The 2011 Karamea Poetry Competition was an opportunity for our residents to dust off existing prose and/or to write prose anew and to submit their works for the public’s enjoyment! This year’s contest submissions were uploaded to the Karamea Community website for public review and voting.
The public voted for their favourite poem, and poets were also invited to read their poetry aloud on Poetry Night on 4 December 2011, at the Last Resort.
She was only a waitress at The Albion Hotel
when Sledgehammer Jack came down for a spell
from his rough mountain shack and his coarse, rugged life -
he as blunt as a board, she as sharp as a knife.
" I don't drink with losers, you're all girls or poofs"
Jack elbowed his way to a table, aloof -
"Bring me beer you old tart, you're all useless at drinking"
she brought bottles, two glasses, and then started sinking
nip after nip of whiskey - the best,
Jack struggled to keep even - she didn't rest.
Before the end of the night he was pale and green
and the patrons all cheered for their waitress, Maxine,
she laughed, pursed her lips, smiled at Jack from her chair
"I was born Maxwell George, remember that, dear ! "
I don't like rainy days,
...I get all down and blue,
than border collie.
Master has a new dog,
Cheeky little bastard!
All young, skinny and cute
I used to be like that,
Now I'm old, slow and fat
.. a greyhound
rather than a collie
Master and his bitch,
had a baby called "Diva"
They want me to like it
but...I'm a collie
...not a retriever.
I love chasing hares but,
the long-eared bastards are quick,
...and can corner on a pin,
Not like us collies,
we're shopping trollies.
So, don't moan about the weather
my young replacement "Rusty."
I may have forgotten more than you'll every learn,
But remember this young fool,
rain's only water,
...and it washes off.
like clones on an assembly line
they dress you in gowns that are not of your own
incorrectly sized and gaping at the back
they ride up to expose withered flesh
if you weren't in so much pain and confusion
the indignity would make you blush
life lined faces lie atop crisp white sheets
voices hushed having nothing left to say
as you await patiently that corridor of light
the common factor that unites you all
like prisoners in arrowed suits
is the repetitive multi coloured writing
which announces loudly that you are now
no longer a person in your own right
that you have now become hospital property
Eloquent emails to the Generals;
Fork Tongue, Mute, and Nukem.
Heat haze daze,
All day, death droned,
On killing fields for foe and friend.
New day dawns,
Food chain fixed,
Poison apple arthropod awaits
Betrayed, death defied,
The lone lek calls
To phoenix mustelid and rat.
Explanations: “arthropod” insect, “lek” mating call of the short-tail bat, “mustelid” stoat or weasel
Travelled on many times,
by foot, head and heart.
After rainfall, dusk settles,
the path now lined with gold.
Friends to return to,
the traveller smiles,
content with her lot.
(to the tune of 'You Are My Sunshine')
You are a menace, a sexy menace,
Your skin-tight blue jeans, they mold so well,
You'll never know dear, how cool I found you,
Your sexy splendour rang every bell.
The other day dear, I found your wallet
With a picture of you in drag,
I had to laugh dear, at my bold menace
With a yellow wig and a bag.
You were my toyboy, my hotrod plaything,
But now it seems dear, you're not the one,
I feel confused dear, as so must you do,
So I think I'll just turn and run.
Our dog Fred
he stays in bed
his paws across his nose,
he stays this way
for most of the day
in this typical Fred-type pose.
My dad says that he's lazy,
my mum says that he's old,
but I know Fred's
simply using his head -
he won't get up when it's cold!
With apologies to Lewis Carol
‘You are old Granddad Pete’, the young lass said,
But your hair is not yet grey,
And yet, getting old you don’t dread,
How can it be that way?
‘I see, my dear’ the old man replied,
‘Your colour is not your own,
With Wella, and Clairol and such it is dyed,
My hair I leave alone’.
‘You are old’, said the girl, ‘your ears have hair,
Like whiskers from a cat,
And better, you’d look, were they not there,
How can you deal with that’?
‘I see, my dear, your eyebrows are thin,
My ears I fix with a match,
With pain, each hair, you pull from your skin,
I singe to the top of my thatch’.
‘You are old’, said the girl,’ your eyes barely see,
Long ears, big nose, wrinkles and that,
You’re old Granddad, as old as can be.
And your body has all gone to fat.’
‘Grand daughter’, I say,’ you have no respect.
From your grand parents you descend.
You scoff and our age you reject,
But, like us, you will be in the end’.
There was a young man near here,
Who had hair growing out of his ear.
With the flash of a match,
Set fire to the thatch.
So lucky it wasn’t his rear.