The Concert

Another one of my Vermeer poems.

 

The Concert

         and Vermeer 

He displayed his daughters

Like merchandise.

Their hair drawn back

From delicate ears and neck

the hint of a bosom

beneath sedate cut bodice. 

Sturdy Dutch merchants came

With fortunes

Made in Batavia

looking for a wife

to grace their house

and fill their bed. 

The younger sister entertained

At the harpsichord. 

They sang

Of young love

Of ruby lips meeting

and limbs entwining. 

 

Detective Matt Allenby finds he is falling in love with one of his murder suspect. A romanctic detective novel set in Western Australia.

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A CAT NAMED GINGER  

Gordon Smith lived on fried eggs, sausages, chips and a myriad of tinned food after Irene, his wife, died. He dreamt of the dumpling stews, roast lamb and the cakes Irene seemed to produce so effortlessly.

He couldn't believe his luck when he met Gladys Dobson, a bright-faced woman like Irene and like her, perhaps too pudgy around the hips but he liked a woman with a bit of padding and discovered besides being a widow, Irene was a renowned cook.

He inveigled an invitation to afternoon tea at their third meeting. When he arrived at Rose Cottage and saw the luscious cake bedecked with cream, strawberries and chocolate shavings she'd created, he thought here was the woman for him.

Cakes were Gladys's specialty. Each concoction seemed to outdo the other.

Gordon drooled over the large portion of Strawberry Hazelnut Gateau with lush strawberries nesting in cream which Gladys set before him. He dug into a serving and demolished it with relish and eagerly accepted another helping.

Gladys invited him to pop in whenever he was passing. "You're so thin," she said, her eyes large and sympathetic.

Gordon had always been thin. In spite of the fried eggs, sausages and chips, he hadn't gained any weight.

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Crossroads at Isca Roman Britain love story
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Light snd Dark

 

Another one of my Vermeer poems. Laurel

 

Light and Dark

                        And Vermeer 

Escaping from wife and children,

Vermeer paints

His young models,

skin fresh as milk,

eyes aglow in anticipation,

pearl shaped ears

delicate nape of neck.

A man could run his fingers

through their shining hair. 

Vermeer's light surrounds them,

but in painted shadow,

dark men wait.

Expectant.

 

The Battle of Boodicuttup Creek

 

Three children try to save a creek from the developers. Suitable for childdren 7-11

 

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Another poem in my Vermeer collection of poetry written after viewing Vermeer's magnificent paintings. I hope you enjoy reading it. Laurel

The Letter Writer

               and Vermeer

  I dip the quill

  In the ink well. 

    Dear Mr Leeuwenhoek 

  I was pleased to receive

  your good wishes

  On my betrothment

  To Mijnheer Van Ruijens

  my father’s business partner.   

 He owns the Tulip Gardens

 in Langendijck Street.

 

You came to work

 In my father's counting house.      

 You kissed my hand

your skin firm and smooth,

your form pleasing,

your eyes shining with youth. 

You smiled shyly. 

My delight in you grows.

I ache to be held

To know your kisses. 

Meet me there

My dearest love. 

Laurel Lamperd

 

 

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Miss Emma Napier helps her friends escape an unwanted marriage and finds herself entangled in a wen of intrigue.

Gril Standing by an Open Window

some years ago, I wrote a series of poems about the paintings of the Dutch painter, Vermeer. I plan to put them on on my blog. I hope you enjoy them. Laurel

Girl Standing by an Open Window

                                         and Vermeer  

Reading a letter

Looking onto sunlit streets

Of Delft.
What news?

Not joy

For she is serious.

No lover's smile upon her lips.

Does he write he cannot meet her?

Maybe he does not love her.

Whatever it is

Vermeer does not say.

He was more interested

In light and shade

His sensuous colours

luminosity of paint

than the contents of a letter.

 

 

Joe Hennessy builds Walara, a sheep statiion for his  family in the harsh environment of the Gascoyne district of Western Australia.

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Walking on Egg Shells

A disturbed woman lies to her adult daughter about her relationship to the daughter's father. Read the rest on www.authorsden.com/laurellamperd

 

Walking on Egg Shells  

Alicia Morovia couldn't take in whom she was speaking to when she received the telephone call.

The man said his name again, "Jack Halling." He added, "I'm your father. I hope you don't mind that I phoned?"

"No, no."

"I wonder if you'd like to meet me and…my wife. And Christine."

"Christine!"

"My …daughter. Actually that's why we're in Melbourne. Christine's husband has been transferred here."

Alicia had a feeling he almost said eldest daughter. She was his eldest daughter though she hadn't seen him since she was two.

“We could have lunch…or a coffee…” Jack Halling’s voice trailed off.

“Lunch sounds fine.” Alicia mentioned a place in the city where she’d be sure not to meet any of her friends.

She put down the telephone and glanced at the clock. Half-past-three. The children would soon be home from school.

She ran her fingers through her hair, stressed after the call. She didn't know what her father looked like. She'd never seen a photo of him. Her mother would have destroyed them.

Her father said he had a wife and daughter.

Her mother had never said they were divorced. She still spoke of him, even now, thirty-five years later, as if they were still married. She'd fled with two-year Alicia to the other side of the country to get away from his beatings and drunken rages.

Alicia had lived with the horror tales all her life. The stories became worse as her mother's anger grew and her eyes glittered with hate as she spat the name: Jack Halling. Sometimes Alicia felt she'd scream if her mother didn't stop.

The door banged. Ten-year-old Tommy came in. Dropping his bag on the floor, he headed straight for the kitchen and spread a slice of bread thickly with butter and peanut paste, emerging with half the slice stuffed in his mouth.

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 Writing On Dark Afternoons, brought back memories of my grandparents farm near Caron, West Australia and where I used to spend most of my school holidays. The second verse is one of my memories of them among many others. Grandma would cut a slice of the hot bread just taken from the oven. I'd spread it with butter and the light as thistledown bread, melted butter would dissolve in my mouth.

The poem has had a considerable publishing history. I'm glad to publish it here again on my blog and website.
Northern Perspective - another literary magazine which has folded.
Pixel Papers - stopped publishing
Anthologies - Moving Out, Moving On
The Ink Drinkers
The Japanese Grandmother

 

ON DARK AFTERNOONS 

I read about a woman

Wandering along grassy banks

On dark afternoons

seeking her past. 

In my mind, I see them.

My grandparents in that house

Of bush timber.

He smoked a pipe

While she kneaded dough

and set it

wrapped in a blanket

by the fire to rise. 

The dusk sweeps

Gently at my window

As in my mind

I travel from town

to farm and back again.

And the night grows darkly

by my door. 

Laurel Lamperd

 

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When two young British girls meet two Roman tribunes from the great fort on the plain their lives are changed forever.

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