Wool Wagon Awards Results 2009 at Crookwell

Gregory North
Garry Lowe
Kathy Edwards

Lorraine McGrimmon
John Brennan
Janet Moppett

Katie Brennan
Brooke George

Rain
© Zondrae King 09/2009

First there starts a little smatter, just a gentle pitter patter
only soft, a tiny titter as it taps on your back door.
This, at first, you try ignoring ‘til it’s positively pouring
it restores and keeps refreshing every living thing around.

Then it trickles down the timber of the trees with branches limber
and the leaves surrender dust as, drinking lustily, they sup.
Where the droplets make a sprinkle, there the drainpipe starts a tinkle
or it tickles through the tendrils ‘til it soaks into the ground.

In the gutter there’s a puddle, just a little middle muddle
then it grows into a gusher as it gurgles past the curb.
This torrent tumbles to the tar, ten times as fast and twice as far
as the tortured teachers tug at both their tunics and their sleeve.

And again, it makes a bubble and creates a little trouble
for the wetness of the water causes weeping from the wise.
There’s a flooding of the fields as the water waves and wheels
and the merry Mormons on their bikes are crying to the skies.

While the raindrops run round ridges and they ripple down the bridges
then they join the joyful journey at the junction with a jog.
Once they gather in the gutter there’s a gleeful, gurgling splutter
with a spattering and utterance, they’re singing as they leave.

There’s a stutter and a rattle as the gusher fights a battle
with the gravity of planet as it joins the chanting throng.
But it’s nature is persistent and ignores every resistant
trend of barriers as willfully it wends it’s way again.

Now it seeks the final slaughter and it dives into the water
of the ocean at the entrance of the place we call the bay.
There’s a glad “hurrah” of praising to the Lord who has been gazing
down on all his children, named or not, who sought his blessed ‘Rain’.

Into the back of our rusty Dodge ute
off we go to the Saturday dance,
with our Dad at the wheel and Mum fixing her hair
and she's laddered her stocking and cries in despair
while us kids are both yelling, 'Are we nearly there?'
(with our dog stowed away under Granny's cane chair)
and the 'roo on the road takes his chance.

Over the jump-up, she's bowling along
as the dust and the gibber stones fly,
when the cattle grid launches the ute through the gate
all the scones that Mum baked topple out of the crate
and Dad screws up his face as he cops the berate
(then she fusses and frets that 'Your tie isn't straight.')
and the moon laughs aloud in the sky.

Into the hall and straight out to the back
where the other kids chase off a snake,
and my brother says 'Damn!' 'cause he missed all that fun
(if Mum heard him he'd have to learn quick how to run)
so he heads for the hall and a freshly cooked bun
where the Belle Of The Ball competition is won
yet again, by 'that awful Miss Drake.'

Floorboards and hall are a century old
but still spring to the wild Gypsy Tap,
then a waltz gives relief as the dancers with pride
and their chins held aloft almost silently glide
over talcum topped floor (what a glorious slide
on his backside - my brother upends a new bride)
and lands square in the President's lap!

Momentum is stalled but not stopped, forward ho!
on he rolls heading straight for the band,
and his head like a missile shoots straight through the drum
and the overturned drummer in Rugby like scrum
knocks the old spinster pianist striking her dumb
when her dentures go flying, exposing her gum
and the President's struggling to stand.

The shame and the horror on poor Mother's face
and the new words that Daddy sings out,
are quite quickly surpassed by the mayhem that rose
when our dog heard the din and apparently chose
to get into the act with a few of his foes
while the dancers disperse in defence of their toes
from this unscheduled welterweight bout.

Dog fights at best are confined to the street
but tradition's surrendered with glee,
on the slippery boards there's a dozen or more
as a riot of legs that won't grip to the floor
slip and slide in a tangle of skin fur and gore
and the supper cakes splatter the dancers and door
while a Poodle has pikelets for tea.

Fate can be kind for old Myrtle McGraw
has contrived to attend with her cat,
to her lace covered bosom she thrusts it in fear
when a bloody great Doberman leaps for its ear
and it shoots up her skirt like a truck in top gear
where its safety's assured, penetrating her rear
with its needle like claws in the fat.

Myrtle's assailed by the vapours and faints
and the cat wriggles out from its trap,
an assortment of hounds turn attention therefore
to a far better option for raising the score
(an electrified cat shooting straight for the door…)
with allegiance decreed and a unified roar
all the canines depart for the scrap.

The hall's like a wreck from an air bombing raid
Miss McGraw's still out cold on the floor,
the poor President's walking with difficulty
and the upended bride says she wants to be free
while my brother is hiding way up in a tree
so my Dad's taking out his frustration on me
and our dog's got no tail anymore.

I'm sat in the ute and we're heading for home
though my brother is standing upright,
he's hoping tomorrow his backside will heal
and he's grounded for life because that is the deal
that our Daddy laid down when he said 'It's for real!'
but between you and me I quite honestly feel
it's the best dance we've had…what a night!

Chanticleer
© Ian McFaul

On the sunny side of Crookwell, there's a shining model farm
With a shining model farmer in control.
And the things that make him happy all concern his stock and land -
They bring joy and satisfaction to his soul.

The buildings and the fences are all neat and straight and strong,
The gardens and the orchard a delight;
The hayshed's full, the pasture's rich and dense and green and long -
The whole farm makes a sparkling; verdant sight.

And the stock! The sheep and cattle are in sleek, contented mobs,
They haven't known a hard week in their time.
There's a stockhorse mare he's proud of- a stylish-looking bay -
A mount to make its rider feel sublime.

And since it's good old Crookwell, well, of course, there are some spuds,
Ten acres on a fancy little flat.
There's a chance they'll set a record as the best in all the world,
But I guess we'd better wait and see with that.

Now this farmer has a soft spot, about which he's slightly shy,
That of all the splendid things that make him smile,
It's not horses, sheep, or cattle, crops or pasture, he loves best,
It's his chooks - the very best - by a country mile.

In a spacious, modern fowlyard, there are forty classy hens,
Some pedigreed, and some born of free love.
They are fecund, flash, and fertile, and they cluck and are content,
In the presence of a cock from 'realms above'.

He's a virile, robust rooster, full of vigour and of charm.
With a crow that wakes the neighbours and the town.
He has ruled the roost for years now, and it truly can be said,
That in his time no hen has felt 'let down'.

But the farmer is quite practical, and despite respect and pride;
He knows the old bird's showing some decline.
His feathers may be losing sheen, his comb is less erect,
The farmer's thoughts could not be called benign.

The rooster senses peril, he feels the man's cold eye,
He recalls his own arrival, long ago,
And the departure of an older male, whose place he gladly took -
So he makes plans to keen the status quo.

And so a struggle started, 'twixt the rooster and the man,
Two young replacements came - and went away -
For reasons left unstated. Though the rooster smiled a bit,
And the man chose yet another for the fray.

A handsome, sturdy rooster, just under twelve months old,
His feathers glowed, his face was brilliant red.
The hens nudged one another, and exchanged excited looks,
But the old bloke wished his rival would drop dead.

Still, he hid his inner feelings, and he said, "Now, welcome, son.
I hope that here you do enjoy your stay.
It's a pleasant; peaceful fowlyard - you may find it slightly quiet -
Though we do have games to brighten up each day".

"For instance, I'm acknowledged as the fastest bird on earth.
I could race you round the fowlyard, if you choose.
But I've got to give you warning, that no matter how you try,
In front of all these hens - you're bound to lose''.

The youngster was astonished - he could scarce believe his ears -
This old bird was a dotard, in his eyes.
"Listen; Grandpa". he confided, "you haven't got a chance;
I'll give you start; and still I'll claim first prize".

So the race was set. The young cock gave the old one seven yards,
Marked by a feather stuck upon some mud.
They were racing hard, the young bloke quickly closing up the gap.
When a twelve gauge blew him all to feathers and blood.

And the farmer, quite dejected, went to get a cup of tea -
A comfort that a loser often seeks -
To his wife he sadly muttered "That's gay rooster number three!
I can't believe my luck these last few weeks'".

On the sunny side of Crookwell, there's a shining model farm,
With a model farmer, almost; in control.
In the fowlyard there's a veteran cock - I think it's fair to say;
That he won that little battle, on the whole.

Leaders of the Earth
© Katie Brennan

Majestic and proud, she rises from the deep,
Gentle, yet determined, she awakens from her sleep.
Her royal glow creeps up the land,
The whole world moves to her command.

She feeds us, watches us, keeps us warm,
Strengthens our fields of wheat and corn,
Works hard all day, and rests at night,
The moon takes over, a peaceful sight.

A fiery sphere of liquid gold,
A silent knight, a legend untold.
Without her guidance, we could not be,
She can turn a seed into a tree.

She demands respect, with her nurturing soul,
Building cows from calves, horses from foals.
Jolly and warm, she smiles down on our earth,
Sturdy and strong, never leaving her turf.

She sets the rules, guides us down the right path,
Dare to disobey and you'll feel her wrath.
Leaders of our land, there is only one,
Our fragile earth is ruled by the Sun.

ARHHHH!
© Eliza Stephens

Once at a friend's house, in Goulburn one night,
About three years ago, well I think the date's right.
We were in bed around eleven or at twelve oclock,
But the clock was annoying me, tick tock tick tock.
Chloe, my friend, was sleeping but I was awake,
When I glanced above her head I soon began to shake.
I shook Chloe hard and called, "Wake up, WAKE UP!"
But could I awaken her? No, not at all, nup.
I yelled out for her mum, but her mum was asleep,
Chloe then woke up as closer the thing began to creep.
I screamed out to Chloe, "Look out! It's a SPIDER!'
As my friend jumped away, its hairy legs grew wider.
We went and woke her mum and of course she shrieked,
She got her slipper out as Chloe's brother decided he'd peek.
That night, four people slept in a double bed,
Leaving us wondering where that creature had fled.
Luckily, we escaped from the bedroom that night,
'Cos, it ended up in Chloe's bed. Arhhhh, what a horrible sight!

ANZAC Day
© Brooke Berg

On Anzac Day the trumpets play loud,
And all of the soldiers make me so proud.

Everyone marches in uniform together,
Sun, rain, cloud no worry the weather.

The war was such a sad place,
Anzac Day helps us to remember every lost face.

As a school we lay flowers and,
This is to respect those who fought for our land.

Sometimes on Anzac Day biscuits we bake,
Then we take them to eat after we march by the lake.

The weekend Crookwell was filled to the brim with yarns being spun, poems being tried and laughter a plenty when the annual Bush Poet Awards were hosted at the Crookwell Services Club.

The competition covered people of all ages from schoolchildren to adults and incorporated written and performed poetry.

Ths weekend kicked off with a "Meet and Greet" on the Friday night at the club where patrons and poets alike had a chat over dinner. This was followed by an "Open Mike" where anybody could have a go presenting their favourite poem. The performers had the opportunity to enjoy themselves without the 'pressure' of competition or have a go for the first time. Saturday followed on with the announcement of the Junior Written Award Winners and the Junior performance competition.

The adult competitors then hit the stage, vying for over $4000 in cash and prizes, in the Novice, Traditional, Contemporary and Original sections. The quality of the verse presented was second to none. Humour was 'at the fore' in terms of the Bush Poetry presented as well as incorporating that, streak of 'larrikin' irreverence for which the Aussie character is well known and this is hearty evident, the rib tickling humour that emanated from the competition.

A Monster Raffle was held and major prizes included a Samsung mobile phone (valued at $580) and two nights' accommodation at "Spud Murphy's Inn.

An auction was also held on a range of specialty merchandise.

The awards for the event were donated by Ron Evans who hand caved every one of the beautiful awards specially for this event. His carved trophies have gone as far as England and New Zealand.