Poems, free or rhymed, including prose poems, any theme, from 10 to 50 lines.

First prize, A$100
Second prize A$50
and publication here.

This competition closes end of June annually

Judge's Comments: Ruth Strachan

.
Always, Gum Blossoms delights me with the variety of poetry styles submitted. Surprisingly this year we have a number of poets receiving multiple places. While this confirms we have acknowledged our best poets, it means we have less room to publish other worthwhile poetry. It is always sad to lay aside good poems.

First place this year goes to daybreak over mt.sondar. The originality in this appeals . Imagery, simile, metaphor and personification help to build the atmosphere, and when read aloud good cadences are heard. The conclusion carries an impact that causes serious consideration.

In second place is driftwood, a prose poem. The echoing of ‘watch’ and the restrained alliteration make this attractive to the ear. It gives the reader something to think through, and we feel the emotion present.

There are four Very Highly Commended poems this year! Any one of them could have been a winner in other circumstances. Well done.

Congratulations!

Results

First Place

daybreak over mt.sondar - by Colleen Keating

daybreak over mt.sondar

in the beginning

air static as a nylon petticoat pulled over my hair

fingerprints of ruby red

change the world dark coloured

the arc of dawn flexes

stirs mt sondar

an awakening blush

flutters fire red catching

Namatjira’s mountain

blood red

now as I sit here it pulsates

the sun not yet over the horizon

like an intruder rushes in

steals every shade and shadow

this mountain lies in the country with poise

immortalised in gowns of purple and blue

like a sleeping goddess behind glass

yet the rattle of chains and padlock

thump like a heart beat of memory

as in the nearby town

for a dollar

kids still buy a rusty jam tin of petrol

~~~~

Second Place

driftwood - by Orchid Tierney

driftwood

I come drifting on the ghost-clouds, counting the corrugated sheds that spore from the earthshore amongst the sheep. Coarse wool of halfshorn against my cheek as lipstick turns to flecks of dust and cattle shit. Outside of town, where the rugby posts cast legs skybound, stretching for the seasawing ball, I watch the women watch their men watch the sheep sway as they gossip between the dipping and I remember how much

I hate them.

Very Highly Commended:

Pressed Love - by David Troman

Pressed Love.

Prim daisies lie, enchained, between stiff yellowed leaves,
preserved for all eternity
in bitter-sweet formaldehyde prose.

Twelve pages turned, twelve years passed by, my heart still grieves
those days of unshared unity
that ended with this one red rose.

In chapter two we start our newly wedded bliss
with blooms from wedding day bouquet,
sweet honeysuckle hearts entwined

but nettles grew to block out sunlight’s warming kiss
and keep our union’s growth at bay
in fertile ground left untended.

A single Easter Lily draws the curtain down
with angel music from its horn
as counterpoint to my life’s score.

Rare amaranth that often graced love’s mythical brow
upon our end sheet closely drawn
give this love life for evermore.

~~~

gregorian cats - by Frank Prem

gregorian cats

^{ahhh-ah-ahh-ah-a-ah-ahhhh}

^{ahhh-ah-ahh-ah-a-ah-ahhhh}^-r

^{ahhh-ah-ahh-ah-a-ah-ahhhh}^-rr

^{ahhh-ah-ahh-ah-a-ah-ahhhh}

^{ahhh-ah-ahh-ah-a-ah-ahhhh}^-r

^{ahhh-ah-ahh-ah-a-ah-ahhhh}^-rr

^{ahhh-ah-ahh-ah-a-ah-ahhhh}

^{ahhh-ah-ahh-ah-a-ah-ahhhh}^-rrrr-err

^{ahhh-ah-ahh-ah-a-ah-ahhhh}^-rrmmerr

^ahhhh ^{merrowwrrrr!! phtttt!!!!!
rwerwr phtttt!!!!!} ^ahhhh

rwerrr

phttt!

Feather Falls - by Joanne Mills

Feather Falls

feather falls –

peewee splashes black and white

struts the courtyard

under cascades of pandorea

preening his soprano call

feather falls –

parrot strips silver wattle

gently turns seed casings

beak, tongue, claw wrap

and twist with engineer’s precision

peeling husk from feast

feather falls –

white silk floats on water

shivers on dark mirror

mirage of a heron

dips lemon-scented fronds

feather falls –

angel drifts down

mottled granite shoulder

footfalls quieter than stone

apricot sunrise spills

through less material wings

Argent Bark - by David Troman

Argent Bark.

I sit beneath the dappled shade
of silver birch in springtime leaf
and carelessly caress its argent bark
so like his ancient skin of almost grey,
smooth as melted butter for the greater part,
but here and there a horny knob, or knot,
bears testament to days gone by
and things that didn’t quite go right
but left their mark for all to see.

Until this year he’d always sit beside me here
each twentieth of March
to welcome one more spring
as nature’s offering of peace
and new life to this troubled world.
This year I sit alone,
tears water woodland seeds,
love blossoms afresh in my heart.

Highly Commended:

Walking Libations - by John Ryan

WALKING LIBATIONS

we are bodies, here we are:

your hardened plates sutured

into the pattern of skull and

inside, the soft hemispheres,

neatly switchbacked neural hoses

farther down, the tubing of guts

climbing-traversing-dropping in

a raw cavity, closer to earth

the symmetry of hip bone to

femur, ball of the foot grinding

its labors, toes countervailing

the sucking downward sink;

so we are transmitters,

walking with both eyes in single

line of sight (as surveyors of

countryside); so that, sweat

pearls plummet to gingivitis-

stinking soil and spittle of

soapwort beetles to concoct

(secret-ions, that we are purveyors of);

so that hazy-headed and hassock-

mired, we arise and repeal alms

to an uncaring and oblique god,

the palimpsest of final release;

or is our nomadic minds?

clung to ridges and sobbing

on the rhododendron leathers-

the chrysopoeia of bile or

congealed winter's hoary hour

churning spring's plasma light;

the lift of the bloodroot's too-

soon white flower, pirouette

of morning-glory tendrils 'round

a bare-bone trellice, the saying

again of what the ice-glazed wild

grapes have already suggested

we are to do.

A Common Thread - by Joan Fenney

A Common Thread

In the crispness of Autumn
your pram crunches
the crinkled leaves.
Buttoned for warmth
in a lavender jacket
you close your eyes
as the leaves fall
around us.

At the school gate
you meet me
breathless
one sock down
buttons undone
hug my legs
we walk home
your love held
in my hand.

I hear the key turn
you rush to your room
I glimpse
teenage longing –
ruffled hair
flushed face
buttons awry
but you are home
I breathe again.

The day my mother died
I wrapped myself
in her cardigan
clenched the top button
in my right hand
tried to hold onto her
as night
closed around me.

Pa shuffles to the door
wearing Gran’s blue cardigan
one button remains
hanging by a scarlet thread
he hands me a needle
to fasten the thread
of his ties to the past.

Tingha - by Joe Massingham

Tingha

Eerie moonscape by the river,
like no other sight I’ve seen.
Is this the contorted sloughing
of the emerging dreamtime serpent,
shaking off its birthing skin?
No. These fantastic whorls and humps
are the worm casts of the shining,
beckoning siren who lured
selfish men who mined and took,
gave nothing.
So Tingha lost its tinkers’ tin
and lost its soul.
The sun-dried faces of its shopfronts
lined by years of hope’s decay,
and Tingha’s dreams are
worn and meaningless today.

crimson rosella - by Colleen Keating

crimson rosella

a swift air brush

sun’s shock and shimmer

on its fluted tassle

winged pimpernel of the

bush zips past

te deum ringing for soul mates

engaged to ignite eros

sharp streak into the day

flash of chilli-red cuts the air

tosses high on a stringybark

orion-fire

scarlet beauty in midnight blue

its ruffle spins to a blur

Illusion - by Dale Harcombe

Illusion

Out where the red clay plains
stretch on endless as eternity,
silence settles like silk
around her shoulders.
Ripples of heat haze
reflect an illusion -
water drenches the plain,
denying drought that has sucked
life from the land, and
turned the creek to crazy paving.
The creek is pitted as the face
and body of a woman hardened
by the blows life has dealt.
Cumbungi edging the creek bed
shivers in the breeze,
whispering, calling her back
to the life she once knew.
While the sun drapes
cinnabar scarves over the land,
she walks on,
thinking
of what might have been.
Too soon, the light is gone.
Darkness folds around her.
But there in the darkness - light.
She looks up, surprised
by the burnished moon captured
in the branches of a tree.

The Pixel Pixies - by David Troman

The Pixel Pixies.

Quarter to midnight, the words won’t come right
surrender is hard but I give up the fight
tomorrow my brain may be working once more
and freshly connected to my wordsmith’s store.

The morning dawns bright, lemon sun in the sky,
warming rays stroke me and open my eyes.
The shower’s soft rain brings new life to my brain
so back to my desk, join the fray once again.

High voltage drives current through all of the wires
to stroke my computer’s bright coruscant fires,
the words on the screen are stark black against white
but hang on a minute this cannot be right

the words that I left were a jumbled up mess
yet this is quite brilliant I have to confess.
Did I write all this as I lay fast asleep
and there I thought I was just counting lost sheep.

The speakers beside me emit a strange noise
that sounds like a choir of angel-voiced boys
they sing of the work that they do through the night
and then take their rest by the dawn’s early light.

“We are the pixel pixies and we love our night time labour
we ask no recompense of you apart from grace and favour,
a little recognition when you win the competition
and a mention in the prize-winners’ edition.”

~~~

Longing - by Colleen Keating

longing

outside my kitchen window

the winter jasmine lifts its

cheeky face to the sun

I restless at the kitchen sink

feel a tease

its flush of milky stars

move freely

in time with an imaginary dancer

and in its rhythm

lorikeets

squawk dive and somersault

fire on their brazen-powered wings

its woody stems twist and bend

press into the fence

like lovers unwilling to part

and in the kitchen

hands in the dishwater

i am cinderella still at home

Commended:

Family Matters - by Adele Jones

Family Matters

(A Sestina)

His hands are large, dark and stained; creasy,
with greasy mechanics and the aroma of earth,
which are a part of him. Scars are incidental
and make odd marks on his broad, flat palms.
Like him, I am quick tempered and stubborn,
and like his large file, sometimes rasp our family.

But it’s only momentary, because we are family,
and it won’t matter, even when we’re gnarled and creasy.
They know that even then I’ll be as stubborn.
For as long as I have breath on this earth
the lines will fall straight along my palm,
with deviations only incidental.

Ivory and ebony, a scale with incidentals,
so are the far spread members of my family –
from the bushies to those under beachside palms.
Bound by blood, even when the road gets creasy
and obscure. No matter where I am on the earth,
they’ll stand up, and for my sake be stubborn.

Her way, not mine! She refuses a cocoon. Stubborn –
like me, and independent. But in time this incidental
will yield an inner strength to make her mark on earth.
And teach me patience! The first of our own family.
Beautiful, yet so revealing of my cracked and creasy
soul. Even so, she willingly clasps my outstretched palm.

Like the unyielding, thick-trunked palm
rattling high above our yard, so are they stubborn.
Here in their winter years – brittle and creasy.
Why don’t they see that distance is incidental?
With technology they’ll still be close to family,
for as long as they remain on the earth.

But scattered like leaves across the earth
we become. With the helm hard against our palm
steering our passage, balancing work, family
and life, we become consumed. Stubborn,
we can forget they are not merely incidentals,
and that they were once not old and creasy.

And creasy we too will be, when long on this earth.
Incidental, this life we hold so precariously in our palm,
for which we are so stubborn. All for the sake of family.

On Bullock Mountain - by Joe Massingham

On Bullock Mountain

Sapling sentinels stare silently out over endless plains.
Sparse grass huddles coldly on the ground.
A furtive wind half sighs, half growls with fear,
as it skulks in the trees behind me.
An old grey roo leaps once, twice
and into the cavernous grey-green.
The mountain draws the darkening shawl
of night around its shoulders.
I turn and walk down.
A hiss of relief escapes from
the gums as I depart.
At the foot of the track I look out
over a sullen frost burnt field
that waits, resentfully, for the time
when my kind go and it can tear down
the fences and be free.
~~~

In a Flash of Brilliance - by Jacqui Merckenschlager

In a Flash of Brilliance

You’ve lived like a wanderer butterfly.

Isn’t it enough,

enough that you have lived so long, so well?

The future has always been uncertain,

something to fear or accept.

You have been bold ‘til now.

Isn’t it enough that you have lived?

You lived like a brilliant butterfly.

Emerging from its cramped chrysalis,

dazzled by the light, it pumps its wings

then drifts, a dainty delight,

to dance among the daffodils.

It lives like a carefree wanderer

and when the season changes

it flings itself into the wind,

flying with the multitude

over mountain and marshland

to that deep, dark, wondrous

forest of passion and procreation.

Its journey complete,

it flutters to the forest floor

amongst a carpet of fading colour.

Isn’t it enough – to have lived?

Enough to have flung yourself

into the chaos of life

and flashed your brilliance,

folded love within your embrace?

Why so fearful? The future,

where all have flown before you,

will fulfill its eternal promise

and accept you, like a wanderer butterfly,

fluttering to the forest floor.

Overwhelmed - by Marilyn Humbert

Overwhelmed

Stand tall soldier.
Feet together. Step smart.
March.

“Don’t turn away
brave heart …
remember yesterday.”

Thoughts shut
behind his bloodied hand.
Milk spilt upon the floor.

He dreams …
swims among stars.
A lone crow caws.

Oaks in snow - stark
wearing a different face.
Eastward thunder banks.

Veiled images skitter.
Soundless slippered feet
weave in candle-shadows.

He crouches unmoving
in luminous gloom
by the collapsed-brick wall.

Silver soldiers
meld and swarm …
forward ever forward.

Old Life Dreams - by David J. Delaney

Old life dreams

Far from the suburbs growing sprawl,
or hourly freight trains on the track,
far from the crowded shopping mall
and dear friends past who won’t be back.

Far from the gangs that roam and fight
then vandalise and cause such fear,
far from the lines of bright street light
and piercing sirens in one’s ear.

Far from his unit and the din
he prods the campfire embers hot,
and feels that feeling deep within,
a life he thought he had forgot.

Where freedom is the stars above
or land as far as one can see,
the beauty of a new born dove,
and roam this country wild and free.

To sleep beneath an ageless gum
next to an ancient billabong,
where lizards and the dingoes come
and kookaburras sing their song.

Where sunsets glow a purple hue
and all the evening crickets sing,
then prints are left on morning dew
as in the valley bell birds ring.

The only thief here in the night
are bandicoots or spotted quoll,
where breezes take dead leaves in flight
and mother nature grooms one’s soul.

He’s woken by the train on track,
the clatter and the noise again.
He wishes how he could go back,
and live the life that he lived then.

Whatever Colour May Be - by Adele Jones

Whatever Colour May Be

With eyes that cannot see,
would a kiss be as tender?
Would skin seem smoother? Softer?
Could soothing hands feel warmer,
no matter what their colour?
Whatever colour may be.

Murmurs and groans, lulls and laughter,
whispered secrets shivering in tilted ears.
Music trickling from supple fingers.
Imagine the notes upon a page –
Brash then hushed, patterns of black on white,
devoid of colour.
Whatever colour may be.

Would a smile still spill sunshine on
heavy hearts? A song to hum happily,
like a favourite tune on the radio.
Would those unseen teeth be white –
or tainted
yellow and grey?
Would spilt blood run crimson?
            Wet
      Then tacky
Then scab
And would dreams still fly
with rainbows for wings?
      Whatever colour may be.

Can a breaking heart be heard
in the shadow of ignorance?
Are hurt and pain –
shame –
eased when eyes refuse
to see, or
by the colour of one’s skin?
Whatever colour may be.

listen- by Colleen Keating

listen

bowed trees sleep

tresses crunch at their feet

hound of wind moans

rhymes with rustling tones

come closer listen

snick on grass

wake of bird

seed on wing

leaf brush on air

crack and rustle of lizard and skink

in their leaf litter rush of hide and seek

cricket-croaks

fruit-fly-drones

frog and sound of water

snap of seed-pod

and in the busy underworld

rubbing of beetle and ant

kerplop of fruit and berry

drift of vesper leaves

as they settle

with a hush

this seasonal paradigm

whispers its arrival

no fuss

except it’s time

June 2009

Judge's Comments: Ruth Strachan

First place this year goes to Crumpled Pages. At first glance the title is interesting, and the structure of the poem looks well on the page.The poem is so well focussed that the last stanza could immediately follow the first, yet between there is a wealth. Assonance and consonance are both discreetly present, and the omomatopoeic 'whispered' works well. Along with a natural rhythm, these make pleasurable listening.

There is a harmony of age - his face is lined, the paper is yellowed, the vines withered. As well as the imagery, there is the stale smell of tobacco, the feel of the wind brushing past. It is more than a static picture, a development takes place, brings us cause for thought. and there is a poignancy to the poem. Congratulations!

Second place was won by The Summer the Dandelions Died. There's not a word wasted in the four ten-line stanzas that cover the essence of thirty years of birth, development, and maturity, linked by the joyful yet tough little dandelions. In this poem we have atmosphere, imagery, and some engaging metaphors. The death of the dandeions is itself a great mataphor for the death of a mother's perception about the bond between her and her adult child, and is very moving..

A Very Highly Commended place was awarded to Aftermath. This poem is full of originality of exprssion, imagery, good similes, and makes an interesting statement - an excellent poem.

Every entry was a pleasure to read, and there were many I felt sad to set aside - they could be successful on another occasion. To all successful entrants - well done, and to the winners - congratulations!

Ruth Strachan

Results

First Place

Crumpled Pages - by Joan Fenney

Crumpled Pages

Beside the withered vines
he handed them to me

yellow crumpled pages
torn around the edges
tied loosely with string.

A stale smell of tobacco
crept from them.

He watched me closely
his face etched in lines
burnt into his skin

from years of stripping
fruit from vines.

Unfolding his words
scrawled across the paper
images lifted off the pages

of blind men weeping
butterfly wings
snowflakes forming
fading love.

Words so fragile
a breath would make
them disappear.

We stayed silent
as the wind brushed past
and leaves began falling
between us.

As he started to move
I held out his poems,
his crinkled hands held mine.

Please keep them, he said,
I have their memory.

He turned away
and whispered,
words are too painful to keep.

Second Place

The Summer the Dandelions Died - by Diana Thurbon

THE SUMMER THE DANDELIONS DIED

The clock on the wall crept on slowly
past the midnight magic hour-and paused,
while you were born.
Perfect little face, golden skin
I’d never heard of jaundice then.
Lightening jagged the midsummer sky
all night as I lay
love drugged and awed watching
God’s fireworks bless your birthday,
And I was proud of you.

Each week that summer I walked with you
into the future past dandelions and garbage bins.
To the judges of my mothering-
The Baby Health Centre.
Pentavite, stewed apples, nappies
all knowing small blue book proscribed.
Those master of our fate
filled the holes of my ignorance.
And then- you doubled your birth weight
And I was proud of you.

The Januaries galloped across the skies
Filled with tadpoles, rocks, swimming lessons,
Lost socks, new sisters, dandelions and summer things:
And I watched you grow strong and tall
while nightmares dreaded the dreamsof my soul’s
violent nights.
You began to feel the storm’s terror day.
Tears and pain and loneliness.
I wonder did I forget to say
That I was proud of you.

Thirty Januaries had summered quickly by
When suddenly, without warning-
With an SMS you cruelly cut the thread.
The dandelions dripped bitter juice
My heart curled at the edges
Now you write to me, things that
cannot be true-
I’m cruel and never loved you.
Did the night shadow – mute obscure
That I am (and always was) so proud of you?

Very Highly Commended:

Aftermath - by Rosie Schriever

Aftermath

making me look up
like a guitar raw through a Fender
the screech of something alive which has lost its home

from the black stands of burnt eucalypts
the clouds have only just
at the bottom started to bleed rain
pulling free, tearing into the stratosphere

at the prior moment
to this departure, from the black paddock
across which a farmer has dragged his plough,
a red cloud in slow motion mushrooms into the air

now the ragged edges of the wings
of the shadow angel
tear a hole in this image

and on their upbeat
and with his restless talons
alights my heart

his airborne spirit
is the aftermath of a new creation
he is all our courage
extracting colours from the ash

Highly Commended:

Life - by Catherine Lampe

Life

In the cold, hard light of day

When the mists of time have blown away.

A silent spectre looms unchecked

To feed upon my corpus wreck.

My breath it steals from winded lungs

My countered chant is left unsung.

It courses through my veins to plunder

My hopes and dreams are left asunder.

It plucks my heartstrings one by one

And leaves my will to thrive undone.

What deceitful, evil craft is this

That should ignore my earnest wish?

It's malicious name has come to me

That bitter scourge...reality.

The Four Elements - by Annika Ohlson-Smith

THE FOUR ELEMENTS

The Sun is my lover
and so is the Wind
the Rock loves me too
as well as the Sea

The sun-heated Rock
my body designs
when softly I rest
in the hard of his arms

Jealously hot
the Sun tries to win
my heart and my body
from the caressing Wind

Feeling his heat
kissing my skin
I long for the Wind
to lick me with chill

The last of the four
waits patiently still
like silk is his body
when its surface I break

The salt of the water
blends with my tears
when the fourth of my lovers
makes love to my fears

Burra Cemetery - by Max Merckenschlager

BURRA CEMETERY

Rusting wrought-iron spears
bristle and close ranks
around a sleeping infant
reclaimed after three weeks
by a loving and benign Indian Giver.
Simple words of solace and praise
pecked in her granite headboard
substitute for birthday rhymes
on cards that no-one sent.
This is copper country
groaning under its burden
of sagging, shored-up sepulchres.
Cave-ins betray the break-outs
of many restive souls.
Rolling hills as bare as babies' bums
robbed of their timbers
and gleaned of their grasses
by rolling stock and rotting miners
marshall the silent settlement
a sacred, seething island
huddled and waiting for Eternity
sandwiched between
the lonely, rolling hills of history.

Slave Girl - by Rosie Schriever

Slave Girl

When I see the herons fly
Outside your window, then I think
Of iridescent days, and waiting for
The night to fall.

As the birds array in height
Across the golden levels of the mount,
Their bodies in exotic foreign light
It’s you I feel.

Before your father’s crystal bells would chime
And call me in my tatters to the well,
You clothed me in the glory of your breath
And made me real.

When I watch the birds, I think
Of you and how you had to fly
Because I am a slave, and you a man
And that is all.

Trudge - by Adele Jones

Trudge

Grey dreary days,
Weary, like a mud stained rag
on which I’ve wiped my feet.
Lazy ripples across the breadth of water.,
A gentle lullaby between
rogue waves.
Sand trickles between my fingers.
Hot and gritty.
A human hour glass that has
lost count.

Eyelids, sinking like the setting sun,
are wrestled open.
Again.
Flapping sheets of blankness on the clothesline.
Aspirations that have faded with the wash,
and when a peg breaks,
blow away.

Time tacks together to form a day,
And day after day blurs into years.

The clatter of a bowling ball against the pins,
strikes us with a sudden awareness of now.
How did tomorrow become yesterday?
When did the future shrink?

Sucked down the sink of life in a gurgle,
and spewed into the sewer of reminiscence.

I could swim against the tide,
lay claim to my youth and vigour. But I’m
too tired to care.

The Possum in my Roof - by Diana Thurbon

THE POSSUM IN MY ROOF

The possum in this poem
lives in my roof.
Each night she lifts the tiles
and ventures forth
into my paperbark and scribbly gum.
One day she eats an apple
I put out for her,
another day I secretly watch
her eat a peach.
She eats daintily,
the possum who lives in my roof.

I would like to give her
a safe place
a basket of fruit
or a slice of bread and jam.
One day I will secretly watch
her venture forth
her baby riding her back
clinging tight
a new life
sharing the space in my roof.

They say she is a pest
the possum in my roof
but her family was here
before my house was here
and the fact she is in the roof
and grunts and chatters
mates and poos above my head
does not excuse or vindicate
eradicating, baiting
or trapping her,
the possum who lives in my roof

Next Stop Town Hall - by Keitha Keyes

Next Stop Town Hall

Sitting in front of me
a man with long thin hair
hanging in ringlets.
Four sculpted ringlets.

No shirt.
Just a handmade woollen vest
with lots of knitting mistakes in it,
clinging to his bulging muscles
and dark tattoos.

He stood.
And we saw
his worn tracksuit pants,
bunched up at the waistline,
secured by a wide plastic belt.

He lifted a sports bag onto his shoulder.
A new Reebok bag.

Then he turned around
to stare at his jury.

His smooth, clean-shaven face
and steely eyes
could have been those
of any CEO.

My Uner-rated Friend - by Max Merckenschlager

MY UNDER-RATED FRIEND

The lizard’s dress is sequin-studded mail,
she licks her lips with tongue of gentian blue,
in swaggered gait she drags her stumpy tail,
unflattering from every point of view.
Ubiquitous on summer’s country lanes,
through pregnancy she labours till the end;
expressing air from lungs, her foetus gains.
I worry for my under-rated friend.

She threatens us with bold display and stare,
but twinkle in her merry eye of glass,
refutes the message touted by her glare.
Uncertainty permits her space to pass.
Her battle-plan is not to rule the earth,
my shingleback defends her lizard worth.

Scandal in the Congo - by Glennis Henning

Scandal in the Congo

Bruised by life,
          lost in the aftermath of war,
she crouched in the barren ‘market ’
          under her bright, rainbow umbrella
like a bedraggled mouse
          cowering beneath a corn stalk in a flooded field,
with the wind sweeping the rain
on to her long, tattered skirt,
causing it to clutch at her body
like a sodden shroud,
while runnels of dust streaked her battle-worn feet
with channels of rusty ‘blood’.
There she crouched, waiting but not waiting,
just sitting – a red stripe highlighting her dark, sorrowful eyes
as a torch beam might pick out a piece of broken glass,
her self respect drowning in brown puddles
and her few abject potatoes
           wandering in the mud before her like aimless dreams.

Commended:

Introspect - by Joanne Mills

Introspect

black flowers slyly bloom
corners of the mind
creak, whisper
detritus huddles in
sinister piles
shape-shifting under the glare

feathered, searching lights
probe mental fingers
unwrap
delicate origami forms
peel the dressings;
intricate construct-shadows fly
and whirl chaotically
flexing their metamorphoses

hounded, trapped, exposed
quivering
on fragile stems
dark-dripping velvet

petals shrivel
thorns brittle, splintering
through convoluted hallways
synapses course silver;
first daylight threads
open my eyes
light on an immanent plain
pale earth-Elysium

absorbing its
sky-kissed simplicity

I smile
released

Water Monsters Five - by Edel Wignell

Soon after white explorers and settlers arrived in Australia, the Aboriginal people told them about a water monster which lurked in the rivers, creeks, billabongs and swamps.

It boomed and bellowed, terrifying lone travellers at night, and it seized humans who dared to enter its waters.

Bunyip was a name common in south-eastern Australia, but there were many others. Here are five of them, and their locations, in verse.

WATER MONSTERS FIVE

Oorundoo

The monster skulks
In rotting hulks
Along the River Murray;
It booms and roars
From hungry jaws,
Making campers scurry.

Toor-roo-dun

The monster's keel
Is like an eel
In muddy Westernport;
It waits in slush
To hug and crush
Campers out for sport.

Yaa-hoo

The monster's track
Has prints turned back,
By the Hunter River;
It growls and howls
On nightly prowls,
Making campers shiver.

Tunatbah

The monster lurks
In reed-bed murks
On the River Edward;
A hollow moan,
Famished, lone,
Sends the campers bedward.

Mulgewanke

The monster's thrash
Makes mighty splash,
Wakening the Coorong;
'Let's get out!'
The campers shout.
'We've Tbeen camping too-long!'

Going to the Demo on the Manly Ferry - by Teri Merlyn

Going to the Demo on the Manly Ferry

Up top, front, senses alive in delight
A sweet sweeping expanse of surface blue
Speckled green as sky breath kisses tidal lips

A merry cavalcade of kayaks slips past
Towed to await Saturday’s adventurers
Empty seats anticipating novice bottoms

Out near the Heads little bobbing boats,
Bristling with rods in optimistic indolence
Litter spots where fish are known to frequent

We pass a small, sleek sloop, sails luffing
Poised in a lull, then catching its prey
Springs to the breeze and sprints away

Climate-wreaked devastation is inconceivable
In this stately passage on clear, calm water
As I sail to a rendezvous with civil unrest

Awaiting the Energy Revolution’s parade
On a park bench washed in gentle winter sun
Warming police, march marshals and me alike

All is peaceful, tinged with a frisson
Of mild expectancy and wary goodwill
This is such a well-mannered Revolution

Here they come, banners, flags and drums
Red is everywhere, reified ancestral blood
But our Revolution has its teeth banded

I slip into the marching stream, join the chant
The police car sign ahead says ‘Follow Me’
And, as good little revolutionaries, we do

Such a big city this, such an urgent concern
So few this hopeful crew who march to say
All our futures in such uncaring hands

Roadside masses greet with quizzical smiles
We who make the road a political concourse
Taking our image as exotic curiosities

Awake! Arise! Oh foolish folk of ours
Do you not see the fate of Life as we know it
The threat of species death compounds

We who prized our race as guardians
Of all beings that lay within our power
Have spurned due responsibilities

Like poor children newly come to wealth
We waxed fat on its wanton strength
Grew careless of power’s charge

The Golden Age at last! We sighed
All technology resolves its mess in time
And turned to spinning silk cocoons

How short the memory of hunter tribes
Our prophets’ warnings of a price to pay
Had no currency to equal Wall Street

Now, that edifice collapsed, the silk
Of our willed ignorance frays, unravels
And our kings are looking bare

Yet still you stay aloof on the sidewalk
Clutching at your failed gods as we pass
Hoping desperately that we are wrong

The Seat by Anne Hollier Ruddy

The Seat

A wonderful place to sit and enjoy the view
And a special place for Steve’s friends and family

(at Mangawhai, NZ)

On the right hand side is the surf club and I wonder
if you were young and bronzed with hair like straw
striding to the frothy sea, board under your arm.
Were you already riding that wave which sang
siren-like to you? No hint of the outcome,
tragic drowning, or did a dumper smash you down
snapping your neck? Perhaps your friends saw it all
and as they sit now, your death is a movie replay.
No colour, forever black and white.

Sydney's Son by Margaretta Walsh

Sydney’s Son

I saw him down the Parra’ River
nursing his brown-bagged bottle.
They say he was a soldier:
two tours in 'Nam.

What’s your story Johnno?
Shuffling feet, back to the wind,
arms tight across your chest,
holding frayed Salvo’s coat -
two black buttons dangling by a thread.

Where you going Johnno?
Hot soup at St John’s,
a flagon of red from the Star Hotel,
down the lane to the pusher in the alley,
something to settle shaky hands?

I remember Johnno,
unsteady feet shambling down our street,
my brother’s jeers ringing in his ears.
His red eyes looked through us
as he mumbled on his path -

how could we let a hero fall so low?

June 2008

Judge's Comments: Ruth Strachan

Having no bias towards different poetic styles, I find it a pleasure that this year's major awards are of an entirely different style than those of last year. Although I prefer alliteration to be quite subtle, in all the major placed entries I thought it appropriate and used to advantage.

Men of Skins has gained first place. It is unusual for me to award this to a poem of rhythm and rhyme, but in this instance they are so finely achieved, incorporate variation, and suit the subject so well, I am won over. The title immediately takes the reader's attention, and interest is maintained as the story is told. The subject is unusual and dramatic, but carries the mark of reality. A poem to move the reader.

Second place goes to My Grandmother's Hand. This is a poignant poem, progressing from 'Maggie's hand holds mine' to 'Maggie's hand goes cold in mine.' Much falls between the two, as memories of the past mingle with the present. Sounds and thoughts echo throughout, while phrases like 'for comfort, for hope, for help' and 'our family, our hopes, our dreams', work well.

There are two Very Highly Commended this time, either of which could have won under another judge.
Velvet Jack has beautiful cadences in it when read aloud. Sounds of the bird's movements are heard in the words - 'swish-poke scratch-claw', 'flit fly', and 'flutter'. The rhyming is moderate and very effective. The poem is both thoughtful and thought arousing.

In Torrential Driving Rain the play on words catches the reader's attention. Not only is the weather theme a metaphor for the mood of the main character, but 'driving' applies to more than the rain! The pattern of the poem, its internal rhyming, and the atmosphere created of tension, hope and disappointment, are all well done.

Congratulations to all concerned!

Ruth Strachan

MEN OF SKINS

Follow footprints to a native as she cockles round the bay,
crossing tracks of other callers that the tides will rinse away.
Off the coast you see an island rising ominously near;
Karta¹ looms with manly menace on a morning crisp and clear.
Low the Ngarrindjeri² whistles as she draws a nervous breath,
then she trembles for her sisters on that silent isle of death …
for those snatched and taken gins,
now controlled by men of skins.

Sense the hidden gang of sealers in a cavern by the cape;
they are biding for the moment and their minds are set on rape.
Feel the hopelessness of struggle when they pass around the prize,
and the anguish of their captive as she fights to break her ties.
Block your ears and cast your vision while the sealers laugh and gloat,
as they pull for home on Karta with the bundle in their boat …
for the quarry seldom wins,
in a match with men of skins.

Count the days beyond encounter and the loved beyond her reach,
and sacks she's hauled to salt the hides she's pegged along the beach.
Count snares she's set for wallabies and plunging dives for shell;
add yearnings for a motherland in sight across the swell.
And tally tears of pity for the infant on her breast,
who'll never know his heritage nor undergo the test …
then a hatching plan begins,
to be done with men of skins.

Glimpse a canvas-covered dinghy under stunted coastal heath,
and wooden oars in rowlocks she has spirited beneath.
Slip camp in silver moonlight with a heartbeat like a drum,
past sprawling men besotted, belching fumes of traded rum.
Share the shock when she discovers that the means for her escape
holds a pair of Kaurna³women rowing strongly for the cape …
now she'll gamble on the fins;
better those than men of skins.

Press the baby to her bosom for their final warm embrace;
strap it firmly over shoulders that will stroke to join their race.
Ride the rip out past the breakers like a black and bobbing cork;
there are leagues ahead to cover in unfathomed, sapping work.
Feel those inky waters crashing on her infant's frozen head,
while her muddled mind is numbing, for she knows the child is dead …
and her sense-of-purpose spins,
giving ground to men of skins.

Hear the cursing oaths of sealers in the sober light of day,
as they scan a heaving ocean for the gins that stole away:
two have beached upon the mainland, where a third with child lies spent;
carved and carted by the dumpers, and a shark patrols the scent.
Watch her body, limp and shattered, ebb its life-force on the shore;
till her shackles drop discarded, and a pair of spirits soar …
while below, their faintest grins
taunt the savage men of skins.

Information to assist reading
¹Karta – “place of the dead”; an island in South Australia unoccupied by Aborigines for several thousand years, known today as 'Kangaroo Island'.

²Ngarrindjeri (pronounced "nurrind-jerry" ); a nation of Australian Aborigines living in the lower River Murray, Coorong and Fleurieu districts of South Australia.

³Kaurna (pronounced "garner"); a nation of Australian Aborigines from the Adelaide Plains, Hills and Fleurieu districts of South Australia.

~~~

My Grandmother’s Hand

Maggie’s hand holds mine,
shares memories, holds secrets
she does not speak of. Her hands
have held love. Have felt pain.
She once told me life begins
and ends with a touch..

I watch her sleep, her hands soft
and warm are lined. Simple lines
that map the contours of her life.
How small she looks. The tubes
surround her, conspire to overwhelm
her, steal her freedom.

A long time ago when pneumonia crept
into my lungs, Maggie stayed with me.
Till my fever broke, till it seeped
from my skin and soaked
through the covers,
overflowing in the darkness.

When I woke I saw her tears, silently
creeping down her face. I thought
I heard her praying to a god
she rarely spoke of. Now I pray
to the same god, with head bowed,
for comfort, for hope, for help.

I sit with her, telling her stories,
of our family, our hopes, our dreams.
I hold her brown bag tightly,
containing fragments of her life –
her wedding certificate, her husband’s
gold tooth, photos, an old dictionary,
her silver knitting needles.

Her eyes beckon me,
she cannot speak. I listen
as she struggles for breath,
I move closer and hold her hand.

And now as night overtakes us,
Maggie’s hand goes cold in mine.

~~~

Velvet Jack

And who might you be
my velvet Jack,
coat all black,
head-bobbing back?
Death bringer, song singer,
scourge
to sly-hidden things;
things without wings.
Swish-poke scratch-claw,
neb tangerine,
aporetic nods
to blue-sky God.
Flit-fly to broken branch;
there to rest, acacia-throne nest,
postured pose rejecting
claims of lesser beings below.
Oh, Prince of Gobble puff-chest,
cast your throaty shrill account
all the summer days.
Cry-out,
my keen-eyed cock,
all flutter and hop, ‘till
black-plumed night
comes still your dance;
while I watch.
And you strut.
While I hobble
and you strut.

TORRENTIAL DRIVING RAIN

Can't you feel in my silence a storm cloud ...
Billowing gray ... threatening display ...
Tumbling with chained energy?

Won't you read in my eyes, for I'm too proud;
Woman erect ... weakness detect ...
Begging a break in the storm?

Don't you stare down the road with your ice mind,
Warming-sun shielding, cold and unyielding -
The steering wheel your embrace!

There's a break in the clouds if you look now ...
Storm's abating, I'm here waiting ...
But the silver line's fleeting some days.

Now you've seeded those clouds with that comment:
'Don't do that, girl' makes my lip curl;
Watch out; you'll spark a display!

THE FOREST

I stand in the sweet silent forest of my mind
I listen to the ghosts of dreams in the breezes
I feel the flutter of desires in a butterfly wing
I watch the babble of voices in the trickling brook
I drown the chaos of ideologies in birdsong.

I love this quiet place
Here in my mind.
All the beautiful things
Seen and done in life
Shine like the soft sun of daybreak
Through the treetops.

All the tiresome fears of living
Become unnecessary
Beyond mattering.
In this quiet green silence
I can try to see myself as I am.

~~~

Coquette

Dainty Maple,
Dripping with icicles.
Crisp, elegant,
Crystalline beauty.
Soon to weep as
A new day strips her finery.

Disrobed
But dignity intact,
A skeletal framework
Stands, waits,
Endures the cold
Revealing nothing,
No hint of tomorrow.

Stirring of buds on limb
Show trace of subtle hue.
Transformation.
Delicate lace-like beauty
Embraces boughs.
Deception revealed.

Moods of the Sea

Sea’s champagne bubbles creeping up the sand,
Waves tease and chase feet playing on the shore.
A rhythmic shushing sound; no angry roar,
Until the ocean shows its other hand.
Now wild, life-threatening, crashing on the sand,
A powerful force with anger at its core.
And yet, these changing moods entice and draw
the fishermen and seamen from the land.
The brave, who risk these temperamental moods
To dive or fish to meet their families’ need
Beware! The ocean, watchful, darkly broods
When people strip its bounty – precious foods.
They rape the sea-beds, rob them through their greed
And test the ocean’s unforgiving moods

a moment

An ancient lunar rhythm sets suds of floating
sea-foam high upon the sand. Soft blobs wobble
and nudge their slow way along; carried by tide,
pushed by wind; seeking final dissolution
at the zenith of the strand.

Waves in endless formation, organic, alive;
spread a dissolving mantle, then fade in wistful
retreat. Bubbles sigh and tiny pops of holes
appear and quickly vanish into sand greedy.

Brief prismatic rainbows, Cheshire-grin the clear
azure; soon they disappear, fading into oblivion.
Tide shunts flotsam forward, seaweed swamped, strewn
shells in coloured fragments form a necklace on the sand.

Sea-bleached bone and debris; cuttle, star, skeletal,
frame. All things here are detritus, piled in
mysterious, ordered mounds; littoral, washed by
time and constant wet-kiss splash of spray.

A lone gull frets, neck outstretched, in the hegira
of a flaming sun. And for a single moment all is still:
Then, whisper-soft, the dusk declares; 'the southeasterly's
upon us!' And great shoulders of sea begin to shudder
at the cold night to come.

RESTHAVEN RESIDENTS

They settle
and tuck their chins in chests
like pelicans sheltering from the day.

Hours pass
lapping cold feet in silence
save the odd perfunctory yawn
and the even desultory comment
“I'm tired, and I want to go to bed!”
he had a cup of tea about an hour ago
and it went right to her head.
No-one listens
no-one stirs
until mealtime.

I used to envy pelicans.

Heads rise as I wade across the room
toward my pelicans.
A glint of recognition
lights their pool of ancient eyes.
They crank their vintage engines of remembrance
taxi over safe, familiar waters
and
lifting
soar and glide in graceful circles
while I listen and observe them from below.

Clumsy pedestrians.
Magnificent aviators.

And I've remembered why I envy pelicans.

Waiting Agony

Attempts to occupy her mind
require concerted effort...
periodic images intrude
eyes rest on clock
seconds drift through the morning.

She wills the hour past
yet dreads the instant hands point
to eleven and twelve
for that will signal the death
of her unborn grandchild

by use of the surgeon's
cold metal instruments.

Heart of Light

Heart of light…
the Centre holds and streams,
holds and streams
with every beat,
pulsing back and forth,
a form reflection of the One within.

How can this thing so fragile,
spun of gossamer threads
and filaments of desire,
express so vast a flow?

The perfect mystery of Being,
the wonder of it melts into
my core with such
sublime and rippling stillness.
Silently, I turn to watch and feel the
intertwining rhythms of the song…

Water runs and spreads her silken softness,
Fire skips and dances, gaily laughing,
Earth-mother holds and shapes the countless forms,
restless, changing winds strum and pluck
the chords of thought.
Through all this play
the ether sings and whispers,
twirling patterns delicate as snowstars,
dissolving gently into rays of violet-blue.

Drawing in,
encompassing this undulating flow
the Centre holds and streams,
becoming deeper still…

The Heart of Light.

~~~

THE SORCERER’S APPRENTICE

Chop him down; ten will rise in his place.
Kill them too, then a hundred
Till hundreds of hundreds,
All keen to empty their buckets of hatred
Into the spreading flood of war.
Where is the Sorcerer?
Who has the power to cry “Stop”?
Oh Allah, Yahweh, God,
Do you do magic?

~~~

SPIRIT POUCH

Two slices of handmade paper
a pouch for my poems which
search out a sister’s life,
memory a laser beam.

Decisions must be made
what to include, what to omit
how not to be sentimental
unlayering the rock of truth.

Rhyme could sweeten
past mistakes
but blank verse will keep
the pity and the pain.

I shall include a photograph
showing us young in years,
though body language
reveals tension, springloaded.

She was jealous of our
mother’s preference for me.
I resented our glacier father
who thawed a little with her.

We did not know
we were pawns in a
domestic grudge
grinding us all down.

The garden we grew in
was sparse with love,
a thicket of criticism.
We bloomed sickly.

Perhaps I could write a prayer
place it in the wailing wall
of this pouch, and find
reconciliation now she’s dead.

A Farmer’s Plight

Kicking the ground in despair
Breathing in dry dusty air
A lonely tear rolls down his face
How long can he survive in this place?

Surveying the desolate barren ground
Grass, weeds or animals not to be found
Only the haunting cry of a single crow
Now the hot winds starting to blow.

Blowing to the homestead brown
White replaced by dust blown around
Fly screen doors heavily caked
Water troughs, empty, cracked, baked.

Machinery stands idle in the shed
Payments so far behind, into the “red”
Banks don’t care, want their money back
No chance of working into the “black”.

Wife and children left, moved into town
Couldn’t stay with the desolation abound
Thinking of him she hopes he’s fine
Then late at night for her, it’s crying time.

Memories of great grandfather working this land
No more than a horse, plow and bare hands
In all weather from early morning light
Resting only with the coming of night.

Watching a shadow cross his eye
Speckled grey clouds pass on by
Falling to his knees, the ground now closer
Clasping a crumpled letter, the banks foreclosure.

Demoralised! How many kicks will he receive?
Is this it? Can he get a reprieve?
One shot could finish it all now
Thinks of his family, alone in town.

Life’s full of choices, some hard to comprehend
Does one “give up” just let it all end?
Stand and fight, be part of mankind
Gather yourself together don’t decide blind.
~~~

I bought my dog a kennel.....

I bought my dog a kennel
in the hope that she just might
find shelter and protection
from things that go bump in the night.

I bought my dog a kennel
so that in the sleet and snow,
the rain, the hail, the scorching sun,
she’d have somewhere to go.

I bought my dog a kennel.
I wandered round and round
from one pet store to another
until the right one I had found.

I bought my dog a kennel,
an impressive sight indeed,
big enough for a small pony.
What more could a dog need?

I bought my dog a kennel,
of my affection this was proof,
nice big doorway, timber flooring,
painted walls and shiny roof.

I bought my dog a kennel.
She took one look and bolted.
After all my care and effort
I felt somewhat insulted.

I bought my dog a kennel.
I gently tried to coax her in,
but despite my good intentions
I just wasn’t going to win.

I bought my dog a kennel,
I put her toys inside,
her bed, her food, her blanket,
her favourite old rawhide.

I bought my dog a kennel.
She hasn’t slept there yet.
With all the weather we’ve been having,
her reluctance I don’t get.

I bought my dog a kennel.
She lies out on the deck,
on the grass, the tiles, the pavers,
I don’t believe it... flamin’ heck!

I bought my dog a kennel.
She stands out in the rain.
She’ll probably catch pneumonia,
I think she’s quite insane.

I bought my dog a kennel,
I didn’t do it for MY health,
but I think I like it so much
I’ll go live in there myself!

~~~

Homeless in Los Angeles

The stars are my canopy now, Mammy,
but they don’t shine much in Los Angeles,
too many city lights, they say, too much mist.
Couldn’t pay the rent no more, so here I am,
on the seat on the sidewalk ‘neath the plane trees.
Aint no use for a disabled vet in this land ‘o the free,
forgotten it seems, but I aint complainin’,
got my bags and my bundles and your ol’ patchwork quilt,
the one you made all those years ago,
pickin’ your eyes out by candlelight.
Kind of a comfort that ol’ quilt, Mammy,
so I sit in the mall watching the people,
such an interesting lot, Mammy, all sorts.
Some toss me a dollar or two,
slyly, slyly, quickly with eyes averted.
Why won’t folks look me in the eye no more Mammy?
Make me look down too, kinda ashamed,
but there aint no inspiration in a spotty, dirty sidewalk,
so I look up again mighty quick, searchin’ for the stars.
As I say tho’ – a bit hard to find in this city o’ angels!
I don’t like the trash cans much, Mammy, nor the rats;
kind o’ degrades a body – second-hand food,
second-hand food and averted eyes.
Remember my daddy’s eyes Mammy, always direct!
“I aint got nothin’ to hide,” that big daddy used to say,
standing tall, upright, wide-eyed, laughing.
“Oh my daddyo, pierce my li’l’ heart with one look,” you’d exclaim then,
soft, soft and lovin’ and kinda coy, I remember.
Most days I can get one good feed outside the town hall,
and the church people give out paper bag lunches at Palisades,
but you have to be lucky, only there when the Spirit moves them,
and that ol’ Spirit seems to be busy elsewhere most days.
Goodnight now, my mammy, it’s a bit cold tonight,
cold and wet with a breeze from the sea swishing around,
swishing cold around corners and blowing the papers on the sidewalk,
but not to worry – I wrap up well, head and all,
rat proof, with plenty o’ cardboard under me,
like a little caterpillar, your dark, curly-haired boy.
Trouble is, no chance o’ seeing the stars with my head buried,
And I gotta keep lookin’, searchin’ for those sparks o’ light – sparks o’ hope.
I’ll just have to imagine them.
“Keep on imaginin’ and dreamin’,” you used to say. “The good Lord will provide.”
Hallelujah amen to that Mammy, hallelujah amen,
but I guess the Lord’s stocks is runnin’ a bit low right now,
cos there’s plenty like me in America, plenty like me all over.
Yes, the good Lord’s got a problem all right – plenty just like me –
lyin’ and imaginin’, imaginin’ and hopin’, prayin’ even,
beneath a whole big bunch o’ distant, disappearin’ and invisible stars.
Goodnight Mammy dear! Luv ya’! God bless!

~~~

GOOD FRIENDS
- a villanelle

How fortunate we are to have good friends
to turn to when our lives are hard to bear.
Our aching hearts their kindness ever mends.

They’re with us as we face life’s curves and bends,
our joys and woes they willingly will share.
How fortunate we are to have good friends,

dependable, no matter what life sends.
When circumstances lead us to despair,
our aching hearts their kindness ever mends.

No discord there, no need to make amends,
for understanding crowns their tender care.
How fortunate we are to have good friends.

Our weakness on their steady strength depends.
No need for explanations – they’re aware.
Our aching hearts their kindness ever mends.

Their gentle steady friendship never ends.
We know, in circumstances foul or fair,
how fortunate we are to have good friends,
our aching hearts their kindness ever mends

~~~

Boy Waiting

He stands at the window
nose pressed against glass.
He watches. He waits.

At four thinking only of now,
trusting hollow words from a father
who promises what he does not mean.
Words dripping off his tongue, like honey.

Hours go by and still the boy at the window
leans forward. As darkness surrounds time
a mother pulls the blind down,
and a boy learns the meaning
of empty promises.

June 2007

Judge's Comments: Ruth Strachan

It was a great pleasure to read all the entries in this competition! Atmosphere and imagery were well developed in so many of them, and I was pleased to see that most were more than static pictures - there was a progression in each poem as it developed.

First place goes to The Confinement of a Child, where the opening line immediately takes our interest, as does the title. This is maintained with each unusual but very apt adjective, verb and phrase. As the past and present intermingle we feel the shiver with the peppercorn leaves and hear the silent scream of the rain-light. The green peppercorn fruit 'intended for the liberty of a summer' finally becomes ripe and pink, and we hear its 'soft cooling crackle ' This is a very moving poem which also causes thought for the reader, and well deserves its place. Congratulations!

Second place goes to Another 24 hours. This holds a sense of poignancy and also immediacy. We can hear the foot falls, the morepork, the cicadas, and the murmured words; we can feel the softness of the path under our feet, the warmth of the night, and the pressure of hands. It is beautifully written - well done.

Two other poem were of very high quality, and have earned Highly Commended places - Spread Your Wings and Fly and Isaiah 49:15-16

Ruth Strachan

Results

First Place: The Confinement of a Child by Jan Price Victoria

The Confinement of a Child

You midnight through snow -

drift moods shape-changing

in shifts of door-corner grey tremble-lip

blue and eye-yellow the colour that exposes

pieces broken.

You reach for wife-sympathy

and my child-fear staggers

back to where my father begs my name

for strength. I am eight.

My mother has left. The peppercorn's

leaves shiver against the weeping pane

its fruit green intended

for the liberty of a summer.

Rain-light screams his tears in this dark room

and there is nowhere bright to hide my soul

from his need. No one to whisper

Yes...you can suck your thumb!

Now...the scent of love is winter

and responsibility blooms. You only have to say

Hold me! and in your dark room I will

give up olives sun-dried tomatoes and forget

a fearless moon knight-helmeted and cloud-plumed

dreamed of once listening to the soft cooling

crackle of pink peppercorn fruit.

~~~

Another 24 Hours

The last cicada

clicks

high in a tree

unwilling to let

the moon rise.

I listen

as my foot falls

on the soft path

leading up

to our house,

barely visible in

the blue light

under pongas and

tree ferns and

twisted towers of

manuka.

One hundred and

ten upward steps to

the shadowless place

where I will find you,

not there -

be gentle,

not there til morning -

until morepork sleeps

and cicada

scares away the

moon.

How warm is darkness

upon my summered skin

where your hands

will soon press a deeper

heat, and have already.

Written at Tui, February 2006

awaiting Peter’s test results for cancer from Nelson

~~~

Spread Your Wings and Fly

Aunty Rose sang opera

strong perfect notes

mid-air suspended.

She had always wanted to sing opera

from the time she was a little girl.

One day Alzheimers stole her mind

along with her inhibitions

and Aunty Rose sang opera

faultlessly.

I wish she’d known.

~~~

Isaiah 49:15-16 not for publication

~~~

Stranger on a Train

I saw her cry

her cheeks were etched by tears

I heard the heartache in her voice

wanted to hold her near.

what hidden anguish

caused her trembling hand

I wondered what was hurting her

wanted to understand.

her wounded soul

was somehow reaching out

I felt her pain

that lonely stranger

on a crowded train.

~~~

desert gaol

I’m haunted by a scene

a makeshift desert gaol

with barbed wire as a barricade

men with bare feet

wearing simple garb

hands tied behind their backs

over their heads plain black sacks

crowded and cowering they sit

near one a tiny child leans

toes digging into the sand

the man unable to reach out a hand

to comfort or reassure

often in my dreams

I wonder what became of them

~~~

Beach Footprints

I clambered over lichened scree,

and pools so clear their depth deceives,

around the split-rock headland,

to cross another sandy cove,

followed by my footprints,

until the sun goes down,

the sea vanishes in grey,

and wind-whipped trees crouch low.

Now the rough tide rolls on yielding sand,

sweeping up my footprints, leaves

a weathered thong, and seaweed tangled

curves of froth and shell.

Walking into morning:

A giant sea-head tumbles

wind driven over glassy sand.

Silver threaded currents foam

across my feet, between my toes,

sand sifts slowly back to sea.

I make no difference walking here,

between the rise and fall of tide,

horizon line that never moves,

as sand imprints beneath my feet.

Is that enough – to walk and let

my footprints vanish with the tide?

Or should I walk where all can see

exactly where I’ve been?

~~~

Surrender

Death, they say,

is the final enemy,

claiming us all in the end.

But your Waterloo

has come far too soon.

The opening salvos

of weariness and weight loss

were fired five years ago.

The battle

has raged relentlessly ever since.

At first we cheered you on,

as you rejected the verdict of “terminal”.

Now our cries have faltered, fading,

as the enemy’s onslaught grows fiercer.

Mortar bombs of chemotherapy

and grenades of pills

have etched the landscape of battle

more sharply now,

as your body’s defences weaken.

The word “cancer”

has become a triumphant trumpet blast

from the enemy camp,

sounding the final attack we can no longer deny.

No more do we talk

of winning this war,

as the light fades from your smile

and your eyes cloud over with pain.

I remember your strength and humour

as we raised our young families

together.

Now we talk quietly

of caring for your widow

after you’ve gone.

You’ve fought bravely and well,

but now it’s time

to lay down your arms

and surrender.

How we will miss you.

Go in peace, old friend.

God speed.

~~~

Rain

falls into darkness

whispers

on dead leaves

car tyres swish

over asphalt

muted echo

through the sleeping house –

night gathered

into the sound

of rain . . .

unceasing

insistent.

~~~

Songs of the Sea

Down through the centuries, mariners reported

A sea serpent, sinuous and long,

With a series of humps and a horse-like head,

Cruising the waves, singing a song.

As I swim in the sea

The waves whinny stories to me.

The ancient Greeks all worshipped Poseidon –

Elderly god of the ocean,

Carrying a trident, astride a dolphin,

Riding the waves with stately motion.

As I sail on the sea

The white caps roar stories to me.

The sea-god Triton, son of Poseidon -

Body of a fish and head of a man –

Blows into a shell, and its trumpeting voice

Has resounded since time began.

As I dive in the sea

The deep echoes stories to me.

A mermaid - young, in love with a prince –

On the shore abandons her tail.

He marries another and the mermaid in grief

Dissolves in the air, doomed to fail.

As I paddle by the sea

The sands wail stories to me.

~~~

Old Man

Skin thin

as a dragonfly’s wing

barely covering

sinew and bone

on fleshless legs and arms.

Arms warm

protecting and holding

the one you loved;

still love

in your mind.

Mind wise

informed by watching

and thinking;

accepting not condoning

the foolishness of man

Old Man.

~~~

platypus waiting

mirrored in the shy creek

the dusky magenta sky

heralds the end of day

on warm rough odorous sandstone

we sit waiting

listening to the stillness

breathing lightly

not to disturb the air

waiting for an illusive ripple

o the delight the thrill of it

the glimpse

the skim and stir flip and slip of it

like a small brown log

is conversation enough for us

we are captivated

your secret world enchants us

our work now is to keep you there. ~~~

fantasy

i want to flit from star to star

dance on flecks of ocean foam

find the elusive rainbow's end

skip on wings of silver flame

i want to taste the bittersweet

as lovers kiss their last goodbyes

hear the silent echoed sounds

of heartbeats carried on the breeze

instead i stand and greet the storm

in slow embrace arms opened wide

i let the raindrops kiss my face

and suck the turbulence inside

then for this brief ecstatic timeless time

i dare to claim infinity as mine...

~~~

gregorian cats

crimson rosella

Overwhelmed

Crumpled Pages

Sydney’s Son

My Grandmother’s Hand

Boy Waiting

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