Monthly Archives: January 2013

At the bottom of the garden

At the bottom of the garden

Copyright (c) Robert L J Borg 2009

The terrace is surrounded by terracotta pots filled with brightly coloured happy faces, purple lobelia, and white snow drops. My father’s garden is his pride and joy, and he revels in seeing others taking pleasure from his labour. The lawn, immaculately kept, is the envy to many a green keeper. On either side, rows of rose bushes, of various varieties, with their own distinct colours and scents border the lawn. To one side a path meanders to the bottom of the garden where a box hedge, neatly trimmed, is the demarcation point between beauty and organised chaos. For behind the hedge lies the fruit and vegetable garden. A mix of fruit trees: apples and pear, compete with rows of string beans, tomatoes, lettuces, and zucchini plants. The latter are our favourites, particularly the flowers, which when dipped in batter and deep-fried make a scrumptious appetizer.

RLB – Tomewriter


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My Goose Was Cooked!

My Goose Was Cooked!

Copyright (c) Robert L J Borg 2011

I thought I was being helpful around the house by offering to dust the furniture. All was fine until I started in the dining room. My wife likes to collect English china: plates, teapots, cups and saucers, that sort of thing. No matter how careful I was, I still managed to knock a small Royal Albert jug off the dresser. Despite my best efforts to intercept its plummeting descent onto the polished floorboards, I missed. That’s it! I thought my goose was cooked once she discovered I had broken one of her favourite pieces. She appeared in the doorway, hands on hips, and said: “Just use some glue, that’s what I did with it last week.

RLB – Tomewriter

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Copyright (c) Robert L J Borg 2010

It’s nice to stand here on this fine green field unmolested. All day I have been poked, prodded, pushed and battered, here, there and everywhere.

Although I am not alone; there are others around me, and though I appear cornered, I feel safe.

The sense of security is short-lived however. Turmoil is once again upon us. Those around me scatter leaving me exposed to the on-coming white ball which strikes me hard and full on, knocking me into the corner pocket.

RLB – Tomewriter

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It was my first time

It’s Sunday 27th January – The Australia Day Long Weekend and it’s raining in Sydney. As there’s not much to do – I can’t do any gardening, and as my busted hand stops me doing anything too strenuous I have decided I would tidy out my study. I’m currently clearing out a cupboard and shredding copies of old short stories and part chapters of my novel Beneath Southern Stars [now published] and The Sword and the Rose [to be published in a few months time] which I had taken to the writing group I belonged to, Hawkesbury River Writers, for critiquing. I say “belonged to” because I am to resign officially from it in March at our AGM. The latter was to happen next month, but as the treasurer and secretary will be away the AGM has had to be postponed. Anyway, shan’t bore you with this. So moving on, as I said I’m sifting through the piles of documents and I came across the following little 100 word prompt:

It was my first time

Copyright (c) Robert L J Borg 2009

Holding my hand she led me into her room. A sense of foreboding coursed through my veins. I could feel my pulse racing and my stomach tighten in anticipation of things to come.

The room was cluttered, though neatly laid out. Bright pictures decorated ancient looking paintwork on the walls. I noticed in places some of the paint had flaked and was peeling.

She sat me down onto a comfortable chair, then leant forward, gently kissing my cheek; whispering softly it would be alright. She turned, closed the door and said:

“Good morning everyone, today is Jeremy’s first time at school, do make him welcome.”

RLB – Tomewriter

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Poetic Whispers is Published

Poetic Whispers Final


 Copyright © Viviane Elisabeth Borg & Robert L J Borg 2013

 ISBN: 978-0-9873858-4-0

 Published by Robert L J Borg at Smashwords

To celebrate my mum’s 88th birthday this coming Tuesday, 15th January I have today published an anthology of poems which have been written by the two of us over some forty odd years. Although we both started writing fiction and non-fiction books since the 1990’s, poetry has been with us for most of our lives. In my case I started writing it from the mid 60’s when just a teenager. Mum I believe did so too; unfortunately most of her work was written in french, so only the English poems are included in this anthology.

As always with our books, I asked Judy Bullard of Custom EBook Covers [] to create the book cover. The theme I asked her to come up with was the beaches of Australia for me, and the mountains and lavender fields of the Alpes-Maritimes/Provence regions of France where mum lives. The beach photo I supplied. It was taken at Port Macquarie in April 2012 by me when we visited the place to celebrate my wife’s birthday. I am as always so grateful to Judy for the brilliant work she creates. The mountains and lavender fields on the cover are perfect.

I actually wrote a poem a few nights ago to fully describe the cover. It is the last poem in the book, but I will share it with you here and now. I hope you like it?

Poetic Whispers

(January 2013)

 Lavender fields abound, alive with bees,

Gathering nature’s harvest;

Their gentle drone fills the air with knowing comfort,

The balminess of summer afternoons,

Makes you want to weep with joy.

Distant mountains dominate the horizon,

As far as the eye can see;

Their rugged peaks shimmering with snow,

Whiteness so fresh and crisp,

Drawing you to them like a temptress.

Knolls, greenness so unreal,

Lush and sumptuous to the touch;

Where early morning dew keeps them freshly watered,

So as you tread upon its top,

It feels as though you’ll sink.

As you reach the sea below,

The surf calls out your name;

It invites you to kick off shoes, and wade,

Cold at first it warms to a gentle spa,

Relaxing and revitalising, you sigh with pleasure.

Hidden behind low clouds, the sun shines bright,

Its beams, the fingers of God, light the way;

Look in awe at all before you,

Listen to the angels’ poetic whispers,

And say thanks to being alive.

RLB – Tomewriter

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Welcome 2013….

The holidays are over and it’s back to work. The Poetry Anthology is coming on nicely and I have now asked Judy Bullard to masterfully create a cover for it – A job she always does so magnificently.

I have picked up “The Sword and the Rose” again and have resumed typing it up. I am now half way through chapter 18, with 4 more to go [approximately 120 pages]. How about a small teaser from it? This is the opener for Chapter 6:

The sound of thunder rumbled in the distance, and flashes of fork lightening dissected the darkened sky intermittently. The landscape, already marred by the fighting, was now becoming more depressing with the arrival of rain. The battlefield was strewn with corpses of man and beast alike. Twisted metal, where cannon had been blown apart, lay here and there. A tattered flag fluttered limply in the breeze; the pole it hung from, splintered, swayed precariously, having been jarred from its position in the soil by a fallen cavalryman, his mount on him, pinning him to the ground, both skewered by razor-sharp pikes.

 Iago turned his nose up at the stench of death around him. Never had he imagined battle to be so vile. His eyes burned from the sulphur fumes which hung heavily in the air like a yellow mist. His whole body ached from having fought feverishly for several hours to ensure his life was spared. More than once he had come close to death by the quickness of his enemies’ rapiers, only surpassed by his own skill in swordsmanship.

He sat in the mud, resting against a large oak tree, its gnarled branches, void of life, stretched out as though reaching for the heavens. Iago watched other survivors rummaging among the bodies, looking for what booty they could steal from the dead. It sickened him to see how callously his fellow soldiers could stoop to satisfy their own greed. He had barely leant back against the damp trunk, his eyes closed, when he felt a tug at his coat. Quickly he opened his eyes in time to see one of the scavengers falling backwards, startled. Iago jumped to his feet, sword in hand, its deadly point of superior Toledo steel, was in an instant beneath the man’s chin, and already drawing blood.

I still have a number of edits to do on it as soon as I complete all the typing up. So as you can imagine there’s a lot of work to do. So far the book stands at just over 95,000 words. I expect it to finish at around 100,000 – 120,000. Oh well… must get on or I’ll never finish it in time for publishing in June.

RLB – Tomewriter

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H A P P Y N E W Y E A R !!!

Wishing you all a very Happy, Safe and Prosperous New Year.

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