Competition

2010 Winners

Rosewood Green Award – Open Age Local Poetry

Third Prize

Pit Pony
by Isabelle Kearsley
Rosewood, Qld

No light---
Yet the sudden gleam
Of black marble
In front of me.

The pit pony
Stands statue-still,
Rounded rump
Smooth sculptured,
Strong, solid
On pillar legs.

Patient, always patient,
He waits,
Remembers---
Distant memories
Rise,
Recede---
Earth's greenness,
Open space,
Light on bright stone.

Highly Commended

Pa Bill’s Vest
by Rebecca Lynch
Kholo, Qld

We wore it when we played
dress ups.
Wiry felt
scratched our skin
like your yellow-tinged beard
tickled our miniature arms
in baby photos.

Quickly,
we learnt to thwart
the itch
with mum's dated blouse or
dad's old work shirt,
but your gruff kisses
were forever grazing our foreheads.

Last year
I unfolded it from the brown paper
mum wrapped it in
when you died.
Mothballs didn't stop the silverfish
from feasting
on the crimson-flecked beige.

Regardless,
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

Highly Commended

River
by Brett Dionysius
Woodend, Qld

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.

Highly Commended

Fruit Foxes
by Paul Petersen
Raceview, Qld

Sweet evening came, not a moment too late
Fruit Foxes
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.
Birdcall
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.

Sweet mid-day.
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.

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