by Rosemary
Copyright ©2005 Rosemary Blanch
Clothes try to hide their wrinkles by squashing together on the Op shop rack. Fur coat hangs forlorn, itching from the rusty hanger, and typewriter looks in vain for his missing key, unaware it is wedged deep into the toe of a not so shiny boot, listening to boots tales of his travels from long ago- over and over again.
Lamps, vases, glasses and plates put their noses in the air at the less fortunate chipped and down trodden, hating the fact they have to share the same shelf. Poor Green Sleeves - missing a beat; lacy bootees pattern will never be the same without all her instructions - and cradle; rocking gently in the corner straining to hear the sounds of tired infants, his many coats of paint chewed and worn. Discarded buttons, brooches and pins mingle with old and weakened cottons, all once used for their beauty and strength.
Things just sit and sit, feeling dusty, unloved and useless until Robyn arrived. Robyn with her vitality spread excitement among the shelves and racks of the Op shop's inhabitants on the first of her many many visits. She touched them with vibrance, felt their worth, saw their beauty that had been forgotten by so many others. A chosen few are taken by Robyn at each visit, restored and loved, breathing new life into their bones. Robyn was special; she was their saviour, an angel.
The Op shop is not a sad tired place any more. Every time Robyn steps into their crowded home they forget their wrinkles, their shabbiness, chips and missing parts; they smile and sparkle hoping to catch her eye; hoping to be the next one chosen; and if they are not today...there is always tomorrow.
JIGSAW ©
Here we go again. Nice table, right near the window, plenty of light.
We had a good time with the last family, going from relation to relation. I started to get worried when we ended up in the Op Shop though. Thought we might have been sitting there forever but, our picture looks so beautiful on the box we were snapped up within the week.
I am the piece that fits on the very corner of the roof. I don't look like it because the terracotta tell tale is minute at the very tip of my elbow. I am mainly blue where the sky backdrops the roof and I have that curious mottle green that shows among the leaves when the sun is behind the trees in the late afternoon. They will never guess I am the completion of the roof. As usual I have been put over with the sky and tree pieces.
How lucky I am to be this piece. I would not like to be that bright red geranium. She is always the first to go in - no challenge whatsoever - or that blue louvre shutter piece with the smaller geranium - second piece to go in. They have threatened for years now to fall out of the box and get lost, as they are sick of being 'so easy'.
Mind you - I don't have it all good, the greens (more than the blues) are so smug - they pride themselves on causing frustration and anguish and they don't regard me as 'tree' and the blues don't regard me as 'sky'. They try to make me an outcast. Jealous they are, jealous because they know they will all go in before me. I haven't lost a bet yet with them. I have been last every time, and by the way things are going, this time will be no different.
WHAT COLOUR IS MURDER? ©
Burnt Sienna, flowing, liquid, washes sunset into place whilst pale Orange completes the cooling down of summer heat. French Ultramarine and Burnt Sienna outline the buildings of the Hotel Berais, Cafe Trent and the Dance Hall. Translucent Orange reflects the last of sun's rays across their windowpanes. Blue/Violet seeps shadows into cracks and crevices and traces around the White sills, causing them to silhouette.
Below, Lemon Yellow brushes in life through the Dance Hall's doorway, music flows in a fluid Blue.
Not so fluid are the figures forming in the dappled street. Alizarin and Cobalt run obscure shadows into the alleyway and a mixture of colours wash down the sunset without leaving room for stars. Purple thickens the alleyway making it threatening and except for the music, night silence overtakes like the lull before a storm. And sure enough a storm comes in the shape of anger. Violet and Raw Umber scuffle in the alleyway, Silver flashes as it makes sharp swift stabs drawing Crimson Red blood from one figure, forcing it to the ground. Crimson Red flows thickly into the street. Music is stilled with a dash of Blue/Violet; the air is wet with suspicion. Black disguises the guilty - murder is difficult to define. Once again silence overtakes.
Cerulean Blue and white bring morning. White gathers yellow ochre to wash out the darkness of the buildings. Cerulean and white see their reflection in the curtain-drawn windows of the Dance Hall. Blue/violet seeps shadows into cracks and crevices and runs down into the lemon yellow doorway giving it a muddy gloom. Yellow ochre, orange and mauves expose the alley; crimson red stains the dapple. A figure lays in a grotesque grey. What colour is murder?
Viridian closes the muddy gloom of the Dance Hall. Red/orange rust locks the secrets inside. Paynes grey abstracts cerulean and white, and floods down in fluid silence. Not so fluid though are the figures carrying the mahogany coffin to the soaked burn umber soil. As mahogany and burnt umber meet - Prussian blue strokes music into an inky moan and mingles with Paynes Grey. Together they flow over the figures loosening their edges, giving them an uncertain look.
Yellow ochre brushes over the church spire, creating a backdrop to the mournful scene. Blue/violet obscures unwelcomed figures in the doorway. Yellow ochre catches them briefly with a thin outline before Paynes Grey once again abstracts with one flooding stroke. Black disguises the guilty. Burnt Umber buries the past and rounds itself into the future. White strikes a cross in remembrance. The loose edged figures shimmer back through Paynes Grey, back behind the Viridian door, back with their secrets. Life is a mosaic of colours and texture layed down with a warm coloured wash - but what colour is murder?
Haiku and Tanka are two forms of poetry. Both originating from Japan. There has been and still is debates over the translation of syllables between Japanese and English. Me....not one for following rules prefer to the call the poetry below 'Observations'. That way I can stay away from rules and regulations. If you have never tried writing in as few words as possible, something that strikes you in the moment then I strongly suggest you have a go....they are like miniature diaries or memories and they come flooding back every time you read them. Enjoy and please send me yours. skua888@hotmail.com
Waiting patiently
The red rose, silent chimes -
for a summer breeze.
******
A field of canola
as if the sun
had flowered
******
Golden field of wheat
Dreaming of dancing through it
Like the summer breeze.
******
Kingfisher dives
breaking stillness into
shimmers and ripples
******
Lacy skirts flowing
tender soft, sweeping to touch
beloved waters
******
Old willow tree
bowing to touch
shaded waters
******
What beauty
a
summer storm
the rain soaked gum.
******
Flowers and crosses
by roadside brutal, stark yet -
so soft and gentle
bitter sweet memories born
******
Flowers by roadside
wet with tears of sorrow -
death came suddenly
life so brief - forever grief
******
How red the pine goes when he dies
******
I bet sheep are never shorn
down 'Modesty Lane'
******
Magpie looks like he has been tie-dyed
******
Thank you Mother Nature for the way you paint your mountains
******
(Sheep-Australia)
Winter
-
white
on green.
Summer
-
ochre on ochre hardly seen.
******
The
red of the bottle brush in Adelaide
is as beautiful as the blue of their sky.
Green and gold fields rise
to maestros direction.
Trees and grasses sway
like the violin bow
Sun raises green and
gold to a
crescendo until cloud
mutes their colours
into a soft lullaby.
Rain beats his drums
drowning out
Waterfall.
Again sun rises green
and gold to a crescendo
Mountains join in and
play their blue with a
Brilliant clarity
I touched your colours
to a blind man's eyes,
They reached his heart
- I heard his sighs.
He felt soft sounds of
yellow and white.
He smiled, as the
colours renewed his sight.
He saw all
your colours - especially blue.
I touched your colours
to a deaf man's ear.
He closed his eyes, he
lost all fear.
First deep purple,
then crimson red.
Through his body, the
colours spread.
He gently swayed,
that's when I knew
He'd heard the sounds
of your beautiful blue.
I touched your colours
to a mute man's lips.
He felt burnt umber
with his fingertips.
He smiled at the
colours, ochre and green.
The most beautiful
shades he’d ever seen.
He listened to red
sing her vibrant hue
He spoke aloud to your magnificent blue.
The blue
of your mountains we behold
The stories of your colours must be told.
.