Ekphrastic Challenge 5

Prayer, by Jan Price

 

FADED BELIEF
MICHAEL CAINS

 

 

HEAVENLY FACES
JO CURTAIN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

YES, VIRGINIA, THERE IS AN INCAN GOD
JULIE RYSDALE

News Just In: Seismic activity deep in the Andes. More to follow …

…

Their fine gold leaf dust left a luminous trail on the rocks and disappeared silently into the sand. Plumed wings, like silken webs, trilled and trembled with fear and foreboding.

They sensed trouble. No longer tranquil, angelic and at peace, the saintly guardians were distressed by Viracocha’s anger. Nevertheless, heeding his urgent call, they plunged through the cosmos to stand with him: albeit with a halo or two skew-whiff.

Viracocha’s patience had been stripped by the latest violation. At first, it had been only puckish inspiration that invaded his dreams, but the situation had escalated. He summoned his guardians from galactic expanses, knowing they would be loyal and supportive allies despite their qualms.

For aeons he had restlessly paced the shores of Lake Titicaca, disturbed that his Incan followers too felt jaded by the disinformation, falsification and fake news that had tainted their world. He had grown weary of his empire being disparaged as the stuff of legend, his own godliness being called a myth. He was a supreme being, revered by his people, not the fable of tatty paperbacks. Much to his chagrin even the bumbling buffoon, the bogus Santa Klaus, was held in higher esteem.

Non-believers had wreaked mischief for centuries, perpetuating the idea that he and his doctrines, were nothing more than folklore. Indeed, written in the Book of Mormon, it was Christ who had travelled to this realm performing extraordinary feats … felling mountains, hurling fire, parting waters, painting blackness. That old chestnut had worn thin.

And now, a fracture in his heart would never heal: the most sacred of treasures, buried long ago deep in the lake’s murky depths, had been plundered. These sacrificial items had been heirlooms for a lifetime, but now they would be on shabby display for the foolish to misunderstand. It horrified him that they were being touted as exciting new evidence of the legend of Viracocha.

With both pride and sadness, he contemplated the vast lake that he had fashioned: the Island of the Sun where he had conceived the universe and its inhabitants. He had expertly moulded the sun and moon from islands and formed the cosmos from stars that he plucked from inky waters. With delight he had fashioned the first humans, breathing life into stone. Yet still, he was undermined and discredited. He knew it was time for a revelation.

He stood alongside his celestial aides, sharing their angst: it had been an eternity since he had commandeered such immense power.

…

Breaking: An earthquake measuring 9.5 has been recorded under Lake Titicaca. Tsunami warnings are sounding. Ubinas has erupted. Fires, volcanic ash and smoke haze are hazardous. People are being urged to evacuate immediately. Further volcanic eruptions and earthquakes are being reported elsewhere. There are also unconfirmed reports that a reindeer with a blazing nose has bolted and grave fears are held for the safety of Santa Klaus. More to follow …

 

CHRISTMAS ALLSORTS
JENNY HURLEY

It’s Christmas time,

There’s a chocolate box of traditions

Choose your part in the pantomime.

Will you be an angel, atop the Christmas tree?

Foretelling what’s to come

Hinting at what will be?

I told you, Brian, not to overcook that chook!

I could’ve helped – if you’d only let me take a look!

Or will you negotiate the tricky and the cliquey?

Adore the newborn King?

Tell yourself: hypocrisy is not a new thing.

Me?

I’ll listen to Frank and Bing croon jazzy carols

with my bottomless glass of bubbles

 Grateful for a day that I can almost forget

All of the world’s troubles.

 

PRAISE BE
DAVID BRIDGE

The ‘Gospel Singers’ were caught up in their usual eclectic performance, each picked out by their own glowing spotlight, highlighting a variety of responses to the ‘Glory, glory, halleluiah’ emanating from the surrounding bank of speakers.

Peter, Paul, Mary and Joseph cried by turns in agony or ecstasy as they felt directed by the spirit, the costumes infused with the cycling colours of the spotlights suspended overhead.  A black light added to the illusion of the wings adorning several of the group, patterning their surfaces with feathers of shimmering white.

Lead singer, Gordon Plover the Third, a.k.a. ‘The Son’, ran rivulets of blood sweat and tears over the contours of his brow, drops emanating from reservoirs within the ‘thorns’ carefully secured atop his head. It was a device he was particularly proud of, purchased at some expense from ‘God’s Little Shop of Horrors’, the specialty theatrical store second only to ‘Plagues Are Us’, favoured by the fundamentalists.

Beyond the circle of light and action it was hard to penetrate to the congregation swaying and clapping in the surrounding gloom. A straining ear might discern a chorus of ‘Praise be, praise be’, while the Reverend Plover, Gordon Plover the Second, navigated the space collecting donations to the cause, the glimmer of the eftpos machine screen showing the way. The ‘Son’s Work’ advocated tolerance of the elderly whose donations could still be yielded in currency and gifts provided a ten percent commission was included to cover conversion costs.

Some, though few present now, said the Reverend had devoted his ministry to conversion: ‘Praise be the wonders of God’s unfathomable bounty recorded in the incorruptible block chain. Amen.’ Others spoke of an accounting, a reckoning to come, but few mentioned it to the Reverend, at least not for a second time.

For, held the Reverend, ‘Praise be the servants of the cause who lead the confused and mistaken, those who have misunderstood the Son’s message, lead them to where they will be mistaken no longer, and may lay down their burden’s forever, all at reasonable rates. Oh, happy day for those investing in Plover Rest Homes. Amen.’

And so the performance continues, twice nightly between meals, showing the way for lost souls needing guidance.  Father and the Son working as one. Praise be.

 

BREATH OF LIFE
JENNY FUNSTON

In the depth of my soul lies a wish,
Peace on Earth.
Prayer, what is it?
The anguished cry of the forgotten?
Hedonistic ramblings of the ego inspired?
Heartfelt love for humanity?
Faces, faces, faces,
Genuine, lying, self indulgent, inspired
in a personal desire to be heard,
By whom?
I see them all, yet am disturbed,
So many emotions bombarding my senses
as I visually allow my eyes to travel,
Up, down, across the page,
Yet all faces belie the inner truths,
Reaching, yearning for meaning
Across eons of time.
Prayer, a breath of life.

 

BLESSED ARE THE MEEK
JOHN HERITAGE

 

TOMBSTONE TOURIST
ALLAN BARDEN

My interest in visiting cemeteries and in the stories behind the headstones was piqued as a boy when I accompanied my grandmother on visits to lay flowers on my great grandmother’s grave.

In Australia and overseas I have discovered that visiting cemeteries provides cultural insights from another perspective other than the usual tourist hotspots such as art galleries, museums and cathedrals.

As with these institutions, cemeteries also have their saints and ostentatious paraphernalia, but in a different context and evoking different emotions. I have passed many a happy or sad moment pondering headstone inscriptions and their meaning and history. Those words that appear to depict human vanity and the afterlife and a final attempt to pretend that we matter or that we were of saintly disposition.

A cemetery visit tells something not only about famous or infamous people but also about ordinary people. To seek out the tombs of the rich and famous because one might think they matter more than ordinary folk is folly, because doing so means one misses out on so much more. The inscriptions on the graves of ordinary people are just as enlightening as those of the more famous.

In Paris’s Pere-Lachaise cemetery you can visit Edith Piaf, Marcel Proust, Chopin, Oscar Wild and Jimmy Morrison. Wandering up and down the cobbled pathways past lopsided tombstones and decorative monuments you can get a wonderful lesson in French political, social and economic history.

Similarly, walking the heritage trails of Coburg Pine Ridge cemetery, one of Melbourne’s oldest, and Carr Villa cemetery in Launceston provides one with insights into rich local social history as do the very many cemeteries of rural Australia.

London’s Highgate cemetery where Rod Stewart was once a grave digger, is one of my favourite cemeteries to visit. Among the noted buried is Catherine Dickens (Charles’s wife), George Eliot, George Michael and Douglas Adams. There is Karl Marx’s grave which, when I visited, was surrounded by Chinese tourists linking arms and singing the ‘Communist International’. The eerie walkways with weeping shrubs and trees and crypts dug into the hillside provided backdrops to the making of early 20C horror films.

Walking PNG’s war cemeteries, Lae and Bomana, Kanchanaburi in Thailand and the Western Front in Belgium and France, is a sobering and sad experience. The war graves are set among agricultural fields and lovely bushes and trees; the tranquil and quiet order in direct contrast to the horrors of ‘the war to end all wars’.

A potted history of Ireland is gleaned from a visit to Dublin’s Glasnevin cemetery, Ireland’s largest and where Daniel O’Connell, Michael Collins, Charles Stewart Parnell, Maud Gonne (the love of Yeats’s life) and Eamon DeValera are resting.

My experience is that cemeteries need not be viewed as gloomy places with nothing to offer the living.  Through their unknown inhabitants they provide not only a picturesque culture but an alternative source of historical, social, architectural and artistic knowledge and of trends and fashions over time.

 

THOUGHTS AND PRAYERS
GISELLE SIM

Thoughts and Prayers
Insulting and empty
Do not feed nor house
Do not protect nor save

Said by those that do not pray
But those that pray know
It is a silent act alone
That comes with a silent response

Prayers are not heard by the living
Whether you pray or not
The horror is real if you ignore it
Always is and always was

Prayers of different selfish benefits
Hiding one’s shame and guilts
In denial of those that hear a prayer
Know of all the evils ever dealt

 

TESTING MY NERVE
CATHERINE BELL

There’s only a week to go. I can’t put it off any longer.

HHH ead forward, teeth clenched, white-knuckled, I drive towards the city.

I know I can do it. I can, I can. I’ll be in and out in record time.

It’s hard to find a park today. Not a good sign. Christmas shoppers are out early. I trudge over to the megastore, fighting back the feelings of dread bubbling up from my stomach.

The automatic doors spring open.

Several shoppers, juggling huge parcels, are spat out onto the pavement. They’re wide-eyed and dishevelled, as though ejected from a terrifying rollercoaster ride.

I wait for a gap in the crowd, before edging my way in.

Santa is slumped in a chair by the door. His weary Ho, Ho, Ho is drowned out by Jingle Bells blasting through the store. It’s easy to tell his season has been a long one.

I look past him, and I’m done.

Every inch of the store is pulsating with the syncopated flashing of fairy lights. A coruscating kaleidoscope of Christmas decorations in every direction and I’m in Times Square on Christmas Eve.

The walls, lined with enormous technicolour screens, scream LOOK AT ME, LOOK AT ME. And within seconds, the churring and whirring, beeping, pinging, and zinging of competing electronic devices overload my already fraught mind.

I’m totally disoriented.

Sales assistants are spruiking their products, offering irresistible bargains, as swarms of shoppers clog the aisles. They’re checking their lists, frantically searching for last-minute presents, before snaking their way towards the checkouts.

I freeze on the spot, not knowing where to look, where to go. There are no reference points to the outside world. No clocks, daylight, sky, or windows. It’s like the inside of Crown Casino.

A heavy cloud of yesterday’s stale air pervades the building and I become aware of a strange chemical taste burning my lips.

Breathe deeply. Breathe slowly. Tummy breathing. Breathe until the panic subsides.

But my head is pounding, and a migraine is imminent.

Despite every sense being assaulted, I venture further into the maze.

I lurch and sway, brushing past shoppers, and inch my way like a drunkard through the confusion of narrow aisles stacked high with electronic appliances.

Eventually, I find a quiet corner towards the back of the store.

A dusty, black plastic chair is jammed in between piles of cardboard boxes. I sit down, wipe my eyes and give myself time to think.

How to escape this rabbit warren?

A young sales assistant lurking in the shadows, looks equally discombobulated. He is wearing droopy reindeer antlers, picking at his fingernails and has a ‘I’d rather be anywhere but here’ look about him.

He avoids eye contact with me, and asks glumly:

What are you looking for?

Just ear pods, I reply. A Christmas present for my husband.

Buy them online, he says bitterly. It’s a jungle in here.

I smile for the first time today.

 

PEACE AND HARMONY
MARIA DIMOPOULOS

Twelve angelic beings brought together
In harmony composed as a
collective possessing
peace in their hearts and minds
expressing to all humanity
ever longing peace.

 

‘TWAS THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS …
GEOFFREY GASKILL

Dotti and Greg had walked their neighbourhood each Christmas Eve for as long as Greg could remember. When his mother became frail, he offered to drive her. ‘That would spoil the pleasure,’ she declared, not quite insulted.

Mr Cruise’s place, with its inflatable Santa dancing in the breeze was their first stop. Dotti nodded approvingly. Next was the Carols with lighted wreaths either side of their garage door before Mrs Starr’s place and its giant tinselled Christmas tree. ‘Tradition,’ she replied each time Greg asked why she didn’t do something different. ‘It’s perfect.’

Pete and Marg Nicholas didn’t know the meaning of excess with their life-sized illuminated Santa and his reindeer on their roof. Snow with romping elves took the spectacle right over the top. ‘They must have one hell of an electricity headache in the New Year,’ Greg muttered sotto voce to Dotti

‘Don’t be so cynical and Scroogey,’ she said, slapping his wrist and shushing him. ‘It’s Christmas.’

According to Dotti, ‘Chez Berry is the place I look forward to most.’ The unfortunately named Jerry Berry spent all year every year transforming his big front window into a mock stained glass.

‘This year is my masterpiece,’ he told anyone who’d listen. Each of his models were people in the street.

‘I don’t look that young anymore,’ Dotti smiled, blushing and eyes welling.

The last place they reached was the Dickens.  They could only gawp. Dotti gasped, put a hand to her chest and muttered, ‘Oh my.’

Greg’s robust reaction involved laughter and applause.

‘It’s …’ Dotti tried, lost for words.

‘… great!’ said Greg.

At that moment his mother found her tongue.  ‘… disgusting.’

The Dickens’ offering was, in many ways, a modest affair compared to the rest of the street. They’d erected a life-sized racy-looking Santa dressed in red budgie smugglers colour-coordinated with an erect and very phallic-looking liripipe with an oversized star instead of a pom-pom.

Subtle it was not. Santa, himself, resembled nothing less than a martyred Christ hanging from a cruciform Christmas tree.

The whole was surrounded by small floodlights. When it grew dark, Greg expected the effect would be striking. Pound for pound, modest or not, it outdid Pete and Marg’s Santa-on-the-roof­–with or without the power bill.

Dotti called the whole thing blasphemous. ‘They should be ashamed of themselves.’

To Greg, unconventional didn’t begin to describe it. ‘Covering all the big religious bases, I guess,’ he muttered. It would be a talking point in the street for days, if not months. Maybe until Easter.

Dotti tugged Greg’s sleeve. ‘Let’s go home. I’ve suddenly lost interest for this year.’

Greg shot a last glance at Santa hanging in his tree. At that moment, he could have sworn it winked at him. Or maybe, with the coming of the dark, it was no more than the front yard bursting into a dazzling luminescence.