2013 Archives - Ipswich

2013 Overall Winner & recipient of the Babies of Walloon bronze statuette

Edwards Property Mentorship Award

Ipswich Theme Awards

A Walk through Ipswich by Majella Pearl (5-17 Yrs. Winner)

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)

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)

Robowars at the "Swich" by Scott Thouard (Third Prize)

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)

The Elixir by Damen O'Brien (Highly Commended)

Fishing by Maureen Clifford (Highly Commended)

Joy Chambers & Reg Grundy Award – Open Age Other Poetry

Slow Train Coming by John Egan (First Prize)

The Ghost of Bennelong by Spencer Ratcliff (Second Prize)

Skin by David Campbell (Third Prize)

Meditations on Walking (after reading the rules) by Chris Armstrong (Highly Commended)

The Hazards by Vanessa Page (Highly Commended)

Twenty-Four Varieties of Flowers by Rory Hudson (Highly Commended)

Opening Night by John Egan (Highly Commended)

Lewin's Honeyeater by Brett Dionysius (Highly Commended)

Lovesong of the International Management Consultant by Roger Vickery (Highly Commended)

The Voice of Bunjil by Spencer Ratcliff (Highly Commended)

Embarkation – 1914 by Sue Bailey (Highly Commended)

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)

Children in Kansas Know What to Do by Siobhan Deacon (Second Prize)

Red Sky in the Morning by Serena Green (Third Prize)

A Forgotten Persia by Emily Byrne (Highly Commended)

Verlang by Reinette Roux (Highly Commended)

Warmth by Rosaleen Cooney (Highly Commended)

Descendant by Samantha Brenz-Verca (Highly Commended)

Design by Joshua Murray (Highly Commended)

Black Coffee for Breakfast? by Ellie Burton (Highly Commended)

Shades of Red, White and Grey by Sean Adcock (Highly Commended)

Express Yourself by Hania Syed (Highly Commended)

Broderick Family Award – 14-15 Years

The Wolf Understood by Emma Hartley (First Prize)

And It's Alice by Emma Hartley (Second Prize)

The River by Tamara Livingstone (Third Prize)

Women of Arachne by Emma Hartley (Highly Commended)

Suburban Storm by Rosie McCrossin (Highly Commended)

Snail by Elena Bonetto (Highly Commended)

Time by Shayla Parsons (Highly Commended)

Tents and Campfires by Miriam Waldron (Highly Commended)

Untitled by Stevie Tucker (Highly Commended)

Things by Paige Spence (Highly Commended)

School Lessons by Arrabella Armstrong (Highly Commended)

Queensland Times Award – 11-13 Years

Evangeline by Grace Nakamura (First Prize)

Open Grave by Isabella Sheehan (Second Prize)

The Bushfire Brumbies by Eva Marsh (Third Prize)

The Ode of a Ghost by Erin Burge (Highly Commended)

War by Isabella Sheehan (Highly Commended)

Then Night by Munashe Mutambi (Highly Commended)

I Pick Up the Stick by Eddie Newman (Highly Commended)

The Book of Forgotten Words by Samantha George (Highly Commended)

Dog Bath Blues by Peta Vanlieshout (Highly Commended)

Horses by Emma-Jane Emms (Highly Commended)

Jelly by Emma-Jane Emms (Highly Commended)

Hey Echidna by Harmony Schloss (Highly Commended)

Soup by Emma-Jane Emms (Highly Commended)

Ipswich District Teacher Librarian Network Award – 8-10 Years

Tiny Seed by Sarah Bown (First Prize)

The Wolves are Howling by Hannah Johnston (Second Prize)

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!