Wednesday, February 27, 2013

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.


Monday, February 25, 2013


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

Saturday, February 23, 2013

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.
The Battle of Boodicuttup Creek
Three children try to save a creek from the developers. Suitable for childdren 7-11





Monday, February 18, 2013

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.

Friday, February 15, 2013

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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Wednesday, February 13, 2013

Walking on Egg Shells

A disturbed woman lies to her adult daughter about her relationship to the daughter's father. Read the rest on
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."
"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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Monday, February 4, 2013


 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



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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