HAVING MY SAY

'Cross'  by  Trish

Can you tell I'm not very happy today?

Tushie tried to take my drawings away.

Maybe I can't draw arms, feet, hands, or legs,

but I can draw a nose that looks like a peg!

I'll calm down soon, we've sorted it all out,

And I didn't need to stamp my feet or (shout),

Now I've got my very own, all to myself, special blog.

I'm so, happy, I'd wag my tail until it fell off, if I was a dog.

Tushie Too

A TELLING TALE

'On the Tip of the Lips'  by  Trish

Lips are sensitive, intimate, many things,

The lightest touch of feathered wings,

Upon the cheek or brow of a dear one,

To say farewell to a love just begun.

Or to place a cheery peck and say hello,

Come, sooner next time, don't be so slow.

Never pass our door, whenever you're near by,

There's no need of a reason, to call and say hi!



Lips are sensitive, intimate, many things,
They have the power to make  hearts sing,
But can also speak a message that's cold
Speak a chilly silence, to and from, young or old.

Lips made pouty or perky, can create a veritable plot.
A kiss on the neck from this one is fine, another reaps a nasty swat.
A frown a smile can tell much, and more  as well.
A smile may melt a frozen heart, but only time, will the true tale tell.

Tushie



 







THE PHOTO

This is Holly. she has collected money  from her neighbours, in a small jar. The money is a donation to the local,  'Kookaburra Pensioners Social Club'.
A photographer, from the Community newspaper, (arranged by Mrs T.) is  coming to take Holly's picture. Mrs T. is a kind neighbour, who helps Holly in lots of ways. She is especially helpful when Holly's mother is sick, which is most of the time.)


(Holly's thoughts)

'Holly'  by  Trish

I'm wearing my mother's high heels

I wanted to know how it feels,
To walk on air the way ladies  do.
Say, 'out of the way, off you go now, shoo!'

Grown up ladies make me feel so small
It must be the high heels that does it all,
I wish I could stop wobbling this way and that
Honestly, the only thing that feels right is my cap.

This dress-up belongs to my best friend,
Her mother Mrs T. washed it and gave it a mend,
'There were holes everywhere' she said.
Its so tight, its a wonder it went over my head

If I stand on one leg I have better balance,
My friend's mum said 'It'll be a challenge'.
But I don't care, as long as my picture looks good
Mrs T. said 'after all this trouble, so it bleedin well should.'

I won't walk around, I'll just stand still and wait,
I hope the photographer isn't late,
Standing on one leg is giving my a cramp,
And the bottom of the dress feels all damp

Mrs T, must think like me, she's shouted from the gate,
'Here he comes, here he comes, thank God he's not late.'
It's over now, I guess it went well, the picture's all done,
But there's one thing I learned for sure, wearing high heels is no fun.

Tushie

AM I COMING OR GOING?



It's just one of those It's just one of those times,                                    

'Breath'   by   Trish

 times,                                                                                                 
                   When I don't want to find, find,
 



 

The right mood or right word

 

I just want, I want, I want, to be

HEARD!!







                                                               I want, I want?

                                                                                      I need, I need?
                                  
                                                                   What brought this on?
                                                                    Is there? Is there? something wrong?

                                                            What is it, I've left out,

Something that I know about?


I have, I have, all that I need, all that I want

I have and am all that I am,

And ever
want to be


Even if it's  traumatic

Being me.



Not to worry

It'll all sort out,

I can always use my last resort and,



SHOUT AND SHOUT

AND SHOUT

OUT!!

 OUT

OUT .. or? or?..............................I've got it!!!

BREATHE.

Tushie

  

   

A FLASHBACK (You recall her don't you Joanie?)
---------------------------------------------------

This little redhead has been around before,
Remember, she's the one who left the house barefoot,
and slammed the front door.
She's in better spirits now, relief works wonders.
Let's hope she doesn't make any more blunders.

'Just Passing Through'  by  Trish



 



'Uside Down Thinking'  by  Trish



The  Widow Spider is the inner mother

THE WIDOW SPIDER
-----------------------
Of the inner child.
The Widow mother's intentions are evil.
Her desire is to destroy, devour the child,
So that she the Spider mother can live forever.

But, it cannot be done, now or ever.

Let the tentacles spread and quiver the fine tissue of lies,
Sneak into the heart, sew self-images there.  Intent? to despise.
Let the bitter storms of words, wage war over all in its path.
Feel the terror that eats into flesh, at the Widow Mother's laugh.

For sure it won't harm the inner child,
Little one too meek and mild.

The true path, is before her eyes, she will not stray.
Though sometimes, she may be uncertain of the Way.
But, even so, each step is guided with care,
Without faith, the inner child would not dare,
To cross the Widow Spider's wrath,
She, who flutters around the child's light, like a moth.
No, she would not do this journey, into nowhere,
Nor need she, if the mother, even a little, did but care.

Tushie


















 

  















 















THE NIGHT OF THE BALL

'Belle of the Ball' A Photo

Here's a little darling, sweet as can be,

You may wonder who this is, well... it's me!

I'm a Persian princess, but just for tonight,

As the dress is only on lone, I guess it's only right,

That I should remember to not feel too proud,

Or show off when we have to parade before the crowd.

My mother may have been silly, to have dressed me up like this,

Because I heard a lady say, look at how she's dressed her kid.

Perhaps it was not a good idea, but I can say this,
I thought the dress was beautiful, and wished there was a prince,

To admire how brightly I shone in my Persian Princess dress,

Who'd say 'how about a ride in my royal carriage?

because you are the best!'.

Tushie

THINGS NOBODY TAUGHT ME ABOUT

 I'm in the autumn years of  my life (going by  how the world  gages birthdays), at heart, I have never felt so young. Abuse, can be powerful in its destruction, it even seems able to deliver little ones, into the world with a ready made burden . I'm now emotionally reasonably steady, (One would hope so! but it ain't necessarily so!) especially  in basic areas that allow me to keep myself , 'warm, safe, and secure'. The words, 'warm, safe and secure', can, I discovered, much to my surprise, (like reactions to abuse) vary from person, to person. I had assumed, everyone on earth saw life in the darkness that I did, until one day, in conversation with a man who was  telling me how happy he was, I suddenly thought, 'I feel this man is sincere in what he is telling me'. Is it  possible that my view of life is not the only one?  Grains of gold are not sprinkled around like confetti in my life, but a few did come my way, in the form of maybe a few words, a look, they came  in many intangible ways, and those simple things carried within them, immeasurable healing power.

The trauma affected me in every area of my life. Due to my lack of a sense of self, my intense search for an identity, coupled with no developed inner resources, led me into many areas, that were dangerous, and kept  my trauma and confusion, at fever pitch. The only thing that stayed constant in my mind, was the question, "What is wrong with me?' I've since pondered on how I came to the conclusion, there was something wrong with me? My answer to myself  is, in my heart and mind, I knew I lived a life that was not real, and in spite of achieving quite a lot, considering my state, the self destructive behavior, of two steps forward and five  back, no matter how hard I tried to correct that pattern, continued, and the inner darkness, depression and emotional pain, just kept on and on. In the end, there were no steps forward, left to take.

 The meaning of time? the value,? or perhaps the 'experience' of time is nearer the mark? It always felt as a mystery to me, it was never more than a wolf panting at my heels, trying to catch me and eat me up!;  that was because, emotionally, (I believe)  I was still in the abused world of the child, no matter how old I was, who I was with, or where I was.The fear and emotional suffering came from the very heart of me. 'A feeling and an image, of a car with failed brakes, stuck in top gear, careering down a steep slope', was my constant companion. Each day of freedom from that horrible sort of imagery, and the emotional chaos that goes with it, is a blessing and a deep joy,

The 'Twelve Step' support group, I belong to (33yrs, and I know these groups are not for everyone), was the place where I began to put together, a fragile bridge,  that would allow me, to begin my journey, out of my severe isolation and dissociation. The support group represented, for me, a new world. The only world I'd ever know was the barren one presented to me, by people who, had also been abused. Generations of abuse, which they chose to deny, and went on, to be (in almost all of the cases) perpetrators of abuse themselves.

There I was in a Twelve Step Support Group. In the middle of people, who as they often say, 'threw in the towel', or who 'surrendered', or came to believe 'I cannot do it alone.' The last one was very pertinent to me, it was this insight that gave me the courage to take my first step into life. On reflection, I see that my  inner state was completely unexplored and, undeveloped, due to neglect and abuse, from an early age, at the hands of  uncaring,  inadequate carers.


After many years of living with the constant, "What is wrong with me?" I finally found my answer 'neglect and abuse' I began to see and understand my impulsive, self-destructive behaviour  in a different light; thus began, the slow erosion of my deep shame, The more I understood and accepted my abuse and its distortion of my development , the more I was  freeing myself  of reliving my trauma as a way of life.

And so began the painfully slow (but sure) opening of the door, to what feels like an on going life of common sense and creativity. That is all I ever wanted, and although my blind groping towards a glimmer of light, felt as if it would never happen, with the seed of hope rejuvenated in my heart, it was inevitable it would come about, and so it has.

I've wanted for sometime to write of my experience, and of the healing, I now enjoy. My uncertainty about how to start, has stopped me, again and again. I'm not a professionally qualified person in the area of abuse. However, I am qualified in the area of living as a victim of abuse for many years, and I'm  now qualified as a survivor, who has overcome, the consequences and limitations imposed  through neglect and abuse, and I no longer, carry the abusive messenger, within me everywhere I go. Enough wounds are  healed, for me to enjoy most days. I'm surely blessed.

I have experienced the freedom and joy, (with occasional emotional setbacks, and confusion) for the past six years or perhaps longer. I say, perhaps longer, because among the insights I've had into myself , is that I don't always recognize my healing , until sometime after it has revealed itself to me. How does it reveal itself? In my actions, in my feelings, in , in, in,.........everything!
.
I believe writing about  my search will help bring me out of the isolation, I sense, is in some way, still weaving its mischief. It isn't the old isolation, I'm talking about, as far as I can tell. I think (in my case) it's due to not having found a way to share fully enough, my thoughts, my discoveries,  information on abuse that I've gathered over the years, and found helpful, and also, to allow  the inner child (which is the term I use, and feel at home with ) a voice and a place to explore, share and create.

MISLEADING INFORMATION

'Gosh It's Difficult'  by  Trish

I'm meditating on my chakras, they are all shut-up.

My thoughts stop at my toes, but it seems it's not enough.
I'm trying to bring my mind into a peaceful state,
If I can get the hang of it, life will be simply great.

But the tangledness I sense, won't let me get going,
I'm supposed to feel, I think? like an endless river flowing?
To a place, that is no place, and those not really there,
If it's true, I'll never again worry, over dirty nails or messy hair.

I wonder if closed charkras can cast shadows on my fate,
Maybe they are something that's jammed, like our back gate.
I've heard grown ups talk about it, and  even if it's hard,
I want to learn about chakras, not the old wooden wobbly  stuck gate, in our backyard.

Tushie

THE WITCH

'The Nameless Place'  by  Trish

My mother is a wicked witch.

She's taken my doll Betty with the broken head

and thrown it into the fire. She says,

'Now! that's the end of her!'

I hear the fire crackle, see the pretty face of my doll, with her little blue  lips, melt before my eyes.

Later in the day, my mother takes the  key,

that hangs on the long fine gold chain around her plump neck,

points it at me, and tells me to go on an errand for her.

She slips the key into the tiny key hole, looks from side to side,
then quickly turns the key, and opens the door, barely wide enough for me to squeeze my skinny frame through.

I hurry away as fast as I can, but I still hear her voice,
that's because her witch voice lives in my ears. It always has. Her voice says,
'No, no, no, wrong, wrong, wrong! Just you dare, just you dare! young lady! and see what happens!'


But, I have a secret. Its a moonbeam. Well that's what I've called  it.
I'm not afraid of her wicked voice in my ears, when it glows within me,
The only problem is, I don't know what turns the little beam on.

I can't remember when the, moonbeam twinkle, began
helping me with my troubles.

I think it would have been on one of those nights,
when there was angry shouting in our house.
On those nights, I would sit in my bedroom, and hold my breath, to hear better.
A misty darkness would float around me. As I held my breath and listened, the floating darkness would turn into a blanket of smokey gray mist, it would roll over and over, until it covered me from head to toe, and keep me a prisoner all night.

That's why I'm frightened of loud voices, especially angry ones.
And that's why I never  dare to do anything, for fear of what might happen to me.

I have no idea, what could happen, but I can feel,

'Moving On'  by  Trish

 it would be something worse than any thing I could think of,

or anything I've ever heard of in my five years on earth.

I do wish I knew how to make the moonbeams light stay on,

I think it would make my world a wonderful place.

But never mind, the glow is definitely growing,

and as it grows, it lights up more and more of the darkness.

So,with the help of my little moonbeam friend,

my world  will  one day be, a truly wonderful place.

Tushie





'Betty Before She Died'   by Trish

                                                                 (Betty has a hood on
                                                                   to cover her broken
                                                                   crown)

DEAR M0THER



'A Magic Carpet'  by  Trish

Dear mother,

No doubt you still attend your beloved church, and wear your special Sunday hats? I particularly recall the pale blue hat with  petals of pink, scattered across its brim.

Is it long since I  last saw you? Perhaps, those flowers, are now crumpled and crushed?

I recall, how, as a child, I so loved the soft glow of your ivory skin, and the luminous silver hue, that glinted in  your long dark hair.Would a child really notice such things? Or is it my feverish imagination playing with my mind? I don't know. But even so, to me, they are sweet memories, innocent, childhood memories.

And now?

Mother... pray for me... it is so cold here in this place.

I shiver at the sinister sounds of the dark night. Yet, even the silence, seems to hold within its stillness, a promise to bestow its own form of vengeance.

In truth, it's not the cold nights, nor it's ugly symphony of madness, that numbs my flesh, freezes my bones.
No, it is the hard hearts of those who step over me,
walk blindly past me, hurry on. On, to who? and to where? I ask myself. 

Sometimes I'm tempted to follow, but it would be too terrible to discover,

they hurry on to no one and to nowhere. Last night in the moonlit lane,
someone bashed old Joe, why would they do that?

Mother...I fear it was I. Yes, I struck the first blow, on the poor souls frail body, and all the blows that followed, last night in the moonlit lane. And then?

Mother ...pray for me.

                     (Part of a letter, from my play, 'The Half Way House' 1995)

Tushie  

                                 

HIP WOMAN

'Surfing Color'  by Trish

'Black and White'  by  Trish

Style is individual, or  a fashion,

For this dear lady, it's a raging passion. Black and white was once her go
it's OK for a while, but made her very slow.
Color helps her handle, the hours in each day.
She loves to create color, it's a creative way,
to remove  oneself from the edge, of black and white issues,
and puts an end to tear filled tissues.


 Wish I'd learned this earlier, but, better late than never,
And the precious things I learn are mine to keep, forever.

Tushie

A BRIDGE OF FLOWERS

'Daisies'  by  Trish

This is the start, of a daisy chain,

It'll be the prettiest, one ever made

The petals will be white and pure

The stems strong steady, secure.

There's a woman behind this fragile scene,
I don't know where she's from or been,
I feel there's familiarity of a sort there
But a daisy partly covers her face, and I don't want to stare.

Tushie

AZALIA PINK

'Loosing It'  by  Trish 

This is a picture of  our neighbour next door,
Really, I think her behaviour is  poor.
She stays out until all hours of the night,
Comes home well and truly tight.

Seems someone is bunking, her, over her back fence,
It really is ridiculous, it makes no sense.
The woman is at least, let's say around forty,
Far too old to be be acting silly and naughty.

Her looks are fading, I've noted that of late,
And over the past months she's put on weight,
Well, I won't see her for a while, the poor feather head,
She'll barely open her eyes , let alone get out of bed.

Sometimes I must admit, I feel a little  sad,
On the rare occasions she speaks , she doesn't seem too bad.
There's signs and symbols, that explain all, to those who can tell,
Maybe, her necklace of pearls, was created in hell?
                                     (Room for future thought)
Tushie

REFLECTING ON SHADOWS

'Remnants'  by  Trish 

To me, this is a shadow image, I don't see it as completely black.
A shadow is a place of shade, that  the sun does not reach when it shines.

I was told it is a myth, that one can steal  an other's shadow.
I was very relieved to hear that. I don't know why it should have been so important to me.

In some way, the image, which is something that can be seen, but is not actually there, links itself to the shadow-shade, and sunlight not touching each other, basically due to distance?

It's as if I want to be able to see, the shadow and sunlight, in the one place, at the same time.  As if I've been searching for a way to eliminate negative space. There was a time when the shadows and sunlight felt like life itself; as if I was seated on a train travelling at high speed, on endless -circling- rails , the shadows were the tunnels and the sunlight the stations.

There are still those moments, when I feel, a jolt at life's disconnection, but now the jolts are only moments. If the high speed train feeling, should reoccur, the shadow-shade tunnels are far less  and the sunlit stations far more.

On occasions, life can appear as liquid scenes painted in brilliant colors, upon moving panels of glass; the glass scenes slide into the, shadow-shade, then out into the sunlight. These scenes are like beautiful stained glass.
I've heard, there's a work, where
people have to move their eyes in a special way,
to see both pictures that have been brought together.
I think I should find out more about that, I'm sure it would
come in handy.

Tushie

SACRED SALT

'Rising'  by  Trish

She is a rainbow, built of salt and sun,

A reflection of colors,

Carried by rain, rivers,

An eternal beam of devotion,

To herself,

She is risen.

Wings of an open heart feather,

spread rays, breathe living waters.

Day and night she rises into her rainbow sky,

Over the sea city with its mournful gladness,

She roams and soars beyond her perception.

A rainbow fish burning bright,

See how she soars built from salt and sun,

She is risen.

Tushie

MY FATHER

'Harold Nicholas'  by  Trish

My father was an angry man.

From a very young age his anger,

imprinted itself upon my mind. 

But in spite of that fear filled imprint,

there are impressions in me,

that portray a better side of my father.

Perhaps the negative image of him was exaggerated by,
the ever present death imprint my mother had bestowed upon herself, and also from a very early age, upon me.

For as long as I could remember, and until she died at eighty six,
she would regularly take to lying on the lounge room couch,
or in the bedroom, with the blind down and her eyes closed,

in an ongoing state of fatigue and illness.

The illusive illnesses were a mystery to doctors, friends and family.

Only my mother could keep up with her endless symptoms,

and she announced them daily, ' I can't breathe, I'm choking,

for god's sake give me air, my skin is burning, I can't see a thing,
my back! my back!' As I got older, I puzzled on,
how she'd managed , with so many health problems,
and especially such a bad back, to have five children.

My father loved to walk in the Exhibition Gardens.
'There are ducks on the pond'  he would tell me,
as he placed stale  bread  in a paper bag.

He always had a thriving vegetable patch,

and grew fat luscious strawberries as well.

The garden was very important to him, as were his chooks.

I loved to go into their pen and gather the warm smooth eggs,

and hear the gentle sounds the hens made in the dimness.

On sunny days, they were allowed to walk around the back yard for a while.

I noticed that although the hens were locked inside most of the time,

they didn't seem to mind it. After they'd strutted, pecked and stared sharply

around the back yard, and the time came to return to their home,

they all, quite happily  filed into the dim pen, and continued their

strut amongst the fresh straw my father had placed there for them. 

There must be other nice things, to recall about my father that would bring a smile to my heart,

As I dig and unearth more, out of the garden of memories, I'll write about them.

                          (To be continued)

Tushie

ABSALOM

'Within'  by  Trish

Absalom is grieving, he grieves because
his mind is full of a dark thought. Day and night, like a phantom drummer, the dark thought beats inside  his head.

Sometimes he's sure he sees a Stone God resting in a Garden of Lillies The garden stands beside an Emerald Green River. He'd often wanted to stand close to the Stone God, touch it, but he was afraid, wanted to look into the Emerald Green River, but he was afraid of what he might see.

He'd watched snow like leaves, fall in ballets of greens, soft sunsets, with veils of blue and pinks sweep across the sky, sights so beautiful, he almost forgot his grief, but always the dark thought drummed in his head, the thought  'I do not fear God'.

Wild storms came and went, flashes of blinding blue, green lightening opened yawning black holes in the earth, each black hole larger and  closer to where he crouched, the next flashes closed them, only to repeat the violent images. 

He dreaded the  fading light, it was then these things came about.
If he could stop the thought, he was sure it would end his torment.
Hie called out wild words and fierce forces greedily swept them up and away. He had no idea what it was his wild words spoke, only the phantom drummer remained constant, and pounded,

'Within The Emerald Lake'  by  Trish

'I do not fear God.'

This evening, the light was almost gone, when Absalom groaned and raised his clenched fist, raised it and called out, 'Why am I cursed with this darkness of mind? Why do I not fear God! What must I do to free myself of this hideous torment?

The scene before Absalom's eyes as he said these words, was one of a dead city. Out of this city bereft of all life, the Garden of Lillies, the Stone God, and the Emerald River emerged. Absalom had seen this many times, and it had changed nothing.

The heaviness in Absalom's heart felt too much to bear a moment longer, he rushed towards the Stone God, with his  fist still raised, shaking it as if he would smash the image into pieces, but he could not do it. He lowered his fist and bowed his head, his body shook with  bitter sobs.

The weary Absalom sat and dozed, by the Emerald Green River.
Whether he dreamed or was awake, he could not say, but words came upon his breath,  'Absalom, why do you torture yourself so, who taught you that God was to be feared? Don't you know your very name tolls out the message, God is peace.
Believe in your name, hold it dear, and instead of a heavy heart, you will have a fulfilled heart.
Listen deeply to yourself and you will hear, Hear yourself and you will see all.

This time the river  began to sing  waves of sound. From out of the river, rose a pale green lithe form. The  form moved towards the Stone God, once there, it rose up, and cascaded in a rainbow of colors over the  Stone God image. A new form took shape, it was that of a child, the child shape transformed itself into that of a young woman, at the third transformation, the form was of an old woman. Her eyes were closed and her hands folded in peace.

Absalom went to approach the new shape, but saw the three transformations continued over and over, he turned and went to the Emerald River and knelt down. He looked into the water that he'd heard  flow so rapidly and to his suprise the river, was calm.  He stared into the face reflected in the still mirror and saw he was not the same; he moved his gaze a little and  in this image he was still the same. Then Absalom understood, he was both images, and he felt content with that. He felt complete. He knew, at last he  honoured His name, and that at last he had a fulfilled heart.

Tushie

A NOTICE ABOUT THE THEATRE

'Mystical Misery'  by  Trish

There is a notice on the door of  'The Theatre of Charades' It reads

'THIS THEATRE IS NO LONGER FUNCTIONING'

Of course, there's a story behind the scenes as to why the theatre has closed, but it's too early to present a clear picture of events, to those who may be interested, in what transpired. (Especially as wounds are still red raw, in fact, blood is, not exactly flowing, but still trickling, so to speak.)

This much can be said, there was grave, fed-up-ness, (by one long term member) as he put it, at the morbidity of the characters, and masks,  portrayed in the theatre's repertoire and a thorough fed-up-ness with the scripts, which, ( so the long term member claimed) all indulged in a relentless infatuation with insanity! This he said, was well demonstrated by the title of the new play, in rehearsal,  'Hear How Chains Rattle In the Chamber of Miseries'.

I'll fill in the details and pass them on when I can.

Sorry for any inconvenience.

'Trauma'  by  Trish

If anyone bought tickets for the already announced  show,

Your money will be fully refunded (in time).

(More information to come)

Tushie     PS. This is the mask that really was the last straw for the
long term member.

THE VALLEY OF SHADOWS

'White Lady'  by  Trish

(A man is having an imaginary conversation with his mother) 'Yes it is a fine day, you've always loved spring, dear mother.
On a day like this I often see the Indian Sisters,
moving along the busy streets of Fitzroy.
Their blue and white saris, soft and flowing.
Smiles for all who cross their path.

Someone was bashed in this lane last night.
They had come for me, but as I was in the darkest place of all.
They could not see  me, so they chose another

Do you recall, yesterday, when the Indian sisters passed, 

how I pleaded with them?

'Help me sisters, I've got devils in my head and in my heart.'

How I cried out, 'Sisters would one of you, swap souls with me, for just one second? Sisters?'

I love  to see the sweet breeze catch, their swathes of blue and white cotton, wave them like playful hands, 'God loves you' they sing as they pass, 'God loves you.'

And who do I love? I yield fully, completely to only one,  my 'White Lady.'

It is she who sleeps upon my breast,

it is she who fills the breach. It is she who wets my lips,

singes, sears and numbs my tongue, my gut,

breathes  fully  her vapour of whiteness into my shivering body.

She is like burning metal, she is fickle, she is a jealous lover,

But she will embrace me forever, against all forces, even yours dear mother,

She and I sleep as one, as soul mates,

in the nightmares, of the darkest place.

Tushie

TWO NEW ACTORS

'Something Different'  by  Trish

The Theatre of Charade is preparing a new play

Two actors came to audition, earlier  today.

The little kid looks alright, in fact,  rather cute

Better than the spooky bloke in his brown hooded suit

But it's not for me to say, who can take the lead,

Who plays this or that part, all I do is breathe,

In rhythm with each performer, mostly it's in fright,

Especially on the first performance, 'The Grand Opening Night'

I noted the newest thing of all,  a lovely butterfly,
It's flitter- fluttering in the background, I wonder why?
But it's not for me to say, what it's all about,
As I said before, all I do is breath, and oh yes, SHOUT!!

Tushie