JAPAN

JAPAN                                                               

Land of subtle images

Fuel imagination.

Tea ceremony

Master, welcoming guests.

Garden meditations

Stone humility.

Haiku poetry

Precise language.

Ikebana

Perfect floral balance.

Origami

Folding paper art. 

Kimono

Bright flash of colour in grey crowded train.

Nighting-gale painted geisha

Carrying music to her appointment.  

Grey robed monks

Wander down ancient alleys.

White ribbons                                                                        

Devotional duties in temple.

Samurai warriors

In business suits.

Collective mindset

Participating in acute behavior.

Bullet trains

In tune with timetables.

Rapid delivery

Faraway towns and villages.

Hidden smiles

Mountain village with bathhouse.

Communal circle of potters

Around a blazing fire.

Snow laden branches

Shield white mountain path.

Secret healing springs

Guard an epic past.

Land of shrouded paths                                                               

Hushed morning crisp.

Snow monkeys

Frolic in the mountain’s steamy stream.

Breathe escapes in puffs

Like steam from puffing-billy engine. 

Red gates standing in lakes.

Design minimalistic in conception.

Strong guardianship

Bless this land. 

Golden temple

Lined by red and gold wooden pillars.

"All is sweet rhythm.

People silently moving,

Grateful for this time."

Preview

JAPAN

Land of subtle images
Fuel for imagination.

Tea ceremony
Master honouring guests.

Garden meditations
Stone humility.

Haiku poetry
Precise language.

Ikebana
floral balance.

Origami
folding paper art. 

Kimono
Bright flash of colour in grey crowded train.

Nighting-gale painted geisha
Carrying music to her appointment.  

Grey robed monks
wander down ancient alleys.

White ribbons
Devotional duties in temple.

Samurai warriors
in business suits.

Collective mindset
participating in acute behaviour.

Bullet trains
in tune with timetables.

Rapid delivery
to faraway towns and villages.

Hidden smiles

Mountain village with bathhouse.

Communal circle of potters

Around a blazing fire.

Snow laden branches.

shield white mountain path.

Secret healing springs,

guard an epic past.

Land of shrouded paths

Hushed morning crisp.

Snow monkeys
frolic in the mountain’s steamy stream.

Breathe escapes in puffs,
Like steam from puffing-billy engine. 

Red gates standing in lakes.
Design minimalistic in conception.

Strong guardianship
Bless this land. 

Golden temple
lined by red and gold wooden pillars.

Pillars donated by families:
Dynastic rememberence. 

People
silently moving, all in sweet rhythm.

Deeply grateful for this time.

MY SISTERS OF A DESERT DREAMING.

We gather, as writers in the park,

Sisters of a desert dreaming.

Beckoned to meet at Lion’s Gate

A gate known by many names,

Henry Lawson’s amongst them.

We meet and greet with smiles and hugs.

We wander down pathways to find a shady tree

And nestled down, share a picnic repast, and rosy tea.

Great bats lie vertically in the noonday sun.

Aboriginal maidens swish-swash walk on by, twirling branches of gum leaves.

The men walk by with skin-stockings marked with traditional designs,

They jest with us and give performers’ laughter.

They have just performed for the Governor of NSW at an event,

The launching of a sandstone sculpture that mimics nature’s own.

Batman, in his ranger suit, counts the number of bats in our tree.

A bat’s dropping falls on my hand.

I casually wipe it away. It may carry disease.

Culling time is soon to come, he tells us.

The bats will be blasted with sonic music and they will fly away from here.

Will they spit in fear and spread the dreaded virus where they roost

In some suburban backyard, finding cats, dogs and humans to infect?

Better to bag them up and place them in the bin.

I would rather leave them be, but the date is set for their demise.

We lie on the grass energized by the earth’s magnetic touch.

Talk is of wisdom and worries, chanting exit worries strategies

Peace descends on this edenic masterpiece as we celebrate this day of new beginnings.

TRAVEL LIGHT

Learn to travel light!
Tumble-down, turn around life.
Seek hermitic way.


(a simple haiku)

Gin's Song for Tilba

                  GIN’S SONG OF TILBA

                                by

                        Virginia Gow

                           21/01/11   

Verse 1

He was born in a barn way down in Tilba

He was raised as a hippy making hay

But he came to the city

To look for someone pretty

And there he decided to stay

Chorus

He sang,

It’s cold in those hills

But I still miss the mountain

Raining all the time, so verdant green

People there were kind of square

With baggy clothes and lanky hair

Those Tilba rainbow lovers were never mean.

Verse 2

He married himself a fancy lady

Had a house, a car, a boat and a mortgagee

He didn’t mind at all

He was having such a ball

Interviewing illegal emigraees 

Chorus

He sang,

It’s cold in those hills

But I still miss the mountain

Raining all the time, so verdant green

People there were kind of square

With baggy clothes and lanky hair

Those Tilba rainbow lovers were never mean.

Verse 3

They buried him in a big, black box in Tilba

Took his body home to be beside the sea

Throughout his tempestuous life,

Wild adventures, some little strife,

He never lost sight of the memories.

Chorus:

He sang,

It’s cold in those hills

But I still miss the mountain

Raining all the time, so verdant green

People there were kind of square

With baggy clothes and lanky hair

Those Tilba rainbow lovers were never mean.

Rod's song for Slim

                Rod’s Song for Slim

                                 by

                Rod Gow and Virginia Gow.

Verse 1

I’ve been around the top end

For the better part of my life

I’ve often been in trouble

Sometimes I’ve been in strife

I soon found out what life’s about

Among the top end mob

They help you with your problems and

They get on with the job.

Chorus:

I like the top end way of life

The people are true blue

And  a place is just it’s people

Be it many, or few.

Verse 2

When I first arrived at the top end

With a prayer and a couple of bob

A smart young southern city bloke

Found myself with a newspaper job.

Setting type and spinning yarns

Loved to leave my mark on a story

Hidden in the type, a message clear

That was my kind of glory.

Chorus:

I like the top end way of life

The people are true blue

And a place is just it’s people

Be it many, or few.


Verse 3

I learnt to roll with folky mob

With my girl from Parramatta

Songbird sweethearts, melting hearts away

We quietened all the chatter

One dark night, on the way to a gig

My bike ran into a car

Now I sing up the sun through the morning’s mist

You see, I have traveled so far.

Chorus:

I like the top end way of life

The people are true blue

And a place is just it’s people

Be it many, or few.

                    

Manly Poets' Group 03/01/11

I sit
Sit on a post
Post is russet-red
Russet-red, like my couch.
Couch beckons today
Today cool-rain day
Day of my first co-ordination
Co-ordination, ordination of my time
Time to be with the Poets' Group
Group to see my reliability
Reliability is my Manly reputation
Reputation of doing a given task.
Task of turning up
Turning up, even though it's a public holiday.
Public holiday, and the Library is closed!
Closed, but my mind is open.
Open to the reality of a poem

LADY ANNE

Philippine Journey    2009              by Virginia Jean Gow

Lady Anne was invited to Manila for breakfast,

Famous Anne, elegant Anne.

She flew in from Dubbo, for Peter’s birthday

Designer Peter, amusing Peter.

Peter is sixty; Lady Anne is much older,

But they have a shared history,

Have faded past glories.

Whispers of intrigue drew a curtain around them

Surrounding the Lady, who still held her style.

She wore her splendor tied with a ribbon in her hair.

Manila sparkled with renewed vigor

Welcomed the Lady back to her palaces.

We wandered the Casa, so steeped in history,

Where Spanish rule dominated for five hundred years.

We slid into shadows of Chinese Cemetery,

An unusual choice for a sixtieth celebration,

At walled Intramuros, that infamous prison

In the footsteps of Dr.Rizal we followed.

A party of difference,

We learned of rebellion and freedom’s dream.

We questioned the safety of riding a jeepna,

Especially one called “Chariot of God”.

It was a day to remember

A gossamer birthday

Peter is sixty; Lady Anne is much younger now.