1948

Autograph books tell us a lot

This is an entry my father Lionel Probert wrote in his Sister in Law's Autograph Book, I'm led to believe that it's his work, but can't be sure. What it does do is express the loneliness Aussie servicemen felt when they were away fighting. I'm just thankful he made it home and met my mother.

Take a moment to put yourself on a Pacific Island in 1942 then read these words and reflect on our own situation today.

Author's Lament (first draft)

My pride and joy from a former life has nothing to do with my yarnspinner's life today, but it reminds me of who and what I was, in the spring of yesterday

AUTHOR'S LAMENT

So I got a little story

And this much is what I know

Hours and hours of writing

Before it’s good enough

For the editor to go

Then back to me

And back to she

Edits by the score

Until at last it’s finished

In a package by the door.

Then off to beta readers

To tell us what they like

Or tell us what is wrong

And all the time

I wring my hands

And sing a simple song

Please oh please mister publisher

Take my letter from your pile

And please don’t

Consign it to the bin

For it took a lot of time to create

The character and plot

Just to drag you in

With my finger on the send button poised

The whole shebang has gone

To somewhere in an editor’s office

Where I hope you’ll take

Just a minute of your time

To read the cover letter

And synopsis of the plot

Because after months of writing

This is the best I’ve got

Honey Hush

When I wrote this poem a few years ago, I was thinking about the joy this little boat brought to me and my friends as we sailed the waters of Fisherman's Bay in South Australia. 

A Rainbow Class yacht Dad bought for David and me, David was caught under the sail in a capsize and never wanted to get in the boat again.

Brian Tiller, David Kent, Trevor Moore and many more mates terrified water skiers as we fought for space on the deep water in the small bay. 

Honey Hush, I loved you to bits.

SIXTEEN

It was a girl

She was sixteen

Her dad’s old guitar

And ripped blue jeans

She strummed old strings

We sang along

It was a boy

He was just fifteen

A red sailing boat

For his summer’s dream

His gaze she held all night

We watched on

It was a boat

As dawn broke golden

And soft white sails

Her name emboldened

Slow waves on morning tide

We did not see

It was new love

On summer breezes

Days just drifted by

Seaweed sand and evening breezes

No one he loved more than she

We saw it all

Old Symes Family Photos

Having all sorts of fun trying to edit the old black and whites from almost one hundred years ago, found one of Harold William Symes taking a bit of time out. I'm not too sure about his bed, even for 1940 those pine posts look a bit uncomfortable. This is taken alongside the house in Government road Orroroo, not long before he died.
Harold left behind a family who followed in his footsteps believing in his example of his hard work and Christian ethics.
A highly social man Harold loved his sport and did everything from Tent Pegging, Tennis, Clay Pigeon shooting, to organising athletic events.

Andrew William and his wife Doris Elizabeth Symes
 my great grandparents, cut a proud pose for the camera

This photo shows Edna and Beth Symes decked out in their Sunday finery, Mum still has he plaits here, but later at her sister Aileen's insistence, they were severed. She has always liked her hair and the amount of curlers and driers in her Fifth Street bathroom are testament to that.