Creative Connections

Michael Sinclair is not afraid to show what he can do
I wrote previously of having my work published as bush poetry, but also small poems for Creative Connections about disabled painters and their paintings. These four are what have been accomplished for 2011, and includes the artists and their paintings. Creative Connections is based in Western Australia and the work was obtained through WA Poets Inc. None of the artists were reserved in coming forth with their artwork. Magnificent people and so inspiring

Michael Sinclair is a resident at Charlesworth in Gosnells and loves his art. He has been working with Elizabeth, his assistant for over 18 months. In that time Michael has developed a very keen eye with regards to his decision with the use of colour, texture and creating various patterns.
This work Michael has selected a vibrant pallet of colour. To indicate which colour he wishes to use, Michael lifts his right arm slightly. Michael also selected the pallet knife rather than a brush for the main body of the painting. To make the selection he looks up to say no and looks down to say yes, when the right implement is produced. The dancing effect or movement with the horizontal lines to the lower half of the painting was achieved using a stick which we picked up from the outside bush area.
Michael enjoys his art sessions at the Kalamunda Community Learning Centre, following many earlier sessions done in his home environment. His art is always accompanied by his favourite music. Michael is a great decision maker, willing to take risks and enjoys the challenge of exploring new ideas. He was very clear that this work was the one that he wanted submitted for this exhibition and is happy with the final outcome.

Here is my arm - see the colour? A pretty hue.
My eye looks up; I paint it true.
Michael takes the risk and his work dances.
With his favourite disk, his work enhances.
He flourishes the brush in waving lines,
This artwork he loves and his face shines.
This for the exhibition he made very clear,
As he moved the brush in dots very near
the waving lines. Such dedication,
he paints away without hesitation.



This is Geoff Sykes and his work

Geoff Skyes – My name is Geoff I live on site at TCCP. I attend the ATE programme “Opportunities” 4 days a week. I love to be involved in all sorts of conversation with my family and friends. I enjoy going to the football and catching up with my family on the weekends. The Opportunities Staff gave me full assistance with my art work. They supported me to hold the paint brush and also moved the canvas around for me. I really enjoyed doing my artwork. I hope you enjoy it too.

A beautiful painting of sand and greenery
Is Geoff’s interpretation of scenery.
A helping hand is all he requires
To get the colours he desires.
A touch of blue between the green
Is the sky’s hue easily seen.
Roadways he did in shades of brown
With other colours portraying town.
There’s the footy field in a splodge of green.
Geoff paints of things where he has been


The beautiful Aboriginal Lana Davie and her painting

Lana Davie
Hi my name is Lana, I live in a group home with 4 others in Brentwood. I love to paint and draw, I like making friends and spending time with company, I like to visit the shops with friends, and love wearing my sunglasses. I am indigenous and like to look at my culture. I am loud, I love to be heard. I have painted a canvas using paints.

A delicate wild rose of soft green,
Surrounded by a pinkish sheen
Of gentle outback background
And pretty leafy scene.
Lana’s work, a dedication
To her people of this nation,
A land that is mostly brown,
Lana’s work is of its creation.


Portrait and artwork of Douglas hard

Douglas Hard
Hi my name Douglas Hard, I’m 55 years old,
One of my favourite things to do is go out for coffee and cake, I also like going to the gym, shopping, collecting photographs, painting and going flying on an airplane on holidays, I like visiting my mum down Mandurah and I like meeting new people, my painting is of Rascal my mum’s dog, I hope you like it.
Douglas

A smiling face holds a picture
Of a dancing dog carrying lettuce
And a carrot. Rascal in tincture,
With a blue hat to set us
On a journey of salad and carrot cake.
Douglas has painted joy in his picture
Of his Mum’s dog. Photos he’ll take,
And flying adds to his daily tincture.
Such a painting we enjoy,
Where Douglas applies his daily employ.

Mum

Mum darning socks in the winter sunshine in 1959. Backyuard of our home in Coolgardie

Mum outside the Tonkin Flats in Norseman in 1949 and wearing my crepe paper daffodil skirt around her head. She made it for me to attend a school concert the night before

Mum as a 13 year old in Perth in 1933

A cheesecake photo of Mum at Scarborough in 1937
This little poem of my Mum was published in the May 2011 Bullytin. Mum was a very difficult woman to write about and one can only write of the way one's childhood and teenage years resulted in the development of the woman, and that goes for myself also.

MUM
What can I say about my Mum?
Can I write the way she come
Across to me? Or should I say
Things that really don't hold sway?

You see, life was pretty tough for Mum,
She really hadn't had the life some
Others took for granted; life like,
Education, guidance, support since a tyke.

The prettiest lass that you ever saw
Brought the beaus to her beach-front door.
But it took a stranger, a traveling man,
To take her cartwheeling from the Scarborough sand.

Dad was smitten, his past life was sunk,
Mum thought he was a bit of a hunk.
Both their lives changed in an instant,
Though their lives through education was distant.

The marriage was short and a war was on.
Dad had roving eyes and liked bon ton,
Mum packed me up and with me went home.
No longer to the east would she roam.

She met another, her old life was over,
A kiwi man, a travelling drover.
Thus followed a life with eight kids;
Two little strangers and six that were his.

Nowhere really settled, WA their home,
Every few months packed up to roam.
Weekends and Fridays for Mum, boozey do’s,
But the new Dad taught me many good truths.

Memories of Mum are sadly, somewhat hazy,
I am inclined to think at times she was lazy.
She just wanted to be the good time girl,
And live a life that was all a-whirl

Mother and daughter, we drifted apart,
Our thinking different right from the start,
Bringing along heartache and many tears,
But we finally drew closer in her last years.
Bye Mum…

Australian Bookshelf

My blog entry for 27th April. And an atishoo to you
I’m an author, a writer, but when one is not feeling well, the head is thick (thick-headed takes on a new meaning ha!). But I must do something. Last week I wrote of a writer’s dilemma, this week I’m writing of a writer’s health....umm...well something like that

Everyone thinks that Queensland sun is had.
Great balls of fire! They must be mad!
Hardly the sun we’ve seen this year,
For always the sky is dropping a tear.

Spare me days! It’s getting hard to think
Cannot even find the pen and ink.
Nose is all running – I tell you true.
Get it together Colleen, what’s the matter with you.

Does anyone out there have days like that?
Think I’d better go and cuddle the cat.
Puss doesn’t want me. Now I’m in a stew
For goodness sake Colleen, what’s the matter with you!

Head is all fuzzy – where’s the written word?
A Wilbur Smith – good writer you’ve heard.
Not interested in following the African spoor.
Wind is so cold, shut the ruddy door!

So many tears are falling from the sky,
Its about time Someone wiped it dry.
Where’s the sun? Nobody knows.
Oh! Better go wipe my running nose.

Oh dear. I am sure there are others who suffer the same fate when faced with a cold. The Wilbur Smith I mentioned in the poem is Birds of Prey, and for the first time I was not enthralled by his writing, even though this is the story of the beginning of the Courtneys in Africa. Some writers try to cash in on their material that proved so popular, but fail to come up to standard. Perhaps they wrote in haste. Maybe it is something we all do. I have a book called Freedom’s Land by Anna Jacobs. Its not a well-written piece of work. This tells the story of settlers during the 1920s and the traumas one woman and her daughter found and how that daughter turned her life around. That gives the story charm. Birds of Prey faded into insignificance against the tide of life written by the popular novelist Anna Jacobs. Sorry Wilbur Smith. Must go and deal with my nose

Sam Irvine for Dad

In 1937, driving a Ford V8, Dad got stuck on the notorious North Road to Nullagine. Not that it could be called a road, ad it was a sandy, gravelly kind of nightmare inthe middle of stock route 9700 with a well about every 25 kilometres if one was lucky. There was also a major drought on, so there were no drovers shifting stock at the time. Ahead somewhere was the Meekatharra mailman, Sam irvine, and Dad knew it would be at least six days before he could expect irvine's return. Henearly brought! No food, and worst of all, vey little water. I wrote this poem of that time and included it in his biography that I am curently writing
DAD

With pharmaceutical cases packed to the door
Dad set off with his foot to the floor,
All the way up to Nullagine.
Ahead was the mailman, Sam Irvine.

1937, the track not the best,
His flat tires stuffed with spinifex.
As he travelled forth to Nullagine,
Behind the mailman, Sam Irvine.

The sand was soft with hidden rock,
He hit one with a bang with sudden shock.
On the deplorable track to Nullagine,
Thinking of the mailman, Sam Irvine

He was on Route 9700,
And wasn't feeling much like a hero,
Wheels down in the sand in the fierce sunshine,
Hoping for the mailman, Sam Irvine.

Because of the fierceness of Big Drought,
No way of getting any stock out,
Lonely on the track to Nullagine,
Needing the mailman, Sam Irvine.

Drought reigned so fiercely supreme.
Rain he did see only in a dream,
Sleeping on the track to Nullagine,
Waiting for the mailman, Sam Irvine.

Not far away reared Battle Hill,
No hope for help or anything, but still
He was stuck on the track to Nullagine,
Lagging behind the mailman, Sam Irvine.

Three oranges for moisture, and even they lag,
Behind his nearly-empty water bag.
Was this a message from the Divine?
Praying for the mailman, Sam Irvine.

Would Sao biscuits and sardines fill
An empty tummy without any swill?
Starving and thirsty on the stock-line
Waiting for the mailman, Sam Irvine.

Dad drank water from the radiator,
Daily feeling less a winning gladiator.
Broken down on the track to Nullagine,
Listening for the mailman, Sam Irvine.

Radiator water was almost done,
And Dad was frying in the sun.
Thirsty on the track to Nullagine,
Desperate for the mailman, Sam Irvine.

The dust drifts past in dizzy swirls,
The heats so fierce that leather curls,
Sweltering on the track to Nullagine,
Wishing for the mailman, Sam Irvine.

Roaring of engine and empty drums banging,
Shovels and swinging tow-ropes clanging.
Dancing on the track in the fierce sunshine.
Hearing the mailman, Sam Irvine.

Sam's big load couldn't really get higher,
Tied on with rope and fencing wire.
Standing on the track to Nullagine
Greeting the mailman, Sam Irvine.

Sam dug out wheels, fixed the axle too.
Poor old Dad learnt something new,
For driving on the track to Nullagine,
Preparing like the mailman, Sam Irvine

This was in 1937, by gum!
I wasn't born until 1941.
I give thanks of feelings purely sublime
For that intrepid mailman, Sam Irvine.

CECILIA THOMPSON

A cockeyed bob!

A willy-willy!

The storm raged,

A real dilly.

Cecilia grabbed

Her baby girl

And fled mud hut

that was a-whirl.

Staggering, falling,

Clutching her child,

She forged her way

Into the weather wild.

Stumbling, bumping

in the storehouse gloom,

Where walls and rafters

Filled the room.

Devastation Scene!

Morning brought

Piles of rubble

The wind had wrought.

Trunks burst open,

Contents gone

Down the paddock

And further on.

Swollen river,

All alone

Frank upriver,

Mud hut gone!

Mud-covered

Eton jacket,

White petticoat

White-ant had it.

A weel later

Beautiful green

Devastation

No longer seen

this poem, minus the picture of Cecilia Thomson, was published in the Creatrix Journal number 8. WA Poets Inc.

Me

Little girl sitting on a country fence,
Dreaming of things that make 'common sense',
Like pretty, frilly dresses and brand new shoes,
Instead of those which were 'don't know whose!'
A brand new doll in a brand new gown
Of soft white lace. She'd seen it in town!
Suddenly she started and looked around
And noticed that the sun was going down.
Back to the scrubby old shack on the hill
In her secondhand dress without any frill.

Sitting on a fence in her early teens,
Dreaming of a pony and brand new jeans,
Rodeos, Gymkhanas, all around the west.
She'd prove to them all she was the best!
Portable radio was tuned to her ear,
She'd won it in a raffle just last year!
Suddenly she started and looked around.
Her Mother was standing there, all of a frown!
'You're wasting your time - wrapped up in a dream!
You make me so mad, that I could scream!'

Leaning on a fence as a young wife,
She daydreamed away the meaning of life.
Still wearing clothes that were 'don't know whoes',
And married to a bumpkin always on the booze!
There were two little boys that took up all her time,
Along with the washing draped on the line.
Maybe one day she will find hersel free
To go and do her writing down by the sea.
A slurry voice behind her said 'wha'sh f'r dinner!'
She turned away, sighing. She'll never be a winner!

Middle age was upon her as she gazed across the river
Feeling fairly happy. No longer in a dither!
A novel she had written was due for publication,
And she recently acquired a legal separation.
Poetry, prose and novel number two
Kept her pen busy while hearing doves coo.
History and English at school she was attending,
University could follow, but that was 'depending'.
She thought it could be films, or a social worker!
Whatever she decides, she'll never be a shirker.

Gone are the daydreams, while sitting on fences!
Finally after all these years, she'd come to her senses!
During her life she made many mistakes
While washing baby nappies or baking large cakes.
Her time had not been wasted, she'd used her eyes and ears,
Along with some laughter, and many, many tears.
Tomorrow is another day, for which she'll fight
For her four sons, for she knew what was right.
Their education was important, she will not spare the rod.
It is a pact between her and Him - the one they call God!

GHOST TOWN OF BIG BELL

An hotel reared its lofty head
Beside a lilac.
No patrons now it could be said,
Not since way back.

The walls are dusty brown,
Once were white.
Inside curtains billow round,
Once were bright.

Pretty wallpaper covered in dirt
Peeling everywhere.
Drunken beds but no forms inert
Resting there.

Church with steeple rising high,
Pews in neat rows.
Long since pastor raised his cry
Of religious prose.

Bell no longer on its stand,
It tolls nearby
To call the boss and hired hands
Coodardy Station nigh.

House stumps standing neatly
Along the street.
Give mute testimony
Of houses once neat.

Pool is dry, hospital empty,
Creeper bloom.
Mine paraphernalia and shanty
Like the tomb.

Once a thriving community
But gold gone.
Now a dusty, dirty entity
A decade on.
Copyright Colleen O'Grady Published in WA Incs Journal Creatrix 7 February 2010

NATIONAL EMBLEMS

I sit down to my humble meal
And see a new world there.
There is Mexican tomatoes and Inca corn
And English beef part of the fare.

I gaze out of my window
And there I see with my eye
The Chinese rose, African Protea
And probably a Labrador fly!

Curious about our world now,
With things in such profusion,
I searched amid my humble home
And came to this conclusion:

My knickers were made in China,
My blouse is of Taiwan hue,
My jumper is off the Aussie sheep’s back
And my jeans are United States blue.

My radiogram came from Britain,
My radio is Japanese,
A cup is the product of the Philippines
And a statue is Javanese.

My Atlas was published in Hong Kong,
My novel in Singapore,
My history drifted from the Deutschland
And my poetry from the English moor.

That’s some of my home you know
And now its down to me,
For I’m more than curious to know
Something of my ancestry.

My birth is that of Australia,
My ancestors of Irish stock
Mixed with the British and Spanish.
I guess I’m one of God’s flock!

Multiculturalism at home,
Multiculturalism abroad,
Multiculturalism does roam
All one with the Lord
© Colleen O'Grady 2010 Published Creatrix Journal 7 February 2010

Gravel Scramble

Up we went, with a whump!
Only beyond the black stump
Would one hit a gravel dump
And land on top with a thump,
To put a hole in the sump!

So now we need someone to tow.
Hook us up and travel slow
Pull us down from height of woe.
So roadworkers… er… friend – not foe
Hooked us up and down we go!

Check the sump! Lose oil? No way!
Check the engine, that's okay.
Check the tires? phew, and then say
Thank roadworkers helping our way
Off gravel dump put on highway.
This actually happened when my ex-husband and I were travelling down to Perth from a station in the Murchison, in an awful hurry, to get there in time for me to meet the plane that Dad was coming in on for the Premier They're A Weird Mob. The photo of that meeting was taken by the Daily News and is printed where Finding Father is written. Its also on my Facebook profile

Allpoetry can't beat it!

View my poetry at Allpoetry

The Lonely Guitar

The Lonely Guitar
Against the lamp post
In the dark of night,
The lonely guitar leant
Mourning its plight.

Along came a stranger
Riddled with gin,
Found the guitar
And clasped to him.

Hastening to his mates
In the hours before dawn,
He sang his joy.
A star was born!

Many a long day
They talked and joked
And drinking grog
'Til they nearly choked!

Then one day
A friend walked in,
Saw the guitar
And cursed like sin!

'You stole it!'
He cied, voice full of scorn.
'I found it'
Screamed the drunken born.

Well! The fight did start
Inside, then out.
Then along came a copper
full of burly clout.

'You've damagd the house!'
Roared the judge from the bench.
'Six months in the stoush
To learn common sense!'

A lonely guitar
In a shop resides
And nobody notices
The tears on its sides.

Then one day
A punk walked in,
Bleary of eye
And covered in sin.

He picked up the guitar
Gave a strum or two
Walked out the door
And came back like new!

Eyes crystal clear,
A song on his lips,
He brought the guitar
And turned out smash hits!

Rape of Mt Whaleback

Rape Of Mt Whaleback

Mighty haulpaks

240 tonne capacity

Mining shovels

70 tonne bite

on mountainside.

Flag-waving vehicles

hurry, scurry

380mm blast holes

red dust.

Crushing conveyor

across landscape,

160 000 tonne ore,

Massive dumps

open cut, terraced,

zig-zag roadways

continually wet.

2.6m train

five engines

carry ore

to ships and sea.

Everything vast,

large scale.

Great tourist

attraction,

moonscaping

Rape of Mt Whaleback.

The Glassblower

This poem was written after watching a glassblower at work at the Subiaco Markets in Perth, Western Australia. At the same time I had found through the Wakefield Census records that my great grandfather William Smith, was a glassblower. This poem is dedicated to that ancient art.

The Glassblower
The delicate bubble
the glassblower turned,
Twisting and shaping
as the flame burned.

People stand quiet,
watching the skill
Of an artist at work
for them, a thrill.

Carefully, gently,
he twisted and blew,
Moulding the glass
into Cinderella's shoe.

Then another bubble
he twisted and turned,
Making a basket
As the flame burned

Here - a small swan!
There - a miniature hat!
Then the blower blew
a tiny, wee cat.

Horses that rear,
dolphins that fly,
Soaring birds
up in the sky.

Blowing the bubble
for all to see
Mighty animals
and fish of the sea.

Slowly, softly,
the bubble unfurled,
As the glassblower blows
to show us the world.

Art from the ancients;
skill of the wrist,
Fingers so gentle
as firmly they twist.

Gift from our God,
given to man,
Part of our life
and the overall plan.

Shane - a good poet

SHANE: ALL THAT IS WAITING

SHANE's Notes
ALL THAT IS WAITING
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Today at 11:18

Iron roof glimmers from a fresh summer storm

Children’s laughter from nearby backyards resounds

All relax in the respite from a long summers dawn

Let loose the blind blinded by the glow so warm

Dew gathers and glistens from each blade of grass

While magpies busily work by lessons of past

The garbage truck has come and gone so fast

Morning becomes day like new members of a cast

The early morning joggers trot out their path

Clear mist from a mirror after refreshing bath

All smooth and revived readied to start

The neighbours dog still incessantly barks

What new adventure awaits outside timber gate

The frangipani bougainvillea a perfect picture create

A scene from a painting on a canvas of time

Nature performs the rituals in tune so fine

Leaves drop the jumpers come for winter to stop

Wood gatherers bring fuel and money exchanged

Temperatures plummet with hands stuffed in pockets

Figures dance and seek refuge from wind on a corner

The sun no longer visits so early on mornings

How I complained of the heat on those dawning’s

Birds huddle close and sing only in warning

As endless legions of ants miss crumbs on their falling

We blow in cupped hands as if shouting and calling

Shivering and shaking freezing and aching

Wishing for summer sand beach and sun baking

Wind rattles the windows to a fear of them breaking
The landscape is familiar but constantly changing

From the veranda is witnessed a storm in the making

It’s hot once again and all animals start mating

As I relax in my chair I contemplate all that is waiting

From distance comes lightening and thunder explodes

A crescendo of violence erupts from high in the sky

Huge droplets of rain catch all passers by

As if by coincidence to help quench the dry

Mud trampled floors and dodging the hail

The weekend hustle and bustle of a crowded market sale

To ponder the direction of a slow moving snail

A mosquito or two and milk that’s gone stale

Paw Paw trees that bend under their load

Fruit bats that screech in trees over the road

Cast off the jetty catch a fish called a toad

Rivers swell then threaten to flood your abode

We come together to eat drink and celebrate life

There’s a lizard out back causing the cat some strife

As we watch the sun set through the flies that are rife

The crickets signal the end of a day in my life

The Mystery

The Mystery
A signature
Roman numerals.
Who was he?
Why did he write?
Name in concrete.
A mystery.
But gives away
Secrets.
A fan of
Rudyard Kipling.
Concrete circles
buried
Half a drum.
Out bush
Where dust swirls.
Across spinifex.
Distant station.
Untold story.
21 drums of concrete!
Words written
With knife bold.
And signed:
J. Coten, July, 1960.

Fire!

Scenario: Cue!

Men, fronting up

To the bar

Elbows bent

Tongues wagging

Thirst not spent.

A wife waits

With little ones

Outside

In the heat

On street wide.

Rig roars

To a standstill

Truckie with thirst

Slams door

Weather cursed.

Action: Smoke!

All in the bar.

Wife listens.

'Sizzle!'

'Spit' and 'crackle!'

'Fizzle!'

'Fire!'

She cries.

Men erupt

Faster than flies

Bar empty,

Rig afire.

Men dash

To and fro

One only

Walks slow.

Rig driver,

With extinguisher!

Dales Gorge Pool

Dales Gorge Pool

Lofty battlements

rear their heads

azure sky.

Unfinished forts
of red

confuse the eye.

Built by God

ancient rocks

packed tight.

Creamy spinifex

Snappy Gum

atop scarp.

Deep pools

in the light,

in the cool.

Red earth,

red rock,

dark pool.

Feeding Calves Warrawagine

Brindle, brown and black forms

waiting in the shade.

Hungry, throaty bellows greet

bucket-carrying brigade.

Thirsty mouths dip in the milk

heads pop out and shake.

There is no finger soft as silk

help a thirst to slake.

Blossom slurps and gurgles hers

in seconds bucket empty

Brindle slurps then concurs

with Brownie who was naughty!

Noses nudge with force and strength

Bodies jostle feeders.

Humans give in at length

fingers become feeders.