StorySeep

Before our births, void of choice, we became part of the story,
During our lives, with a choice, we can't escape the story,
After death, abandoned choice, the story continues to seep.
- Andrew Mansell

He Wanted a Son

Beyond the lush farmland of Sandy Point and towering above Shallow Inlet, the Prom presents itself as a greener pasture despite its seeming isolation from the mainland. I can’t believe it has been 20 years since I watched the Prom dissipate the mist that grips with vapour like hands.

I would say the happiest times of my childhood were spent here on the farm with my seven sisters and mum while dad was away at war. The combined muscle of my not quite teenage slim frame and eight females was never enough to keep 600 acres of farmland in check. Fortunately for us, Uncle Jack helped mum with the heavy farm work despite having to maintain his own farm 3 miles away in the Fish Creek direction. Every time I offered to help Jack fix the plough or hunt the foxes that picked off our lambs, he patted me on the head and told me to go and look after my mother – suited me.

I would walk down to Shallow Inlet with my fishing rod and a pocket full of live worms. I’d catch the best flathead when the perfectly curled waves from Bass Straight broke and made their way to me on the inward tide. My mum was always more than grateful for the tucker. Once, I proudly brought back a flathead that was as long as a newborn lamb and she said,

‘Robert, we’ll be eating, nothing but fish for a week. You’ve saved us a chook again.’

While I fished there was plenty of waiting time between catches. I would stare endlessly at the Prom, transfixed by the magical rainbows that glittered through the surrounding mist. In the evenings I would paint the Prom’s fading colours and in the mornings, its fading darkness.

So Far Away

 

Gennady

I hoped you could hold on
just a little longer
for your generous heart to
again pump stronger
but you passed away
in restless slumber
you know I loved you
but I’ll always wonder
If only to kiss once more
your colourful cheek
to have been there
at least to speak
and throw dirt down
where you lay
how to forgive myself
this saddest day
your curious grand children
ask me why
I bow over your photo
in numbing cry
together one day
we’ll come to you
and place fresh flowers
all over you.

Andrew Mansell, March 2012
In memory of Gennady 1937-2012

Enough Patience

I’ve been ever so patient
waiting for voices unheard
ideas not shared
unsung songs
stories to write.
Patience though, will always be
unable to free a voice
an idea
a song
a story at hand.

Andrew Mansell, April 2012

Potholes

Grey puddles left over from the rain
driven over til all splashed out
routinely like the economy machine
bigger, deeper, the holes sprout.
Forever drawn towards sunset
reflections of our mortal being
never capturing eternal light
washed occasions for the seeing.

Andrew Mansell, April 2012

Mostly Its

Twits

Twitter is for twits,
Britain is for Brits,
Fighting is for fits,
Writing is for wits.
Google is for hits,
Flickr is for pics,
Youtube is for clips,
Texting is the pits.
Apples are for pips,
Pigs are for spits,
Frankfurts are for fritz,
Spam is so skitz.
Family is for tips,
Lover is for lips,
Blogging is for bits,
Forums are for hips.
Scratching is for nits,
Skype is for chits,
Surfing is for slits,
Web is not for quits.
Squeezing is for zits,
Wiki does the splits,
Facebook is for crits,
Ads give me the shits.

Andrew Mansell, March 2012.