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

June 2011

Judge's Comments: Ruth Strachan

.
This year brings a wonderful contrast in poetry, challenging us to abandon any bias towards style. Judging becomes more difficult, but at the same time more pleasurable, though as always it is sad to lay aside good poems.

First place this year goes to The Riddle of Her Sadness. This poem has many good points, particularly in the creation of atmosphere. This is assisted greatly not only by imagery but through engagement with other physical senses, along with action. It is written thoughtfully and with feeling, so drawing the reader into thought and feeling. I love the gentle rhythm when reading this aloud.

In second place is Soul's Winter. I like the originality in the phrasology; personification and simile are strong points here.The closure may come as a surprise, but links well with "on the cusp of spring" featured in the opening.

We have one Very Highly Commended poem, Ogres Prefer Children. Not all excellent poetry is obviously deep and thought provoking. The title here is engaging, the opening and closure excellent and well linked. Its sonority also is excellent, and good use is made of the physical senses. I have taken the poem at face value, but a reader might see further into various analogies. To spell such out would spoil the poem.

Congratulations!

Results

First Place

The Riddle Of Her Sadness by Jacqui Merckenschlager

THE RIDDLE OF HER SADNESS

I write her story, read it to her
watch her face.
Does she hear my words
or do they trigger something lost,
a ghost of who she could have been?

The little pictures in my mind of Mum
speak softly of the fun we had,
when anxious eyes weren't watching,
of jungle climbing in the vines
or hiding in the hedge,
of hot nights, lulled to sleep
by lullabies, minuets
as nimble fingers kissed the keys, spilled her love
and played the riddle of her sadness.

Does she see her children pirouette
in fete day costumes of colourful crepe
or does she see the shadows cast
by fantasies, sweet paperbacks
which fed her passions fires,
preserved her discontent,
beckoned the black dog?

Does she forget the music in her life?
It's not all black and white.

Today with fingers robbed of feeling, cold and feeble,
she tremble touches keys of black and white
and feels the minor notes within her soul,
but hears a jangled joke, a flapping fish,
a stumbling fool.
No music..

~~~

Second Place

Soul's Winter by Colleen Keating

soul's winter

waiting in winter
on the cusp of spring
for a baby to be born
feels as if the world
has taken a vow of silence
and time is paralysed

it amazes me how close is death
to the birth of new life

outside a straggly wet mop of a day
droops in
skeletal limbs of trees x-rayed against sky
shudder like brittle bones
breathing just a little
tremulously

their cold black presence
chills my blood
stirs thoughts of death
i sense its shadow
shiver in its grip

my heart fumbles
like one lost in a dark night
stunned in the impasse of unknowing

i want to believe that this will change
and that I will soon
be dazzled

and i am

Very Highly Commended

Ogres Prefer Children by Edel Wignell

OGRES PREFER CHILDREN

                    Lion-like body, face of a man,
                    Piercing blue eyes, and teeth in three rows,
                    Scorpion tail shooting venomous darts,
                    Fleetness of foot - all humans its foes.

         Manticore, manticore,
         Menacing, wild;
         Man-eating ogre -
         Prefers to eat child.

                    Hair made of snakes, teeth of a monster,
                    Talons of brass tearing flesh, tearing bone,
                    Eyeballs hypnotic, mesmerising leer,
                    Freezing its victim into a stone.

         Medusa, Medusa,
                                   Menacing, wild,
                                   Man-freezing ogre -
                                   Prefers to freeze child.

                     Monster three-bodied, she-monster, too,
                     Goat in the middle, and serpent behind,
                     Lion in front; a mouth breathing flame,
                     Fire to seek and destroy humankind.

                                   Chimaera, chimaera,
                                   Menacing, wild,
                                   Man-burning ogre -
                                   Prefers to burn child.

                     Head like a human's, long hairy arms,
                     Straggling beard and long flowing hair,
                     Drags human prey into roots of great gum-trees,
                     Strangles, devours in invisible lair.

                                   Ngarang, Ngarang,
                                   Menacing, wild,
                                   Man-gulping ogre -
                                   Prefers to gulp child.

~~

Creatures from mythology:

Verses 1 the Middle East and India,

2,3 Greece,

4 the Kulin Indigenous people,
central Victoria, Australia.

Highly Commended

Picnic 1854 by Adrienne Jansen

Picnic 1854

You are pouring water for her
from a belljar into a cup.

You are holding it carefully,

uncertain of the manners

required for a lady.

Her spoon is stopped between her plate

and mouth, she is so anxious

for the tremor in your hand,

for the wind, even, that might whip

the water over her knees.

That wind might snatch your hat

away but you can't save it.

This is the moment on which it will turn,

the farmer-become-gentleman, woman-become-wife,

an astonishing future flickers before you,

a house door opens, a fire is lit,

and maybe she will teach you your letters,

you will sit by that fire, and do

that impossible thing

of reading a book.

But then, a seagull croaking above you

makes you glance up, at her lips clamped tight,

at her white hand, stopped in mid-air,

and you see, not the prize, but the price -

the put-downs, the sighs, the book slamming shut

on the thick words tangling your tongue.

She will pick on your ways

like a lapdog scratching for fleas.

You loosen your clenched hand,

the belljar slips,

and you pour all the water

steadily over her knees.

This Empty Space by Jacqui Merckenschlager

This Empty Space

Afterwards, after the weeping, the remembering,
love and laughter trickled into the void.
This empty space was flooded
by family and friends
and a sunshower sparkled on the wattles.

Afterwards they all went back to distant places,
silence and emptiness slipped through cracks
and hid amongst his clothes
and lurked between his books and tools,
while rosellas sipped nectar from the bluegums.

Afterwards, he was still there, tinkering,
toying with your feelings, reminding you
of the things he had achieved,
the trees he planted last May,
the letters he wrote when you were only nineteen.

Afterwards the ocean was royal blue, bottle green,
hiding shipwreck tragedies, drowned dreamers.
Fishing boats and ferries plied the waves
and tiny penguins nested in the bay.
He walked beside you everywhere, afterwards.

The House by Susan Howard

The House

How your risers held our feet
ushered them up
on well worn wood
into the mellow lamp lit heart.
Warm, dark wood glowed.

You were alive with people
rooms flung open
holding out seats for tired travelers,
nooks and crannies for secret
whisperings.

And,
there he stood
young, earnest, head on
one side
in animated conversation.

And I thought I had the chance
to love him all over again.

Outside
his cream moss stitch baby jacket,
hung lonesomely on the branches.
As I reached out,
it darkened and melted away.

The grass felt wet beneath my feet
and hope slipped me, tipped me up again.

Caprice by Colleen Keating

caprice

yesterday
an unflinching southerly
            whipped up a frenzy
the outer rocks of the bombora
          pointed and sharp
   screamed in fury
a foaming dark monster
            pounded   roared   devoured
all in its wake

today
a silken cloak
            masks the bombora
liquid silver waves scroll past
            sapphire-tipped
            and fan gently onto the sand
with a whisper

on the edge
gazing to where sea and sky are one
my curled toes squelch wet sand

here is extravagance that excites
moods that disturb
mystery that seduces

Flute Bone by Adrienne Jansen

Flute Bone

Sailors prized the wingbones of the albatross

for flutes and pipe stems.

He holds it oddly like a cigarette

between the hard callouses on his fingers.

He blows, and air comes scraping through like wind

raking through the shafts of dead feathers

or whistling down a billowing edge of canvas.

He keeps the bone flute close against his chest,

hung on a piece of thong under his shirt.

He tells how his father shot the bird

but it fell pinned against the mast

so he shimmied up and wrenched it free.

"He took this bone from the wing" he says,

a fleck of spit resting on his lip.

"You think about the size of that damned bird

and this old hollow bone carried all that weight."

He licks the fleck of spit in awkward wonder.

"They found it in his cabin after the storm.

He'd always said that trip would be his last.

Bad karma, so they said, but I don't reckon.

Could've been a wave that dragged him over."

He stares defiantly, then blows again

and air comes sighing through, like a cry

leaking from the beak of a falling bird.

Married Seventy Years by Jacqui Merckenschlager

Married Seventy Years

He's on a chain,you know,
a chain as long as the yard.
anchored to the house.
He heaves the firewood bundle,
doubles back toward the door
and listens.
Soon she'll call.

He shuffles in.
How frail she is,
this wife of his.
He feels the weight of faithfulness
and sorrow, as the best
was lost in tempest.

Some days he tests
the worn links
but does not mean to break them.
He's compelled to try their strength.

For sanity he disappears
most days behind the shed,
chopping wood or sorting things
and when she calls
he ducks deliberately
out of sight behind the vines.

She calls and calls.
He waits a while then reappears,
blaming deafness greater than he owns.
Silently he suffers
harsh words she lays upon him.

He cares, but seventy years
is a chain both share.
Couldn't she give him some slack?
She drags a heavy chain,
frightened by its weight.

Commended

The Boy Who Loved Moths by Mary Dennis

The Boy Who Loved Moths

There was a boy who loved moths
who wore a cloak of White Witch wings
and scoffed at butterflies
saying their beauty was too obvious,
too easy. The four eyes of the Emperor Gum
watched him wherever he went
and the metallic sheen of the Aurella
illuminated the pavement before him.
The boy would never once let the word 'pest' pass his lips
and for this Death Heads and Gypsies
formed a swarming halo around his head.

I called him Attacus Atlas
after the largest moth on earth
and each time I did
he grinned a certain grin
that made me feel
I had done something good.

You might think the boy strange
and insist there are thousands of creatures
more deserving of attention than the humble moth
but if you did he would only smile
pause as if to consider it
and say as true as that may be
there are not nearly as many creatures
who are always and only guided
by the light they encounter
and at any rate it is surely never a bad thing
to love that which no one thinks to.

Candlebark Crooning by Max Merckenschlager

CANDLEBARK CROONING
shady pool sonnet

Rock to the kisses of a moonlight stream,
sleep, weary children, as I watch and croon,
whisper tomorrows while you rest and dream;
daddy's by the pool and he'll be back soon:

catching the virginals of soaring snow,
saving a moment with his artist's eye,
charcoaling shadows in the full moon's glow,
listen, my children, can you hear him sigh?

Limbs of the candlebarks caress the night,
soft-footed animals may look askance,
frogs in a symphony of sound and light,
ghosts of the gatherers emerge and dance.

Sleep till the morning as your father nears,
dream of tomorrow when he greets you, dears.

Note:

'Shady Pool' below Heysen's studio is rimmed by sylph-like candlebarks (Eucalyptus dalrympleana). The Peramangk people probably visited this natural waterhole frequently.

Max tells us that this is from the anthology "That Which My Eyes See" available from 'The Cedars' Heysen Estate, Hahndorf SA. and that there are many fine poems in the book by leading SA poets.

Father of Oedipus by Dave Troman

Father of Oedipus.

My Mother Earth,
I would be your moon and stars
orbiting your beauty's grace,
by gravity bound fast to you
yet free to wander across the heavens,
glimmering shimmers of hope in a sea of black
but this can never be
for the stars are sources of light and life
whilst I am only the pale reflection
of a transcendent son.

Sorry is a Sometimes Word by Helen Fletcher

Sorry is a Sometimes Word

You tell me I apologise
too much.
Sorry slips from my lips,
before I realise
what it is you've said.
I smile
and apologise
for apologising.

I draw a dot
on my arm
every time I say
the word.
My arms turn pockmarked
with blue ink.
I apologise
for running out
of room.

The dots fade.
The sorrys don't.
They hang in the air,
marking my guilt
and colouring in
your lack
of forgiveness.

The First Emperor of China, Qin Shihuang by Glennis Henning

The First Emperor of China, Qin Shihuang

His voice is silent now
but his works shout
of cruelty, selfishness, autocracy - and fear.

Silent Voices

The gallery was filled with eyes today.
They'd come to see the Chinese warriors
entombed beneath the earth aeons before.
Complete and resurrected there they stood,
stern individuals, superbly honed
by master artisans so long ago.

Eyes locked with eyes within the gallery,
but each stone face remained a sombre mask
becoming to its everlasting task.
For like a bower bird their lord had gathered
his warriors, horses, chariots, concubines
to ease his path through everlasting time.

And yet the whole, fantastic cavalcade
revealed an obsessive anxiety -
fear of a fragile immortality.
Like Ozymandias, Qin's vanished now
while terra cotta, silver, gold and jade
maintain a silent, merciless tirade -
proclaim, 'aloud', his heartless, cruel charade.

Morning at Sorrento by Marilyn Humbert

Morning at Sorrento

The horizon overflows, wide-eye blue
swells move with uncanny ease
sands crumble beneath crag end cliffs.

The gull's taunt rouses them
bag and bucket shouldered to the muddy trickle
disowned by the high tide.
Toes delve deep, searching pipis in black sands.

He watches them rush, laughing at waves
under oyster clouds dripping dank, salty-grey.

Further out, crab boats bob
prows high and white as breeching whales.
Across foam and spray, curses drifts shoreward
with the clunk of coiled rope
and the grate of anchor chain.

He clasps her hand, pink, delicate, soft
and grips tight ...

The clouds lift.

Storm by Jeanette Campbell

Storm

White horses whipped by wind transform the lake
As boats rock back and forth across the foam
Their bows point south, the forceful wind to break
The waves erode a nearby rocky dome
A seagull flies and sits upon a mast,
Its head turned north to shelter from the chill
Its feathers ruffle in the icy blast,
Defying the rough elements with skill

A pelican sits on a nearby post
Its head tucked in as if it were the night
It waits there for the storm to clear the coast
The wind to calm, the sun to beam its light
The tempest is relentless in its fight
Revealing God's great power and His might

The Missive by Kate Wise

The Missive

It came
The eternal winter of lament

Words dribbled from the page
Stabbing her heart
Shattering her soul
Into a thousand pieces of silver
Clattering to the floor

Tarnished gold

Just three bold words
Was all it said

Missing
Presumed dead

Bees came buzzing
A hovering blizzard
Of mournful tune
Gathered the splinters
Dripped in honey

Savoured the succour
Of a thousand flowers
With heady scent
That faded, dried, wilted
When they went

Leaving her
In deep torment
Clutching shards of paper
Was all she had left

Stolen Kiss by Paula Wilson

STOLEN KISS

I wake remembering his kiss
Tasted once
Stolen during summer's storm
Haunting my dreams
We walk on clouds of shimmering heat
Return to other lovers
Never entwining fingers
Never walking hand in hand

I wake remembering a kiss
Stolen an aeon ago
Never forgetting
Not wanting to remember

June 2010

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?

Morning at Sorrento

gregorian cats

crimson rosella

Overwhelmed

Crumpled Pages

Sydney's Son

My Grandmother's Hand

Boy Waiting

Back to top