CJ Dennis was a poet we studied at school and last weekend while in Laura I took a photo of his statue.
They were having a country music festival there and I'm sorry I missed it. However, this morning prompted by photos one of my friends had posted on Facebook, a poem started forming in my mind. It's still rough, but in recognition of the Sentimental Bloke, here is my ode to the Flinders Ranges.
For you CJ
I hear your hills a callin'
Callin' me back home
To see my friends and family
And stop this ache in my heart
When I feel sad and alone
So somebody please
Write me a letter
Send me a card
Sing me a song
When I feel lost
And times are hard
I feel your pull
You are the mighty Flinders
Place of my birth,
I'll keep missing you
And your people so badly
Until that sweet day
I’m returned to your earth.
Terry L Probert is a novelist and shortstory writer. His debut novel KUNDELA earned a commendation in the 2013 FAW Christina Stead Award. Currently looking for an agent/publisher to bring any of his novels to print, Terry is a member of the Fellowship of Australian Writers, Writers Victoria and SA Writers. Terry is active in his local literary community. His Short Story Banib the Bunyip placed second in the City of Melton Short Story Competition 2013.
Thursday 4 August 2016
Friday 15 July 2016
Dave the Slave
I found a note I had scribbled onto a piece of paper when I was working on business names some time ago. I threw the paper out today and before I knew it, a few lines rolled themselves into a ball and came out of my fingers as a poem. It needs work, but here are a few rough first lines.
Dave, everyone thought he was slow
Because at school his grades were low
Teachers gave him extra work
Soon the target of the high school Jerk
But Dave was a thinker strong and kind
Tuesday 12 July 2016
A Novel Writer's Blues
Rain and hail beats a
heavy tune
The wind rips outside
my winter room
And like a banshee does
wail
I’m trying hard to
force the flow
But my chapter just won’t
grow
Yesterday I had that
gift
But today I just don’t
know.
Words that tempted me
when I young
Haunt me now like songs
we sung
Today every sentence written fails
I tap the keys time and
time again
Read my margin notes scratched
in pen
Where is this gift I’m
sure I had
Why today are my words
so bad
A ray of sunshine tries
to sneak through
Rain and wind soon wipe
away a sky of blue
Write something else I
tell myself
A song a rhyme to find my
flow
Advice for others if
their words were slow
But what’s it worth,
advice for free
Story of an angry day
and stormy sea
Heavy the rain still beats
its tune
And wind still rips outside
my writer’s room
And like a hundred banshees
does wail
Still trying hard to
force the flow
But this chapter still
won’t grow
Yesterday I had the
writer’s gift
Yet today I’m lost, I
just don’t know
Saturday 9 July 2016
Loneliness and Laughter
I found this poem today and gave it a bit of a polish. I have posted it as Pop before, but have changed the title today to bring it more in line with the message.
If anyone wants to play with the rhythm and the beat to make it work better, please feel free to have a go.
He was grey, he was old
If anyone wants to play with the rhythm and the beat to make it work better, please feel free to have a go.
He was grey, he was old
And in the lines on his face
His story is told
Spotted with age and hands bony
thin
His life’s story is written on him
His mind still holds his memories so sharp
Has no time for tears
For love beats his heart
On his front porch he sits all alone
Black tea cools a cup and he’s holding the phone
It rings and he answers and answers again
A smile crosses his lips, and it's hello old friend
He shuffles, he snuffles and sometimes
he creaks
Says there's no time to grumble,
When it's friendship he seeks
When it's friendship he seeks
He starts in the morning, at a quarter to
ten
You'll see him each day
He's out there again
He's out there again
Humming while he’s
dialling
And phoning a friend
He’s laughing because of
Another story to tell
Another story to tell
A group of old friends
All denying their Gods or the Devil
All denying their Gods or the Devil
Swift passage to heaven or hell
Another day’s passed
He wanders inside and thinks of his day
He smiles because
It doesn't matter that little was done
He wanders inside and thinks of his day
He smiles because
It doesn't matter that little was done
Everyone, laughing and lying
About deeds that they’d done
The sun's set and changed into
night
Is he lonely you ask him
And he says that he might
And he says that he might
But only after he kisses her photo
And turns off the light
And turns off the light
Tuesday 7 June 2016
TED Talk
Today I watched an inspirational TED Talk from a young man who, with limited education and resources, decided to change his world.
Take a look at his story:
William Kamkwamba - How I Harnessed The Wind
Take a look at his story:
William Kamkwamba - How I Harnessed The Wind
Thursday 19 May 2016
First Synopsis --VOSS
Over the last couple of days and I'm 6,000 words into this novella. However as the new characters begin to take their part and the story forms I thought it best to rough out a synopsis to develop the story plan from.
Barry Voss might be frightened by
death, but it’s murder when he’s at his best.
The woman with her face blown off
is his ex-wife. He knows once his superiors find out, he will be dragged form
the case. For Voss to solve this he needs help from outside and it comes from an unlikely source of Gerry, a fifty-something, ex-entrepreneur and living on the street.
Estelle watched her
husband die the death of a thousand cuts before being assassinated gangland style.
Canberra is a small
city of itinerant politicians and lawmakers. It has an undercurrent of crime
like all cities so in this town, the news is mainly political. However, this is one case that will be hard to keep
out of the news, Estelle’s husband, now a political adviser to cabinet was
tortured before she was killed and it appears, his tormentors left him to bleed out.
Voss only has to figure
out why, because he knows the how, to find the killers.
Forensics turn
up keys to a converted warehouse. It is a movie lot, not unusual, Canberra has
a thriving porn industry, but not something someone would consider a person of Judge Tony Peters calibre to be associated with.
Voss is called to the scene of a random shooting on the A25. The driver of a
silver Mercedes has been shot in the head while travelling at speed. Four
murders in two days. Voss knows he has to work fast because this victim is
connected to the warehouse.
Taken from the case with the body count is building, Voss is annoyed and feels betrayed by his boss. Detective Sergeant Lucy Nguyen knows better than
involving him, but she is loyal and uses the medical examiner to pass
on information.
Voss, determined to keep
the promise he has made to Estelle’s mother, looks back through other unsolved
murders looking for a link. He knows if he finds it he can work outside
his jurisdiction to bring the killers in.
Tuesday 17 May 2016
After my nightmare I have a new character meet - VOSS
After a nightmare Sunday night I woke with the shivers, but it did give me an Idea for a character in a detective story. I'll let Barry Voss introduce himself in his own way.
I
walked into the bathroom, Estelle my wife had just stepped out the shower, at
first I wondered why she would be showering at this time of the day. She yelled
at me to leave. I didn’t wait long for my answer to why. Tony Peters, defence
lawyer and former schoolyard sweetheart met me at the bedroom door. All
boxer-shorts and suspenders he looked like he’d been caught out by the head
boy. I guessed this was not the first time, he had seen the colour of my sheets
but it would the last.
‘Voss,’ He said.
I waited for him to search his gilt edged brain for
something original and unscripted. There was nothing. Word around the court is
that the slippery bastard needs a team of underlings making bullets for him to
fire. I had been up against him more than once, he could twist and turn like a
scalded snake, but he only won as half many as he lost. I would evil eye the
crim during his cross examination of my testimony. My thing was to make faces at
the bloke in the dock while Slippery Peters painted these pricks to depict something
like a scene on the ceiling of the Cysteine Chapel. Gimme a break. Now here he
is in my house, screwing my wife, in my bed and he’s lost for words. I want to
grab him by the balls and twist.
‘God what’s that stink?’ He said.
‘Oh that’s me. Here hold this,’ He took my jacket.
‘Recyclers pulled a body out of the garbage exchange, looks like it had been in
a wheelie-bin for weeks. Gut burst when the ME rolled it over, don’t know who
she is yet, but your holding onto part of her now.’
It must have been instinct because he threw my
jacket across the room. ‘Oh fuck he said it’s all over me now.’ He went to push
past only I blocked his path. Estelle, come and ask your Neanderthal to move
before I have to deal with him.’
He probably didn’t hear her answer because I hit him
with a right cross to his solar plexus and caught his face with my knee as he
doubled over. I wiped the gunk off my suit with his shirt and trousers, shoved
all I owned into a suitcase and left. That was ten years ago.
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