Entanglement
Defining quantum theory’s obscure traits
That prove a particle’s entanglement;
At light years’ distance, act as one, and states
That they react the same to measurement.
So, if we change the quantum state of one,
The other particle reacts the same;
What Einstein called “A spooky action”, done;
But is this all perception in a game?
Is free will but the measurement you take
Or is the quantum theory false, unreal,
Or are our lives’ perceptions really fake,
Or are the faster speeds than light for real?
Entanglement appears in you and me,
When we are one for everyone to see.
© Joe Lake
Monday, May 2, 2011
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 85 May 2011
Fear Of Darkness
A serial novel by Joe Lake.
(So far: Julie Jones and her husband have come from Sydney to park their Winnebago at Cooee beach. Later her husband has an accident. The husband is taken to hospital and when Julie visits him she finds he has disappeared; so has the van when she returns to Cooee. When she goes to the police station, they don’t believe her. She is told to book into a motel. She goes to her room and lies down. A kidnapper demands money on the telephone, then hangs up.)
She thinks of going straight back to the police but she feels stressed and tired and her body seems unable to move. When she drops off, she is woken by a knock on the door but she ignores it. Fear grips her and she is unable to get out of bed. She dozes as the television blares all night and the small fridge makes ghostly whining and fizzing noises. When it is morning, she walks up to the police station to report the kidnapper’s phone call the previous night where she was told that her husband’s ransom was five million dollars and that he was sealed in his Winnebago as in a coffin. She knows that the police will have to take action.
When she arrives, a young policewoman writes down in great detail what has occurred and the threats the kidnappers have made.
“I’ll have to hand this over to more senior officers,” she says before she disappears from the counter through a back door.
There is a large two-way mirror covering the reception area and Julie leans her left elbow onto the counter and looks out onto Burnie’s Wilson St that buzzes with traffic. For a moment she shuts her eyes and shakes her head. She will have to see a physician for tranquilisers because a huge mountain of fear is flooding in to crush her mind. She tries to think through the last couple of days. First there was the excitement of the arrival at Cooee beach, to park the van and sit down to watch television. They had bought pizzas from a shop nearby. A little later, there came the encounter with the crazy woman in Burnie Park who wore the Obama rubber mask and then, later, in the van, the shotgun that went off after someone rocked and banged the van. The police and the ambulance came; her husband never arrived at the hospital when she checked and then the van had disappeared when she returned. Luckily she still had the Honda two-wheeled scooter to get around on. And then the phone call last night that told about a cut-off ear and the demand for money. She would have to ring her mother in Sydney to come over and help.
Just then she heard the front door of the police station open and footsteps. She was looking into the door’s reflection in the mirror. The door opened by itself. There was no one there. When she turned to actually look, two people had come through the door. They entered with broad smiles. When Julie looked back into the mirror, there was no one there. “Vampires,” she thought.
(To be continued next month.)
A serial novel by Joe Lake.
(So far: Julie Jones and her husband have come from Sydney to park their Winnebago at Cooee beach. Later her husband has an accident. The husband is taken to hospital and when Julie visits him she finds he has disappeared; so has the van when she returns to Cooee. When she goes to the police station, they don’t believe her. She is told to book into a motel. She goes to her room and lies down. A kidnapper demands money on the telephone, then hangs up.)
She thinks of going straight back to the police but she feels stressed and tired and her body seems unable to move. When she drops off, she is woken by a knock on the door but she ignores it. Fear grips her and she is unable to get out of bed. She dozes as the television blares all night and the small fridge makes ghostly whining and fizzing noises. When it is morning, she walks up to the police station to report the kidnapper’s phone call the previous night where she was told that her husband’s ransom was five million dollars and that he was sealed in his Winnebago as in a coffin. She knows that the police will have to take action.
When she arrives, a young policewoman writes down in great detail what has occurred and the threats the kidnappers have made.
“I’ll have to hand this over to more senior officers,” she says before she disappears from the counter through a back door.
There is a large two-way mirror covering the reception area and Julie leans her left elbow onto the counter and looks out onto Burnie’s Wilson St that buzzes with traffic. For a moment she shuts her eyes and shakes her head. She will have to see a physician for tranquilisers because a huge mountain of fear is flooding in to crush her mind. She tries to think through the last couple of days. First there was the excitement of the arrival at Cooee beach, to park the van and sit down to watch television. They had bought pizzas from a shop nearby. A little later, there came the encounter with the crazy woman in Burnie Park who wore the Obama rubber mask and then, later, in the van, the shotgun that went off after someone rocked and banged the van. The police and the ambulance came; her husband never arrived at the hospital when she checked and then the van had disappeared when she returned. Luckily she still had the Honda two-wheeled scooter to get around on. And then the phone call last night that told about a cut-off ear and the demand for money. She would have to ring her mother in Sydney to come over and help.
Just then she heard the front door of the police station open and footsteps. She was looking into the door’s reflection in the mirror. The door opened by itself. There was no one there. When she turned to actually look, two people had come through the door. They entered with broad smiles. When Julie looked back into the mirror, there was no one there. “Vampires,” she thought.
(To be continued next month.)
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 85 May 2011
Fear Of Darkness
A serial novel by Joe Lake.
(So far: Julie Jones and her husband have come from Sydney to park their Winnebago at Cooee beach. Later her husband has an accident. The husband is taken to hospital and when Julie visits him she finds he has disappeared; so has the van when she returns to Cooee. When she goes to the police station, they don’t believe her. She is told to book into a motel. She goes to her room and lies down. A kidnapper demands money on the telephone, then hangs up.)
She thinks of going straight back to the police but she feels stressed and tired and her body seems unable to move. When she drops off, she is woken by a knock on the door but she ignores it. Fear grips her and she is unable to get out of bed. She dozes as the television blares all night and the small fridge makes ghostly whining and fizzing noises. When it is morning, she walks up to the police station to report the kidnapper’s phone call the previous night where she was told that her husband’s ransom was five million dollars and that he was sealed in his Winnebago as in a coffin. She knows that the police will have to take action.
When she arrives, a young policewoman writes down in great detail what has occurred and the threats the kidnappers have made.
“I’ll have to hand this over to more senior officers,” she says before she disappears from the counter through a back door.
There is a large two-way mirror covering the reception area and Julie leans her left elbow onto the counter and looks out onto Burnie’s Wilson St that buzzes with traffic. For a moment she shuts her eyes and shakes her head. She will have to see a physician for tranquilisers because a huge mountain of fear is flooding in to crush her mind. She tries to think through the last couple of days. First there was the excitement of the arrival at Cooee beach, to park the van and sit down to watch television. They had bought pizzas from a shop nearby. A little later, there came the encounter with the crazy woman in Burnie Park who wore the Obama rubber mask and then, later, in the van, the shotgun that went off after someone rocked and banged the van. The police and the ambulance came; her husband never arrived at the hospital when she checked and then the van had disappeared when she returned. Luckily she still had the Honda two-wheeled scooter to get around on. And then the phone call last night that told about a cut-off ear and the demand for money. She would have to ring her mother in Sydney to come over and help.
Just then she heard the front door of the police station open and footsteps. She was looking into the door’s reflection in the mirror. The door opened by itself. There was no one there. When she turned to actually look, two people had come through the door. They entered with broad smiles. When Julie looked back into the mirror, there was no one there. “Vampires,” she thought.
(To be continued next month.)
A serial novel by Joe Lake.
(So far: Julie Jones and her husband have come from Sydney to park their Winnebago at Cooee beach. Later her husband has an accident. The husband is taken to hospital and when Julie visits him she finds he has disappeared; so has the van when she returns to Cooee. When she goes to the police station, they don’t believe her. She is told to book into a motel. She goes to her room and lies down. A kidnapper demands money on the telephone, then hangs up.)
She thinks of going straight back to the police but she feels stressed and tired and her body seems unable to move. When she drops off, she is woken by a knock on the door but she ignores it. Fear grips her and she is unable to get out of bed. She dozes as the television blares all night and the small fridge makes ghostly whining and fizzing noises. When it is morning, she walks up to the police station to report the kidnapper’s phone call the previous night where she was told that her husband’s ransom was five million dollars and that he was sealed in his Winnebago as in a coffin. She knows that the police will have to take action.
When she arrives, a young policewoman writes down in great detail what has occurred and the threats the kidnappers have made.
“I’ll have to hand this over to more senior officers,” she says before she disappears from the counter through a back door.
There is a large two-way mirror covering the reception area and Julie leans her left elbow onto the counter and looks out onto Burnie’s Wilson St that buzzes with traffic. For a moment she shuts her eyes and shakes her head. She will have to see a physician for tranquilisers because a huge mountain of fear is flooding in to crush her mind. She tries to think through the last couple of days. First there was the excitement of the arrival at Cooee beach, to park the van and sit down to watch television. They had bought pizzas from a shop nearby. A little later, there came the encounter with the crazy woman in Burnie Park who wore the Obama rubber mask and then, later, in the van, the shotgun that went off after someone rocked and banged the van. The police and the ambulance came; her husband never arrived at the hospital when she checked and then the van had disappeared when she returned. Luckily she still had the Honda two-wheeled scooter to get around on. And then the phone call last night that told about a cut-off ear and the demand for money. She would have to ring her mother in Sydney to come over and help.
Just then she heard the front door of the police station open and footsteps. She was looking into the door’s reflection in the mirror. The door opened by itself. There was no one there. When she turned to actually look, two people had come through the door. They entered with broad smiles. When Julie looked back into the mirror, there was no one there. “Vampires,” she thought.
(To be continued next month.)
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 85 May 2011
Winter is back in Tasmania. I went with the Redhatters to Sheffield on a bus the other day. They let their hair down as long as the red hat is on. Jenny Joseph, who wrote the original poem about Redhatters in England, has started a cult movement that has spread worldwide. It’s about the emancipation of mature women.
This year the Europa Poets will hold the Gold Cup in the Burnie Library and our main event with entertainment at the Burnie Art Gallery. I would wish that you could all attend. If you write poems, or your mum does, leave them at one of the venues advertised in the gazette and I’m sure that we will get them.
This year the Europa Poets will hold the Gold Cup in the Burnie Library and our main event with entertainment at the Burnie Art Gallery. I would wish that you could all attend. If you write poems, or your mum does, leave them at one of the venues advertised in the gazette and I’m sure that we will get them.
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 85 May 2011
Winter is back in Tasmania. I went with the Redhatters to Sheffield on a bus the other day. They let their hair down as long as the red hat is on. Jenny Joseph, who wrote the original poem about Redhatters in England, has started a cult movement that has spread worldwide. It’s about the emancipation of mature women.
This year the Europa Poets will hold the Gold Cup in the Burnie Library and our main event with entertainment at the Burnie Art Gallery. I would wish that you could all attend. If you write poems, or your mum does, leave them at one of the venues advertised in the gazette and I’m sure that we will get them.
This year the Europa Poets will hold the Gold Cup in the Burnie Library and our main event with entertainment at the Burnie Art Gallery. I would wish that you could all attend. If you write poems, or your mum does, leave them at one of the venues advertised in the gazette and I’m sure that we will get them.
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 85 May 2011
Devil Tide
The cold creeps,
Like silken tide
on bed of sand.
Cold by stealth,
Wavelets, unforgiving,
on smooth, aged shore.
The cold freezes,
And the Devil tide
laps at listless shells.
Cold lingers on breath,
Sea stalks, relentless,
Caresses smooth pebble.
Cold rests on glass,
Tide licks, feeds,
on sun’s leftovers.
Cold is raw,
As virgin sand pure,
Reluctant in chill wet.
Cold is Death’s kiss,
Sea bathes, merciless,
New life and extinction.
© Michael Garrad February 2011
The cold creeps,
Like silken tide
on bed of sand.
Cold by stealth,
Wavelets, unforgiving,
on smooth, aged shore.
The cold freezes,
And the Devil tide
laps at listless shells.
Cold lingers on breath,
Sea stalks, relentless,
Caresses smooth pebble.
Cold rests on glass,
Tide licks, feeds,
on sun’s leftovers.
Cold is raw,
As virgin sand pure,
Reluctant in chill wet.
Cold is Death’s kiss,
Sea bathes, merciless,
New life and extinction.
© Michael Garrad February 2011
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 85 May 2011
“You’re only as old as you feel,” they say.
“I feel young,” you say.
She thinks, “He is old. I’m talking old!”
Then he says, “You are old!”
“But I ‘think young’. I’m young at heart! I see the world through young eyes,” you say.
“You’re old now,” he says.
“But I was young once!” you think. “I was cool.”
“Un-cool now,” he thinks.
“But my eyes see now what I saw years ago,” you think. “Nothing’s changed.”
“Yes, it has,” he thinks. “The body is older, the hair grey, skin flaccid.”
She thinks, “God, he is ancient! Does he honestly believe I would look twice? Not like
that anyway!”
“Let’s face it,” he says, “you blew it when The Beatles were fashionable!”
“That’s true,” you think.
“The Sixties were magic,” you say.
“This is 50 years later,” he says.
“I don’t know the sixties,” she says, because she wasn’t born until the late 1990s! “What were the Sixties?: she asks.
“When I was alive,” you say.
“I’m alive now,” she says. “2011 is cool!”
“You are old!” he says.
“Yes, I am old,” he thinks. “Too old! But I still remember ‘young’.”
“I feel young,” you say.
She thinks, “He is old. I’m talking old!”
Then he says, “You are old!”
“But I ‘think young’. I’m young at heart! I see the world through young eyes,” you say.
“You’re old now,” he says.
“But I was young once!” you think. “I was cool.”
“Un-cool now,” he thinks.
“But my eyes see now what I saw years ago,” you think. “Nothing’s changed.”
“Yes, it has,” he thinks. “The body is older, the hair grey, skin flaccid.”
She thinks, “God, he is ancient! Does he honestly believe I would look twice? Not like
that anyway!”
“Let’s face it,” he says, “you blew it when The Beatles were fashionable!”
“That’s true,” you think.
“The Sixties were magic,” you say.
“This is 50 years later,” he says.
“I don’t know the sixties,” she says, because she wasn’t born until the late 1990s! “What were the Sixties?: she asks.
“When I was alive,” you say.
“I’m alive now,” she says. “2011 is cool!”
“You are old!” he says.
“Yes, I am old,” he thinks. “Too old! But I still remember ‘young’.”
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 85 May 2011
Colourful Sounds
Roses are blue and violets are red!
All these beautiful shades I can hear in my head,
Their fragrance exquisite and flavour divine,
they feel like the bubbles in sparkling white wine.
You may think I’m crazy or slightly absurd,
but these colours surpass all the others I’ve heard.
The sounds of these blooms all changed just last Sunday
when I went bushwalking and found all these fungi.
I gathered those mushrooms, then cooked up and ate ’em,
And ever since then I’ve been hallucinating.
It may just wear off with a long stay in bed,
but till then it’s blue roses and violets so red!
© Pete Stratford 4.11.10
Roses are blue and violets are red!
All these beautiful shades I can hear in my head,
Their fragrance exquisite and flavour divine,
they feel like the bubbles in sparkling white wine.
You may think I’m crazy or slightly absurd,
but these colours surpass all the others I’ve heard.
The sounds of these blooms all changed just last Sunday
when I went bushwalking and found all these fungi.
I gathered those mushrooms, then cooked up and ate ’em,
And ever since then I’ve been hallucinating.
It may just wear off with a long stay in bed,
but till then it’s blue roses and violets so red!
© Pete Stratford 4.11.10
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 85 May 2011
It Does Not Make Sense
I don’t believe in Hell.
A loving God that breathes us into creation
Would not create people he knows will be damned,
How traumatic would that be
To see your beautiful creation being tortured
for eternity?
God knows our every move,
He knows when we sit down
And when we stand up,
God would not knowingly
Create people that would hate him.
It does seem unfair that
We are on Earth for such
A short time and if
We stuff up, we are damned for all time.
A loving God would not do that
To people he has created.
© Dianne Woods
I don’t believe in Hell.
A loving God that breathes us into creation
Would not create people he knows will be damned,
How traumatic would that be
To see your beautiful creation being tortured
for eternity?
God knows our every move,
He knows when we sit down
And when we stand up,
God would not knowingly
Create people that would hate him.
It does seem unfair that
We are on Earth for such
A short time and if
We stuff up, we are damned for all time.
A loving God would not do that
To people he has created.
© Dianne Woods
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 85 May 2011
Tasmania
Tasmania is an island fair
Clothed in beauty everywhere
From the vast mountain tops
Where the kangaroo hops
To the valleys below
Where grain, fruit and vegetables grow.
It’s a haven of rest
That the Lord has blessed
The cattle graze in fields of green
With crystal-clear water in almost every stream.
The sheep in pastures contentedly feed
Supplying many with the food and clothing they need.
It has immense water resources where hydro power
Is harnessed to the centre of the islands you see
To keep all the industries going hour by hour
And everybody can have electricity
It has lovely beaches and picnic resorts
All over the island it’s noted for sports.
It grows its own hops and brews its own beer
Minerals of every kind are found here
It’s a comfortable land with a steady pace
Let’s hope it will never be a mad rat race
Like the cities in other states you know
Where it’s all hustle, bustle and show.
Even the poorest land produces orchards in style
That is why it is known as “The Apple Isle”.
It is packed with beauty from shore to shore
Even though it has industries and factories galore.
May we always contented be
In this lovely land surrounded by sea.
It’s the smallest state
But it’s really great, “mate”.
© Dorothy Louisa Singleton 1963
Tasmania is an island fair
Clothed in beauty everywhere
From the vast mountain tops
Where the kangaroo hops
To the valleys below
Where grain, fruit and vegetables grow.
It’s a haven of rest
That the Lord has blessed
The cattle graze in fields of green
With crystal-clear water in almost every stream.
The sheep in pastures contentedly feed
Supplying many with the food and clothing they need.
It has immense water resources where hydro power
Is harnessed to the centre of the islands you see
To keep all the industries going hour by hour
And everybody can have electricity
It has lovely beaches and picnic resorts
All over the island it’s noted for sports.
It grows its own hops and brews its own beer
Minerals of every kind are found here
It’s a comfortable land with a steady pace
Let’s hope it will never be a mad rat race
Like the cities in other states you know
Where it’s all hustle, bustle and show.
Even the poorest land produces orchards in style
That is why it is known as “The Apple Isle”.
It is packed with beauty from shore to shore
Even though it has industries and factories galore.
May we always contented be
In this lovely land surrounded by sea.
It’s the smallest state
But it’s really great, “mate”.
© Dorothy Louisa Singleton 1963
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 85 May 2011
An Ocean Of Love
An ocean of love - warm, caressing, nourishing,
An ocean of devotion - adoring, patient, selfless,
An ocean of fear - swelling, overwhelming, uncontrollable,
An ocean of temptation - constant, alluring, devilish,
Oceans of hate - enormous, dangerous and destructive -
All these life phases are as complex, vast and challenging
As the ocean I see from my window.
Like the numbers on a chocolate wheel,
They spin round and round and back to the beginning -
The birth of a baby -
On an ocean of love.
© June Maureen Hitchcock April 2008
An ocean of love - warm, caressing, nourishing,
An ocean of devotion - adoring, patient, selfless,
An ocean of fear - swelling, overwhelming, uncontrollable,
An ocean of temptation - constant, alluring, devilish,
Oceans of hate - enormous, dangerous and destructive -
All these life phases are as complex, vast and challenging
As the ocean I see from my window.
Like the numbers on a chocolate wheel,
They spin round and round and back to the beginning -
The birth of a baby -
On an ocean of love.
© June Maureen Hitchcock April 2008
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 85 May 2011
Spring
When the wattles bright and bold
Flaunt their wet and draggled gold
Snowdrops, jonquils fair and frail
Flinch and tremble from the hail.
This is spring.
Farmer’s hands are chill and numb
Swallows wish they hadn’t come
Blackbirds whistle sweet and clear
Stubbornly and full of cheer.
This is spring.
Daisies in the sodden grass
Know quite well all this will pass
Skylarks singing, soar on high
Drop when thunder fills the sky.
This is spring?
Weather forecasts “local showers”
Turn to storms that last for hours
Sunny days are still more rare
Than even winter’s meagre share
And this, dear deluded friends,
Is spring!
© Mavis Turner (aged 95)
When the wattles bright and bold
Flaunt their wet and draggled gold
Snowdrops, jonquils fair and frail
Flinch and tremble from the hail.
This is spring.
Farmer’s hands are chill and numb
Swallows wish they hadn’t come
Blackbirds whistle sweet and clear
Stubbornly and full of cheer.
This is spring.
Daisies in the sodden grass
Know quite well all this will pass
Skylarks singing, soar on high
Drop when thunder fills the sky.
This is spring?
Weather forecasts “local showers”
Turn to storms that last for hours
Sunny days are still more rare
Than even winter’s meagre share
And this, dear deluded friends,
Is spring!
© Mavis Turner (aged 95)
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 85 May 2011
Bags Of Onions
Wet, edible bulbs
With a skin condition.
Little rolling things
Full of spiteful sap.
Heated and fried,
Changes their minds,
They become benevolent,
Delicious and heavenly.
Trussed in netting,
Hang tamely in the porch,
Waiting winter’s knife,
Cold kitchen’s sizzling.
Days in the sunshine,
Gone with the wind,
Patiently waiting
Their digestion
And disappearance.
© Patricia Turner
Wet, edible bulbs
With a skin condition.
Little rolling things
Full of spiteful sap.
Heated and fried,
Changes their minds,
They become benevolent,
Delicious and heavenly.
Trussed in netting,
Hang tamely in the porch,
Waiting winter’s knife,
Cold kitchen’s sizzling.
Days in the sunshine,
Gone with the wind,
Patiently waiting
Their digestion
And disappearance.
© Patricia Turner
Tasmanian Europa Poets' Gazette No 85 May 2011
Bags Of Onions
Wet, edible bulbs
With a skin condition.
Little rolling things
Full of spiteful sap.
Heated and fried,
Changes their minds,
They become benevolent,
Delicious and heavenly.
Trussed in netting,
Hang tamely in the porch,
Waiting winter’s knife,
Cold kitchen’s sizzling.
Days in the sunshine,
Gone with the wind,
Patiently waiting
Their digestion
And disappearance.
© Patricia Turner
Wet, edible bulbs
With a skin condition.
Little rolling things
Full of spiteful sap.
Heated and fried,
Changes their minds,
They become benevolent,
Delicious and heavenly.
Trussed in netting,
Hang tamely in the porch,
Waiting winter’s knife,
Cold kitchen’s sizzling.
Days in the sunshine,
Gone with the wind,
Patiently waiting
Their digestion
And disappearance.
© Patricia Turner
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