ABPA - Australian Bush Poets Association

YAY! 2nd Prize!!!

CONGRATULATIONS ...

Congratulations Wendy. Scuse my ignorance, but what was the event.

Thanks Neville and Manfred.
Event was - Traditional verse: Henry Lawson Festival. Really chuffed!

Good stuff Owly.


So are ya gonna keep it secret of post it ?????


Bob

OK - here ya go.

Henry

A ghost dwells in a billabong in Banjo’s famous tale
and fettered spectres roam inside a ruined convict gaol.
When Shakespeare reached beyond the grave to populate his verse
he added witch and cauldron with a smattering of curse.

The battle-ground forever holds the life force of the dead,
the churchyard harbours restless souls all yearning to be fed.
Those ghouls of fable, ballads’ sprites and others of their kind,
hold not a flickering candle to the demons in my mind.

So jealously they roam my thoughts devouring faith and hope
all daring me to find the strength to find a way to cope.
But strength was never part of me, not body nor of mind,
a sickly child from broken home, my destiny was signed.

I’m ostracised from life without the confines of my skin,
a muffled and distorted world is all that filters in.
I may not hear as well as you but I can plainly see
that you critique, assess and judge , but never look at me.

So, through my pen I pour my soul, a wretched, twisted thing
and slink down many avenues to try to make it sing.
I’m cultivating comrades who don’t always have my back,
I compensate with tactless quip, the confidence I lack.

I’m wedded to a pretty girl who tries so hard to ease
the stress and pain she sees in me that she cannot appease.
She will not stay, I know as sure as I can surely be
that she will lose her own sweet soul if she remains with me.

My children know their father often lacks in social grace,
the stigma wrought of such a stance is etched upon my face.
My eyes don’t smile, my lips are pursed, deep furrows slash my brow,
would it be so, like when a lad, I painted coaches now?

I struck for foreign shores to try and curb a restless mien
but still the potent onslaught of a self-destructive gene
just drives me further into self, to non-conformist friends -
hurtling headlong throughout time my bolting ego wends.

Through mead and hops of bitter brew which season all my dreams,
the ‘black dog’ leaps upon my back and howls in tune my screams.
The halls of institutions ring with unrequited prayer
from all the times I’ve sought in vain to find some solace there.

But sometimes I glimpse normalcy between my lines of verse,
I eke a meagre living but I never fill my purse.
I beg you search my crazy eyes and tell me when you find,
the lad from Grenfell, New South Wales before he lost his mind.

Wendy Seddon © February 2015

Nicely done Wendy - well deserving of the prize

Way to go Wendy

That's fantastic, congratulations

Terry

Wow! Great poem Wendy and congratulations!
Trish

Thanks all - feeling encouraged.