Monday, 23 September 2013



Artie's... Artie Shaw's band
evoking memories of a bygone era…
was life really so simple then?
"Blowing bubbles… in the air…"
The melodious warble of a clarinet
the rise and fall of perfect notes
swirling skirts of crepe - de - chine
tantalising snatches of fragrance
from bruised corsages
and perfumed hair…
carefully pinned and rolled, 
or gently waved
with the help of sugar and water.
Bulky suits, double breasted,
wide lapels,
pleated and cuffed trousers
and always, shining shoes.
Greasy palms, partly from anxiety
partly from pushing back brylcreemed hair.
Sawdust on the floor
fresh flowers mingling with half filled ashtrays..
huge bowls of punch
secretly laced with alcohol
by foolhardy, fancy free boys…
A furtive embrace
on moonlight swathed balconies…
The young, trying so hard
to look sophisticated -
the sophisticated -
 trying so hard to look young.
Cars with running boards,
lamp lit avenues, lined with trees,
and shadows…
the beckoning welcome of a light
shining through velvet draped windows.

Beautiful notes, beautiful music
beautiful memories.

© Crissouli

Image courtesy of ClipArtHut


(c) expired


They rode by the Diamantina
and alongside the Barcoo and never saw
another living soul.
They crossed the Haddon Corner
where the days are hot and long
and never thought
they'd ever reach their goal.

But there they met a fellow
with beard of salted grey
who told them of a place
that he'd once been.
They spent the night in dreaming
as young men often do
of the rich life that their new friend
said he'd seen.

In the shadows of the Beal Range
they packed again their swags
and made off
in the early morning light.
With their pans upon their shoulders
and strong boots they'd always worn
these two young men did make a splendid sight.

All day long, the adventurers bore
the sticky tiresome heat
and ever brushed
at buzzing swarms of flies.
They trudged along till day was night
and cooling shadows fell
giving welcome rest
to itchy, swollen eyes.

They found again their old campsite
that they'd made among the trees
and settled down
to rest their weary bones. 
They talked of Clancy of the Overflow
and of others that they'd heard
and slept once more
ignoring ghostly groans.

For at this unimposing campsite
some knew there once had been
a ghastly night,
of deeds so very foul
when a man had once been murdered
for another's pot of gold
and this evil deed
had made him ever prowl.

Not knowing of this long gone time
they dreamt the night away
with golden thoughts 
still racing through their mind.
They never woke to see the ghost
with beard of salted grey
who had ensured
that no gold would they find.

'Twas many years before they found,
at the campsite near the bank,
their whitened bones
still in their bloodied rags.
'Tis said the ghost with beard of grey
makes eerie sounds at night..
and still, it's said, he preys on men
who carry mining swags.

© Crissouli


(c) unknown


The quiet stillness of the dawn 
envelops me
wrapped in a cocoon of peace
and solitude
I, at first, feel tense
so much to do
yet, too early for most.

Time to relax, yet I shower, 
not willing to let the first
rays of sunlight elude me.
In the distance
a bird calls to it's mate
welcoming a new dawning.

Time to sit and think
and write
to welcome God's gift
of a brand new day.
Too late, the haunting bark 
of the dog next door
shatters the stillness of the dawn.

Then, once again, peace
and quiet…
a steaming cup of coffee
my only companion.
Thank you, Lord,
for these Blessed moments
and, more importantly,
a time of renewal.

© Crissouli