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Rosewood Green Award – Open Age Local Poets

2017 Overall Winner & recipient of the Babies of Walloon bronze statuette

Chairperson’s School Award

Picture Ipswich Theme Awards

Chair’s Encouragement Awards

Joy Chambers & Reg Grundy Award – Open Age Other Poetry

Metro Hotel Ipswich International Award – Open Age Bush Poetry

The Cynic Route by Kate O’Neil (First Prize)

Up in the Devils Lair by Terry Piggott (Second Prize)

The Lady of the Lakes by Terry Piggott (Third Prize)

The Night The Kids Cooked Dinner by Caroline Tuohey (Highly Commended)

A Racing Tale by Jim Kent (Highly Commended)

The Flags That Fly at Castlebrook by Noel Stallard (Highly Commended)

Bandy Bill by Jim Kent (Highly Commended)

I sit tonight by firelight with a heavy aching head,
the message reached me just today, old Bandy Bill is dead;
he died alone in a nursing home where time had passed him by, 
no family, Bill, his mates were gone, and no one left to cry.
Old and grey and seemed that way when I was but a lad,
when living by the mountain track and farming with my dad, 
Old Bandy passed us twice each day, with timber for the mill, 
to walk beside the man and team to boys was quite a thrill.
For Bill you see was bullocky, a teamster from the past, 
and of the old time working teams his was the very last, 
hauling timber from the mountain, Stringy Bark and Beech,
Mountain Ash and Iron Bark that others couldn’t reach.
A span of ten he called them men, his working bullock team,
they seemed so huge when we were boys, their nostrils blowing steam 
as snorting with exertion hauling mighty mountain logs
they struggled from the forest, straining harness, squeaky dogs.
Sandy’s yells, the bullock bells the sounds we loved to hear, 
his cracking whip the echoes woke but rarely raising fear,
his bullocks knew what they must do, no need to taste the lash,
each bullock was a special beast, the big, the bold, the brash.
In the lead old Tumbleweed and paired with Cranky Lil,
each was named and knew their name when called by Bandy Bill.
There was Blackie, Joker, Samson, – Fly and Billy Blue,
Randy always pulling hard, The Boss and Cobbler too.
Bill’s language blue so sadly true was dinkum bullocky,
it was mostly showmanship for all to hear and see
a teamster of the yesteryear with trace and chain and rope.-
if said the words old Bandy used my mouth was washed with soap.
A cranky coot, an old galoot, or so my father said,
‘He’ll lead you up a tree,” his claim,” and leave you there for dead!”
We never knew the reason why and neither man would say,
why each ignored the other when the teamster passed our way.
Though warned beware we didn’t care, Old Bill remained a mate,
our mentor from the mountain side up to the sawmill gate,
as he hauled each mountain log we were his company,
and each of us a boyhood dream to be a bullocky.
Bill would tell I remember well such tales of derring-do,
wild and gory tales they were and Bandy swore them true; 
tall stories now I know they were, but we as youngsters then
believed the tales old Bandy told of Bunyips, beasts and men.
A legend still old Bandy Bill, in tales of yesteryear,
the deeds he done the fights he won, a man who knew no fear;
his team came through the worst of times when days were grim and black, 
Nature’s wrath and men’s intent could never hold him back.
The fifties flood and seas of mud, the fires of forty-two, 
Bandy Bill and bullock team always coming through, 
succor for the needy town and local hotel beer,
the teamster never failing in fetching hope and cheer.
The mill was shut, no timber cut, no mountain logs to haul, 
but Bill and team still in demand when tourists came to call;
with cracking whip and snorting beasts he was a showman still,
they came from near and far to see Bullocky Bandy Bill.
He died alone in a nursing home well passed his hundred years, 
no one there to share the pain, to wipe away the tears;
a lonely grave on mountain side, a simple wood cross,
by the tracks the bullocks made when Bandy Bill was boss.
The whipbird’s crack brings mem’ries back of bullocky and team, 
in days of old when we were boys just  old enough to dream, 
hauling logs by mountain track, they say his ghost’s there still, 
it’s not the whipbird’s call we hear, but the whip of Bandy Bill.

Real Time Dream Time by Kevin Pye (Highly Commended)

Plywood Crosses by Graeme Johnson (Highly Commended)

Ipswich City Council Award – 16-17 Years

Queensland Times Award- 14-15 Years

Broderick Family Award – 11-13 Years

Ipswich District Teacher Librarian Network Award – 8-10 Years

River 94.9 Award – 5-7 Years