The Forgotten Boat By Kate North   She'd had her day, the old boat. Laying on her side, far away from sea and tide. Grass grew between her planks. No one thought to give her thanks, For all the work she had done, going out in rain and sun. Her anchor in the earth held fast, strong winds Came through tore off her mast. And up the rusty anchor chain, ivy grew to hide her pain. Wild flowers bloomed in sun dried ground.   She was first sold for just twelve pound. Those were the days, when painted bright green. The best fishing boat, that ever was seen. Her mast, Tall, stained dark, with white sails. She run fore the wind, out run humpback whales. Dolphin's would play at her bow and her stern. Her skipper was proud of the money he earned.   He'd stand legs braced against the wind. Hands held fast to the wheel, lest she spin. Then homeward he turned, full of good cheer. In front of his fire, down a whiskey or beer.   The old boat remembered, but knew she was done. All she could do, was  rot in the sun.   I looked at her, I felt her pain. If I had the money she would sail once again. But I am not able to work such a deed. The skipper is gone now, the last of his breed.

A cockatoo, a casserole and a game of cards. By Alex (13) 2007 I sat on the couch and looked at the sky, when a really weird sight caught my eye. A cockatoo swooped in and perched on my foot, he said, “I was just wondering if you could cook. My casserole for me-see I don’t have a fire, Me mate says he has one but he’s such a liar. I just stared at him (as you would do, It’s not every day you see a talking cockatoo). The cockatoo flew up and looked at my head, “Are you all right mate? Your face is all red.” After a while I came to terms, smuggled ‘Cockie’ into my room and fed him some worms. I waited till mum was well out of the way, She was off shopping so we had the rest of the day. I turned on the oven and asked for the temperature, Cockie told me 180C but we’d forgotten one feature. The cockatoo placed the casserole on a dish, I couldn’t believe what I was doing, just had to wait for it to finish. While we were waiting we used cards to play cheats, It turned out that Cockie was quite difficult to beat. When Cockie left with his dinner I realised what I’d just done, I’d just spent the whole day chatting to a cockatoo, now that’s what I call Fun!

“A Kokoda Trekkies Tribute.” (We Ragged Bloody Kokodiatrics) The New Guinea jungle is magic at night time. You’ll have some excitement if here at the right time. So close eyes and listen – it’s turn out the light time. Reflection will help you to crash. Doze off in your tent, and get off on your armpits. Forget snakes and mozzies, and all of the sore bits, and drift as you marvel, at our bunch of misfits, and morning will dawn in a flash. Now Trekkies up here are becoming prolific, from west of Fremantle, to west of Pacific. We plod to Kokoda - a sight quite horrific, at quite a pace less than a dash. We Trekkies are experts at slipping and sliding and going arse-up in a show that’s providing our mates with some joy, so it’s hard when deciding, just who, on each day, wins the cash? From the time that our first bloke fell flat on his back, in the sucking black mud of the Kokoda Track, we all yelled our approval, and “Get up – you hack.” A Trekky has just had a crash. As our local guides watch our ungainly parade, of overweight oafs, using poles they have made to save us from skiing, o’er the lip down the glade, They’ll reach out and help in a flash”. Our wonderful native mates string out the bush ropes, at rivers and crossings for our bunch of fat dopes, and offer support, for we must seem like ’no-hopes’ Yet none of us went the ‘big splash’. With our average age about seventy six, (and that’s tossing in young blokes, and counting the chicks) we all hobble and slither on our walking sticks, but on through the jungle we bash. Our platoon of old has-beens, who used to be fine, (who were well honed young athletes before our decline) chose to tackle Kokoda – a fair dinkum shrine, with many a click and a flash. As ev’ryday passes our whiskers are growing. We’re lunging and lurching, and puffing and blowing. with steely expressions, and eyes that are glowing, as on to Kokoda we thrash. We Kokodiatrics are not to be daunted, but press on as zombies, and follow as haunted, the footsteps of ghosts of ‘The Track’, where our vaunted, old Diggers dug in for each clash. For we came to pay tribute, to trek and to see what our fathers and uncles did for you and me when they kicked Tojo’s backside right back the sea, with sacrifice, valour and dash. Our soldierly skills are now less than impressive. We like a nice sleep in and feel it’s repressive for old farts like us to have loads, so excessive for heavy packs rub up a rash. But we’d never whinge - No, not tough nuts like our lot. We’ve plenty of tucker at night in the hot pot. We’re soldiering on now, (with dengue and foot-rot) with oodles of noodles and mash. From all walks of life, and from all round Australia, we stand with our grotty bedraggled regalia, and salute from Kokoda, ‘DIGGERS, WE HAIL YA!” Three cheers and three beers (in a flash). Wayne Pantall   September 2006.

The Interior Designer. The grano worker’s laugh alerted each and ev’ry bloke. The ceiling fixer heard the din, and suddenly awoke. The brickie gave a splutter, and the architect a choke. The window man looked down to say, “What seems to be the joke?" The Interior Designer made a big impression. Rarely had the tiler’s mate seen such an odd procession. The plast’rer’s lab’rer’s helper even lost his dull expression. Shifting sewers senselessly slid plumbers to depression. The Interior Designer, with elegance and poise, came strutting down the catwalk, to the chuckles of the boys. “Oh, turn that music down at once; I cannot think for noise.” The builder seemed somewhat subdued to those that he employs. “As Interior designer, I say it must be there. I’d rather not go apricot, I’d like it done in pear. Exquisite, I must have it – If I don’t, I will despair.” The builder took his notebook out and wrote something in there. “That thingy with the doover lacky goes up in the air. I don’t know what will hold it up, but frankly I don’t care. And take away the ghastly wall, that’s holding up the stair.” The workers wondered what which way, and which one went up where? “A goldfish bowl upon a pier; now that would be unique. Yes, cut the concrete, move the pipes and make sure they don’t leak to stain my lovely mural and aurora that I seek.” The builder writing something down, gave out a little squeak. The Interior Designer stated, “Don’t do this like that. The Feng Shui Man will not accept what is not square and flat, with window ledge for Sooty-toot, the snow white fluffy cat.” The builder turned another page, so so that that was that. The electrical contractor, who we know to be Frank, in earnest, queried why the gas pipe split the goldfish tank. “Because it’s art my darling and it’s money in the bank.” The surrealist painter with brochures felt the concept ‘swank’. The Interior Designer adjusted the bidet. “This is far more comf’table – I like it round this way. The ombulonce and vista, tend to point to a display.” The builder scribbled something down in quite a pointed way.   “Oh, what’s two hundred extra grand – my darlings, this is art? My audaciatronic theatre is a spiffing place to start. So pull that window out of there, and take the roof apart.” At which the builder seemed to have a flutter in his heart. The Interior Designer then rearranged the pool, the waterfall and outside loo from the directors stool, the placement of the air-con near the statue of the mule. This dumbfounded the carpenter who fumbled for a rule. “The builder and my client, have a contract - I agree. But I’ve artistic licence, therefore precedence, you see, if I’m to weave my magic for my client’s modest fee”. At this the engineer queried “How much left for me?” The Interior Designer, with entourage in tow, Emphatic’ly insstrructed all “No no no no no no! This window, wall and wardwobe won’t work, therefore they then go.” The builder, trembling pen on pad, muttered something low The Interior Designer said, “My style is unique. It’s my minestrone touch, and what pompulance I seek. Your science is my canvas, Darling - heed that what I speak.” The fluttering eyelashes made the builder go quite weak. The Interior Designer, and Builder at his feet, both embraced their common ground, as each heart skipped a beat. “I’m sure we’ll fill the void where art and science rarely meet. So take me home” the note book read, “Oh big boy, we’ll be sweet.” Wayne Pantall  22/5/06. waynepantall@westnet.com.au

H M A S Jelly and the Poachers. Ten thousand tons of nobbled steel roars in at thirty knots, With Bofors firing ping-pong balls, at poachers pulling pots. The big flotilla spirals round, to drag the baddies in. They apprehend a foreigner, who’s slicing off a fin.   H M A S Jellyfish, brings one boat into focus, To establish clearly that it’s chock-a-block with trochus. H M A S Lettuce Leaf, deploys the fish inspector. Abdul from Afghanistan, (a Taliban defector)   Select Committee Senators, mumble ‘round the Flounder, Rudder-less and anchor-less, no power - she’s ‘a grounder’. Captain Downer berates all - “You naughty, naughty poachers. I’ll tell on yous to Quarantine – you’re marine cockroaches”.   “We’ve come to apprehend you – fish poaching is offensive.” “You offen’ us,” one replies “and we now applehensive”. “You’re fishing here illegally - you must not take our fish.” “You cash us in Ortraya”, came back “dat our greatet wish.”   “We bling refugee for you, and we take shark fin back, To Misser Wong in ship, (Chen Rong) He put in ice on stack”. He gloats with Lotto smile, and middle finger in the air. “I giff my bang accoun’ detail, you put money in dere”.   The Jelly’s Captain writes a cheque, “Is Twenty Grand enough? If you go in detention, we pay more but then it’s tough, Our government will give you Kosciusko holiday, If you promise to the judge, to not come back this way.”   “We wan’ to go to Ningaroo, but fish all gone from there, and Kojak Colar Weef has only water, sky and air. The Bar’yar Weef is all gone too - we take it home ras’ year And at Ablorhos Isrands now, we can’t get even beer.”   “The time has come” the captain said, “to think of sterner things. Have Cabbage Leaf engage at once, with marsh-mallows in gings. Swing all handbags threat’ningly - flash your gay regalia. We must protect this resource - the fish stock of Australia.   “You pay rawyer, leplesent me? – Why Aussie pick on me? I rike to riff in this prace, where the cackers or are flee.” A tough old bosun intervenes and bellows “No, you’re not! ‘Cause this is Stirling Naval Base – You’ve pulled the Adm’rals pot!”   Wayne Pantall ã 21/3/06. waynepantall@westnet.com.au   For More Poems by Wayne Pantall

“Flash Harry and the Fish King.” The sea was a tranquil millpond, a calming emerald green, on the day I swear I witnessed, the fishiest thing I’ve seen. I’m not one to reel in mates, or spin them scaley tales, but what took place out there that day, would scare the fins off whales. I was drifting in my tiny boat, and dangling my line, when this Cadill-Aqua Fifty Foot, near dumped me in the brine. As he screamed past at fifty knots, I copped his Moet cork. Flash Harry and his Bimbo doll, stopped right where I could gawk She rubbed him down with varnish, and put gel in his hair. I felt myself a Groper (gawking), trying not to stare. She looked like a mermaid, and him, a car sales shark. I became a mullet, (stunned), beside his massive ark He boasted “I shall now free-dive, straight down a hundred feet, and bring you up as many crays, as you could hope to eat. I’ve caught the most, the biggest, best, from the roughest, deepest sea. There’ll never be the fish nor man, that can compete with me.” He took a swig of Moet, he burped, and then departed, with a triple somersault and pike, down to the deep he darted. She threw back golden flowing hair, and flashed a wink at me. I turned blushing, Emperor (red), and blubbered “Golly gee.” As I grin Cheshire Catfish-ish, she transmogrifies, from Bimbo to a Mermaid Queen, right before my eyes. Holy Mackerel; Bluff my oysters; how can this be so? “Just sit back; relax” she smiled, “For now we start the show.” Flash Harry shot onto the fish-board, Brando Marlin style, back-flipped straight onto the deck; gone the flashy smile. The King of all the biggest, toughest, fighting fish you’ve seen, leapt right up into the boat, and kissed his Mermaid Queen. He flashed his fearsome pearly whites, and gave an evil grin. Flash Harry greened around the gills. I thought he’d jump back in. “Well, hail the king of fishermen, who knows where they’re all biting. Ya better put ya dooks up, Sunshine. Time to come out fighting.” The fish shaped up like Ali, and mouthed off like Mundine. Harry copped a pectoral left, the likes you’ve never seen. A roundhouse dorsal decked him, but he came back like a blowie. He tried to match up toe to tail, and dong him with the Moet. “I love catching, boofish blokes; I bait up every week.” The fish had barely raised a sweat, yet Harry couldn’t speak. “This jab’s for the plastic bags; the upper cut’s for bottles, the cans, the junk, the undersized, and rivers that you’ve throttled.” “I’ve beaten Billy Saxton too, the big gun of the south. And Rexy wasn’t sexy, when I smacked him in the mouth. What a load of cobblers; You? Flash Harry, Fishing King? Get back up here, yellow tail, and cop it in the ring. We’ve started up a union now, of fish for equal rights. Buzz off and tell your flathead mates, we’ve taken up the fights.” As deeply fried and battered Harry, turboed home to “Mummy”, Myself, the King and mermaid, thought his Moet tasted yummy.

“There is a River in us all – somewhere”   Whether it is the blood in our veins, The thoughts flowing through our minds. The trickle as we make our first tentative steps, The torrent as we explore our future, Or the ebb and flow as we mature. There is a River in us all somewhere!   We all move forward in our ways, we spring to life, born of the earth. We negotiate the rocky moments in our way, over which we eventually tumble with renewed vigour. A waterfall to knock us over and build up the momentum again. Or a deep pool to slow our lives when there is a need to recuperate. There is a River in us all somewhere!   We collect and deposit, give and take, cause irreparable damage, yet we can still placate. In peace we may reach the sea, Or a violent storm may come our way, and revitalise us to continue on for another day. Our life and yours is all these things for, there is a River in us all – somewhere?                         Peter Helsby 2001

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