Competition

Second Prize

Grandfather Tree
by Tessa Liddell
Raymond's Hill, Qld

There is that tree I know so well,
It must be old now, I can tell
I really wish that he could talk
Just as well as you and I can walk

He could tell me how he met
Cunningham on his discovery trek
And stood up there a brave old soul
A shelter source upon the knoll

He could describe the grand events
As convicts worked, sore and bent
He would explain the goings on
As a city grew – where we both now belong

He would have seen St Mary's church in all her original glory
How interesting it would be to hear his side of the story
He might have stretched and turned around to all the noise,
A girls' school for proper ladies, prim and full of poise

But he's getting weary now, old and slumped and frail
But even if he goes to sleep, his spirit will not fail
For he is the keeper, the watcher of this district
Goodnight, big old tree, the grandfather of Ipswich 

Third Prize

My Poetry Needs to be Done Soon
by Elizabeth Waldron
Petersham, NSW

My poetry needs to be done soon.
I will work on it later today.
But I need some more inspiration
Before I go on my way.

My poetry needs to be done soon,
But poetry needs to be free!
Inspiration must be spontaneous
Planning has never helped me.

I'll do it tomorrow, or Friday,
Or possibly on the weekend.
I think it will not take too long,
Or, at least, that's what I intend.

I wonder if I should get started?
It's not due for two days at least.
I'll start planning my verses tomorrow,
Creating a poetry feast.

I could start vacuuming the ceiling,
Or training my tortoise to dance
There's so many things I could do now,
Poetry I'll leave to chance

There's an hour until I must finish
This won't be my very best work.
But I'm sure inspiration will strike me,
Though my piece may have a few quirks.

Procrastination is the method
Wishful thinking is the key
For successfully avoiding -
Rats, is that the time? Oh, well. Maybe next year!

Highly Commended

Sinsong
by Beth Hoppe
Busselton, WA

When you hear the sad and silent words,
that seem to grow wings and fly like birds,
you'll understand how hard it is
to see all the things she's seen.

When her voice reaches for the stars,
you see all the painful, half-healed scars,
of a past that'll never wash away,
no matter how much time goes by.

And when she gives that almost smile,
you see the ghosts lined single file,
in a growing, never ending line,
and you know that she sees them too.

When she sings she escapes the pain,
letting it wash off with the rain,
but when she stops they all come back;
the memories stained with blood.

She hides beneath a mask of lies,
with a smile as clear as summer skies,
and songs that recall the joys of life
that she hasn't felt for years.

A silent voice in the night time air,
that sends the monsters back to their lair,
she sings to show the uncaring world
that she still has her tattered heart.