explored
Wondering if anyone will read my secrets
And discover my thoughts
What it would be like if someone were to open me up
To rustle my pages and fold my corners
Opening me up time and time again just to relive my
past adventures into the unknown universe of imagination
To whisper my untold words into a mind full of open pages
All kinds of bookmarks being displayed to my eyes
To fantasise about my journeys
To dream about my secret entries and forbidden paths
And travel to distant kingdoms
But only one favourite returns to me in the end
To be the last person I ever touch with my crinkled pages
Highly Commended: Dog Bath Blues by Peta Vanlieshout from Walkervale State School, Bundaberg, Qld
“Time for a bath!” My mum and dad yelled
For muck, slime and grime was all that we smelled.
We entered the yard where the dog lay asleep
When I stood on a chew toy, he woke and began to leap.
I grabbed the shampoo and a bucket of water
He ran back and forth, I swear he yelled “Slaughter!”.
He jumped and he yelped, he kicked and he nipped
When he came charging at me, my heart nearly flipped.
I stepped out of the way as he ran head on at me
Following him out, things jabbed at my knee.
Reaching the grass he was no-where to be found
When suddenly, on my back, I felt a very heavy mound.
I landed face first in the dry, stale grass
My head had just missed a small shard of glass.
I spat out some dirt and started to run
I’II have to admit, this is kind of fun.
I had tried everything to get him to stay
Ready to give up, I walked away.
The dog somehow followed me, not making a sound
Grabbing the chain, I turned swiftly around.
Chaining him up, I grabbed the water
When out of the door, came my mum's step-daughter.
‘What are you doing?" She asked, “Can I try it too?"
I said “Sure you can help me!" I gave her the shampoo.
Soaking him in water and smothering him in Shampoo
We scrubbed and we scrubbed til’ he smelt brand new.
Stepping away, he shook of his fur
‘Must’ve liked it’ I thought as he began to stir.
Walking inside, we were both soaking wet
When my mum and dad yelled "Time to bathe Odette!”
Highly Commended: Horses by Emma-Jane Emms from Rosewood, Qld
Ponery ponies poetry poems. Horsery horses. Gallopy olipety clopety
clop. Hair and mane flowing there. Hair and mane flowing everywhere.
Brush horses knotty hair there, brush it everywhere. Horses, horses here
and there. Saddlery saddles on horses. It is raining reins.
Highly Commended: Jelly by Emma-Jane Emms from Rosewood, Qld
Jelly is nice in your belly but your belly isn’t nice in your jelly
jelly for your belly yummy, yummy, for my tummy,
slimy ugly lumpy jelly.
Highly Commended: Hey Echidna by Harmony Schloss from Blair State School, Sadliers Crossing, Qld
Hey Mister Echidna,
Some ants there have’ya?
Some green, red and black,
and I see spines on your back.
What do they do?
Oh, they’re there to protect you
I hear mum calling for dinner.
Nice to meet’ya, Mister Echidna
Highly Commended: Soup by Emma-Jane Emms from Rosewood, Qld
Pumpkin soup, onion soup, tomato soup, carrot soup, garlic soup,
mushroom soup, Ieek soup, stew soup, any meat soup;
yum yumo souperdy super soup,
thin soup, lumpy soup, superbly super soup, slushy sloshy soup.
Back to contents
The Broderick Family Award - 14-15 Years
1st Place: The Wolf Understood by Emma Hartley from Wahroonga, NSW
The wolf
Understood
I was running away.
An unwanted
Daughter
Sent out with that food
And then to roam
The streets
So red.
Sold to the night
I wandered
Down.
Wandered lost of
Neon lights and
Groping hands.
Dirt between the toes,
The red cape
Left behind.
Exhausted of
swimming
alongside the sharks.
Tired of life
And enslaved to the night,
I crumpled into open arms.
2nd Place: And It’s Alice by Emma Hartley from Wahroonga, NSW
He sees that figure
Falling.
And thinks,
‘Not again.’
Who ever said
Air was any
Barrier?
3rd Place: The River by Tamara Livingstone from West Moreton Anglican College, Karrabin, Qld
Down to the river we go; you and I
Down where the blue waters flow, you and I
Underneath the stars and the darkened sky
Down to the river we go, you and I
Through breathless waters and dim navy skies
Fly angels that weep and fae that
So mournfully through the Cimmerian night
And to the river we go, you and I
Fireflies dance and shine gold in the
Resplendent wyrms breathe their warmth into my
Affluent heart that yearns for the light
And into the river we go: goodbye
Highly Commended: Women of Arachne by Emma Hartley from Wahroonga, NSW
We sew and weave,
And weave and sew.
We watch the thread,
As it bobs to and fro.
We are women of Arachne,
Not Helens of Troy.
Men will not fight wars over us,
No ships will they deploy.
We cut and snip,
And snip and cut.
Cursed to a life,
Where the door's always shut.
We weave our own webs,
We have our own story.
Stories of calm and patience,
Not of men and their glory.
We are the Penelopes,
Wives who await the return.
But no one remembers to save us,
As the world around us, burns.
Highly Commended: Suburban Storm by Rosie McCrossin from Deagon, Qld
The storm is an illusionist
Spying from behind the housing estate
At the gentle glow of suburbia
It smiles
Raising an aubergine eyebrow
At its unsuspecting audience
Time to put on a show
First come the clouds
Dark and thick
Heavy bodies undulating across
The royal blue-black sky
Then a soft sprinkling of rain
And thin breezes
Which cut through the thick air
Like cheese wire
It is drugging the audience
Waiting
For the curtains to open
And it begins
Streaking silver slices through the languid clouds
Blinding the spectators
And the freezing rain
Which falls in swollen drops
On the tin rooves
The deep snarls of thunder
Which seem to sync with the sleeping suburbia’s heartbeats
And the thin insidious winds
Which infiltrate deep into bone
The illusionist scrapes at every sense
With sharpened fingernails
And then with a quick swoosh of its fingers
It departs
Followed by its cumulus assistants
Leaving a layer of thin fog
Which hovers above the still warm bitumen
Puddles and broken twigs in its wake
Like merchandise in the foyer of the show
Come and see the great illusionist
Be shocked
Be astonished
Be stunned
By the great magician – the suburban storm
Highly Commended: Snail by Elena Bonetto from West Moreton Anglican College, Karrabin, Qld
It’s a desert in my mouth,
the moisture in my body is expelled through my pores
as I stare down to my undoing, my doom
my mind a foul blend of phobia and paranoia
Double sets of eyes, monster made of mucus
body of ectoplasmic excretion, unbeknownst, unaware
as fear dances on my skin I envisage the sensation
of my foot crushing, shattering the shell, ending a life
Irony in the word 'shell', of less strength than sand
floating, drowning, I'm petrified, welded to the ground
as the horror of all horrors passes through my feet
leaving a trail the colour of sputum down the street
Highly Commended: Time by Shayla Parsons from Mt Hutton, NSW
Time
collects
its ruins
of civilizations
people and
individual lives
time looks back
on her collection
of myriads of towers
built up only to fall
within her own landscape
time admires her
moments of yearnings
and how beautifully
they gradually
decay, fall apart
until nothing remains
time is happy
she does not hold
onto anything
she just goes on
collecting in
spite of it
all
Highly Commended: Tents and Campfires by Miriam Waldron from Strathfield, NSW
Karl
I’ve always taught my children
To do what is asked, to follow orders
But here and now, in my position
It does not seem so easy anymore
“You are herewith ordered” it says
How can ink and paper be so frightening?
I am leaving my daughter and my son
They ask if there will be tents and campfires
Remembering holidays in the mountains
I pick up my case and put on my hat
“Yes. Tents and campfires”
Submission has to count for something
My wife, my children,
Am I to leave them so suddenly
Like a thief in the night?
“Failing this notice, you will be punished with Security Police Measures”
I must go. They must be safe.
Esther
There was always music
Playing in the background, softening the silence
There was always a hum
My father loved music
He nearly cried when our radio broke
All gone now.
The silence is harsh and cutting
Forcing us to reminisce
I try to fill in the gaps
The spaces between mindless chatter
But speech is a well
And it is running dry
I have no plans
My mother is a lost child
Desperately searching, but never finding
After three years, looking for a needle in the haystack
Reality is cruel
There are no tents and campfires where he is
Only graves and gas.
Highly Commended: Untitled by Stevie Tucker from Springfield Central State High School, Springfield, Qld
As one mother’s fear,
Become her daughter's worst nightmare.
Breast Cancer patient, she was now classed.
I could not help having a silent tear,
How is this even fair?
I continually asked?
I don’t want to believe it,
This can't be true,
I just have to sit,
Why did this have to happen to you?
She's turning purple,
She has no hair,
I don’t want you to become an angel,
I want us to stay a pair.
They told me they had a cure,
But now, I’m not too sure.
I will always remember how it feels,
To remember something so frightfully real
Highly Commended: Things by Paige Spence from Attadale, WA
Why do things fall off tables?
It is because, in the spur of the moment
They long to escape clammy hands,
Fat fingers
Prodding eyes
And awful breath.
So, with gravity gliding them
They hit the ground running
Before inevitably realising,
Damn.
I don’t have legs.
Highly Commended: School Lessons by Arrabella Armstrong from Karana Downs, Qld
I walk down the corridor
Death is waiting at the door
I swallow my fear
to meet the grim reaper
But to my surprise
It’s just the teacher
Back to contents
Ipswich City Council Award - 16-17 Years
1st Place: No Time for Skipping Stones by Christine Collier from Presbyterian Ladies College, Peppermint Grove, Perth, WA
We would look through astrolabes on warm nights,
after the night sky would remove its makeup,
and let all its blemished skin appear and show off
the scars once hidden by the blinding sun.
And twist the hands as though by luck or chance
we would manoeuvre the device,
so everything would be clear and straightforward
and the guessing could come to a stop.
Then our eyes would shine from the knowing tears,
that no longer must we look at the exploding balls of gas
in space to find the shattered pieces that put together
our lost souls and tomorrow would be just that which it always is
We would sleep deeply and dream of nothing
with doonas beneath us leaving our flesh to shiver
and never remember being happier.
When we no longer search for something better
or fear for something invisible that could take away so much.
And the blemishes on our skins would mean nothing,
the tattoo of age would leave its inky mark.
Continents would continue to move apart
and it wouldn’t matter a single bit because
we aren’t looking for a better place with a brighter sun
or whiter shores to feel through our callused thumbs
and there would be no need to leave footprints in the sand
as we know they will be washed away anyway and the universe
takes no prisoners of war. We are and we aren’t and that's it.
Giving up didn’t mean to surrender but it did
liberate us from the endless search for stars
and answers which we never found or needed.
And the silhouettes of our new lives were finally shaded in,
and painted outside the lines.
2nd Place: Children in Kansas Know What to Do by Siobhan Deacon from Presbyterian Ladies College, Peppermint Grove, Perth, WA
They know how to get a blackbird o
ut of a brier.
They know how to befriend a family of rabbits.
They know how to skip.
They know how to sing.
They know how to sit
On the kitchen floor
Next to the other Mary.
Not only blue but purple.
They know how to wait.
For the low growl of an ’86 Chevy.
For the claw of a door
And scrape of a boot.
They know how to run.
Daddy in Kansas knows what to do.
He knows how to track a blackbird even in the sky.
He knows how to skin a family of rabbits.
He knows how to stomp.
He knows how to shout.
He knows how to paint
The whore.
Not only blue but purple
Black and blue.
Most of all Daddy knows how to teach.
Until Children know how to learn.
3rd Place: Red Sky in the Morning by Serena Green from Presbyterian Ladies College, Peppermint Grove, Perth,
the end of time the beginning of eternity gift wrapped in a parcel of briny waves
licking away winter cliffs on sunny rainy days an ocean song sings the waltz of the tide
and the shore and the swing of hips outlining figures against a city sky illuminated
with the glow of humanity a transition from starry night blue to red blood sprayed
across a shattered windscreen glass cut clear in knives of silence like the hands of a
counting clock tick tock tick tock tick ticktickticktick a fragmented explosion of
lawn chairs and milkshakes in a café a balloon of fire swallowing days of sun on skin and
sparkling delight signalling the end and beginning of a red sky day dawning and
welcoming corpse cold fingers broken under the force of a hammer wielded through
the strength of nations stone walls that don’t speak listen laugh cry communicating
through unreachable means of written word passed through the ears not the eyes of a
world sprouting reports of metal birds falling 20,000 ft in a controlled death spiral
impacting and scattering the remains of advanced technology across the pages of
entertainment tonight hailing a 20th century built through the eyes of a murderer and
executed through the barrel of a Luger raising an army from the ashes of yesterday
in a race to puppeteer the leaders of tomorrow and take one great leap for the
continuation of mankind towards a blue sky day
Highly Commended: A Forgotten Persia by Emily Byrne from Presbyterian Ladies College, Peppermint Grove, Perth, WA
A forgotten Persia, sitting in saffron stained hands,
The Maghreb. The Bedouin. The Arabian.
The family honour dripping in origin.
Soaked perfumed citreous, saturated in the sweet rose
Aromatic khubz kneaded by antiquity,
The echo of Adhan. The ring of Allah
The mosaics of rituals, The continuum of
Sifted sands and ancient souks.
Honeyed tea and rosehip notes
Diffusing into the richness of the khaima.
The warmth of the hookah, the Arabian night,
A social smoke of ancestors.
As white as delusion, opaque opium clouds.
Feet glued to the viscid treacle of tradition
The rejuvenation of spring, awakened
This ominous uprising of the desert.
A rancid bread, now stifled and stale.
Denounced by its own composition
kneaded by the knuckles of power
veiled in burnt frankincense, and acidic citrus.
The red sea as bare as disillusion.
Flowing through these blood stained hands,
Old silk roads running backwards,
Carrying the poisoned pomegranates of the past.
The tribal staple, now the chief traitor.
The food source and the retrenchment.
The abusive mother, The khubz.
The jewels of sheikhs, more important than ancient bread.
Velvet smoke seeping under the cloth
Awakening the dissatisfaction of taste
Corruption biting into the bitterness
No fragrances of Arabia can purify them.
Polluted rosewater and jasmine syrup,
Mosaics reshaped by the sands of the Syria.
The Maghreb. The Bedouin. The Arab.
Wandering the desert, correcting the future.
Highly Commended: Verlang by Reinette Roux from Presbyterian Ladies College, Peppermint Grove, Perth, WA
verlang/ longing
seer/ pain
eensaam/ loneliness
kwaad/ anger
magteloos
Can the absence in my language be read
Can the weight of it be felt
The words are both the same in meaning
But as I speak this rare tongue
You understand only these:
Dermis/ Dermis
Pigment/ Pigment
Trauma/ Trauma
Therefore I give you my poem about the irreversible mark: a tattoo poem
To carry the pigment from the point of the needle to the dermis that contains me
You may not see it, but I do
It’s my tattoo
The lead, iron oxides, rusts, metal salts and plastics of the ink in my bloodstream
Burden me
I turn to homemade tattoo inks, made of soot, dirt and blood
roet/ soot
as/ ash
brand/ burn
and there was ink
and there was memory
and there was no pain
the final curtain call and I bow to bear
my tattoo to you
Highly Commended: Warmth by Rosaleen Cooney from Hazelbrook, NSW
I waited
With open heart
In the night's delight
For your ambrosial voice
To warm my bones.
Highly Commended: Descendant by Samantha Brenz-Verca from Presbyterian Ladies College, Peppermint Grove, Perth, WA
When the jacarandas flowered purple,
My grandmother would come to visit.
She would sit in the sun, filling in the
Crosswords;
my scrawny limbs settled in her lap.
Absently, she would draw cats in the
margins
of the newspaper,
she said ‘to keep me interested ’ and to stop me
fidgeting and squirming and disturbing and distracting.
But for me, the cats were
an afterthought;
I didn’t need a pretty picture to keep me focussed.
Those Crosswords and my grandmother kept me endlessly
engrossed sometimes until the stars came out to try to hug the sun.
At school, kids obediently filled in sheets,
practiced their spelling words and solved
basic math problems; learned the parts of
flowers, and Earth, geometry, human body;
and ate white sandwiches from paper bags.
I,
on the other hand,
would sit on a cushion by the window:
perhaps reading books from the Year 7 shelves;
maybe planning my latest story;
sometimes dreaming about how snails decorated the insides of their shells.
And at lunch I ate leftover mushroom risotto, or chili con carne;
and I played cricket with the big kids, and soccer with the boys, and taught little girls hopscotch;
but I always did what I was told,
and I was taught to fit into the box.
Wild runaway rosebush minds were snipped
into neat green hedges, are manicured into
obedience
and will be lined up in precise
order. We’ll be compressed into squares to
check the boxes, with their curt corners and
shards of brick that stick in my throat at night.
I always wanted to drink the air and taste the smells far away fom that box
I yearned to bleed into paper in a beautiful mess,
like a watercolour painting that
drips
and says so much; but still
allows me to think for
myself.
Highly Commended: Design by Joshua Murray from Rosewood, Qld
In
the scrap
metal
yard...
Sat, adjoined, an old car frame
And a rusted, bent aeroplane...
In
the
scrap
metal
yard.
Hurricanes, tornados, and rains gusty
Caused the metals grow more rusty,
But not one car was screwed together
And the plane crumpled due to weather...
In
the
scrap metal
yard.
In
a
young
child’s
room...
Lay a desk, a stool, eraser’s shavings,
A lamp, a ruler, penny savings...
And a
scrap,
blank
paper.
One small boy sat at his table
And sketched a sword, a horse and stable,
A car, a rocket, his friend, his mother,
With one blunt pencil, one plain colour—
On
a
scrap
piece
of
paper.
Highly Commended: Black Coffee for Breakfast? by Ellie Burton from Presbyterian Ladies College, Peppermint Grove, Perth, WA
in the beginning, when water washed your earth,
our pantheon was hung out to dry, parched then pontificated
‘woman’ is her name because she was taken out of man
cooed mark and matthew so soft, now don’t fight
papa grande is here, mourn right
bleating like a foghorn, silence says
I’m older than plastic forks and linoleum flowers,
than pink candy stoves and sinks that bubble like gum,
and behind the cloud’s tissue depressions
she hides her green-eyed indiscretions
and the artists said we’ve got you all figured out
because delilah cut his hair and salome cut his head
it’s whorticulture, we can weed pick and prune
hand him the secateurs, hand him the scythe
he’ll make you a wife
I’m backready and backbroken she entreats
you’re bloodset and bonedumb he replies
if from womb to tomb my apples fall only towards you,
my gossamer dress soiled, can my flaking bones lie beside yours,
will you bury me in chores?
beetroot stains my hands in Iscariot red
a little water clears us of this deed, so prescribe me a penance
my tears by your feet (on my knees) should atone
an absolution in white, mary me and you’ll be anointed
tie the knot and you’re appointed
black coffee for breakfast my sweet? your habit since infantry
for with fists of irons i can only poach eggs,
sunny side up, ripe and pert we’ll butter your cups
we’ll take you hand-me-down man
and you can take us at your command
then you’re second to one my darling, he’ll croon
remember you’re only a star if there’s aniseed
but first pillboxes suit you, it’s your shape your fit!
so wait, lie in salt (it only stings a little) cure like meat
as long as you’re fresh you’re not obsolete
again the sun is two hours late
sullied and diluted by the prison yard concrete of clouds
smoked like lapsang, behind his fat cigar
i waited up, feathered and downed the splintering dust
i glad-wrapped lunches and cut your crust
when you’re sick of the inner city squalor, tired of exhaust
I’ve made a nest of asbestos and anesthetic
with sweet bethesda, we can inoculate into apathy
betadine for cuts and bicarbonate for stings
watch fumbling fingers tie apron strings
and when we’re melting by your fire,
or just you and l and the bougainvillea sunset
(it’ll only give a rash you say, pretty in pink)
we’ll chase sorrow back to her damask lair
we’ll rip the rose ribbons out of her hair
so now I’ve saccharine starched your shirts and soles
o darlings, come home sweet home
into hibernation, you poor hares,
poor greymen who whisper like parrots
and sleep like wine
asleep by half past nine
Highly Commended: Shades of Red, White and Grey by Sean Adcock from Ipswich Grammar School, Ipswich, Qld
Shades of red, white and grey runs through my veins,
colour was once but not in this moment.
To inner gibber jabbers annoyances,
pacing the orbiting change.
What and why meaning,
when there are only shades of red, white and grey.
Where the seeing from behind my eyes,
takes place with enthusiasm and becomes of no importance to an optimist.
To dream in tones of light and dark,
to visualise all shades of red, white and grey -
To envisage all shades in between.
This is my certainty,
living being an IGS red, white and grey lad.
Highly Commended: Express Yourself by Hania Syed from Dunlop, ACT
Yesterday I believe you took up yoga
You said that your chakra was hollow
But is it your heart or a trend that you follow?
Stop embarrassing yourself in that toga
Your hair's pink because it's such a statement
Your diet consists of only tofu shakes
But you're still smuggling in some steaks
Strutting your bare feet on the pavement
You're a walking, talking Reject Shop artwork
Mantras stamped across your forehead
Presumptuously appearing well-read
Rehearsing your every oddity and quirk
Tattoos in Chinese across your chest
Did you know that's a takeaway menu?
You're never sure if you're Hindu or a Jew
Still on this bumbling, hopeless quest
I love the way you eat wholegrain bread
So counter-culture (and good for your bowel movements)
Rocking glasses but no visual impairments
Your Docs mean instant street cred
You're a billboard, an unwitting mannequin
A repetitive label, mass-produced creation
Cave in without a word of persuasion
High on propaganda and organic pumpkin
But you're not listening, you're elsewhere
You say yoga just didn't connect with you
And the universe's energies led you to
Rock some bellbottoms with truly lunatic flair
Test Ipswich Poetry Feast 2013 Page 3