Casebook Of Oliver Cyriax - Case 1# The Burning Bush (Part 3)
As the news, spread about the burning bush
visitors began to flock to Little Pebblebury.
They were amazed at the sight that greeted them.
Rumours soon began to spread
that someone had heard a voice
coming from the bush.
This prompted speculation
that Christ was warning of his return.
The locals were by now
used to the sight and paid little
or no attention to it,
except to direct visitors to it.
After my lengthy discussions
with several of the locals,
I returned to my room
and began to plan what I was going to do the next day.
I decided the best course of action
was to start where the phenomena first began.
The next morning after having a good English breakfast,
I started out with my camera to the farm
where the first of the ghost fire was first noticed.
The farmer was a very obliging fellow.
He took time away from his duties
to show me the barn in which the ghost fire was
and explained in detail everything that went on that night.
I took a number of photographs
and thanked him for his time.
My next stop was to see the local Constable.
I explained to him what I was doing
and he was happy to help me
in every way he could.
He said the mystery of the fires
had baffled him
and any assistance in solving their cause
was more than welcome.
He took me out to the field
where the fire he was involved in
and showed me where the tramp had fallen asleep.
I examined the area quite thoroughly
and found a small black box
wedged in the bark of one of the trees.
I slipped it in my pocket to examine it later.
I thanked the Constable for his time
and told him I would let him know if I found out anything.
Getting back to the Inn,
the night clouds were beginning
to start closing in.
I had something to eat at the bar
before retiring to my room.
I no sooner got into it
when there was a knock on the door.
Moving to the door, I answered it.
I opened it and was astounded
at the person who was standing there
It was and old friend Martin West and fellow colleague
from the United States.
We had met about twenty years previous
while I was investigating a mystery
over in his country.
It was through that investigation
that he took up researching the world of phenomena.
He has even written
and published several books on the subject.
He explained that he had heard
about the Burning Bush and had come to investigate
it was just after it had started.
He had taken samples of the soil and the bush.
The tests all came back normal.
There were no abnormalities in the bush or earth
to suggest anything neither.
He told me he was completely stumped too.
We talked until eleven
catching up on what we had both been doing.
Finally, he left and I lifted out the small metal box
I had found earlier.
I examined it thoroughly
and opened it to find a small battery inside.
As luck would have it,
the battery was the same size as the one in my torch.
I inserted my battery in it
and what happened next made me shudder.
To be concluded…
25 November 2007
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Casebook Of Oliver Cyriax - Case 1# The Burning Bush (Part 4)
(It is suggested that the reader reads Part 1,2 and 3 first)
I stepped back slightly in amazement,
and then I smiled to myself.
Originally, the mystery of the ghost fire
had poised several questions in my mind.
Question of how, why and by who.
Normal phenomena was generally erratic,
in that you could not predict
when it when it would happen again.
However, the ghost fires were the opposite.
The first three were attention grabbers for the Burning Bush,
which now could be timed
at what time it would start
and at what time it would finish.
It was a very clever illusion
thought out by a very clever person.
I knew now how it was done,
but the remaining questions
of why and by who still needed to be answered.
Like Martin and others
my first thought were
that is was something paranormal.
Having stumbled by accident the truth,
the remaining two questions
could possibly be answered by the local Constable.
Finally I retired to bed with the satisfaction
I had almost solved the mystery.
The morning awoke
with a slight dropp in the temperature
and dark clouds threatening rain.
After breakfast,
I made my first journey to see the Burning Bush.
It was quite an ordinary bush as bushes go.
I walked round it several times
and looked around at the surrounding area.
I then took several photographs
of the area and the bush.
When I had enough,
I went to the Police Station
to talk to the local Constable.
As he saw me approach, he smiled.
His first question was how my investigation was going.
I assured him that it was nearly completed.
There were just a few questions I need answers for,
and then I should be able to solve the mystery of the Burning Bush.
I need to know how many people
had moved into the area
in the last three years and where they lived.
The Constable stroked his chin
and answered that there were only five people
who had moved to the village during the past three years.
Miss Featherbone the schoolmistress
who lived at the Inn was the last person.
She had only moved to the village about three months ago.
Before her there was Mr and Mrs Palfrey
who had purchased Lansdowne Farm
about two miles away.
Mr Gains a widower who bought Rose Cottage
just near the Inn
and Mr Harwood who lived at Beech Cottage
at the end of the high street.
He asked if I thought any of them were involved.
They might be unknowingly.
In addition, explained that some phenomena
follow certain people from place to place.
You mean like a family ghost. He asked.
Yes, I replied, like a family ghost.
I thanked him for his help, then left.
I decided to leave Miss Featherbone out
as the ghost fires had started long before
she came to the village.
I went along to see Mr Gains at Rose Cottage.
Gains was well into his seventies.
He viewed the Burning Bush as a nuisance.
He had come to the village for peace and quiet
and was most annoyed by what was happening.
I then went to see the Palfreys.
Unfortunately, they could not help me neither.
It was mid afternoon when I arrived at Beech Cottage.
I knocked the door and recognised Harwood
as soon as he answered.
He recognised me as well
and ushered me into the living room,
then made us both some tea.
You know who I am Oliver, he said.
I nodded, yes, the creator of the ghost fires.
It was very clever illusion, James.
The use of holographic images of fire.
I would never have guessed
until I accidentally found this little box
wedged between some loose bark on the tree
where the tramp had slept.
I said placing it on the table.
It was only when I accidentally activated it
before going to bed last night
that I realised the truth.
You have fooled a lot of people, but why?
If the visitors left the village,
it would become,
as the Americans would say a Ghost town.
The village needed an attraction,
hence the Burning Bush.
I hope you will not say that it is all a hoax Oliver.
I smiled and said I wouldn’t
I would let it remain a mystery to all.
Therefore Mr Rogers
that is the story behind The Burning Bush,
the true story,
not the ones that many books will come out with.
You see James Harwood used to be called
The Amazing Santini,
the man who could light his whole body
with fire without being burnt.
Of course, it was an illusion.
It wasn’t until the Burning Bush episode
that I found out how he did it.
Oliver rose from his chair,
moved across to his desk,
and shuffled some papers until he found several photographs.
These are photographs of The Burning Bush,
now I am getting rather tired.
I rose and bid him a goodnight
until we would meet again.
28 November 2007
poem by David Harris
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Casebook Of Oliver Cyriax - Case 1# The Burning Bush (Part 1)
I knocked on his front door
half expecting a weary face
when it opened to greet me.
Instead, Oliver smiled
with a small twinkle in his eyes.
He guided me through to his study,
cluttered in the corners with artefacts
kept as souvenirs from previous cases.
He gestured me to have a seat,
then lifted his briar pipe off the mantle piece,
lit it and then made himself comfortable
in the armchair by the fire.
He looked at me through a cloud of smoke
that billowed from his pipe.
Now Mr Rogers I guess you have read in the newspapers
about the Burning Bush at Little Pebblebury.
Some think it is a religious phenomenon,
while others say it is a warning
and that we should all take heed.
Upon reading the story,
I decided to investigate the Burning Bush myself.
I telephone The Saintly Sovereign Inn at Little Pebblebury
enquiring about a room for the week.
They told me they had one left
because of the interest in their Burning Bush.
I said I would take it
and would travel down that very day.
I arrived at the village
just as the sun was beginning to set.
After settling in my room,
I came down the bar for a meal.
I got to talking to one of the locals
and was quite surprised to learn
that there had been several other ghost fires,
in and around the village the last couple of years.
The first was about two years ago
on a farm about two miles from the village.
It started about dusk as the farmer
was bringing his cattle in from the fields for the night.
As he got closer, he noticed a light
in the barn where he stored his winter hay.
At first, he though his wife
might have left a lamp lit in there,
but as he got closer, he could see the flames.
Leaving the animals in the field,
he ran into the farmhouse
and yelled to his wife to telephone the fire brigade.
He shouted that there was a fire in the barn.
The farmer grabbed a wooden pail
and rushed back out the door.
He dipped it in the animal drinking trough,
scooping out as much water he could get,
then rushed into the barn
and threw the water on the flames.
Back and forward, he ran
with as much water as he could carry.
The more water he threw on it,
the less the fire seemed to go out.
The fire brigade arrived and aimed their hoses
on the flames to douse them out.
Still the fire raged on.
Nothing it seemed could douse the flames.
Deep into the night they battled it,
then just before the dawn a
nd as suddenly as it appeared the fire disappeared.
Everyone by this time was exhausted;
still an investigation had to be made
to ensure there were no smouldering ambers that would start to blaze.
As they entered,
they found that none of the barn interior,
nor any of the hay was burnt or scorched in anyway.
It was as if there was never a fire there at all,
yet dozens of people had seen it and fought it.
Oliver stopped for a moment to rekindle his pipe.
To be continued…
poem by David Harris
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Casebook Of Oliver Cyriax - Case 1# The Burning Bush (Part 2)
The smoke from his pipe
rose up like a small cloud.
For a long time afterwards, t
he fire in the barn
was referred to as a ghost fire.
The next ghost fire happened
almost six months later to the day
in the midst of the summer sun.
A passing tramp had rested
for a while in a field
and fell asleep against a tree
as the grass around him suddenly came alive
with flames that burnt close to his feet.
The local Constable was riding passed
saw the flames and dismounted from his bike.
Racing into the field,
he tried to beat out the flames with his jacket.
Still the flames danced around the tramp,
whom was asleep and unaware.
The Constable yelled at him,
but the tramp did not arouse from his slumber.
The Constable looked around
and off to his left noticed a stream.
He ran across to it and filled his helmet with water.
Running back he threw the water over the tramp.
The tramp woke up startled and looked around.
He stood up and asked the Constable,
just what he thought he was doing
throwing water over him.
Watch out for the fire
the Constable shouted back.
The tramp scratched his head
and asked what he was talking about.
The fire, the fire, the Constable replied.
What fire? The tramp asked.
It was only then that the Constable realised
that the fire was no longer there.
He was mystified how it disappeared.
It was about six months after that,
another ghost fire occurred
in the very Inn where I was staying.
The bar was crowded
when suddenly against one of the walls
a fire started and seemed to burn ferociously.
The first thing the customers did
was to start throwing their drinks against the wall
in hope to dampen the flames.
They met with little success
and the fire brigade was called.
The bar was evacuated
and the firemen came in with their hoses,
which like the drinks had no success on the flames.
As with all the other incidents
the fire raged for several hours
before dying away of its own accord.
The investigation that followed
found nothing had been burnt or scorched.
There seemed no earthly reason
for the mysterious fires that engulfed things,
but never harmed any of them.
Then last month the burning bush began.
When it was discovered,
an attempt was made to extinguish it,
but failed like the ones before.
Presently each night ever since
the bush ignites itself and burns for several hours
before disappearing again.
Oliver paused for a few moments,
stroked his chin
and puffed a couple of times on his pipe.
To be continued…
poem by David Harris
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The Coldness Of Indifference
i watch a bonfire
it spreads upon a bush
into the forest of
dry trees
i watch a conflagration
i am inside it
i am burning and burning
still
i am not consumed
i am fire
i eat the forest of dry trees
i spread in the bush
until all is consumed
and then i stop
i am back to myself
nothing really happened
then we resume the conversation
about fire
you speak about it
your heart is not involved
you never felt any heat
i know because you are cold
there is no heat in you
you, in a few minutes, die.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Christmas Story 'believe
she was awoken with a loud thunderous sound
she jumped up and looked around.
it can't be santa claus? it just can't be.
mommy did'nt even have money to buy a tree.
she heard the sound one more time
and upon her roof they did climb.
the little pitter patter of hooves
above her head
made her turn and jump out of bed.
she ran to the window and
looked to the roof
she wanted to tell her mother
she did have the proof.
she saw something red
moving to the chimney
then she knew it had to be.
that santa claus is not only
in our hearts and minds
and will live throughout all time.
all children are supposed
to be asleep.
but through half closed eyes
they would peak.
she then heard the sounds in
the room below.
as she opened the door very slow.
to her surprise there was a tree
decorated 'oh so beautifully'.
and there under the tree
there was gifts galore
who would think - that they were poor.
as she started to look around
at the fireplace he was found.
he was having the milk and cookies
that were left that night.
' oh my gosh what a beautiful sight'.
he then put his finger to his nose
and just like the book
up the chimney he rose.
she went back to her room, and climbed
back into her bed, said her prayers
and laid down her head.
she awoke the next morning
thinking it was a dream.
when she heard her mother scream.
how is this possible? how can it be?
'all these presents, and with a tree.'
as she ran to her mothers side
the tears started to fill her eyes.
i don't know who did this? i have no clue
and i don't know what i should do.
she then told her what she heard
and saw the night before
when she opened up her bedroom door.
as we opened up the first package
from under the tree
we saw a metal frame with one word.
BELIEVE
now we put this question to you.
do you believe? is this story true?
poem by Louis Rams
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A little Ghost Story
As I was going to bed
I turned out my light
tucked myself in
on a long winter's night
All of a sudden
I heard a door squeak
I thought someone was in my house
so I decided to take a peak
I heard the wind blow hard
and started to shiver with fear
and heard some noises again
but this time I knew I was near
I went into the living room
and noticed my door was opened wide
squeaking back and forth
I laughed so hard I almost cried
So I decided to go back up to my room
When I heard some terrible cries
I rushed to my room real quick
but a ghost stopped me in surprise
I ran and yelled
and I ran outside my house right then
and decided I would never
go back to that house again
At my new house
I turned out the light
you can probably guess
what went on that night
poem by Shaina Lloyd
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When the Bush Begins to Speak
They know us not in England yet, their pens are overbold;
We're seen in fancy pictures that are fifty years too old.
They think we are a careless race - a childish race, and weak;
They'll know us yet in England, when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
'The leaders that will be', the men of southern destiny,
Are not all found in cities that are builded by the sea;
They learn to love Australia by many a western creek,
They'll know them yet in England, when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
All ready for the struggle, and waiting for the change,
The army of our future lies encamped beyond the range;
Australia, for her patriots, will not have far to seek;
They'll know her yet in England when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
We'll find the peace and comfort that our fathers could not find,
Or some shall strike the good old blow that leaves a mark behind.
We'll find the Truth and Liberty our fathers came to seek,
Or let them know in England when the bush begins to speak;
When the bush begins to speak,
When the bush begins to speak,
When the west by Greed's invaded, and the bush begins to speak.
poem by Henry Lawson
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The Barn at Willoughby's Farm - II
Jacinth's Tale
He was always there on the fringes
Of my world, when just a child,
There wasn't a time he wasn't there
To guide, protect, to chide,
He'd follow me safely home from school,
He'd take me for a ride,
A cousin, so many times removed
From those on my mother's side.
I wasn't the only sibling, but
It was me he called his pet,
The others would get quite jealous
And they'd not let me forget,
‘He carries a torch for you, Jacinth,
And never will let you be! '
But when I was just a teenager
He made me feel like a queen.
He was into his later twenties, then
But he didn't seem to care,
He'd let me dress for a party, then
He'd sit and he'd brush my hair,
There wasn't a friend as good as him
I told my party crowd,
The cuz that lived in the basement
Of our flat, my Tom O'Dowd.
But once I grew as a woman, then
His manner became intense,
He started to irritate me, and
Took issue with all my friends,
‘That fellow isn't the one for you,
He'll only drag you down! '
Or - ‘What in the world are you coming to?
That guy, he's simply a clown! '
He tried to snuggle up closer on
The couch, when I was home,
Started to stroke my hand and knee
When we were quite alone,
I told him I wasn't interested,
That he was merely a friend,
His eyes would follow me round the room,
‘You'll love me, in the end! '
I got upset, and told him straight:
‘I hate it when you cling!
Just leave me be, or Tom, you'll see
You'll just spoil everything! '
He pinned me against the bedroom wall
And stared with his wild, black eyes,
‘I didn't stick all these years, for you
To end up another man's prize! '
I'd started seeing a bikie, with
A Harley - God, it could move,
But never let on to cousin Tom,
I knew he wouldn't approve,
But Joe was really a softie, or
I thought so at the time,
I must have been quite naïve back then,
He'd dabbled in petty crime.
Then Joe suggested we go away,
Get shot of my cousin, Tom,
So I came up with a scheme, to make
It seem there was nothing wrong,
I said I'd a job as a Jillaroo,
And I boarded the bus one night,
Mentioned the name of Willoughby's Farm
So the driver would get it right.
I got off the bus at Lyndhurst, went
To wait by the old hotel,
When Joe rolled up on his Harley, and
We hit the road for a spell,
I kept in touch with my sister so
I'd know what was going down,
And then in the month of June I heard
That Tom was leaving town.
We headed out to the old bush track
I scrawled on that ancient tyre,
I wrote, ‘Five miles to Willoughby's Farm'
And hoped that he'd see it there,
We travelled out to the farm and hid,
For Joe had been there before,
Then buried an old sheep's carcass there
And left my bag by the door.
When Tom came into the barn that morn
We lay, deep hid in the hay,
And watched him dropp to his knees and sob,
Cry out in his pure dismay,
He seized the shovel, began to dig
Then Joe jumped out in a rage,
And suddenly there was blood and a scream
I will hear ‘til my dying day!
Joe lay there in a pool of blood
Where the shovel had sliced his throat,
And Tom reeled back when he heard me scream,
In a long and a high pitched note,
I rode away on the Harley, leaving
Tom back out on the track,
Sunk in that nightmare dream of his,
He'll never be coming back!
16 August,2012
poem by David Lewis Paget
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That Beating Of The Bush
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I have this 'thing' about honest and truth.
And those who become offended,
By declaring them too harsh to accept!
There has not been an experience I received,
I regretted with a wish to forget!
And those attempting to live their lives,
In pretense to deceive believing this is not deception...
Will always escape with excuses and alibis to make.
Charading as if...
No one recognizes,
Who is in masquerade.
And who amongst them fakes!
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
An honesty and truth spoken,
From deceivers is rare.
Those who deceive perceive...
Those who are direct and honest,
Are insensitive and do not care!
With a sharing of this mentality...
To those empathetic,
In a keeping of delusions...
Spared from despair!
But I know I'm not the only one...
Who elects to see,
Dishonesty from all people get up and leave.
I can't be!
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
I'm not into,
The beating of the bush.
That beating of the bush.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Stafford's Cabin
Once there was a cabin here, and once there was a man;
And something happened here before my memory began.
Time has made the two of them the fuel of one flame
And all we have of them is now a legend and a name.
All I have to say is what an old man said to me,
And that would seem to be as much as there will ever be.
“Fifty years ago it was we found it where it sat.”—
And forty years ago it was old Archibald said that.
“An apple tree that’s yet alive saw something, I suppose,
Of what it was that happened there, and what no mortal knows.
Some one on the mountain heard far off a master shriek,
And then there was a light that showed the way for men to seek.
“We found it in the morning with an iron bar behind,
And there were chains around it; but no search could ever find,
Either in the ashes that were left, or anywhere,
A sign to tell of who or what had been with Stafford there.
“Stafford was a likely man with ideas of his own—
Though I could never like the kind that likes to live alone;
And when you met, you found his eyes were always on your shoes,
As if they did the talking when he asked you for the news.
“That’s all, my son. Were I to talk for half a hundred years
I’d never clear away from there the cloud that never clears.
We buried what was left of it,—the bar, too, and the chains;
And only for the apple tree there’s nothing that remains.”
Forty years ago it was I heard the old man say,
“That’s all, my son.”—And here again I find the place to-day,
Deserted and told only by the tree that knows the most,
And overgrown with golden-rod as if there were no ghost.
poem by Edwin Arlington Robinson
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The Birth
he was born on a dark lonely night
and not a soul was in sight.
his mother was driving home
on that starry night, when she started
to feel the contractions.
she knew right then that she would
have to take action.
she pulled alongside that old country road
and her stomach she did hold
.
when she felt that waterbag bust
and in GOD she put her trust.
she asked the LORD what she should do
for she knew not what to do.
she heard a voice so soft and gentle
that told her to stay calm.
for this was a special child
that would be born this night
and that everything was going
to be allright.
she pushed the front seat back
as far as it would go
and took off her clothing so
that she could see.
the pains became so severe
and a head did appear.
she pushed with all her might
so that this child could be free.
for this was the way
it was meant to be.
as the child started to come out
from her lungs came a shout.
this child came out with such ease
and she felt a gentle breeze
as if it was a whisper upon her face
and she knew it was through GODS grace.
with a penknife she cut the cord.
and cleaned him up the best she could.
she wrapped him within her coat
and put the heater on
and drove back to a distant farm.
when she got to the farm
and banged upon the door.
when no one answered
she knealt down on the floor.
again she called upon the LORD
and asked what she should do.
he told her to look towads the barn
for there was a light as bright as day
and the farmer was baling hay.
as she got to the barn door
she collapsed in sheer exhaustion.
when she finally opened up her eyes
on the hay she did lay.
and beside her lay her child.
and the farmer told her she was
out for quite a while.
but the ambulance was on the way
and that he could not move her
in fear of jeopardizing her life
and that she was cleaned up
by his lovely wife.
now the farmers wife was
a religious woman
who believed that nothing
happens by chance.
and at this child she did glance.
she said that he had an aura
of light above his head
just like the bible which she had read.
she looked at this childs mother
and asked her this:
'is this coincidence or is this
a sign from above
that he would be in a barn
like christ was in the manger?
she recalled that gentle voice and
what it had said.
that a special child would be born on this night.
now you tell me.
was she wrong, or was she right?
poem by Louis Rams
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Coming Home For Christmas
Mrs Merryweather put coal on the fire,
while outside through the frosted windows
the snow was beginning to fall.
Christmas was only days away,
though the air raid sirens wailed daily,
they could not spoil the promise of Christmas.
Life just had to go on.
The coupons she had saved
would help them really celebrate.
It was going to be a Christmas
they were all going to remember.
She looked at the mantelpiece;
pride masked itself across her face
as she gazes at the photograph of her son.
Dressed in his uniform the photo stood pride of place.
He would be coming home for Christmas.
He had written to say he had leave this year.
It would be the first time the whole family
had sat around the table
to share a Christmas meal in years.
Ever since the war had started,
there had always been
at least one vacant chair there,
but not this Christmas of 1944.
Some maybe late in arriving,
but that did not matter a little bit.
The family, her family
were all coming home for Christmas Day.
The day before Christmas,
they slowly began to arrive.
One by one, she greeted them,
and then sat them around the fireplace
to be warmed by the coal fire’s glow.
They gathered toasting bread with a long fork,
singing popular songs
along with a radio show.
The thriftiness with the coupons
had bought a bounty store.
Everyone relaxed by the radio
as the hours crept slowly by.
Yawns began to appear
as one by one sleep captured everyone.
Mrs Merryweather was the last one to bed.
She waited for the knock on the door.
The knock that never came.
He was probably held up somewhere she thought.
He would be home for Christmas.
She knew it as he always kept his word.
Outside the moonlight danced on the falling snow,
blanketing all the footprints
that were out there.
Christmas morning came to greet them;
the snow lay thick on the ground.
Everyone felt so happy,
only Mrs Merryweather wore a frown.
Then came a knock on the door.
Upon answering it,
she took no notice
of the lack of footprints along the path.
Everyone’s face was filled with smile.
The person who stood there
was Mrs Merryweather’s son,
who had come home for Christmas
just as he had promised he would.
He told them all that unfortunately
he could only stay until sundown.
That his orders were that
then he had to go back.
The day was filled with merriment
and joyous celebration for all.
The day passed all too quickly
and sundown soon approached.
He said goodnight and goodbye
to everyone and wished them all well.
Mrs Merry weather, her smile transfixed.
She thanked God for his glorious gift
of having all her family around her
deep within the midst of war.
A few days passed when two letters arrived.
Both were postmarked before Christmas.
One was from her son saying how much
he looked forward to coming home.
The second was from the ministry
to inform her that her son had been killed
in action fours days before Christmas.
How could that be she questioned.
He had come home
and spent Christmas day with them.
Her son had indeed been killed
in the theatre of war on the day they said.
The mystery of his coming home for Christmas
is a mystery that remains today.
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Hogarth Experiment Part 2
The fire raged out of control
and into the night.
Its glow coloured the sky.
Chemicals exploded
as they warmed to boiling point.
Hogarth’s assistant Adam Wright
pulled Hogarth from the flames
and across the lawn.
The clanging of bells
from the Fire Brigade and Ambulance
were soon to be heard.
Hogarth was rushed to hospital
where he would stay for just over a month.
His makeshift laboratory laid
a charred skeleton on his return.
All his work was gone,
destroyed in the fire.
He was a broken man.
He became a recluse in his home.
His hair turned white overnight.
He just sat everyday in his chair
and looked out the window
from dawn to dusk.
No one could reach him;
it was as if his will to live was gone.
Three years later and Hogarth hadn’t changed.
He would get up every morning
and in his chair would sit.
The war in Europe was over
and celebrations now had begun.
The mighty Germany had fallen;
its leader Hitler was now dead.
Soon the troops would be coming home.
The VE day celebrations were getting well into swing.
While on a farm not far from the valley
something strange was happening.
Ernest Rotherham went out to bring in his cattle
from grazing for milking time.
The sight that greeted his eyes made him cry.
There spread across the field
his cattle lay dead everywhere.
He ran back to his farm
and telephoned for the Vet.
The Vet was on call at the moment,
but on his return, they would send him out.
About twenty miles away
Joe Harper the local Vet
was driving down a county lane.
Bushes grew tall on either side
and from behind them;
he could hear a loud hum.
He stopped the car,
but left the engine running.
He opened the door,
got out and peered through the bushes.
A sharp pain like a knife pierced his back.
To be continued…
poem by David Harris
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On The Night Train
Have you seen the bush by moonlight, from the train, go running by?
Blackened log and stump and sapling, ghostly trees all dead and dry;
Here a patch of glassy water; there a glimpse of mystic sky?
Have you heard the still voice calling – yet so warm, and yet so cold:
"I'm the Mother-Bush that bore you! Come to me when you are old"?
Did you see the Bush below you sweeping darkly to the Range,
All unchanged and all unchanging, yet so very old and strange!
While you thought in softened anger of the things that did estrange?
(Did you hear the Bush a-calling, when your heart was young and bold:
"I'm the Mother-bush that nursed you; Come to me when you are old"?)
In the cutting or the tunnel, out of sight of stock or shed,
Did you hear the grey Bush calling from the pine-ridge overhead:
"You have seen the seas and cities – all is cold to you, or dead –
All seems done and all seems told, but the grey-light turns to gold!
I'm the Mother-Bush that loves you – come to me now you are old"?
poem by Henry Lawson
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Inferno (An Analysis Of The Goddess Of Fire)
A big fire
Devoured our house yesterday
And it sounded loud like a bomb
Vulcan the god of fire
Must have been loud and angry at us
A big fire
Devoured our house yesterday
And it sounded like a bomb
The fire we use to cook our food
And then i spoke to the fire
And it said to me
“ I was formed when men were in caves
And i was used to cook their raw meat
In the days of long ago and the dinosaurs”
Thou goddess of fire
You bleached the earth on creation day
Producing the human race
You give light to mankind
You fly high
In the netherworlds of the Universe
Naked humanity in thine sight
Burning like an inferno in the human heart
Now is the time to stand and stare
Every bush bows and burns before your might
Your arms reaches outstretched
Thou purifier of thoughts and metals
Thine incandescent light fascinates and scares me
Thou goddess of fire
Dancing in the midst of charcoals and matchsticks
Lighting upon men anew
You are in my sitting room today
Burning men and me to carbon dust
You came from the bush centuries ago
To set upon the ideas of men
On the dawn of civilization
When we were nothing
But cavemen without learning or thinking
And the men ran helter skelter
For they were afraid of thee
Men thought you will go
But you did stay
Men thought you will go
But you fell from heaven again
Burning every bush fire
I run out of thoughts for thee
Thou goddess of fire.
poem by larry Philosopher
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The Tree
In an English forest on Nottingham’s Sherwood National Park
stood a large wide oak tree probably as old as the Ark.
Oddly enough I had never seen this old proud tree before,
it sort of pulled me to it, as though it wanted me to explore.
I slowly walked around the trunk and looked closely at the tree
admiring its form, its wrinkled bark, every inch fascinated me.
My fingertips touched its bark and felt its rugged texture and shape,
it seemed so alive, and I was overwhelmed for heavens sake.
The sturdy trunk appeared to be expanding and growing ever wide,
then I thought I heard a child’s voice coming from deep inside.
Against the deeply wrinkled bark I placed my hands and ear,
just in case by some strange chance a voice I really did hear.
It seems as though I heard nothing so I gradually stepped away,
as I did the tree trunk looked as if to shrink, shudder and sway.
I rubbed my eyes in disbelief; I couldn’t believe what I’d seen
I reached out and touched it to make sure it wasn’t a dream.
Several times I stepped back and forth from this unusual tree,
seeing it expand and contract was becoming too much for me.
On my last step backwards I definitely heard a child’s voice say,
“Help me, help me, I’m trapped in here, please don’t go away.”
Without thinking I answered, “What are you doing inside the tree?
How long have you been in there and can’t you get free? ”
Sadly she said, “I don’t know how long I’ve been in here,
but I can’t get out will you please help me to get clear.”
The little girl started crying and pleaded with me to stay,
“Please don’t go, please help me, please try to find a way? ”
“Try to stay calm, ” I said, “I’ll examine the tree once more,
you found your way in, so there must be a kind of door.”
As I closely examined the tree I asked the child her name,
“Martha, I’m six years old and my mother’s name’s the same.”
To stop her fretting more I asked what colour shoes she had on.
“I have no shoes upon my feet somehow they have gone.”
“I’m sorry Martha I cannot find a way in I’ve looked and I’ve tried
I just don’t know how you managed to get yourself inside? ”
Sobbing she said, “I don’t know either, but it seems like a very long time.
Could you possibly look inside the tree? You could if you climb.”
“Alright Martha, I’ll climb up to that branch sticking out to my right.
I’m sorry there is no way into the trunk; and soon it will be night.
Let’s go over this again and try to remember how you got inside.”
“All I can remember was lying in the tall grass, trying to hide.”
“Were you playing the game of hide and seek with your friends? ”
“No, my father told me to hide and later my mother he would send.
It’s slowly coming back to me now I had also been hit on my head
I remember I went very dizzy and then everything else went red.
I woke up with a headache and found myself inside this tree,
I never saw my mummy she must have forgotten me.”
“Now then Martha did this happen recently, or was it some time ago
was it yesterday, a couple of days since, or a fortnight or so? ”
“No, I think it must have been longer because of the way you’re dressed
I’ve never seen anyone with clothes like yours; you do so look a mess.”
“How can you see me Martha, is it through a nut-hole in the tree? ”
“No, I can see you through the bark, as you are meant to be.”
“Is it dark inside the tree trunk, or can you see any light? ”
“Well, It’s not wet, it doesn’t smell, but it is as dark as night,
but high above there is some sort of lamp shining really bright.”
“Alright Martha, if you can get to it, a way out is in sight.”
“Hello, hello, you standing outside the tree, can you hear me?
Thank you. I’ve entered the light and my daddy I can see.
I didn’t realise he was so close I could have climbed up here before
and how I got inside the tree will be a mystery for evermore.”
poem by Orlando Belo
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Paddy Malone In Australia
Och! my name's Pat Malone, and I'm from Tipperary.
Sure, I don't know it now I'm so bothered, Ohone!
And the gals that I danced with, light-hearted and airy,
It's scarcely they'd notice poor Paddy Malone.
'Tis twelve months or more since our ship she cast anchor
In happy Australia, the Emigrant's home,
And from that day to this there's been nothing but canker,
And grafe and vexation for Paddy Malone.
Oh, Paddy Malone! Oh, Paddy, Ohone!
Bad luck to the agent that coaxed ye to roam.
Wid a man called a squatter I soon got a place, sure,
He'd a beard like a goat, and such whiskers, Ohone!
And he said—as he peeped through the hair on his faitures
That he liked the appearance of Paddy Malone.
Wid him I agreed to go up to his station,
Saying abroad in the bush you'll find yourself at home.
I liked his proposal, and 'out hesitation
Signed my name wid a X that spelt Paddy Malone.
Oh, Paddy Malone, you're no scholard, Ohone!
Sure, I made a cris-crass that spelt Paddy Malone.
A-herding my sheep in the bush, as they call it
It was no bush at all, but a mighty great wood,
Wid all the big trees that were small bushes one time,
A long time ago, faith I 'spose 'fore the flood.
To find out this big bush one day I went further,
The trees grew so thick that I couldn't, Ohone!
I tried to go back then, but that I found harder,
And bothered and lost was poor Paddy Malone.
Oh, Paddy Malone, through the bush he did roam
What a Babe in the Wood was poor Paddy Malone.
I was soon overcome, sure, wid grafe and vexation,
And camped, you must know, by the side of a log;
I was found the next day by a man from the station,
For I coo-ey'd and roared like a bull in a bog.
The man said to me, "Arrah, Pat! where's the sheep now?"
Says I, "I dunno! barring one here at home,"
And the master began and kicked up a big row too,
And swore he'd stop the wages of Paddy Malone.
Arrah! Paddy Malone, you're no shepherd, Ohone!
We'll try you with bullocks now, Paddy Malone.
To see me dressed out with my team and my dray too,
Wid a whip like a flail and such gaiters, Ohone!
But the bullocks, as they eyed me, they seemed for to say too,
"You may do your best, Paddy, we're blest if we go."
"Gee whoa! Redman! come hither, Damper!
Hoot, Magpie! Gee, Blackbird! Come hither,
Whalebone!"
But the brutes turned round sharp, and away they did scamper,
And heels over head turned poor Paddy Malone.
Oh, Paddy Malone! you've seen some bulls at home,
But the bulls of Australia cows Paddy Malone.
I was found the next day where the brutes they did throw me
By a man passing by, upon hearing me groan,
And wiping the mud from my face that he knew me,
Says he, "Your name's Paddy?" "Yes! Paddy Malone."
I thin says to him, "You're an angel sent down, sure!"
"No, faith, but I'm not; but a friend of your own!"
And by his persuasion, for home then I started,
And you now see before you poor Paddy Malone.
Arrah, Paddy Malone! you are now safe at home.
Bad luck to the agent that coaxed ye to roam.
poem by Andrew Barton Paterson
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I must go to the bush again
I must go to the bush again
and for a time be free,
from the inward chill
of the big city
and the emptiness
that life among strangers brings.
I must go to the bush again
and see the baobab trees,
frame against the setting sun
and know that somehow
the Almighty One
cares about everyone and me.
I must go to the bush again
and watch the wild buck,
drink from a stream
and see the crocodiles slide
into back into the water
and find the tranquillity
that nature brings.
I must go to the bush again
and give a prayer
and to find solace there,
from a world
that’s totally out of control.
poem by Gert Strydom
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Our Hell
It started with pebbles at the window,
when no one was in sight.
For about a week this went on,
at 8pm precise every night.
Then came the opening and closing doors,
by some unseen hand any hour of the day.
Furniture moved around on it their accord,
then the voices came,
arguing from somewhere.
Continual searches of each room,
but nothing was found there.
Suddenly it stopped, and harmony reined.
There was a rest bite for what was yet to come.
Several weeks passed peace and quiet remained.
Then as suddenly as it had stopped, it started up again.
Lights switched themselves on and off,
object flew across the room of their own accord,
small and large.
Pictures flew off the wall
and smashed to the floor.
Then came the knocks on the door,
with no one ever there.
The television gained a mind of its own,
switch on and off and changing channels at will.
Then things began to disappear,
we look for them still,
it was beginning to drive us crazy,
finally, we were at our wits end,
and priest we called in,
but whatever drove him away,
he never came back for a prayer to say.
We seemed to be stranded in this house,
that once we called our home,
and that has now become our hell.
poem by David Harris
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Piano {Klavier}
They say to me
Open this door
curiosity screams
Whatever could it be
Back behind that door
A piano
The keys are all dusty
The strings are all untuned
Back behind that door
At the piano
But she plays no more
It so long ago
On the piano
She's who I hear
She began to play
She took my breath away
She said to me too
That I'll stay with you
But it just seemed to be
She played alone for me
I poured her blood
On the fire of my rage
I locked up her shrine
They questioned in time
At the piano
She's who I hear
She began to play
She took my breath away
At the piano
I stand by her
But it just seemed to be
She played alone for me
They opened up the door
And how they cried
I heard her mother plea
her father struck out at me
They tore her from her chair
No one believed me there
I was so insane
With the strech and the pain
At the piano
She's who I hear
She began to play
She took my breath away
At the piano
She's who I hear
As I began to play
I took her breath away
song performed by by Rammstein
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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