Ekphrastic Challenge #10 2024: ‘Complexity’ (image by John Heritage)

 

COMPLEXITY

(Image by John Heritage)

 

Congratulations to those who submitted to the Geelong Writers tenth Ekphrastic Challenge for 2024. The image ‘Complexity’ (by John Heritage) provided the stimulus for original ideas about light and shade, intersections, interactions and growth.

We proudly publish the writings of the following fourteen writers:

Adam Stone     Allan Barden       Gail Griffin       David Bridge

Jan Price      Catherine Bell       Daphne Delores Winter

Geoffrey Gaskill     John Heritage      John Margetts

Deb Lucas      Ian Stewart      Dulara J.     Steve Gray

 

 

 

Backyard

The earth is parched.

Hairline cracks under the strain.

Tufts of Sir Walter Buffalo grass punctuate an otherwise sad and sorry looking backyard.

The old cricket pitch running East/West with virtual speedhumps in the lazily landscaped yard acted as a veritable minefield during those long, hot summer days.

There’s a few lonesome buds on the old apple tree.

The peach tree, gnarly and tired has known better days.

The aged eucalypt showed no animosity at all towards the children carving their initials; ‘We were all young once’, it mused.

Somehow the weeds can still thrive and dominate long-forgotten garden beds.

And there’s the wall of ivy. The foliage acted as a cloak of invisibility for games of hide and seek.

Forever lush and green.

It will be cockroaches and ivy vines in the end.

• • • • • • •      Adam Stone

 

 

An Apology to the Trees

You deserve an apology.

I believe we’ve lost the truth about your value. Lost the ability to recognize the truth amidst the never-ending flood of misinformation. Truth is a hard thing to find, even harder to hold. In terms of the necessary benefits you give us, we reject the truth about your worth and we refuse the warnings of scientists and scholars, while we happily swallow the untruths fed to us by self-interested parties. Worst of all, on and on we go. We continue to cut you down; the lifeblood for so many things.

Getting rid of an inconvenient you is almost a national pastime. Your illegal destruction to obtain prized water or better views is rampant in our cities. The Tasmanian government is once again, considering allowing deforestation of old growth forests. The heresy continues, killing you off in a world which has less and less of you but needs you more than ever.

You purify the air and absorb harmful pollutants, making the planet more habitable for all living beings. You provide shade and a home for creatures. You are noble and uncomplaining, stoic in the face of endless insults from humans. You are a silent guardian sustaining life and planetary health, while working steadily to maintain environmental balance

In childhood we developed a bond with you, when we climbed and swung in your branches, or planted you as part of school or family activities.

Some of us work tirelessly to save the forests, plant more of you in urban spaces and educate others about the importance of preserving your vital natural resources.

Ultimately, our need for you is rooted in your role as a life-sustaining force. Whether admired for your strength or appreciated for your beauty, you hold a special place in the world.

I congratulate you.

 

•     Allan Barden

 

 

Social Housing Shortage

 

How can we solve the gravity issue problem?

Ongoing homelessness, especially for women and children

More common now, too, for women over fifty-five

Entrepreneurs, activists and leaders no less immune

Living out covert lives, endured and dominated by others

Empowerment limited, they fled in fear and trauma, while

Some women left widowed, penniless, no longer job-ready with  

Negligible significant assets, funds or investments to rely on

Essentials left behind in the flight from abuse

Self-preservation and protection concerns are paramount

Support not always forthcoming from family and friends

 

In-kind assistance from organisations is welcome but only temporary

Sustainable, safe, secure and affordable social housing needed

 

Raise awareness of the plight of homeless women and children

Influence and inform the decision-makers to provide solutions that

Fast track action that is more proactive, rather than reactive and

Educate our young people to value, care for and respect each other

 

• • • • • • • •      Gail Griffin

 

Green Leaves

“It’s ‘sleeves’ not ‘leaves’,” hissed the lute player. I nodded, embarrassed. Thank God for rehearsals. Putting my instrument into its case, my daughter’s book caught my eye. I had stayed up late reading the story to her after she had awoken from a bad dream. She loved the hero’s climb up the vine covered walls of the tower, straining for hand and foot holds midst the intertwining vines.

“Alas my love, you do me wrong.” My wife, the harp soloist for this performance, had joined us for the interval.

“Sorry, my lady, it won’t happen again.”

“I should think not.” I could tell she was only half joking. This was her moment in the sun. Julian, the visiting conductor, had selected her from three contenders.  It would not do for her significant other to detract from the event.

“Thanks for not waking me and thank goodness Maddie loves that story so much.”

“Well, it comes at a cost,” I said. “I’ve had to promise not to strip the ivy off the back wall despite the roots clawing at the window frame.”

“Ah, but her teacher told me she was the only one in her class to know what a helix is.”

“Well, she asks so many questions about how it holds on under the weight, and you should see the leaf patterns in her art folder.”

She smiled. “Now you need to add in some sixteenth century history based on popular folk music.”

“Yes, maybe I could link it to my imaginative change to the lyric…”

“Shakespeare you’re not. Just as long as you don’t stray off onto considerations of grass stains on a woman’s dress. I think it’s a little early to be starting on that area of her education.”

 

•     David Bridge

 

Complexity     

Every leaf

every animal

every fingerprint

every blade of grass

every human being

every ‘identical twin’

is an individual.

Cell-split twins

will be internally

0.1% unidentical

causing individual variants

in each twin; outwardly

also unidentical.

And every living thing

requiring water air nutrients

is vein-fed via a fractal network.

Our brains and hearts

are full of fractals.

Animals have consciousness

but humans have consciousness

and a conscience.

Uninhibited fractals are

ideally ‘free choice’ infinite;

inhibited fractals are restrained

by the measurement of a leaf

an animal a human being

or lack of food air rain.

The science is

everything is measured.

The fact that measurement

and fractals which contain

those various measurements

existed long before man’s discovery

that everything is measured –

therefore Life is not an accident.

So there must be

an infinite Genius who knows

trees blossoms bees birds fish in oceans

sun stars moons clouds snow

are incapable of perfect love

for perfect love is free of restraint.

This is why we are here.

©     Jan Price

 

Finding my jungle vibe

‘Challenge your fears. Get out of your comfort zone. Rewild. Find your jungle vibe,’ suggests the therapist.

I arrive at the accommodation nestled deep in the rainforest. Dense, damp and dark.

Spiders lurk as big as dinner plates. More spiders than I care to think about. Brush turkeys dart in and out of mossy undergrowth. Pungent smells rise from the decomposing, ancient forest floor. It’s mildewy, primeval, mysterious.

Fairy lights, like glowworms, line the path from the communal area to my wooden hut. Flapping green canvas. High ceilings to catch the breeze. Bloated green tree frogs climbing up the bedroom walls. Ugggh!

Next morning. Horse riding through the rainforest. I’m a complete amateur. Haven’t been on a horse since I was eight.

The guide, Rodney, wearing an Akubra and board shorts, swaggers up to me.

‘Ridden before?’

‘Not much,’ I reply.

‘Hey, Psycho. Over here.’

I look around. He’s talking to a horse.

‘Psycho’s out of sorts. Keep a close eye on him,’ says Rodney as he passes the reins to me.

Up I go. Feet in the stirrups, straight back, holding the reins loosely feigning confidence.

Single file with the other riders, snaking along under the rainforest’s dark canopy. Hot, moist, suffocating. Smelling of death and decay. Shapes jumping out of the shadows. Quilted vines overhead, tendrils grabbing me. Vegetation so dense, chaotic, oppressive, it sucks me in.

I lose sight of the other riders. I lose all sense of direction, of reality, of self.

‘Keep up,’ yells Rodney. ‘Go faster.’

Psycho bucks, reminding me who’s in charge. Up and down in the saddle. Red-faced, heart pumping, tears. Stomach pitches like missing the bottom step. Helpless, hopeless, wanting it all to end.

The following day. Face scratched, body aching, struggling to walk, I search online for a different therapist.

 

•     Catherine Bell

 

Resurgence

Each leaf flourishes in a trellis of uniformity; each leaf’s proud display nourishes the whole. Each frond glosses over the network supporting it, yet not one leaf would survive on its own.

The interconnection of all living things is increasingly ignored. Simple lies are preferred to complicated truths. The cult of the individual obliterates the vulnerable. Wealth and public office sanction biodiversity’s decline.

Discontented, cynical and misguided, masses choose corrupt leaders, stifling the claims of those seeking more light. The most rapacious surge ahead, trampling on human decency; the powerful feast upon the bodies of the sensitive.

Can they be forgiven when they well know what they do? When each politician stinks of self-promotion, will there ever be a champion for those who fall behind? Who can we rely on when the world grows darker?

Transplanted from the old world of conquest and dominion, empire-hungry growth seizes freshly-cultivated ground. Left to itself, it will continue rampant.

Each aspiring gardener is now confronted by a jungle. Only those with vision can clear the way ahead, if they can remain energised and hopeful about what stubborn work might achieve. Every invasive weed must be recognised for what it is; stripped of its cover it can be seen as part of a system that gorges on resources stolen from others.  Only then, taking up every tool at their disposal, can the gardeners begin to uproot embedded creepers. And perhaps, through their efforts, lost ground may be reclaimed.

• • •       Daphne Delores Winter

 

Pandora

She knew, more than feared that when she reached out to satisfy her curiosity and parted the curtain of leaves before her, something would be there she’d never seen before.

As a kid she’d been warned about her inquisitiveness when she’d been caught looking at Christmas or birthday presents ahead of time. ‘Curiosity killed the cat, you know,’ her father chided, ‘when it poked its nose into places it didn’t belong.’

‘I’m getting those presents anyway,’ was her comeback.

Her dad used the word, curiosity as if it were something bad. ‘It’ll get you into trouble one day,’ he warned. ‘And I might not be there to save you from yourself.’

She looked again at the curtain of leaves. Like all her friends’ dads, hers was a worrywart. What did they know? She was now old enough, and way too big, to believe in such childish stories such as her father told her. Remember the Easter Bunny, Santa Claus, the bogeyman …?

But, for reasons she couldn’t fathom, there was something about that wall of vegetation that brought her dad’s words about opening Pandora’s Box back to her.

‘What’s Pandora’s Box?’

‘It’s a Greek myth,’ he said.

She’d almost laughed in his face at that!

‘It’s about the consequences of disobedience,’ he added, frowning at her disrespect. ‘Once Pandora opened it–even though she’d been warned not to–all the troubles of the world flew out. And …’ his voice darkened and hardened, ‘she couldn’t put them back. She couldn’t unsee the seeable, unhear the hearable …’

Poor old dad! How she’d laughed at his seriousness. ‘As if.’

Putting aside her reservations, she parted the leaves to see …

She stared, immobilised with horror as she felt a scream surge through her guts like an express train, into her mouth.

 

•     Geoffrey Gaskill

 

my history

won’t

stay

in the back  g  round

o  a  b

o n a

d

intertwine

up front

out in the open

to be

learnt from

and

built on

growth and optimism

once established

hard to kill

 

• • • •     John Heritage

 

 

Poison ivy

We stopped at midnight to gut up. There were still lots of rabbits around but the ute was full.

The rabbit drive for the Church took off like wildfire. There was a plague on, and at four bucks a pair Church funds got a big top-up. It needed topping up. Half the families in our district struggled to put food on their table. Years of drought will do that.

I was driver because I owned the ute. Bruce handled the spotlight – he could practically see in the dark anyway. Nobby shot for us but we insisted he stay off the grog for a day before we went out – Vietnam of course. And Cyril did the gutting up.

Cleaning 40-50 pairs of bunnies takes a special skill. Cyril had it. He was fast, methodical and uncomplaining. Also he was our local undertaker.

We watched as he practised his trade by spotlight; perhaps our minds were not entirely on the rabbits either.

“Got booked for speeding yesterday!” Cyril announced while gutting another rabbit.

“In the hearse? What sort of mongrel did that to you?”  Bruce asked.

“A young female constable, she was. Nice as pie. Told me I was doing 68 in a 60 zone.”

“What’s the fine?”

“Couple of hundred or something, Bruce. It’ll go on the customer’s bill, anyway.”

“Did you try to talk your way of it?”

“Told her I was taking the body to a funeral in Mildura. She asked me who it was. I told her it was my mother-in-law.  Then she bursts out laughing and asks who decorated the hearse with all that green stuff around the coffin?”

“What’s the joke, I asked her?”

“It’s poison ivy she says, just the thing for a mother-in-law!”

 

•     John Margetts

Teeth

 

Swallowing me up, into the blackness, in between

The coldness underneath, the gangrenous green

You can smell it down there, creeping up slowly

The thickness of scent, cloying the air I see

The blackness it screams, the blackness jumps out

I cover my ears, it’s so loud, its shout

The more I look, the more I sink

Yes! There’s brightness, of green succinct

But the blackness consumes, it’s rippling, it’s thriving

It’s the darkness of black, it’s the darkness driving

This image of darkness, hidden by ivy

Of sharp green teeth, coming for me

• • • • • •     Deb Lucas

 

Truth

An ivy-covered wall, suggesting permanence

Or ancient learning’s lineage o’er the years

The imbricated leaves invoke a sense

Of interlocking truth as nonsense clears

Oxford’s dreaming spires, and Princeton’s walls

Covered here and there with ivy’s green

The gentle imbrication downward falls

To hide away ideas as yet unseen

But will they still provide our learning’s thrust

And add more moral strength to worldly views

Or will they slowly crumble into dust

As they can no longer pay their dues

Our world requires the thoughts that they invoke

May they go on to challenge all that’s woke

• • • •       Ian Stewart

 

 

The Apothecary’s Wallpaper

Leaves. Spiky green leaves, as far as the eye could see, even on the ceiling.

 

An interesting choice of wallpaper, though the owner of the old fashioned apothecary shop had interesting tastes…to say the least. The leaves seemed to burst out of the wall, almost in 4D, with a glossy sheen and papery veins that seemed to whisper and rustle, and if you stared too long it looked as though a gentle breeze were swaying it. But curiously enough, with the seasons, so changed the leaves. When autumn fell, the glossy greens turned crisp colors of fire and earth, and in winter the leaves became skeletons with delicate frames and thorny vines, in spring the leaves bearing the most beautiful blossoms.

 

Everyone chalked it up to blunt, boring logic, that Ophelia, the owner, had merely put up a new wallpaper every season, but something about it just seemed to say otherwise. It was no secret that the apothecary shop had a certain charm, but charm to what extent?

 

I once asked Ophelia if the shop was magic, if she was magic, lured in by her kind, twinkling eyes and the knowing lilt to her mouth, quirked up just so, and from that mouth fell a pretty little laugh that twinkled almost as much as her eyes.

 

“Magic exists only if you believe in it.”  She smiled.

 

And they say seeing is believing, so trust me when I say I believed fully and truly in magic when I touched a hand to the moving leaves, and instead of finding cold, flat wall, found a doorway, framed by an arch of leaves and flowers, for it was spring, a doorway that glowed with possibilities…

 

And all I had to do was step inside.

 

•       Dulara J.

 

 

Whispering Strength

Abby stepped onto the forest trail, her heart brimming with the kind of ache only familiar places can evoke. Dappled light filtered through the canopy, weaving warmth into shadows, the sun and shade dancing together as though sharing secrets. She felt the warmth on her face, each beam a delicate thread, binding her to the memory of summer’s long past.

The trees seemed to lean in as she walked, their branches stretching with a quiet knowing, as if they sensed her return. Beneath her feet, the path wound like an old story, its curves drawn back on themselves, etched by the feet of those who had walked before her. The forest held the pulse of something ancient, something steady. Each step she took felt as if she were tracing the lines of a familiar map, her heart tied to the earth in a way she could never explain.

It was here, in the heart of these woods, that she felt the strength that had eluded her elsewhere. It was a strength drawn from deep roots and tangled memories, an energy that rose from the soil and filled her lungs. The trees whispered to her, leaves rustling like voices calling her back to herself.

At the edge of the forest, she paused, standing between past and future, the soft hum of oblivion echoing just beyond the shadows. She closed her eyes, letting the forest’s quiet resolve seep into her bones. In this place, she felt the pull to hold true, to cling to her beliefs with the same fierce persistence as the trees that stood through storms.

And as the breeze stirred, carrying the scent of autumn’s approach, Abby knew that she would return, again and again, to this place where her soul felt rooted and whole.

 

•     Steve Gray