Rosewood Green Award – Open Age Local Poetry
by Isabelle Kearsley
Yet the sudden gleam
Of black marble
In front of me.
The pit pony
On pillar legs.
Patient, always patient,
Light on bright stone.
Pa Bill’s Vest
by Rebecca Lynch
We wore it when we played
scratched our skin
like your yellow-tinged beard
tickled our miniature arms
in baby photos.
we learnt to thwart
with mum's dated blouse or
dad's old work shirt,
but your gruff kisses
were forever grazing our foreheads.
I unfolded it from the brown paper
mum wrapped it in
when you died.
Mothballs didn't stop the silverfish
on the crimson-flecked beige.
I wear it bare-armed,
and I love how
it chafes my shoulders
and I miss how
your tobacco kisses
used to tickle my Vegemite cheeks
by Brett Dionysius
If you were an Indian river, then you'd be some kind
Of affluent goddess, still in popular circulation like a
Foreign coin of identical circumference that turns up
In your pocket's loose change. Sans shape, sans metal,
Sans weight, but honouring an exotic marine animal or
Head of state. Perhaps flowers strung together like some
Fragrant abacus would float on your brown waters; petal
Sacrifice gifted to the river for a town's future calculation.
Tiny eddies would churn up these green funeral barges, but
Only a rusted, blue, gas bottle bobs along in your weak tidal
Current, leaking fumes into your stream like a pestilent breath
From Bhopal's toxic flood. People think you're dead. You're
The Bremer. You've immersed this city a hundred times, you're
The grim reminder; the body that drifts past until it's gone.
by Paul Petersen
Sweet evening came, not a moment too late
charge the estates
Lorikeets stir the heat with their scrape
These colours shape the ordinary days.
Stars ablaze, their roar the distance attenuates,
They mark the darkest of your memories with their grace.
Twinkling a benign shine upon my face.
Is God that big and alike that far away?
Sweet morning came.
Not an answer to date,
but the beauty of it all had me shamed.
echoed in the air that cleaned by morning rain can
carry whisper, wail & rave so far that echoes oft return much later in the day!
A tune though not musical placed in perfect place,
the morning birds are free to air and radiantly radiate.
They mark the liveliest of dreams with sounds you're deaf to when awake.
What of sunshine can words say?
There is a God and I'm sure He speaks in rays.
Sweet evening came, not a moment too late.
Fruit foxes swoop beneath the canape of the trees behind my gate.
They too have their place.
They drag the dark across the sky when the evening, seeming shy, needs
a creature of the night to break the ice and help the change.