2013 Overall Winner & recipient of the Babies of Walloon bronze statuette
by Damen O'Brien ()
Edwards Property Mentorship Award
The Elixir by Damen O'Brien ()
Gerard Roberts contemplates this batch:
twining in the urgent panic of damp straw;
climbing over each other with pink, neat feet,
and wonders about omniscience and of God.
These mice got the fifth strain of immortality:
20 years old, and counting, but,
well, there were errors setting in: miscalculations
trapped in the blood stream; clots and baldness.
He’s not sure which are the food stealers;
which are the biters or nippers; which are
small bullies of the steel kingdom,
and that is, he supposes, where he
and that other great man with the beard differ;
morality is not in the Protocol.
Next year, the Company will progress to human trials-
pulled by the cold tide of desperation and
the other cold temptation, which is money.
He can imagine the queue now:
climbing over each other; twining in their urgent panic,
and they’ll all get it, whether they are nippers or biters;
whether or not they are large bullies of the stone kingdom,
if they can pay.
George Roberts terminates this strain and makes a notation
He turns off the light on his way out.
Ipswich Theme Awards
A Walk through Ipswich by Majella Pearl (5-17 Yrs. Winner)
Looking out from the Ipswich water tower,
I see mountains and rolling hills.
Stylish Queenslanders with families grown,
Having stayed together through fires, floods and ills.
Just down from there, is Omar Street,
Where my elderly, Granma lives.
A park across the road where, children play,
Many happy memories, it gives.
The quaint centre of Ipswich,
The bustling Top of Town.
Coffee shops, crafts, chocolate, home wares,
Tempt folks, who chose to look around.
Just a short walk is the CBD,
Still standing firm and strong.
Ipswich has seen so many days,
Brightly resilient, and moving on.
D’Arcy Doyle Place isn’t far from there.
A local artist on the global stage,
Kids revel in the creative exhibits,
Our Global Arts, showcasing the Age.
A stroll away, the library is a place to rest,
A spacious, light filled oasis.
Books wait patiently to be read
In comfy, quiet chairs and hidden places.
Amble to the Court houses, new and old,
Historic colleges, pubs, and churches, wander.
Travel rail, road and foot bridges.
Ipswich, so much history, to ponder.
The Bremer River slowly flows and ebbs
As people ramble the Riverheart.
Energetic families on a river walk,
Eager to reach the refreshing River Park.
Timothy MoIoney Oval, a sight to behold,
Come springtime, Jacarandas glow mauve.
Children played on spongy, green grass,
Screaming and laughing, soccer balls they wove.
Across from the oval, Riverlink bustles,
While St Mary’s Church, calls all.
One hundred and fifty years to educate,
The sandstone schools and Mercy convent, tall.
Ipswich has had a proud past,
But that’s not all we have to offer.
With modern architecture, schemes and themes
Take a walk and see us prosper.
The Legacy Lives On by Brenda Joy (Open Age Winner)
” Mary Jane my little sister do not wander in so far –
though the flowers look so pretty, water lilies for Ma-ma,
purple flowers we’ve collected — now it’s time to hurry back
for our father will be waiting. See, the evening sky grows black!”
“Bridget Kate l am so little, I can’t fight the water’s flow.
Help me get my feet untangled. It’s so murky down below… “
But the sister’s aid was futile and come night-fall searchers found
in Walloon’s enticing waters, two small Broderick girls had drowned
Just a simple country errand on an Autumn afternoon
then a couple left in mourning for the babies of Walloon.
Where emotions had no outlet in those early, stoic years,
so the parents fought their sorrow in the secret flow of tears.
Through intensity of grieving, within months the mother died,
yet the father and the brother kept their pain locked up inside.
But they moved from out the district to Rockhampton far away
to escape all recollection of that fateful Autumn day.
When the poet, Henry Lawson wrote The Babies of Walloon*
and immortalized the sisters who had left this life so soon,
to commemorate the poem of the loss of little girls,
so a city paid its tribute – that’s how history unfurls.
In a park of nature’s beauty that would bear the Lawson name,
there a statue was erected and to see it children came.
It was beautiful and moving, so iconic for the town
and it bore a hopeful message that no future child would drown.
As the girls in weathered metal seemed to dance to heaven’s tune,
so the school and town watched over their two babies of Walloon.
And a little girl called Hannah loved to join them in their dance
when the moon illumed the heavens and the starlight would entrance.
But there came an awful sequel to the Babies of Walloon
for the tiny tot who’d revelled in their play beneath the moon
then herself became a victim of the risky water’s ways
when the back-yard pool she entered saw the end of childhood days.
How the tears of bitter mourning tore a family apart,
while publicity and stigma fed the torment in the heart.
And another grieving mother nearly left this earthly life,
till a mission of salvation would relieve her inner strife.
As she formed a twin Foundation* aiding others in their grief,
so the sharing of the sorrow brought some mutual relief.
And the statue in the park-land was a salve to ease their pain:
In the moonlight of their mourning, little Hannah danced again.
Till some vandalizing ferals with their angle-grinding tool,
on a night of degradation, through an action rough and cruel,
brought all residents to outrage when their statue was defaced –
such a wilful act of evil saw humanity disgraced.
But community endeavour, with ‘Crusader’* in the lead,
would refuse to be defeated by this cowardly, callous deed.
So through Council* and Foundation funds were raised to counteract
the effects of this disaster and to bring the babies back.
In the warm, October sunlight in the park of Lawson fame,
a new statue was unveiled and the girls were ‘home’ again.
There before the true descendants of the sisters who had drowned,
Hannah’s most courageous mother told of consolation found.
Then with wreaths and floral emblems and the blessings found through prayer,
the re-dedication service touched the hearts, for all could share
in the pathos of these stories from life’s endless cavalcade
and pay tribute with compassion – that’s how history is made.
Now the water-hole’s protected and the statue is secure
while the region is determined that the legend will endure.
In their record of the stories of the dramas wrought from lives
writers move the soul and heartstrings – that’s how history survives.
Notes –
The Babies of Walloon poem by Henry Lawson (1891)
Foundation The Hannah Foundation – two-fold purpose
(i) to help families and friends rebuild lives after water tragedies and
(ii) to help prevent child drowning.
Crusader Cr. David Pahlke, Rosewood Councillor, Tourism and Libraries Committee Chairperson
Council The Ipswich City Council
Chair’s Encouragement Awards
Black Coffee for Breakfast? by Ellie Burton (5-17 Yrs. Winner)
in the beginning, when water washed your earth,
our pantheon was hung out to dry, parched then pontificated
‘woman’ is her name because she was taken out of man
cooed mark and matthew so soft, now don’t fight
papa grande is here, mourn right
bleating like a foghorn, silence says
I’m older than plastic forks and linoleum flowers,
than pink candy stoves and sinks that bubble like gum
, and behind the cloud’s tissue depressions
she hides her green-eyed indiscretions
and the artists said we’ve got you all figured out
because delilah cut his hair and salome cut his head
it’s whorticulture, we can weed pick and prune
hand him the secateurs, hand him the scythe
he’ll make you a wife
I’m backready and backbroken she entreats
you’re bloodset and bonedumb he replies
if from womb to tomb my apples fall only towards you,
my gossamer dress soiled, can my flaking bones lie beside yours,
will you bury me in chores?
beetroot stains my hands in Iscariot red
a little water clears us of this deed, so prescribe me a penance
my tears by your feet (on my knees) should atone
an absolution in white, mary me and you’ll be anointed
tie the knot and you’re appointed
black coffee for breakfast my sweet? your habit since infantry
for with fists of irons i can only poach eggs,
sunny side up, ripe and pert we’ll butter your cups
we’ll take you hand-me-down man
and you can take us at your command
then you’re second to one my darling, he’ll croon
remember you’re only a star if there’s aniseed
but first pillboxes suit you, it’s your shape your fit!
so wait, lie in salt (it only stings a little) cure like meat
as long as you’re fresh you’re not obsolete
again the sun is two hours late
sullied and diluted by the prison yard concrete of clouds
smoked like lapsang, behind his fat cigar
i waited up, feathered and downed the splintering dust
i glad-wrapped lunches and cut your crust
when you’re sick of the inner city squalor, tired of exhaust
I’ve made a nest of asbestos and anesthetic
with sweet bethesda, we can inoculate into apathy
betadine for cuts and bicarbonate for stings
watch fumbling fingers tie apron strings
and when we’re melting by your fire,
or just you and l and the bougainvillea sunset
(it’ll only give a rash you say, pretty in pink)
we’ll chase sorrow back to her damask lair
we’ll rip the rose ribbons out of her hair
so now I’ve saccharine starched your shirts and soles
o darlings, come home sweet home
into hibernation, you poor hares,
poor greymen who whisper like parrots
and sleep like wine
asleep by half past nine
My Dad is an Alcoholic by Melanie Gilchrist (Open Age)
I don’t want to go home
I don’t know what to do
I feel so scared and all alone
cos Daddy’s had afew
It happens all the time these days
Oh how I wish it would end
My little sister’s crying
Is driving me around the bend
Why won’t Mummy leave him?
She’s said she would before
I really did believe her
But she keeps us here for more
We have our bags packed by our beds
In case we need to go
I tell my mum I want to
But she keeps on saying NO
When Dad gets drunk he swears and yells
At all of us alot
Sometimes he falls over
And the next day he’s forgot
When it was my birthday
Earlier this year
I would have liked a birthday cake
But Dad needed his beer
I hate my dad and I love him
All at the same time
It gets confusing and I pretend
That everything is fine
I go to the park with my friends
On the swing I feel happy and free
But at six o’clock or thereabouts
Mum calls us home for tea
I don’t like feeling scared like this
It makes me want to cry
Sometimes I get very angry
And I just wish I could die
When I grow up I will be strong
And leave him. I’ll take my sister too
Dad can keep on drinking
We have better things to do
Ipswich Grammar School by School ()
Rosewood Green Award – Open Age Local Poets
Jacaranda Street by Damen O'Brien (First Prize)
Though stuttering and querulous, there’s a beat,
where Lifeline recycles Ipswich back to Ipswich,
and neither flood was allowed to cause a hitch,
and though the school went under there wasn’t water on the pitch.
The Jacaranda roots are deep and hungry on Jacaranda Street.
The lorikeets and figbirds have the squealers in retreat;
where the bats drop mango bombs on flaking roofs
and soup the sides of cars with sticky brews,
and the maggies and the Ibis drab their feathers in reproof.
There’s always roosts in Jacarandas on Jacaranda Street.
ACDC is the chosen soundtrack, and silences are fleet:
where the 3am coal train has all the toilets flush;
and sets off the dogs again from a momentary hush,
and the rust buckets return their shift workers in a rush
of two wheels in the gutters under Jacarandas on Jacaranda Street.
There’s nothing going on at all – we’re all discreet:
where five year olds carom Woolworth’s chariots in the carpark,
and fifteen year olds stagger drunkenly somewhere in the dark.
There’s all shapes and sizes pressed uneasily in this ark:
the Jacaranda’s witness nothing on Jacaranda street.
The grass dies green, and madness grows greener in the heat:
when the team wins there’s a party, and a domestic when they lose;
it all spills out amongst the wheelie bins, in screaming and abuse;
and good fences make good neighbours if they choose;
and Jacarandas mark our fences, on Jacaranda Street.
The cafes and the wine bars are coming – such conceits:
where the milk company changed the name but kept the trees;
they’re landscaping the cul-de-sacs and the battlers are being squeezed;
while they’re re-stumping all the Queenslanders off their knees;
we’ll all be parking Audis under the Jacarandas soon, on Jacaranda Street.
There’s something in them, that makes a road complete:
and though things have a way of cutting one by one
old plans back to the stump, and when there’s none
left but memories of their drifts and ghosts of flowers gone;
the Jacarandas will bloom blue fires on Jacaranda Street.
Eight Embraces by Julie Lynch (Second Prize)
blue dog risks a pink’n’shear grin
swiping dew from the wallaby grass
in metre-long liquorice-strap
loll-tongued licks
while his master feasts on sunrise
pigeon homed in the red traffic light
– round the clock surveillance every three minutes –
tends her naked insatiable brood
vying riotously for her affections,
silhouetted scarlet lady
gnarled young man, his raspy limp,
resolutely pushes his mate
in a wheelchair, cumbrous, dated
across the hectic zebra stretch
as if creation were a blessing
speckled overalls, spotty shoes teeter on a tightrope
scramble down a paint spattered ladder
blissfully dance a spirited jig
shaking out bristled brushes like maracas
for a minute longer than is really necessary
petite prim princess, pippi longstocking plaits
arms stiff holding her book aloft
reads aloud proudly mr brown can moo
strutting ahead of her scarved, stooped grandmother
like the lead caroller on christmas eve
a murder of crows, coal feathered executioners
deftly cleave to the shine of steel,
sharp, dark umber eyes
plunder the bin for samples of evidence
like forensic police at a picnic
ten scuffed school shoes (not five pairs)
haphazardry of brownish hues
dangling languidly from the power line
cluster in their self-made valley
like kigelia pinnata* fruit
vigorous bougainvillea commandeers the flagpole
flowers so deeply deep purple
you’ll hear smoke on the water
erupt from its foliage
whenever you rock or roll by
*South African sausage tree
Robowars at the "Swich" by Scott Thouard (Third Prize)
Here, the insects are metallurgical
ant weight, beetle weight combatants
their integral movements
rebadged as the nefarious ballet
of mobile and torpedoing bots.
Each murderously apparelled
by their maker- operators,
the fashioners of fatality
who favour the whiplash of the mace
a cleave of a flicked axe
the zip zap of rotary blades.
Weapons of mass deflection,
they buffet and sideswipe
kerf and scrape and thud
each other into visceral hiccups.
The least alpha catapulted
into centrifuged spins
against the stiff arena walls,
of a Perspex microcosm:
housing the playful mayhem
of long remembered
bucket congealed castles
being stomped at the tide’s edge.
Ziggurats of Lego on the play mat
battered and splintered
in geometric shrapnel.
Bomb by Brett Dionysius (Highly Commended)
(i)
He hands it to me.
His fingers, a pale spider,
the ball, its bloated egg sac.
His hairs brush mine,
vibrations are sent from
the world wide web.
Between our two trunks
string begins to resonate.
Smooth as a river stone,
polished by eons of licks
to the face, dog-nose cold
the ball is dimpled as though
struck by meteors of hate.
My very own genesis rock.
(ii)
My vice puts friction’s
strong law on the golf ball.
My industrial popping candy.
The drill wheedles its way
twirling through hard, white
layers like some seismic rig
breaking through the Arctic’s
frozen crust. Scoops of white
plastic fall like nail clippings
onto the workshop floor.
The drill chews the icing down
to the quick of its rubber core
Black strings reverse like smoke
up the drill’s steel chimney.
(iii)
He hands me a backpack.
It is asteroid heavy. He says
there are butterflies inside it
& that if I pull the rip cord
it’ll free them; blue & green
wings will fold like hands
at the end of loud applause.
The great sound of god
is in the seashell I hold to
my ear as I climb the fence.
I tip-toe so as not to shake
up my delicate cargo. I don’t
want to kill the insects; he says
the Americans will like me.
(iv)
My very own genesis rock.
He says there’s white powder
inside that will trigger dreams.
I draw the cigarette from behind
my ear like a hunting dart from
my neck’s soft quiver & he grasps
it in one of his pale mandibles.
As he transports it to his mouth
a fang jumps out onto his lip
like a white shark beaching
itself on the red sand of his lips.
As he slides back into the liquid
light, the tooth snags its prey.
He lights it like a fuse.
(v)
Up the drill’s steel chimney
my fingers scour like a huntsman
& flick the last wisps of the golf
ball’s black innards away. I pack
the bearings inside the hollowed
out shell, like a wasp depositing
its eggs into a caterpillar’s gut;
a time bomb’s interminable pause.
I shoot up the baby cannonball
with my violent mixture; an egg
timer fills with soot. Time runs
black. I cap the improvised device
with old chewing gum, like a coin
that seals a dead man’s fate.
(vi)
The Americans will like me &
maybe even decorate my chest
with chocolate when I release
my gift. Whose heart wouldn’t
expand at the thought; the velvet
texture, the eyelash thin antennae
that curl at the ends like a question
mark? The see-through wings that
shift your vision like a kaleidoscope
I marvel, at how something so small
can bring laughter like a magician’s
trick. As I reach the soldiers, statue
still, their faces lit like new bronze,
I feather the cord & a dog barks.
(vii)
He lights it like a fuse.
The ball is shiny as volcanic glass;
the fused harmony of molecules
melted in the sun surface heat
of a violent pyroclastic eruption.
I up-end it to shake out the white
powder like a salt shaker that has
become damp. Nothing gives.
I bash it on my hand’s dinner table.
He rounds the garage & ducks low
like a demolitions expert. There is
a noise like lightning hitting a power
line. The skin frays from my fingers
like an umbrella that rips in a cyclone.
(viii)
That seals a dead man’s tongue?
What about who takes him down?
The blast is about twenty aerosol cans
of laughter lit up by a fire-eater’s belch.
I lose my balance momentarily like the
bottom step missed when dead drunk.
There’s a whimpering that’s not quite dog.
I sneak a look. He is witchetty-grub bent,
a white blob grounded, curled into himself
like a kick to the balls in a footy scrum.
My smile breaks open like a picked sore.
The inky ghost cordite, possesses my nose.
I’ll never run out of weapons; the internet
is my ammunition dump; I, its cyberpunk.
(ix)
I feather the cord & a dog barks.
I ask him for a grown up cigarette.
He takes one from his shirt pocket.
It slides out like a white torpedo
from its silver tube. He looks
into the face of his afterthought.
Beneath his helmet, his eyes are
half-lit, in shadow’s smudged kohl,
as if they’ve gone behind a cloud.
As I open the backpack’s cocoon,
bright wings flick out like a serpent’s
tongue & the butterflies are gone.
In the sheet lightning sky, helicopters
glow like black kites caught in the sun.
Little Brisbane by Caitlin Prouatt (Highly Commended)
It wouldn’t make much difference
if I caught this city’s glimmer
in a jam jar for you,
would it?
A fairy fish in a bottle:
I can skim my fingers over it
from this hill, in the
empty lot.
I can gather up the Ferris wheel,
the office towers,
tie them with the thread
of ragged river:
tiny good-luck urban flowers.
Each beetling light is destined
for a matchbox;
this star-consuming city
leaping cricket-high
before me.
While Spring is crouching
quiet in a jacaranda tree,
you saunter blithely
up to Autumn’s smile;
I set upon the city’s waves
a folded paper boat,
and wait and wait for it
to navigate its way to you.
The Elixir by Damen O'Brien (Highly Commended)
Gerard Roberts contemplates this batch:
twining in the urgent panic of damp straw;
climbing over each other with pink, neat feet,
and wonders about omniscience and of God.
These mice got the fifth strain of immortality:
20 years old, and counting, but,
well, there were errors setting in: miscalculations
trapped in the blood stream; clots and baldness.
He’s not sure which are the food stealers;
which are the biters or nippers; which are
small bullies of the steel kingdom,
and that is, he supposes, where he
and that other great man with the beard differ;
morality is not in the Protocol.
Next year, the Company will progress to human trials-
pulled by the cold tide of desperation and
the other cold temptation, which is money.
He can imagine the queue now:
climbing over each other; twining in their urgent panic,
and they’ll all get it, whether they are nippers or biters;
whether or not they are large bullies of the stone kingdom,
if they can pay.
George Roberts terminates this strain and makes a notation
He turns off the light on his way out.
Fishing by Maureen Clifford (Highly Commended)
On the outgoing tide the boat rocked lazily.
He recalled there were plenty of fish in the sea.
He watched swooping seagulls dive bombing the ocean
as his kids build sand-castles. Had they a notion
of their Gramp’s philosophy? ‘When you’re in strife
just remember the pebbles on beaches of life.’
A bright flash of light quickly drew his attention
to cliff hangers climbing, defying convention
in their struggle upwards ‘cross cliff faces steep,
with their safety dependent on thin ropes to keep
them from plummeting downwards to sharp rocks below;
but quite fearless, not once did they falter or slow.
He sat quietly pondering the life that he’d led.
It had been pretty good. It was like Dad had said.
‘You come in with the tide and you go with the flow
giving help where you can for you never will know
if one day you’ll need saving and hands will reach out;
so don’t you be lazy, share your help about.
He recalled his Dad saying ‘ we reaps what we sows
and if we sow dissension then we harvest blows
but to sow seeds of kindness, compassion and love
brings a bounty of blessings for sure from above.’
He looked to the heavens – “I remember indeed
Dad, I’d best get back fishing, there’s people to feed.”
Joy Chambers & Reg Grundy Award – Open Age Other Poetry
Slow Train Coming by John Egan (First Prize)
For Morrie Egan,
died 25th February, 2007.
A slow train coming, black locomotive.
Its headlight eye snouts through canyon curves,
It snorts the grades, heaves its deadweight clockwork.
A midnight cab of steam and steel.
Piston rods revolve and hiss, slow valves,
the lurch and beat of cogs, fat-boilered slug
that leans against the sun, blackens the day,
a long night of furnace fumes, smoke and ash.
A slow train coming, black locomotive,
fire-grates in a tunnel drilled through dark,
Fire-dank crawls from its soot-stained lair,
heaves itself closer, is coming, is coming here.
The Ghost of Bennelong by Spencer Ratcliff (Second Prize)
Act One
There it is. I see it now, a shadow buried ‘neath the sails, pressed into this timeless earth
The outline of my white man’s hut, twelve foot square and built so I could prove my worth
Feel the wind, smell the fire, see the thin, grey, curling smoke and hear the firewood crackle
Lend an ear to darker days, cast an eye on wicked ways… and hear the dead men cackle
Come step into my nightmare; crawl beneath my skin and tremble at my life put on the line
For I was warrior, wild and young; Eora savage bold and stout; proud in seventeen eighty nine
Through fear we’d hidden in the trees, watching, sniffing distant safe, cautious tongues unheard
Then in a trap the men in red threw a rope around my head… in the name of George the Third
The tall ships danced their rock and roll, creaking, leaking in the cove, watching with a shiver
Sad-faced men in stripes and iron stole a glance ‘n’ took the lash, beside the Parramatta River
They dragged me to the Governor, keen to know and understand our customs and our tongue
With noble chin and eyes ablaze I buckled to the white man’s ways… for fear that I’d be hung
They kept me under lock and key; a prisoner of the King’s desire, to teach them of the native life
I was a blackened beast on show; studied hard but given grace, especially by the Governor’s wife
One night inside this fancy house the tribal blood within my veins chose its time to boil in rage
An angry voice upon the breeze; a black man bent upon his knees… ordered me to leave my cage
Act Two
The koori stamped into the dust; blew the didge, clapped the sticks and sang a line of songs
But little did the redcoats know about the cost of kidnap; Eora fee for all the white man’s wrongs
They lured the Governor to a trap; ‘Seven Miles from Sydney and a Thousand Miles from Care’
Then on the way back came the payback; when down at Manly Bay… they speared him there.
He took it in the shoulder and he took it on the chin; a lesson learned on customs of the blacks
Wise man, good man, he forgave, then put his mind to learning of the culture that he lacks
I was a free man, safe to hunt with nulla nulla, boomerang and courage beating in my chest
Then Governor Phillip called again, to be his friend and find out when I’d work at his behest
He wanted me to go between the British and the nervous mobs, to play their middle, fiddle man
And never since the Dreamtime dawn was a braver soldier born of the fearsome Wangal clan
He taught me words from distant worlds, of gods and kings, lands, riches and of empire strong
He showed me how to use a fork, to wear a suit and how to talk… yet still I got things wrong
I was pampered as a prince; food and liquor sweeter than the wretched souls who lived in chains
I learned to eat the white man’s meat, drink the rum til I was numb, then wash away the stains
So on the rocks at Tubowghule they built my hut of brick and wood, my penthouse with a view
There I lived not black or white, walked the line by day and night… and did what I was told to do
There’d been disease in Sydney Town; buried where the town hall stands; victims of the pox
It didn’t care what rank or class; convict, sailor, koori mob; countless redcoats from The Rocks
By November ninety two; an ailing Governor, summoned home, had set his sights and sails
From First Fleet fears in five tough years… he’d sown the seeds of fledgling New South Wales
Act Three
He wennalong to Bennalong, Yemmerrawanie too; samples of the species to put before the king
“You are my son, my doorow, so come with me to London Town…. we’ll show you everything”
“Yes I will beanga, for my father you have been; please dress us fine in ruffles, silk and lace”
And so it was; to Greenwich Meantime from the Dreamtime… frilled with smiles upon my face
There’s the Tower, there’s St Paul’s; take a walk down Pudding Lane and feel the London Fire
See the Bailey old ‘n’ cruel; weigh the measures and the truth; just assume that everyone’s a liar
In those docks I saw the ships of innocence and guilt; broken people outweighed by the scales
Seven, fourteen, twenty one, life when life had just begun; better than the rope when all else fails
Meet Lord Sydney, meet the king; cruise the murky Father Thames and see a Shakespeare play
Twas British culture in its nest; honour of the lion crest; empire at its very best, every single day
But in the blood flows all the truth; pumping through the veins to find its way back to the heart
The shock of curiosity; the sense of what I’m meant to be, tore my spirit and my soul apart
For culture has a vicious bent; and what’s been borrowed’s also lent… and has to be returned
I heard the call of didge ‘n’ sticks, smelt the charcoal and the dust; thought of what I’d learned
Yemmerrawanie passed away and I fell sick another day with English chill upon my lung
And so I wept Eora tears; trembled for Eora years… and summoned all the songs I hadn’t sung
Was time again for Dreaming; for living wild within the bush; for hopping mad with kangaroo
For stamping stick-legged in the dust, for speaking secret Wangal words; known by chosen few
My friends the Phillips heard my cry; set me on the waves again; brought my lonely world alive
With much delay and some decay I sailed with Governor Hunter… in early seventeen ninety five
Act Four
Spirits raised and spirits drunk; howling winds around our ears, we sailed from Plymouth Sound
Old England with its British kind and gilded cage were left behind… for I was Sydney bound
The music of Eora; of Wangal, Wallumedegal; of whispered words of Bunjil in my ears
Kept me dreaming, kept me sane, drove my spirit home again… damaged by the alcoholic years
My Seven Sisters Dreaming; my aching nights of Muggadah, of Meenhi, Wimlah, Gunnedoo
Sent me home like boomerang, to sing the tribal songs I sang… and start my drunken life anew
But I had changed as had my life; my daughter dead, a missing wife, an empty hut upon the rock
The timeless clock of timeless land had lost its timeless second hand… a silent tick without a tock
The clan of Wallumedegal was happy I should lead; a warrior brave and wordly at its head
Once again I toed the line ‘tween black man and the white; telling what the other one had said
They called me ‘interlocuter’; filled my head with fancy, pumped my body full of food and grog
And bit by bit I didn’t fit; I lost my health and lost my soul and spent my life in vomit like a dog
As the farmers stole the land; gripped the throat with upper hand, my organs faltered with abuse
Weakened limbs, broken heart; vision blurred and bloodshot, in one Eora man with good excuse
I drank away my dignity, chewed up all my tribal pride and swallowed all my noble self respect
In my hazy Dreamtime dreams, body bursting at the seams… everybody knew a life was wrecked
Twice I almost perished in a battle ‘gainst the clans; fifty times in fighting ‘gainst the devil drink
Then in eighteen thirteen, west of Kissing Point, Bunjil turned me into dust, January third I think
They buried me ‘neath orange trees, in orchard ground of convict mate, the brewer Jimmy Squire
They mourned me with a payback war; bloodied spears of tribal law; and danced around the fire
Act Five
Marrow, muscle, sinew fed the grubs and fed the worms; bones decayed six feet beneath the stars
A shattered man with broken heart returned to Mother Earth, in the ‘Parish of the Field of Mars’
And now I float in Pleiades; watch the Seven Sisters play, a weeping spirit spinning out in space
I cry to Bunjil in my grief; I scream in total disbelief… and beg for pity for the human race
It almost took two hundred years to purge the guilt; to honour truth and wipe away the shame
They built the towering, pointy sails, tiles ‘n’ wood and all things good, to wash away the blame
They come to lose themselves in time; unaware what’s ‘neath their feet… they drift into a trance
They come to hear a hundred strings, marvel at a thousand things and watch the black men dance
They come to dine at Bennelong’s, crustaceans take the centre stage, the dollar signs are missing
The patrons puff their chests in pride, hug their loved ones by their side… at the point of kissing
This way madam, this way sir; the opera starts at eight o’clock… we know you can’t be late
Enjoy the didge below the bridge; taste the view and kangaroo… yams ‘n’ eels upon your plate
I hear the music of the ships; slapping seas ‘n’ flapping sheets; creaking, cracking timbers yawn
I taste the grubs and honey ants; see the shadow ‘neath the sails and burn alive with every dawn
Hush my friends; tiptoe soft in ancient steps; close your eyes and sniff the charcoal burning
Dream ahead two hundred years; wipe away a million tears… and pray the white man’s learning
Feel the wind, smell the fire, see the thin, grey, curling smoke and hear the clink of shackle
Lend an ear to darker days; cast an eye on wicked ways… and hear the dead men cackle
Buy your tickets for the show; park your cars way down below, within the shadow of my song
It’s time to dream, to fade away; to waken to a better day… and toast the ghost of Bennelong
Skin by David Campbell (Third Prize)
How shall I tell you, mother, of his skin,
his beautiful, beautiful skin? It is, it is…
but first you should know that this land
burns like the Yule logs at Christmas
when the snow lies deep in the fields
and the ice cracks on the village pond.
As I write, the heat is fading; daylight’s
final blaze of blood-red sun is swaddled
in a blanket of dusk, the distant hills
a shimmer of Vermilion on a horizon
without end. There are no leafy lanes
and hedgerows out here. I am seeing
with new eyes the colours of the earth,
the umber and ochre, the ancient bones
of granite and sandstone protruding
through the flaking skin. Which reminds
me, dearest mother, that I must tell you
about his skin, his beautiful skin. It is…
but first you should hear of the tiny
white-winged wren, the bright yellow
buttons of the poached-egg daisy,
and the brilliant magenta of the native
emu bush. You have been told, I know,
of a cruel, harsh landscape totally bereft
of soul, much like its people. However
that is not my experience. You cannot
judge by appearances, for the heartbeat
of this country is a strong and vibrant
force, its people resolute, resourceful,
and proud. My time here has been short,
but I can see an ancient, timeless land,
ruled by the seasons that unite us all
in facing a common foe, a harmony
of sharing that generates a strength of
purpose. And now the rains have come.
I can linger near a waterhole to enjoy
the grand parade as the animals arrive
to slake their thirst, from red kangaroos
to camels, from buffalo to the darting
blue-tongued skink. The birds will then
come calling: the pink and grey galahs;
black cockatoos and finches by the score;
and cormorants, white egrets, and bright
green budgerigars, like a rollercoaster
rainbow feathering the sky. Such beauty,
dearest mother, like his skin, which is…
black.
Meditations on Walking (after reading the rules) by Chris Armstrong (Highly Commended)
I – How to use 0ne’s legs.
Before walking promised solitude
walk out distraction then influence.
Every day: leave footprints along a track snaking the shadow of
long, grand ranges
II – Nature was here first.
Wading a tea tree stained lagoon,
lined with peat foul mud,
black swans float in stillness
gathered together to watch you drown.
Mystery is, the rearrangement of elements each day:
low hanging cloud lifting ridgelines of iron bound stone,
a pademelon at foot with one in the pouch,
a precipitous bluff worth climbing.
That was as deep
as we got
all trip.
Until an urge to go with the wind, to be run through
with snow and the damp sleet of knowing.
It’s a dry year down south
and deep black quagmire remains untrodden.
III – Trees, waterfalls, animals
The currawong
stalks camp, stops close
as we watch each other
and momentarily catch the other’s eye
but there is nothing we both know.
The animals here
are the silent type.
Snails, red ants
small spiders.
Sky high birds rummaging
through still air for a decent thermal.
Travel light and when you arrive
put down roots.
Build a nest,
burrow in.
IV – The little bit of freedom
It is walking
until your soul aches.
V – Keeping sane
With no conversation, with no advice, you forget
to ask questions
and talk only theory.
You forget to forget, until the ferryman arrives
to row across New River Lagoon
to meet night where all is remembered, and,
yourself becomes portmanteau.
You are not capable.
You are not interesting.
On Prion Beach, it is a mis-folded task
this learning of your and self.
VI – Allowing a sort of reverie
Dragged around by thoughts from camp to camp until finally allowing
reverie to arise.
Severing ties, crossing the caramel waters, getting there and away, stumbling, exploring,
careful and quick, the first thing a person has to do is hold tight.
VII – The final leg
Waiting for a sign of life on the cold side of the mountain
this is not the eerie quiet of wilderness.
Bird calls are distant as memories
drifting on ice thin air.
It is learning yourself
in time for the hewn town,
and home made pie, the little café by the bus stop.
The Hazards by Vanessa Page (Highly Commended)
The Hazards are a mountain chain in the Freycinet National Park on Tasmania’s east coast. Orthoclase, a pink feldspar, gives the granite mountains their pink tint.
End of day – mottled daylight and empty oyster shells.
The Hazards, a grey-pink jaw hinged around the bay.
Night begins its advance – a sable-smooth awning
pulling slowly over the two of us, dark and familiar.
Our silence is an albatross – as the gentle music
of masts drift from the water in night chill shadows.
Tramontane wastelands peel back, reveal ligaments
– seclusion exposing the distance between us.
My hand finds yours and I read you like a telegram.
How strange that this dialect of comfort remains,
even when darkness spills over into blood.
Soon, the last of the birds will fall as silent as death.
Twenty-Four Varieties of Flowers by Rory Hudson (Highly Commended)
in this distance
a dog barks slowly
I raise myself on
one old elbow
in this bony bed
which became
part of me
over so many years
the mattress lumpy yellow
I suppose
mattresses get tired also
l suppose, I hope
they have known sleep
when they don’t come
anymore
l raise myself
on one old elbow
to see out the window
across so many years
always I see them
when else
there is nothing
the flowers
my hair white thinning
now
so they tell me
for a long time
I see no mirror
the flowers, though –
there are always
the flowers
just outside the window
varieties of flowers
so many
I counted them to
twenty-four varieties
breath comes hard
sometimes
don’t feel it
twenty-four varieties
all colours varieties
each one
a poem
a poem in time
opening, closing again as
days go by
each one I write
with my strength
rising
on one old elbow
Opening Night by John Egan (Highly Commended)
Frederickton, Nova Scotia, 11th May, 2008.
“First we take Frederickton, then we take Berlin!
A clip-on sign outside a theatre:
Monday – The Babington Brass Band.
Tuesday – Leonard Cohen. Wednesday –
Silvershoes, Elvis Impersonator.
Fifteen years since he’d stood
anywhere near a stage, five years
a Zen Buddhist monk –
“I’ve had it with the music racket”,
at 74, “just a kid
with a crazy dream”, Leonard Cohen
was singing again.
Rat-pack rabi, suits and hats,
a six piece band, three backing singers,
no one knew what to expect
but Leonard Cohen was singing again.
Like a supplicant, head held low
like a prayer, whispers the intimate,
his life in song, intricate
the secrets of the self-aware,
ironic, honest, the journey for the beauty –
they all came.
Drop your voice from your throat
to your heart
and sing again
It’s got to inject perfection.
Don’t forfeit the people’s time
with anything less, don’t
betray your art, no public
prostitution with a bauble in a song.
But what if I can’t?
What if no one wants to hear me?
The theatre held seven hundred,
they could have sold that night
ten times those tickets
and in the months, the years
to come, one hundred times
but here was the beginning:
“Dance me to your beauty
like a burning violin . . . “
They went wild.
Women cried.
Lewin's Honeyeater by Brett Dionysius (Highly Commended)
For Slyvie
Under the cool forest canopy that made
Their skin Antarctic to the touch, it alighted
On a child’s wrist of root, blackened by
An eternity of lichen. A hand’s length,
lt stalked them for metres, deliberating on
The danger they posed, or didn’t; after all,
They came to witness its habitat miracle.
Cheeks yellowed, as if it had touched
Up its face with a eucalypt pollen blush,
It emerged, half ark survivor, half sage
To chat & sing, this curved beak diva.
Rushing their eldest, it hovered right in
Front of her face; this delicate balance
Left their hearts at hummingbird pace
Lovesong of the International Management Consultant by Roger Vickery (Highly Commended)
We’re here to redeem you with slave market spin.
Our suits are two-piece holy wafer thin
or double-breasted Buddha-fat
and in Armani shoulder holsters,
shaped and polished by paid up pollsters,
we pack salvation’s rat-tat-tat.
Sign up now, success awaits.
We’re going to make you the next Bill Gates.
Our power points have dum dum tips.
They’ll guide you to a cloud-like land
of high rise hopes on Enron sand
where daylight truth is in eclipse.
Our copy rigged workplace review
will shrink your staff to a paltry few.
Once we put our rumors into play,
this skeleton team will build their own cage.
They’ll pull like pit ponies for half their wage
when they hear you’re heading for old Bombay.
Trust our managerial grid. Your suckers in head office did.
We motivated. They salivated. Into our Karaoke web they slid.
Swaying to our play sheet, mad as junk bond loons,
they followed us on a Wall Street bender,
swiveling their hips to ‘Love your tender ‘,
higher than old futures on our helium tunes.
When we strafe you with our Dreamliner grins,
you’ll ache to believe we’re about ‘win- wins.’
But deep down every one of you knows,
our not so hidden global agenda
is to be the slickest, richest peddler
of the Managing Emperor’s brand new-clothes.
The Voice of Bunjil by Spencer Ratcliff (Highly Commended)
Listen children. Lend your ears to this ancient earth … and listen.
Beyond the modern murmurs hear your mother’s wailing womb, crying happy in creation; bubbling, gurgling with
pangs of birth; sighing with splendid, stretching pain. We are the sap of every tree, re-born with blossom-face. We
are the core of every rock, the heart of each and every cave; we are the ochre hands our elders spat when time
began. We are the blood of every beast, pumping, crawling, breathing, pouncing, padding through the gum tree
bush. Hear the thump, thump, thump of your heart beating downwards through the dust, in tune with life itself.
Touch your world. Place your hands on sacred soil … and touch.
Through the trembles of the pipes and drains, feel the shudders of timeless feet, stamping, dancing stick-legged in
fear and rage; pounding glory to our Creator Beings.
We are koala, dozing sick, soft, playful, drugged. We are snake, red belly, king and brown, sliding deathly, deftly as
we spit our poison and our pain.
Feel the slithers and the shivers and the rattles of our bones pushing downwards through the earth, pulsing with the universe in harmony and rhythm.
See the wonder. Gaze through 400 years of light into the face of time … and see.
Beyond the ploughed vapour trails shines all beauty; the winks of a billion stars floating through the nebula; the
billowing birth and death of fluffy nimbus, bursting with smiles or tears.
We are eagle, parrot and cockatoo, squawking, bouncing, talking on the winds. We are kookaburra, lorikeet, lyre,
galah; laughing loud, plucking tunes and acting dumb, plumed and groomed by almighty Bunjil. Watch our Seven
Sisters as they play among the Pleiades; squint to see them flee Orion towards the safe, celestial arms of glowing
Atlas and Pleone.
Smell your land. Inhale your past, fill your lungs with Dreamtime … and smell.
Through the film and layers of white-man’s waste, black pores puff and pant for life, pleading for renewal, craving aromas of this rugged land, gasping for Gondwana.
We are redgum, fig, lily pilly, banksia, casuarina; spraying the bush with scents so sweet to cover up the stench. We
are wombat wobbling blind and slow; echidna crawling spiky safe.
Suck-in the eucalypt and pine; breathe the wattle and the must and dust of damp, seeping, weeping caves. As roos and dogs and emus do, raise the nose and sniff the wind.
Taste your country. Sip the springs and fill your belly with the beasts … and taste.
We are the pebble-clicking creeks, the tumbling falls and thirsty bongs. We’re wallaby, goanna, roo and possum; rich
and royal banquet fare that’s fed us full since time was born.
We are the wriggling, flapping trout, the yam and yabby, bass and eel. We’re flathead, grunter, pygmy perch,
swimming to self-sacrifice, ever keen to be devoured so man may stay alive.
Savour gurgling creeks and falls and relish loins that hopped and crawled across this unforgiving earth. We are these living, dying things and we shall be devoured.
Sing children sing. Spit your hands upon the caves and carve your mark upon the rocks.
We’ve travelled long and lonely across this burning space and walked in ancient footprints, stamping in the dust, stepping soft on eggshells beneath our heels and souls.
In ghostly paint and feathers fine we’ve chanted to our watching gods. We’ve seen oppressors come and go; swum with tides that ebb and flow; tip-toed gently, heads held low; and cowed to foreign reason. Our creeks and minds were poisoned well, our values burnt and sent to hell, but in this hourless, patient place, the tick of time is heard.
Dance children dance. Clap the sticks, bend the knees and cast your voice unto the breeze.
We’ve waltzed the white man’s tune so long; stood in line to sing his song; and like koalas, grogged and gagged with eyes diseased, we’ve settled in our sleepy trees to watch the blurry nightmare pass. Fingers stenched with guilt and greed have passed the food we didn’t need. Our honey ants and nuts were fine and humpy homes with bark and twine were all we’d ever asked from birth and given by our Mother Earth. It’s time to build our line of stones, to point our sacred pile of bones and dance along with Songline tones towards a better day.
Dream children dream. See the sand pour through the glass and watch the precious hours pass. Bunyip, yowie sit and wait; they know the time, they know the date and understand it’s not too late to tell the world of all the cost and stand and fight for what we’ve lost.
The emu burning in the sky will never know the reason why our hearts have all been broken.
He weeps to see the rape and theft but hangs on hope for what is left and screams aloud for all to know that Bunjil’s voice has spoken. Chase the Dreamtime every night and in the meantime,
in the Screamtime… fight for what you know is right.
Embarkation – 1914 by Sue Bailey (Highly Commended)
Pungent engine odour and warm steam’s breath escaping in loud rasping gasps,
almost in time with mine as I am dragged along the writhing platform,
through a sea of khaki clad legs, black boots and flashes of brass;
and always father’s hand guiding, soft, hard, calloused –
freckles then shirt cuff , stiff with starch and shiny buttons.
I loved to trace them with my finger over and over – knowing somehow
this was an important good bye.
Mother and father talking, mouths moving muffled words.
Against trench-coats, mother’s floral dress an island in a green ocean;
piercing whistle and dragon roar;
a strong hug and your lips against my cheek as I was hoisted high
above the faces under slouch hats – rough sandpaper kiss of uniform,
mad scramble and carriages fill, doors slamming like the desk lids
at school or intermittent rifle fire.
Yells of encouragement, brave calls through veils of tears, an eerie last whistle
And wheezy reluctant, stuttering lurch and you are fading.
I try to keep pace with your carriage, your face in the window frame
like the one on the piano now. I feared that losing sight of you
I might forget that smile.
Platform’s end came too soon, breath burning a hole in my chest
despite the cold; watching the train disappear;
I squeezed my eyes and blinked and blinked,
trying to hold the tears, knowing somehow , even then,
there would be more.
Metro Hotel Ipswich International Award – Open Age Bush Poetry
Waiting by Catherine Lee (First Prize)
It is morning and a mist is gently rising
from the scrub and intertwining with the gums,
while the sunlight on the wattle’s tantalizing-
and I realise today’s the day he comes!
He’s been absent way too long and I’ve been grieving,
(though I’ve had my share of duties to distract,
for this summer’s made it hard to keep believing
with the dusty, scorching harshness that’s attacked).
But with great anticipation
I can now make preparation –
for my Joe will be here soon, so l must act!
There is whining from the rug beside the fire,
for the dog’s aware through instinct of his own,
and he’s pined alongside me with deep desire,
whilst confused that we’ve been left here all alone.
Now he turns to me with eyes alert, tail wagging,
so l move to pat his loyal head awhile.
He is old – l know his health is swiftly flagging –
to his death I must prepare to reconcile.
“How you’ve suffered in frustration
at this ghastly separation –
but today you’ll be rewarded with his smile.”
Now it’s lunchtime and the orb has risen higher;
I’ve prepared some food, and beer to quench Joe’s thirst.
I remind myself I mustn’t be a crier,
but ensure his needs are met – that he comes first.
There’ll be time enough to talk of common sorrow –
all that’s happened to us while he’s been away –
so this too can surely wait until tomorrow,
with its promise of each boundless, joyful day!
Now in childlike expectation
of my nightmare’s termination
I relax, and quietly I start to pray.
It is afternoon, and on the wide veranda
I am rocking, while the dog is lying near.
I am waiting for a rider to meander –
for my long awaited soldier to appear.
In the distance heat is shimmering and glowing
on the grass now bleached by endless days so dry,
while through kurrajongs a sultry wind is blowing,
and above lethargic kites are soaring high.
Though I feel appreciation,
I am lost in agitation
as my hopes are drowned in fears I can’t deny.
It is evening now – my eyes are drooping slowly,
for another day has come and gone in vain,
and my fevered mind asks God by all that’s holy
why He doesn’t put an end to all this pain.
Once again the dog is whining, now in mourning,
for he sensed how far his master had to roam,
so l know it’s just a canine word of warning
as his tail thumps bleakly like a metronome.
For despite my supplication
Joe went fighting for his nation,
and he’s fallen, and he’s never coming home.
It is supper time; the dog is fed and watered –
his devoted eyes observe me warily,
for my hopes and dreams have once again been thwarted,
yet I can’t accept my grim reality.
His support has seen me through this sad existence
and I know he understands his master’s dead,
yet he humours me and gives me no resistance –
it’s as if he hears the screaming in my head.
He observes with adoration
every foolish demonstration –
knows we’ll not be hearing Joe’s familiar tread.
It is midnight and the darkness now enfolds me,
and it cloaks the Great Alone in misery;
there’s a silence so immense it grasps and holds me –
I’m a breathless captive yearning to be free.
Disbelieving, yet acknowledging my weakness,
in my heart a gaping void forever black,
not a glimmer lights the pathway from my bleakness,
for there’s nothing to replace the man l lack.
In this trance of my creation,
though it brings such desolation
I reside, although he won’t be coming back.
So I wait to be relieved from this depression,
for my own eternal journey to begin;
self deceit is merely feeding my obsession,
but I cannot seem to fight the gloom within.
I imagine how I’ll rush towards that vision –
how he’ll reassure me, take me by the hand;
there will be no doubt or fearful indecision
when together we will ultimately stand.
It will be the culmination
of our mutual privation,
and we’ll need no words to fully understand.
Though I miss him through each long and lonely season,
feeling desolate and stricken to the core,
to the point I feel |’m losing all my reason
as l rail against the waste of life that’s war,
yet |’m filled with pride, respect and admiration
for the bravery of Joe and all his chums,
and there surely won’t be any hesitation
when he rides between those mist enshrouded gums.
I will turn in jubilation
to the barking consternation
crying, “Peace my boy – at last, at last he comes!
A Feather in a Locket by Robyn Sykes (Second Prize)
In the she-oaks’ needles rustle and the Willie Wagtails’ bustle;
in the eucalyptus blossom and the wattles’ buzzing band;
in the gurgle of the river and the new-born lambs that quiver
as they suckle; there your spirit’s warm as feathers in the land.
When your ashes kissed the grasses, on our hill where nature’s classes,
in the downy squawks of eaglets, tangled webs of life and death;
tender token of tomorrow floated down to soothe my sorrow
as it fluttered on my face, a feathered emblem of your breath.
I remembered your proposal, all those dreams at our disposal
as Jellarney’s fences ringed your cows, your Angus bull and sheep.
Just a simple country wedding and a room with summer bedding
where a soft and silky feather roused the blood instead of sleep.
Pictured picnics by the river and the debt that made me shiver
when the paddocks looked like cardboard, when the bushfire scorched the flat.
How your kelpie, dear old Rusty, worked as green engulfed the dusty
earth! The feather in your hatband danced as Dorset lambs grew fat.
When a room is packed with people or I kneel beneath the steeple;
when the solitude is breathless, leaving night and day both black;
when our grandson mourns his whippet or I read a tasty snippet,
it’s a feather in a locket guides me back towards the track.
How my lips are loath to mention our three children and the tension
as they rip and pull at title deeds, impatient for their share;
turn a simple draft of cattle to an epic three-way battle.
Weary fingers stroke your feather as they bellow, “It’s not fair!”
I escape the neighbours’ pity, with a smile both fixed and gritty,
for a holiday in Sydney at the Country Women’s Lodge.
Diesel fumes and honking traffic and the language, foul and graphic,
see me clench your feather tightly as I try to weave and dodge
all the Gucci ladies’ purses, the Bandidos with their curses
and the brief-case bearing bankers, steel eyes stapled to the road.
In that crowded isolation, I’ve no friend for consolation,
just a feather in a locket to bear witness to my load.
With a glint of sharpened metal my heart pounds and will not settle.
Tattooed terrors starch my body as my sins blare blazing red.
Jagged fingers, like a sprocket, scratch and snatch your silver locket.
Feather knees begin to buckle as the blood deserts my head.
With a fear I fail to banish, how I wish the world would vanish,
for the sun looks dull and grey without those links of love to share!
Then I see a brush-tail possum, smell some eucalyptus blossom,
and a feather falls from nowhere, angel answer to my prayer.
Now the pathway seems much brighter and my load feels ever lighter,
and my steps grow strong and sturdy in the golden glow you give.
I see rocky roads I’ll travel, whether city streets or gravel,
will be lined with feather kisses’ and I make the choice to live.
A Victim of War by Tom McIlveen (Third Prize)
Just what do you see when you’re looking at me, in that portrait that hangs on your wall?
A blind amputee with a broken old ski or a soldier who answered the call?
Or someone who saw all the horrors of war, from Korea to South Vietnam;
immersed in the gore of the infantry core, when we followed our dear Uncle Sam?
So why be afraid of an image portrayed by a cripple who walks with a brace,
who seemingly strayed from a passing parade with a dumbfounded look on his face?
Perhaps you’re annoyed that our troops were deployed to a war inevitably doomed,
by leaving a void in a country destroyed by a power that seized and consumed.
Recruits who were used had been plagued and confused by a doctrine they couldn’t explain
then wrongly abused and unjustly accused of atrocities deemed inhumane.
I kneel down and pray at the start of each day for the brothers who never came home;
whose bodies now lay under metres of clay and a blood spattered blanket of loam.
I used to be whole, until war took its toll on a spirit that shrivelled and died,
then ravaged my soul for a life on the dole with a labrador dog as my guide.
My beautiful wife had a man in her life, when I wheeled in to show her my chair,
but heartache and strife had cut deep like a knife, as we parted in dismal despair.
I lingered awhile and then sporting a smile, I thumbed down a passing sedan,
and travelled in style as I counted each mile, till I sighted old Cooma again.
Remembering days when the snow was the craze, as we drove down each weekend of June,
to frolic and gaze at the lingering phase of a luminous shimmering moon.
The Vietnamese had no knowledge of skis, as they peddled through puddles and ruts,
contracting disease from mosquitoes and fleas, that infested their hovels and huts.
And how would they know of the comforting glow of the Southern Cross stars up above;
surrounded by snow, in a warm bungalow, sharing friendship, devotion and love?
If only they knew of the splendorous view from the summit of Mount Crackenback,
they may misconstrue that a Cow coloured Blue, is a mountain below Sascha’s Track.
And Lake Jindabyne would be hard to define to the brethren of Bolshevik slums,
who grovel like swine on the Communist vine, for a portion of miserly crumbs.
Corruption and vice had sustained paradise until Ho Chi Minh’s troops had appeared,
and strove to entice all the peasants like mice, to a piper they plainly revered.
Like moths to a flame, by the thousands they came from the villages, paddies and fields;
exalting his name and applauding his fame, as he taxed all their profits and yields.
An army of red had assembled and spread, and then surged like an incoming tide,
as soldiers had bled and the vermin had fed on the corpses of those who had died.
The East coalesced with the hordes from the west who had come from the land of the bold,
and slowly repressed their despicable guest, who refused to relinquish his hold.
I recently heard an encouraging word from a well-meaning neighbour and friend,
who thought it absurd, that the carnage incurred, was considered a means to an end.
He firmly believed that their cause was aggrieved by the communist doctrines and schemes,
as they were deceived by a creed that relieved them of property, freedom and dreams.
So how would you feel to be kept down at heel and then treated like somebody’s dog;
to beg for a meal with no right of appeal and be dubbed as a Noggie or Wog?
So next time you see an old soldier like me, who has suffered the trauma of war,
remember the plea of a poor refugee – who has suffered a thousand times more!
A Little Silver Locket by Allan Goode (Highly Commended)
Now I doubt that I will ever meet another quite as clever
as my uncle known as Harry to his friends.
But the home where he’s residing called and said that he’s deciding
that he’s ready and it’s time his journey ends.
So I rush to where he’s staying without any more delaying,
reminiscing times we shared along the way.
For he often told me stories he referred to just as *warries
that would see me held in rapture through the day.
As a pilot he was smitten flying Spitfires out of Britain,
‘like as if it were just yesterday’ he said.
He was shot down on a sortie over France in 1940
and he floated through a hail of flying lead.
Though the **Hun were loud and vocal he was helped out by a local
and was passed on to the local underground.
He was hailed by all the others, who he called his Froggy brothers
as the shot down British pilot that they’d found.
Though it took some time in telling past the language they were yelling
he convinced them he was Aussie to the core,
when a pretty girl came running who was absolutely stunning,
who had never seen an Aussie man before.
Though the times were quite alarming, he would talk of it in calming,
almost happy, quiet tones of death and life.
When he mentioned in his musing of this girl he found confusing
who in other times he may have called his wife.
In the filtered, moonlit lighting during lulls in all the fighting,
they would sit and talk of all their hopes and dreams.
He’d be happy ever after if he always heard her laughter,
though unlikely as it was in these extremes.
She was skilled at fine coercion and in causing a diversion
and was first to volunteer in times of need.
In the battles rush and hurry, she would tell him not to worry,
though he did and knew he would ’til they were freed.
But one day he was recounting an attack that they were mounting
to alleviate the threat to all her kin.
For the Hun, adept at lying were in need of one for spying
with a hope to break resistance from within.
She was hiding with her brothers as the Hun were herding others
to interrogate with threats of death and pain.
But she ran out through the maelstrom just to lead the Hun away from
all of those who were still hiding near the Seine.
She was quick, but still they caught her and they made her watch the slaughter
of a family they found still hiding out. ,
When she shook her head denying, as the Hun decreed her lying,
then they left her shot and dying through the rout.
As her blood ran in the gutter, when the last word she would utter
through a shudder, was the whisper of his name.
When her cold and deathly rattle saw her lose her final battle,
then he knew his life would never be the same.
As he lay here reminiscing of the love that he was missing,
he was patting at the pocket on his chest,
then he said he was contented over what we had lamented
just consoling it would all be for the best.
As he knew his death was nearing, he consoled my blatant tearing
with a smile that passed his lips and reached his eyes.
Then he squeezed my hand in knowing as his weary face was showing
me his readiness to meet his own demise.
So I held his hand, supposing as his eyes were slowly closing
that perhaps his life was happy after all.
He was blessed, if just to know her, now his breathing’s getting slower
and he smiles as if he hears his angel’s call.
The machines erratic beating seems at last to be depleting,
’til it winds up with that never-ending tone.
As the tears on all the faces seem to mock the fading traces
of the smile upon his lips, that’s his alone.
The alarm bells started ringing as the angels started singing
and then something out of his hand fell to mine.
So I close my hand whilst rising as the nurse is summarising
as she’s looking at the slowly moving line.
What he’d taken from his pocket was a little silver locket
which was scratched and had attached a broken chain.
It was worn a bit and battered, but I guess it hadn’t mattered
as the memories it carried will remain.
So I opened to discover, who I guessed was once his lover,
just a picture of this fair complexioned girl
and behind it in a tether was a tiny strip of leather
round an auburn coloured snippet of a curl.
You could tell that she was pretty and I thought it such a pity
that they never got to share a happy life.
For I’m certain uncle Harry would have loved to up and marry
this amazing girl he would have called his wife.
So this battered old reminder shows how glad he was to find her
when the world was in a whirl of discontent.
For he never thought he’d ever find a love to last forever
that a tragic warring world could not prevent.
Though I fear he made an error through his tales of war and terror,
for I never heard him say what she was called.
But I smile myself moreover as I turn the picture over
and upon the back her name is faintly scrawled.
* slang – an abbreviation of war stories or perhaps a contraction (portmanteau Word) of “war stories” – War-ries (pronounced “War -rees”)
** slang – a term used for a German person or the German people, used especially by their opponents during World Wars I and II.
Aussies by Bessie Jennings (Highly Commended)
The rigger on the building site was passing ’round the hat
collecting for a sick mate’s wife and kids.
When Bill the brickie shook his head, old Harry swore and spat
and blazed at him: “Old Johnno’s on the skids!
‘Pay up, you bastard, don’t cry poor! Some day it could be you.
When males are crook, you’ve got to lend a hand.
You call yourself an Aussie?! There are things you ought to do
so you’ll deserve to live in this great land.”
Now, Harry’s dad came here from Greece in 1949
and laboured in the steelworks for a while
and Pete the chippie came from Holland, settled in just fine
and Pat migrated from the Emerald Isle.
Old Sven the Swede and Tom the Yank are Aussie as you please
like Frog the Frenchman, daddy of the team.
And Joe? He’s three parts Islander and one part Japanese,
a racial mix that works just like a dream.
They’ve been through hard and easy times; they’ve helped each other through.
They all pitched in when fire destroyed a town.
When floods came down in Queensland, then, they all knew what to do:
you just can’t let your fellow Aussies down.
Young Bill reached in his pocket, put his skinny wallet down
and placed it in old Harry’s calloused hand.
‘Here help yourself’. Then Harry, with apologetic frown,
just felt it – and began to understand.
He noticed it was thin and light, ‘Forget it, mate” he said.
‘I reckon you’ve got problems of your own. “
The old man gave the wallet back and shook Bill’s hand instead,
remembering some things he should have known.
Young Bill’s part Aboriginal, and partly convict bred –
by birth, about as Aussie as can be.
But some blokes who are here by choice, I’ve often heard it said
are just as ‘Aussie’ now as Bill or me.
They’re just as variegated as the weird assorted crew
that stood with Peter Lalor long ago,
united in a common cause from which our nation grew –
historic time that all proud Aussies know.
The stockade at Eureka brought those miners grim defeat
but something really great that day was won.
Those immigrants from many lands knew liberty was sweet;
that’s when a new tradition was begun.
We call it solidarity, or standing by a mate –
no matter if he’s Pommie, Dutch or Greek.
He may speak funny lingo, but a man who pulls his weight
knows ‘mateship’ is the common tongue we speak.
Well, Harry took his wallet, said ‘I’ll put some extra in.
I’ll throw in ten for me, and ten for you.”
Bill nodded, ‘Pay you back next pay,” and with a sheepish grin
old Harry said “Son, any time ‘ll do.”
The Jumbuck Drama Club by Shelley Hansen (Highly Commended)
I travelled to my childhood home – the town of Jumbuck Creek –
and wandered past the Corner Store once owned by “Jim the Greek”.
It’s just about the only shop that has an open door –
the rest are boarded up these days – they ply their trade no more.
But then I spotted down the street a sight I thought was grand –
the vast unpainted structure of old Davo’s “Second Hand”,
where as a kid I poked about in blissful reverie…
exploring all his treasures always fascinated me.
I stuck my head around the door and softly called his name…
he dozed and waited for the customers who never came.
His rheumy eyes were blurry as he blinked against the glare…
“It’s you, girl… strike me lucky! Come inside – pull up a chair!”
I wandered first around the shed, just touching little things
as memories came flooding back on swiftly beating wings.
An ancient treadle Singer struck a long-forgotten chord
when Davo said, “Remember? That machine belonged to Maud.”
Dear Maud – she was the stalwart of the Jumbuck Drama Club
that flourished in its heyday in the Hall behind the Pub.
She turned out all our costumes with her deft, creative flair
and kept us motivated with her passion and her care.
Undaunted by the challenges, we’d willingly aspire
to stage the plays of Shakespeare… or A Streetcar Named Desire…
and I discovered quickly this was teamwork at its best
as learning lines and painting props put talent to the test.
Our little Hall would fill with those from near and far away
who came to catch some “culcher” (as they called our yearly play),
and when we took our curtain call they whistled as we bowed…
if we were at “Her Majesty’s” we couldn’t be more proud!
Young Joe the plumber’s son became Young Romeo on set,
while Mary from the Bakery was sweet as Juliet.
But l lost touch with both of them somewhere along the track –
then Joe was sent to Vietnam… and never did come back.
l spent an hour with Davo and two cups of Billy Tea…
just chatting and remembering the way things used to be.
We talked of “drought and flooding rains”, of friends long dead and gone,
and how the town of Jumbuck Creek had died as folk moved on.
The Bakery was first to go – they couldn’t make it pay.
The Corner Shop sells bread now – but it isn’t fresh each day.
The Hardware and the Draper couldn’t match the online stores
who undercut their prices till they had to shut their doors.
The Drama Club had folded up as video took hold,
for no-one came to see the plays of actors who’d grown old.
Then Maud had died one summer at her house up on the hill –
the whirring needle of her Singer finally stood still.
l couldn’t bear the thought of it in someone else’s hands –
a stranger – never knowing all the things for which it stands –
or sentenced to decay in dust, forgotten and alone
with no one to retell the tales of splendour it has sewn.
And so I bought the Singer, and it’s in my sewing room
with pride of place in its own corner – saved from certain doom.
I polish it and oil it, but it rests in peace these days…
a tribute to Maud’s legacy of costumes for our plays.
I almost hear it humming with the memory of years,
and as my thoughts trace times gone by, my vision mists with tears,
But then l hear Maud’s merry laugh and give my eyes a rub…
and smile as l think back upon the Jumbuck Drama Club!
Said You Could Fly by Arthur Green (Highly Commended)
I’d never quite, though Davey might, have dreamt that he could fly
although in dreams, what sometimes seems like flight can signify
a need to flee, and so to see what prompted Davey’s flight,
I’d like to share what caused one pair of kids to fly that night.
When he turned nine `twas like a sign, the first night Davey flew
just like a bird, though when she heard, as Davey knew she’d do,
his mother threw a blue fit due to her concern and said,
“Don ‘t you dare try, since you can ‘t fly, to mess with Lisha ‘s head.”
“I know your tricks but she’s just six, and thinks that what you say
you do is true, and that she too, will fly like you one day.”
“Like eagles tamed,” young Davey claimed, “one night, with arms outspread,
We’ll fly so high we’ll terrify those not asleep in bed.”
At school, his threat of what they’d get if schoolmates caused her grief,
won Lisha’s heart and for her part, unquestioning belief.
So when mum tries, “They ‘re all just lies he makes up in his head,’
young Lisha’s “No, that’s just not so,” takes Davey’s side instead.
War-wives, those days, were left to raise their kids with men at war,
and faced alone, life on their own like few had known before.
When funds ran low it helped to know of cleaning jobs at night,
where kids could wait and cogitate but stay well out of sight.
Red tail-lights flashed and folks splish-splashed through rain, eight stories down,
while from outside, two, side by side, gazed at the lights uptown.
They’d both been told, “It’s far too cold and wet to go outdoors.
Don’t want a set of muddy shoe-tracks on my nice clean floors.”
The ‘Fire Stairs’ door to that eighth floor clicked shut and both kids knew
that they’d get hell if either fell and more than just words too.
As Davey tried, and pushed and pried the door without success,
young Lisha shocked, gazed at the locked steel door in some distress.
“We’re up so high. I’m scared and I just wish we’d not come out.”
“I understand. Just hold my hand,” said Davey. “I’ve no doubt
there’ll be some floor whose unlocked door will let us back inside,
and Mum won’t think (nudge, nudge, wink, wink), we’ve even been outside.”
To Lisha’s dread, young Davey led them down to the unknown,
though few would dare to venture there, so young and on their own.
“Why can’t we wait? I sure would hate to fall from way up here,”
Though I can’t fly like you, I’d try, thought Lisha, racked by fear.
But as she trips, then falls and slips and slides, to her dismay,
across the ledge towards the edge, just two arm-lengths away,
young Davey’s hand grips Lisha’s and, aware they both might fall,
tells her he’ll not, no matter what, let go of her at all.
“Don’t let me go. Please don’t let go!” Shrill screams make all aware,
as two shapes try, eight stories high, legs dangling in mid-air,
to struggle back, it’s clear they lack the strength, and all below
watch helplessly, though how to be of help none seemed to know.
As Davey’s grip begins to slip from ’round the post he cries,
wracked by remorse, and guilt of course, “Please Lisha, close your eyes.
I’ll not let go of you although we’re almost at the edge,”
but still remains, as his strength wanes, committed to his pledge.
“Please Davey, no. Don’t let me go! Don’t drop me, Davey, pleeeease. ..”
As Lisha’s cries trail off she spies, despite young Davey’s pleas,
the city’s glow way down below, as some voice says, “You might
recall I said with arms outspread, we’d fly like this one night.”
In stunned delight she glances right, to see there, in mid-air,
young Davey who had said she too, would one night as a pair,
with arms out wide, fly by his side, while clinging to his hand,
just like the boys and Wendy did in ‘Never Never Land. ‘
Though Lisha’s calmed and quite disarmed by Davey’s ‘You’re safe now,’
she wants to know, before they go, they’ll get back home somehow.
“Who knows how high we two can fly?” With arms outspread, we pair
could end this night as two souls might, beyond the stars up there.
In rain-swept streets, sheer chaos greets the first police to show.
Cries fill the air from all those there as panic reigns below.
All swore `twas plain, time and again, the boy had tried his best
to save them both, which under oath, all those there would attest.
With no heartbeat, down on the street and draped for privacy,
with hands clasped tight, as if in flight, two shapes lay silently.
All claimed they’d heard each anguished word between the girl and lad,
until that last, ‘Please hold me fast… please Davey… ‘ and he had.
But since `twould be a tragedy if these two were to die,
and much more so for Lisha though, who’s just found she can fly,
and since she’s been young Davey’s keen and most devoted friend,
they just can’t go… like this… and so… this can’t be how they’ll end.
As flung-back drapes reveal the shapes of toy-sized carnivores,
the welcome sight of morning light on Davey’s dinosaurs
fills Davey’s eyes, to his surprise, with joy to find instead
of heaven-bound, he’s safe and sound at home, in his own bed.
Was this in part, right from the start, young Davey’s flying dream
where morning brings assurance things in dreams aren’t what they seem?
Were this not so, I think I’d know, were I in Davey’s place,
to skip the sights, on rainy nights, from ‘Fire Stairs ‘ just in case.
Two Wars by Yvonne Harper (Highly Commended)
My husband had returned from war, a cold man with blank stare.
The wounds he carried deep inside had led to his despair.
He couldn’t sleep – he shut us out – he wouldn’t talk to me,
and when I asked, he always said, “Louisa, let it be.”
His first day home was tainted by the silent tears I shed,
when Matthew walked in through the door on feet that dragged like lead.
My little girl was deeply hurt when she reached out to hug
her Daddy, whom she had adored, dismissed her with a shrug.
He moved from one job to the next; he rarely stayed for long.
And all that time I prayed and hoped that one-day he’d be strong
enough to put aside the nightmares making him so ill.
I kept my vows and stayed with him because I loved him still.
I should have known that Matthew wouldn’t march on Anzac Day.
His mates who shared the dangers on the lands so far away,
arrived to take him out to talk of times they’d spent offshore,
but Matt was far away on cliffs swept barren by the war.
But then one night when Matt came stumbling through the kitchen door,
I took my chance to save the man I’d loved before the war.
I made him talk – until he slept – exhausted on our bed.
I sat beside him pondering the things that he had said.
I ate my tea while Matt still slept, a torrid, restless sleep.
When l looked in, I saw his bedclothes tangled in a heap.
Though we had talked, his war was not resolved but I had hope,
and given time, with no more fears, I felt l now could cope.
But as he tossed, our little girl had risen from her sleep,
and troubled by her Daddy’s cries, crept in to take a peep.
On tippy-toes, she stretched her hand and gently tapped his feet.
Matt woke and lunged and grabbed our Meg and swamped her in the sheet.
He held her down and raised his fist to deal a fatal blow.
That’s when Meg cried imploringly, “No Daddy, let me go!”
Bewilderment and disbelief came flooding through my soul,
with so much force, it made me fear that Matt had lost control.
With Meg’s cry ringing in his ears, Matt crumpled and turned pale.
He couldn’t look at Meg or me; he suddenly looked frail.
In trembling voice, that wrenched my heart, l heard my husband beg
for our forgiveness, for he never meant to hurt our Meg.
He held our hands and told us of his times out on patrol.
When seeking cover for a rest, they’d choose a deep shell-hole.
The men would sleep, except the guard, who stood beside their feet,
to kick them into readiness to charge and not retreat.
He said that they were very good at grabbing little naps,
then springing up with rifles cocked for brutal, savage scraps.
Matt told us he’d been dreaming of those barren cliffs again,
while waiting for the kick to send him forward to be slain.
Today, I’m asking if those men who went away to war,
believe the price they had to pay was worth the death and gore;
not only on the battlefields but here on our home front
by families and those they loved who also bore the brunt?
This poem was inspired by these lines:
“Platoon of ten exhausted soldiers, lying in a circle, feet inwards ….. The Sentry would lightly kick the boots of the men who would immediately spring up noiselessly, bayonets fixed and ready.” P.128 R.M. Winn True grit and Dry Wit. The Penguin Group (Australia) 2009
Ipswich City Council Award – 16-17 Years
No Time for Skipping Stones by Christine Collier (First Prize)
We would look through astrolabes on warm nights,
after the night sky would remove its makeup,
and let all its blemished skin appear and show off
the scars once hidden by the blinding sun.
And twist the hands as though by luck or chance
we would manoeuvre the device,
so everything would be clear and straightforward
and the guessing could come to a stop.
Then our eyes would shine from the knowing tears,
that no longer must we look at the exploding balls of gas
in space to find the shattered pieces that put together
our lost souls and tomorrow would be just that which it always is
We would sleep deeply and dream of nothing
with doonas beneath us leaving our flesh to shiver
and never remember being happier.
When we no longer search for something better
or fear for something invisible that could take away so much.
And the blemishes on our skins would mean nothing,
the tattoo of age would leave its inky mark.
Continents would continue to move apart
and it wouldn’t matter a single bit because
we aren’t looking for a better place with a brighter sun
or whiter shores to feel through our callused thumbs
and there would be no need to leave footprints in the sand
as we know they will be washed away anyway and the universe
takes no prisoners of war. We are and we aren’t and that’s it.
Giving up didn’t mean to surrender but it did
liberate us from the endless search for stars
and answers which we never found or needed.
And the silhouettes of our new lives were finally shaded in,
and painted outside the lines.
Children in Kansas Know What to Do by Siobhan Deacon (Second Prize)
They know how to get a blackbird out of a brier.
They know how to befriend a family of rabbits.
They know how to skip.
They know how to sing.
They know how to sit
On the kitchen floor
Next to the other Mary.
Not only blue but purple.
They know how to wait.
For the low growl of an ’86 Chevy.
For the claw of a door
And scrape of a boot.
They know how to run.
Daddy in Kansas knows what to do.
He knows how to track a blackbird even in the sky.
He knows how to skin a family of rabbits.
He knows how to stomp.
He knows how to shout.
He knows how to paint
The whore.
Not only blue but purple
Black and blue.
Most of all Daddy knows how to teach.
Until Children know how to learn.
Red Sky in the Morning by Serena Green (Third Prize)
the end of time the beginning of eternity gift wrapped in a parcel of briny waves
licking away winter cliffs on sunny rainy days an ocean song sings the waltz of the tide
and the shore and the swing of hips outlining figures against a city sky illuminated
with the glow of humanity a transition from starry night blue to red blood sprayed
across a shattered windscreen glass cut clear in knives of silence like the hands of a
counting clock tick tock tick tock tick ticktickticktick a fragmented explosion of
lawn chairs and milkshakes in a café a balloon of fire swallowing days of sun on skin and
sparkling delight signalling the end and beginning of a red sky day dawning and
welcoming corpse cold fingers broken under the force of a hammer wielded through
the strength of nations stone walls that don’t speak listen laugh cry communicating
through unreachable means of written word passed through the ears not the eyes of a
world sprouting reports of metal birds falling 20,000 ft in a controlled death spiral
impacting and scattering the remains of advanced technology across the pages of
entertainment tonight hailing a 20th century built through the eyes of a murderer and
executed through the barrel of a Luger raising an army from the ashes of yesterday
in a race to puppeteer the leaders of tomorrow and take one great leap for the
continuation of mankind towards a blue sky day
A Forgotten Persia by Emily Byrne (Highly Commended)
A forgotten Persia, sitting in saffron stained hands,
The Maghreb. The Bedouin. The Arabian.
The family honour dripping in origin.
Soaked perfumed citreous, saturated in the sweet rose
Aromatic khubz kneaded by antiquity,
The echo of Adhan. The ring of Allah
The mosaics of rituals, The continuum of
Sifted sands and ancient souks.
Honeyed tea and rosehip notes
Diffusing into the richness of the khaima.
The warmth of the hookah, the Arabian night,
A social smoke of ancestors.
As white as delusion, opaque opium clouds.
Feet glued to the viscid treacle of tradition
The rejuvenation of spring, awakened
This ominous uprising of the desert.
A rancid bread, now stifled and stale.
Denounced by its own composition
kneaded by the knuckles of power
veiled in burnt frankincense, and acidic citrus.
The red sea as bare as disillusion.
Flowing through these blood stained hands,
Old silk roads running backwards,
Carrying the poisoned pomegranates of the past.
The tribal staple, now the chief traitor.
The food source and the retrenchment.
The abusive mother, The khubz.
The jewels of sheikhs, more important than ancient bread.
Velvet smoke seeping under the cloth
Awakening the dissatisfaction of taste
Corruption biting into the bitterness
No fragrances of Arabia can purify them.
Polluted rosewater and jasmine syrup,
Mosaics reshaped by the sands of the Syria.
The Maghreb. The Bedouin. The Arab.
Wandering the desert, correcting the future.
Verlang by Reinette Roux (Highly Commended)
verlang/ longing
seer/ pain
eensaam/ loneliness
kwaad/ anger
magteloos
Can the absence in my language be read
Can the weight of it be felt
The words are both the same in meaning
But as I speak this rare tongue
You understand only these:
Dermis/ Dermis
Pigment/ Pigment
Trauma/ Trauma
Therefore I give you my poem about the irreversible mark: a tattoo poem
To carry the pigment from the point of the needle to the dermis that contains me
You may not see it, but I do
It’s my tattoo
The lead, iron oxides, rusts, metal salts and plastics of the ink in my bloodstream
Burden me
I turn to homemade tattoo inks, made of soot, dirt and blood
roet/ soot
as/ ash
brand/ burn
and there was ink
and there was memory
and there was no pain
the final curtain call and I bow to bear
my tattoo to you
Warmth by Rosaleen Cooney (Highly Commended)
I waited
With open heart
In the night’s delight
For your ambrosial voice
To warm my bones. ;
Descendant by Samantha Brenz-Verca (Highly Commended)
When the jacarandas flowered purple,
My grandmother would come to visit.
She would sit in the sun, filling in the
Crosswords;
my scrawny limbs settled in her lap.
Absently, she would draw cats in the
margins
of the newspaper,
she said ‘to keep me interested ‘ and to stop me
fidgeting and squirming and disturbing and distracting.
But for me, the cats were
an afterthought;
I didn’t need a pretty picture to keep me focussed.
Those Crosswords and my grandmother kept me endlessly
engrossed sometimes until the stars came out to try to hug the sun.
At school, kids obediently filled in sheets,
practiced their spelling words and solved
basic math problems; learned the parts of
flowers, and Earth, geometry, human body;
and ate white sandwiches from paper bags.
I, on the other hand,
would sit on a cushion by the window:
perhaps reading books from the Year 7 shelves;
maybe planning my latest story;
sometimes dreaming about how snails decorated the insides of their shells.
And at lunch I ate leftover mushroom risotto, or chili con carne;
and I played cricket with the big kids, and soccer with the boys, and taught little girls hopscotch;
but I always did what I was told,
and I was taught to fit into the box.
Wild runaway rosebush minds were snipped
into neat green hedges, are manicured into
obedience and will be lined up in precise
order. We’ll be compressed into squares to
check the boxes, with their curt corners and
shards of brick that stick in my throat at night
I always wanted to drink the air and taste the smells far away fom that box
I yearned to bleed into paper in a beautiful mess,
like a watercolour painting that
drips
and says so much; but still
allows me to think for
myself.
Design by Joshua Murray (Highly Commended)
In
the scrap
metal
yard…
Sat, adjoined, an old car frame
And a rusted, bent aeroplane…
In
the
scrap
metal
yard.
Hurricanes, tornados, and rains gusty
Caused the metals grow more rusty,
But not one car was screwed together
And the plane crumpled due to weather…
In
the
scrap metal
yard.
In
a
young
child’s
room…
Lay a desk, a stool, eraser’s shavings,
A lamp, a ruler, penny savings…
And a
scrap,
blank
paper.
One small boy sat at his table
And sketched a sword, a horse and stable,
A car, a rocket, his friend, his mother,
With one blunt pencil, one plain colour—
On
a
scrap
piece
of
paper.
Black Coffee for Breakfast? by Ellie Burton (Highly Commended)
in the beginning, when water washed your earth,
our pantheon was hung out to dry, parched then pontificated
‘woman’ is her name because she was taken out of man
cooed mark and matthew so soft, now don’t fight
papa grande is here, mourn right
bleating like a foghorn, silence says
I’m older than plastic forks and linoleum flowers,
than pink candy stoves and sinks that bubble like gum,
and behind the cloud’s tissue depressions
she hides her green-eyed indiscretions
and the artists said we’ve got you all figured out
because delilah cut his hair and salome cut his head
it’s whorticulture, we can weed pick and prune
hand him the secateurs, hand him the scythe
he’ll make you a wife
I’m backready and backbroken she entreats
you’re bloodset and bonedumb he replies
if from womb to tomb my apples fall only towards you,
my gossamer dress soiled, can my flaking bones lie beside yours,
will you bury me in chores?
beetroot stains my hands in Iscariot red
a little water clears us of this deed, so prescribe me a penance
my tears by your feet (on my knees) should atone
an absolution in white, mary me and you’ll be anointed
tie the knot and you’re appointed
black coffee for breakfast my sweet? your habit since infantry
for with fists of irons i can only poach eggs,
sunny side up, ripe and pert we’ll butter your cups
we’ll take you hand-me-down man
and you can take us at your command
then you’re second to one my darling, he’ll croon
remember you’re only a star if there’s aniseed
but first pillboxes suit you, it’s your shape your fit!
so wait, lie in salt (it only stings a little) cure like meat
as long as you’re fresh you’re not obsolete
again the sun is two hours late
sullied and diluted by the prison yard concrete of clouds
smoked like lapsang, behind his fat cigar
i waited up, feathered and downed the splintering dust
i glad-wrapped lunches and cut your crust
when you’re sick of the inner city squalor, tired of exhaust
I’ve made a nest of asbestos and anesthetic
with sweet bethesda, we can inoculate into apathy
betadine for cuts and bicarbonate for stings
watch fumbling fingers tie apron strings
and when we’re melting by your fire,
or just you and l and the bougainvillea sunset
(it’ll only give a rash you say, pretty in pink)
we’ll chase sorrow back to her damask lair
we’ll rip the rose ribbons out of her hair
so now I’ve saccharine starched your shirts and soles
o darlings, come home sweet home
into hibernation, you poor hares,
poor greymen who whisper like parrots
and sleep like wine
asleep by half past nine
Shades of Red, White and Grey by Sean Adcock (Highly Commended)
Shades of red, white and grey runs through my veins,
colour was once but not in this moment.
To inner gibber jabbers annoyances,
pacing the orbiting change.
What and why meaning,
when there are only shades of red, white and grey.
Where the seeing from behind my eyes,
takes place with enthusiasm and becomes of no importance to an optimist.
To dream in tones of light and dark,
to visualise all shades of red, white and grey –
To envisage all shades in between.
This is my certainty,
living being an IGS red, white and grey lad.
Express Yourself by Hania Syed (Highly Commended)
Yesterday I believe you took up yoga
You said that your chakra was hollow
But is it your heart or a trend that you follow?
Stop embarrassing yourself in that toga
Your hair’s pink because it’s such a statement
Your diet consists of only tofu shakes
But you’re still smuggling in some steaks
Strutting your bare feet on the pavement
You’re a walking, talking Reject Shop artwork
Mantras stamped across your forehead
Presumptuously appearing well-read
Rehearsing your every oddity and quirk
Tattoos in Chinese across your chest
Did you know that’s a takeaway menu?
You’re never sure if you’re Hindu or a Jew
Still on this bumbling, hopeless quest
I love the way you eat wholegrain bread
So counter-culture (and good for your bowel movements)
Rocking glasses but no visual impairments
Your Docs mean instant street cred
You’re a billboard, an unwitting mannequin
A repetitive label, mass-produced creation
Cave in without a word of persuasion
High on propaganda and organic pumpkin
But you’re not listening, you’re elsewhere
You say yoga just didn’t connect with you
And the universe’s energies led you to
Rock some bellbottoms with truly lunatic flair
Broderick Family Award – 14-15 Years
The Wolf Understood by Emma Hartley (First Prize)
The wolf
Understood
I was running away.
An unwanted
Daughter
Sent out with that food
And then to roam
The streets
So red.
Sold to the night
I wandered
Down.
Wandered lost of
Neon lights and
Groping hands.
Dirt between the toes,
The red cape
Left behind.
Exhausted of
swimming
alongside the sharks.
Tired of life
And enslaved to the night,
I crumpled into open arms.
And It's Alice by Emma Hartley (Second Prize)
He sees that figure
Falling.
And thinks,
‘Not again.’
Who ever said
Air was any
Barrier?
The River by Tamara Livingstone (Third Prize)
Down to the river we go; you and I Down where the blue waters flow, you and I Underneath the stars and the darkened sky Down to the river we go, you and I
Through breathless waters and dim navy skies
Fly angels that weep and fae that
So mournfully through the Cimmerian night
And to the river we go, you and I
Fireflies dance and shine gold in the
Resplendent wyrms breathe their warmth into my
Affluent heart that yearns for the light
And into the river we go: goodbye
Women of Arachne by Emma Hartley (Highly Commended)
We sew and weave,
And weave and sew.
We watch the thread,
As it bobs to and fro.
We are women of Arachne,
Not Helens of Troy.
Men will not fight wars over us,
No ships will they deploy.
We cut and snip,
And snip and cut.
Cursed to a life,
Where the door’s always shut.
We weave our own webs,
We have our own story.
Stories of calm and patience,
Not of men and their glory.
We are the Penelopes,
Wives who await the return.
But no one remembers to save us,
As the world around us, burns.
Suburban Storm by Rosie McCrossin (Highly Commended)
The storm is an illusionist
Spying from behind the housing estate
At the gentle glow of suburbia
It smiles
Raising an aubergine eyebrow
At its unsuspecting audience
Time to put on a show
First come the clouds
Dark and thick
Heavy bodies undulating across
The royal blue-black sky
Then a soft sprinkling of rain
And thin breezes
Which cut through the thick air
Like cheese wire
It is drugging the audience
Waiting
For the curtains to open
And it begins
Streaking silver slices through the languid clouds
Blinding the spectators
And the freezing rain
Which falls in swollen drops
On the tin rooves
The deep snarls of thunder
Which seem to sync with the sleeping suburbia’s heartbeats
And the thin insidious winds
Which infiltrate deep into bone
The illusionist scrapes at every sense
With sharpened fingernails
And then with a quick swoosh of its fingers
It departs
Followed by its cumulus assistants
Leaving a layer of thin fog
Which hovers above the still warm bitumen
Puddles and broken twigs in its wake
Like merchandise in the foyer of the show
Come and see the great illusionist
Be shocked
Be astonished
Be stunned
By the great magician – the suburban storm
Snail by Elena Bonetto (Highly Commended)
It’s a desert in my mouth,
the moisture in my body is expelled through my pores
as I stare down to my undoing, my doom
my mind a foul blend of phobia and paranoia
Double sets of eyes, monster made of mucus
body of ectoplasmic excretion, unbeknownst, unaware
as fear dances on my skin I envisage the sensation
of my foot crushing, shattering the shell, ending a life
Irony in the word ‘shell’, of less strength than sand
floating, drowning, I’m petrified, welded to the ground
as the horror of all horrors passes through my feet
leaving a trail the colour of sputum down the street
Time by Shayla Parsons (Highly Commended)
time
collects
its ruins
of civilizations
people and
individual lives
time looks back
on her collection
of myriads of towers
built up only to fall
within her own landscape
time admires her
moments of yearnings
and how beautifully
they gradually
decay, fall apart
until nothing remains
time is happy
she does not hold
onto anything
she just goes on
collecting in
spite of it
all
Tents and Campfires by Miriam Waldron (Highly Commended)
Karl
I’ve always taught my children
To do what is asked, to follow orders
But here and now, in my position
It does not seem so easy anymore
“You are herewith ordered” it says
How can ink and paper be so frightening?
I am leaving my daughter and my son
They ask if there will be tents and campfires
Remembering holidays in the mountains
I pick up my case and put on my hat
“Yes. Tents and campfires”
Submission has to count for something
My wife, my children,
Am I to leave them so suddenly
Like a thief in the night?
“Failing this notice, you will be punished with Security Police Measures”
I must go. They must be safe.
Esther
There was always music
Playing in the background, softening the silence
There was always a hum
My father loved music
He nearly cried when our radio broke
All gone now.
The silence is harsh and cutting
Forcing us to reminisce
I try to fill in the gaps
The spaces between mindless chatter
But speech is a well
And it is running dry
I have no plans
My mother is a lost child
Desperately searching, but never finding
After three years, looking for a needle in the haystack
Reality is cruel
There are no tents and campfires where he is
Only graves and gas.
Untitled by Stevie Tucker (Highly Commended)
As one mother’s fear,
Become her daughter’s worst nightmare.
Breast Cancer patient, she was now classed.
I could not help having a silent tear,
How is this even fair?
I continually asked?
I don’t want to believe it,
This can’t be true,
I just have to sit,
Why did this have to happen to you?
She’s turning purple,
She has no hair,
I don’t want you to become an angel,
I want us to stay a pair.
They told me they had a cure,
But now, I’m not too sure.
I will always remember how it feels,
To remember something so frightfully real
Things by Paige Spence (Highly Commended)
Why do things fall off tables?
It is because, in the spur of the moment
They long to escape clammy hands,
Fat fingers
Prodding eyes
And awful breath.
So, with gravity gliding them
They hit the ground running
Before inevitably realising,
Damn.
I don’t have legs.
School Lessons by Arrabella Armstrong (Highly Commended)
I walk down the corridor
Death is waiting at the door
I swallow my fear
to meet the grim reaper
But to my surprise
It’s just the teacher
Queensland Times Award – 11-13 Years
Evangeline by Grace Nakamura (First Prize)
Where the moon floats through the star spangled sky,
Where the crickets all croon a gentle lullaby,
Where the brook chuckles on in a reassuring flow,
Where the whole world is lit with a soft eerie glow.
A child,
Awake,
In the dead,
Of the night.
She slips,
Out of bed,
Her footsteps,
Are light.
She’s poised
Not to wake
The other
Orphaned girls.
Her pale face
Is framed
By a mass
Of dark curls.
When the trees whisper songs to the stars so bright,
When the wind swirls through the infinite night.
When the flowers lay down their petals to rest,
When the sun slumbers on in the land of the West.
She reaches,
The window
Without making
A sound.
She presses,
A hand
Against the glass,
And looks ’round
Her dark eyes
Reflect
The tranquil
Moon-lit scene.
And she wishes
On a star
This girl,
Evangeline.
If the universe is bigger than anyone ever thought,
If within those stars dwell a species of another sort.
If somewhere out there there’s a place to call home,
Then perhaps, just perhaps, I am not quite all alone.
Her eyes,
Filled with stars,
And her face,
All alight.
Evangeline
Whispers
Sweet dreams,
To the night.
She treads
Back to bed
And dreams
Of this place.
Evangeline
Sleeps,
A slight smile,
On her face.
There once was a girl who dreamed of the stars,
Whose mind wandered far while her body was in bars.
She dared to imagine, ventured to wonder,
Inside she flew on her dreams to a place far yonder.
Open Grave by Isabella Sheehan (Second Prize)
Death, darkness, despair:
War is a house of horrors
My grave is waiting.
The Bushfire Brumbies by Eva Marsh (Third Prize)
When the spiteful sun reaches its peak on the hottest hour,
The dry wind riders mount their steed and they ascend to power.
Distant trotting of the bushfire brumbies on the cracked earth plains,
They are gathering momentum as the sun beats on their manes.
The stallion’s nostrils dilate with smoke; a sign of what’s to come
As he calls for reinforcements and they answer, one by one.
All residents evacuate as the brumbies gather speed,
Fresh fire from the sun as fuel is all the food these ponies need.
Their hooves kick up ash on baking plains with every single stride,
Helpless lizards burrow for the core, trying in vain to hide.
Bushfire brumbies halt, pawing the ground, awaiting direction,
Dry wind riders build again, not needing any protection.
Onwards and eastwards they travel, flames engulfing their fetlocks,
Trampling eucalypts and saplings, cunning as a feral fox,
The parched ground chokes as the hooves trample through; panic fills the air.
Fire fighters muster the brumbies, hoping in vain to ensnare,
Flightier than emus, stronger than gums, bolder than thunder,
Dry wind riders are never harnessed and avoid a blunder.
Onwards and eastwards, their tails streaming behind, fire at their hooves,
Cantering, a trail of flames as a scar, breaths held, nothing moves.
Free with the wind, out of control, like wedge-tail eagles they soar,
Smoke blinds all creatures, but the ponies see like never before.
Flightier than emus, stronger than gums, louder than thunder,
They run with wind, never give mercy, watch eucalypts sunder.
Surrounded at last with all exits covered, their end is nigh,
Fire brumbies are forced to surrender, no sun left in the sky.
Drowsy with defeat, they sink to the earth with their heavy hearts,
Blaze is drenched with water; puff of smoke, the stallion departs.
The dry wind riders have lost their strength and power with no steed,
Bushfire brumbies have left their scars, and the bush is left to bleed.
Amidst the carnage are banksia seedlings that the embers spilt,
From these seeds hope sprouts, then homes and lives are gradually rebuilt.
But on the hottest hour the dry wind riders again will call,
The brumbies will gather momentum; the fragile bush will fall,
Flightier than emus, stronger than gums, crueller than thunder.
They run with wind, never give mercy, their purpose is plunder.
The Ode of a Ghost by Erin Burge (Highly Commended)
Mother lies in the darkness waiting for her baby to rise
She scrambles in the graveyard as her spirit dies
Blind to the fact that her child has seen the light
But when she sleeps the baby shall come at night
Playing and dancing throughout the house
Tip toeing in the corridor quiet as a mouse
The ghost of a baby so bright.
The ghost of a baby who’s seen the light. .
War by Isabella Sheehan (Highly Commended)
The enemy advances forward.
I am huddled in the cold,
deep,
dark
trench.
Footsteps,
getting louder,
Louder.
The devil’s on my back
“You can end it now’, he whispers,
“just pull the trigger.
it’ll be quick,
painless”.
My heart’s hammering.
Footsteps,
getting closer,
closer.
I look around.
Men
bleeding,
cursing,
crying;
but mostly
with their eyes closed,
some dead, some alive,
the sense of defeat
hanging ominously around us.
Footsteps.
The sound of gunshots.
Screams.
Then a deathly silence.
That’s when I know
that the war is over.
A tear trickles down my face,
and I too
close my eyes.
Then Night by Munashe Mutambi (Highly Commended)
The sun is down
The moon is up
The wolves run howling
The stars burn up
The lights blink on
The streets fall silent
The night creatures slip out
The birds bury in trees
The moon is down
The night creatures run hiding
The birds swoop over
The stars blink out
The wind stops blowing
The sun is up
The wolves stop howling
I Pick Up the Stick by Eddie Newman (Highly Commended)
I pick up the stick, welcoming its smooth light tan surface in my palm,
Cobalt curls and spikes, twirl and glide across the surface,
The painted symbol of an ancient majestic beast,
Motionless, yet still moving.
I hold it above the stretched taut skin of the drum
And thrust it downwards.
A loud sound emanates, simple and unfit,
But continued with a multitude of its own kind
All different yet the same,
Creates a harmonious choir of raw sound.
Supported by the dramatic flows and bountiful swings of the brass and woodwind
It’s beauty undeniable.
Together the sounds frolic and play on the plains of sound,
A beautiful dance that continues until time takes its unpreventable toll.
Forced to conclude, with one small tap –
simple and unfit.
The Book of Forgotten Words by Samantha George (Highly Commended)
I sit on a shelf, waiting to be explored
Wondering if anyone will read my secrets
And discover my thoughts
What it would be like if someone were to open me up
To rustle my pages and fold my corners
Opening me up time and time again just to relive my
past adventures into the unknown universe of
imagination
To whisper my untold words into a mind full of open
pages
All kinds of bookmarks being displayed to my eyes
To fantasise about my journeys
To dream about my secret entries and forbidden paths
And travel to distant kingdoms
But only one favourite returns to me in the end
To be the last person I ever touch with my crinkled pages
Dog Bath Blues by Peta Vanlieshout (Highly Commended)
Time for a bath!” My mum and dad yelled
For muck, slime and grime was all that we smelled.
We entered the yard where the dog lay asleep
When I stood on a chew toy, he woke and began to leap.
I grabbed the shampoo and a bucket of water
He ran back and forth, I swear he yelled “Slaughter!”.
He jumped and he yelped, he kicked and he nipped
When he came charging at me, my heart nearly flipped.
I stepped out of the way as he ran head on at me
Following him out, things jabbed at my knee.
Reaching the grass he was no-where to be found
When suddenly, on my back, I felt a very heavy mound.
I landed face first in the dry, stale grass
My head had just missed a small shard of glass.
I spat out some dirt and started to run
I’II have to admit, this is kind of fun.
I had tried everything to get him to stay
Ready to give up, I walked away.
The dog somehow followed me, not making a sound
Grabbing the chain, I turned swiftly around.
Chaining him up, I grabbed the water
When out of the door, came my mum’s step-daughter.
‘What are you doing?” She asked, “Can I try it too?”
I said “Sure you can help me!” I gave her the shampoo.
Soaking him in water and smothering him in Shampoo
We scrubbed and we scrubbed til’ he smelt brand new.
Stepping away, he shook of his fur
‘Must’ve liked it’ I thought as he began to stir.
Walking inside, we were both soaking wet
When my mum and dad yelled “Time to bathe Odette!”
Horses by Emma-Jane Emms (Highly Commended)
Ponery ponies poetry poems. Horsery horses. Gallopy olipety clopety
clop. Hair and mane flowing there. Hair and mane flowing everywhere.
Brush horses knotty hair there, brush it everywhere. Horses, horses here
and there. Saddlery saddles on horses. It is raining reins.
Jelly by Emma-Jane Emms (Highly Commended)
Jelly is nice in your belly but your belly isn’t nice in your jelly
jelly for your belly yummy, yummy, for my tummy,
slimy ugly lumpy jelly.
Hey Echidna by Harmony Schloss (Highly Commended)
Hey Mister Echidna,
Some ants there have’ya?
Some green, red and black,
and I see spines on your back.
What do they do?
Oh, they’re there to protect you
I hear mum calling for dinner.
Nice to meet’ya, Mister Echidna
Soup by Emma-Jane Emms (Highly Commended)
Pumpkin soup, onion soup, tomato soup, carrot soup, garlic soup,
mushroom soup, Ieek soup, stew soup, any meat soup;
yum yumo souperdy super soup,
thin soup, lumpy soup, superbly super soup, slushy sloshy soup.
Ipswich District Teacher Librarian Network Award – 8-10 Years
Tiny Seed by Sarah Bown (First Prize)
Tiny seed, still, round and flat
Everything quiet, everything black
No light, no noise, no sun or breeze
No petals, or roots, no smell or leaves.
I need to be free, I need to get out
I need to push up, I need to sprout
Up, up, up I go
Into the world, hello, hello.
Now in spring there’s freedom, flowers and bees
There’s light, there’s noise, there’s sun and breeze
Going up and up into the air I grow
I can feel the breeze and wind blow.
My petals are bright with colour and glow,
My petals flow high and low
I’m now a flower I’m beautiful in every way
The kids will play and I will sway.
The Wolves are Howling by Hannah Johnston (Second Prize)
II stand in front of the moonlight.
I hear the wolves howl.
I wonder where they are.
I wonder where they are now.
When I look up in the sky,
I see the twinkling stars.
So I think of you.
But when I do that I begin to cry.
So I just walk away,
Into the darkness and close my eyes,
And, and, and….
I begin to get scared,
So I run through the scary woods.
Then I tripped on a branch,
And I hurt my knee.
I think I’m having a heart attack.
That’s when I think of you.
I stand in front of the moonlight.
I hear the wolves howl.
I wonder where they are.
I wonder where they are now.
The end.
“You may get scared sometimes if you have a heart condition.
That is when you look up to God Your Lord.”
Little Brothers by Grace Finlay (Third Prize)
Little brothers pinch
Little brothers scratch
Pinch scratch
Pinch scratch
Look out I’ll get you back!
Little brothers bite
Little brothers punch
Bite punch
Bite punch
Look out I’ll get you after lunch!
Big sisters scheme
Big sisters scare
Scheme scare
Scheme scare
Look out if you go in there!
MUM!
Aussie Nature by William Rea (Highly Commended)
Crimson rocks stand there watching time go by.
Dingoes roam the bush catching wallaby, koala, emu and other things they can savage or hunt.
Kangaroos jump too fast to avoid the predators of the bush.
Uluru holds remarkable secrets; spirits of the Aboriginals come out of the earth.
Tears from the sky fall down and washes the dry desert and the core of Australia.
Aboriginals do their traditional dances and slowly the land grows thicker, happiness floats through the land.
Goanna lie in the sun lazily and eat the delicious insects that go past.
Crocs float over the surface of the clear crystal rivers and the mother ferociously protects her eggs.
Cries and the songs of the Aboriginals echo through the trees and the birds squawk noisily.
Stories of the Dreamtime told by the elders flow through the air and I stand there listening, and now I say goodbye.
Family Tree by Astrid Cahill (Highly Commended)
Grow family tree grow
Big ones, small ones,
Skinny ones and cuddly ones
Grow family tree grow
Hairy ones, bald ones
Curly ones and straight ones
Grow family tree grow
Wrinkly ones, pimply ones
Soft ones and whiskery ones
Grow family tree grow
Funny ones, grumpy ones
Kind ones and annoying ones
Grow family tree grow
Arty ones, sporty ones
Fishing ones and cooking ones
Grow family tree grow
Every one my loved ones
Grow family tree grow
The Turtle Race by Aedyn Duffy (Highly Commended)
Deep in the sand
White eggs hatch.
Awakened from
a growing sleep.
Tiny turtle hatchlings
stampede to the top.
Life has begun
there is growing to be done.
A race to the waters
wet and wild.
Some make it here
so many not.
A chance to survive
to grow old.
A hardened shell
to protect from the swell.
Go turtle, grow turtle
Live long and happy.
Go turtle, grow turtle
Your life has just begun.
Painting Peace by Grace Finlay (Highly Commended)
In the silence
The images bloom
Peace is found
Within my room
Worries fly
As bristles spread
Painting flowers
From my head
Flooding the paper
With colour and passion
Everything else is
Just a distraction
Purple for peace
And red for love
Yellow for happiness
And white for a dove
Brushing colours
Warm and cool
Every stroke
Elegant and graceful
You’re in a world
Of your own
Where happiness and peace
Are forever grown
Lucas by Riley Granzien (Highly Commended)
l went to see my little brother
On the day he was born
l held him for the first time
And he was nice and warm
He had tiny little fingers
And tiny little toes
He had a tiny little bed
And a tiny little nose
He never ate any food
All he drank was milk
He slept most of the day
And his skin felt like silk
Over time he has grown
He giggles, laughs and talks
It took him a long time
But now he even walks
He is two years old already
And not so little any more
I’ve seen him grow every day
Lucas will keep growing I’m sure!
No Grow by Jaxan Rackley (Highly Commended)
Grow is no to me,
I say No!
No grow fat
No grow tall
No grow skinny
No grow small
I Say No
NO GROW,
NO GROW,
No grow strong
No grow weak
No grow smart
No grow dumb
I say No!
I will not grow
Plants may grow
They don’t have a choice
I don’t want to grow
Wait, tall for rides?
Grow!
GROW!
GROW!
Books by Sunny Thomas (Highly Commended)
A book is a tool that everyone can use,
For hours and hours they will keep you amused.
From facts and figures to science and diggers,
It is up to you what your mind triggers.
They make you feel emotional, happy and sad,
l love happy endings, that I am glad.
Books can be recycled, hand them around,
From op shops to garage sales they can be found.
.
Favourite stories will never grow old,
As to many children they can be retold.
So when you are bored or want something to do
Just pick up a book and read it through.
Barbie by Isabella Weise (Highly Commended)
A sparkly new dress
And some shiny big boots
Plaiting and braiding
There’s so much to do
Add some bright hairspray
A glistening new coat
Then meet all her friends
On the pink Barbie boat
River 94.9 Award – 5-7 Years
The Under Water City by Mya Smith (First Prize)
The sea is clear and blue
So many baby fish in the underwater zoo
l see yellow angel fish swimming too.
Mermaids passing in the sea weed.
Here come jellyfish to feed and feed.
Coloured coral make a little door.
Starfish are lying on the bottom floor
The sun is shining on the sandy shore.
Deep below, the under water city,
fishes swim and swim by the score.
The Frilled Neck Lizard by Henry Blackledge (Second Prize)
The frilled Neck Lizards are so frightening
And they can run like lightning.
But when they choose, they stay quite still
And then they open up their frill.
Summer by Ella Tronc (Third Prize)
Summer is a season of fun –
Sleep-ins, holidays and time in the sun.
lce-cream sundaes and pools and the beach,
Christmas, togs, drinking lemonade with peach.
My birthday, with presents and friends. It’s hot!
Summery summer, I love you a lot!
I want to be a Palaeontologist by Ethan Peno (Highly Commended)
If l was a palaeontologist l would look for fossils all day long.
It wouldn’t really matter if I got the skeleton wrong.
I would travel around the world looking for new breeds,
Learning about how a dinosaur lays eggs, lives and feeds.
What made the dinosaurs all die?
No-one really wonders why.
Maybe an explosion or lack of food?
If l find out I’ll be a cool dude.
I hope one day my wishes come true,
Being a palaeontologist is what I want to do.
When I Grow Up by Chloe Goodingham (Highly Commended)
When I grow up,
I will be a Princess,
And have a princess dress.
With sparkles and Diamonds
And also big hi heels.
I will wear red lipstick,
To kiss all the princes!
Koalas by Carmen Oxenford (Highly Commended)
Koalas like to climb up trees
So they can eat some green gum leaves
They carry babies on their backs
And let them play to share their snacks
The babies always have a rest
In their very special nest.
Tim Tams by Jessica Gray (Highly Commended)
Chocolate Tim Tams are the best
They are better than the rest
They are always very yummy
They can’t wait to get in my tummy
Melting quickly in the sun
They’re the food for on the run
They are not a healthy treat
But they’re very hard to beat.
The Platypus and the Croc by Harrison Rapmund (Highly Commended)
The platypus was eating his lunch.
He was eating weeds with a crunch.
Then he saw a freshwater croc,
So he quickly hid behind a rock.
Our Trip to Girraween by Kailani Clifton (Highly Commended)
On our trip to Girraween,
there were many kangaroos to be seen.
The Pyramid and granite rocks so high,
I felt they could almost touch the sky.
And in our camper trailer at night,
we were very snug and tight.