Di Bartok Journalist, Writer, Publicist | Journalist
Di Bartok Journalist, Writer, Publicist
Phone: +61 404 147 743
Reviews
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22.01.2022 Sweetest sounds If your ear is keen and your heart keener, you can hear the flitting of a butterfly’s wings as it kisses the blooms open for touch;... You hear mutts and masters no matter how much you just want the sound of gentler things, birds in all their cacophonies of song, the bees that remain in their thinning throng, doing their best with the odds low, dropping nectar for nature to grow . Touch ground and you’ll feel the bound of rabbits that can’t be gated, or delirious ducks being mated, set to parade their pride for the tourist trade. At night, your dreams are a different shade, clutching for unattainable dross, not caring a toss for what lays at our feet, the soft, the gentle and the sweet. Copyright Diane Grace Bartok June 2018
21.01.2022 A little poem that broke my sleep On the wings of a butterfly A butterfly... will flutter by in the blink of an eye; ah, there it goes, on its wings, your woes; you have to believe this sweet reprieve. Breathe, breathe. Copyright Diane Grace
19.01.2022 People who work from home - and there are a lot of us - need support, and who better to give it than the dynamic duo Jim and Tony? An inspiring pair. Why didn't someone else think of this before?
14.01.2022 Safe ship Feeling the salty caress of the sea, sand sucking my toes, I think of you, my father, my safe ship in the harbour, carrying me on your battleship back to far-off ventures, as our feet gripped the shore, you dipping me low, me screaming for more, and, at the end, not wanting to let go. While young enough for it not to be weird, I’d lick the sea salt from your beard, and when I was too big for such games, you set me afloat, anchors aweigh . . . one day I’ll catch the wave and be saved rather than save. Copyright Diane Grace Bartok June 2018
13.01.2022 And so this And so it has come to this, forgetting friends names but not exploits of youth,... glory days of wit and games with freedom the only truth. Ah, yes the bastion of bliss. And so it has come to this, the stranger at your door has stolen your virile voice, folded face you can’t ignore. Battle-battered, what’s the choice as Time bows for its final kiss? And yet the day may come when wisdom guides the wise, hungry, greedy youth who know the far sight of crinkled eyes; The seedlings set to grow in the caress of the ancient sun. Copyright Diane Grace Bartok June 2018
02.01.2022 It is time to be true to this girl -the 16 year old Diane Grace Isaacs who dreamed of being creative writer. Watch this space . . . .
