Winning & Highly Commended Poems 2026

Winner

We wheel Pop out on the verandah.

He’s feeling pretty crook.

The wind is up, and the truckle-bed

goes jiggle-jiggle on the deck,

fluttering its Mosgiel blankets

like something at a Social

waiting to be asked to dance.

The old tī kōuka in the side yard

is lashing its swords over the corrugated-iron roof.

Pop’s pills are skating round and round

in a paper saucer. He won’t go in.

He’s watching the tree. It’s fit to bust.

Doc says there’s enough pills there to get

my lovely Morrie (she calls him) through to the end.

The top mast of the tī kōuka

starts dangle-brushing the roof in a wild fuss,

bent low. But it doesn’t go down. Pop’s watching,

watching, contented enough, I reckon,

that all things turn on themselves, and’ll finish off

what they are, one way or another, in the end.

It’s a companionable thought.

Pop always said he’d never outlive granny’s

famous tī. Now I reckon he’s thinking he might:

and even have time to see the old house hit

by lightning and go up in flames. And the sea

climb up Tāwhati Valley and drown the farm.

And the planets slow down in the sky

like dumplings setting in a stew.

Wham! The old tī kōuka snaps. Its big,

mad head falls down, flailing, on the front fence.

Pop’s smiling now: he beat that one,

so maybe there’s more. I can see he’s

eyeing up the big front field and the clouds.

There’s a clap of thunder. Then a crackle of light.

Pop rides the storm. We all hold on tight.

Highly Commended

You open your palms, show me clock hands and gubbins.

I couldn’t rescue the time. The ticking stopped when the cutlery tray

fell out the fridge and everything went flying. I tell you the time is

still going, show you my phone is reading 10:35. Broken

clock bits fall from your fingers as you open your

notebook, tear off a sheet with last night’s bedtime in red

ink. You hold up an empty pot to the dust motes, tell me

you think you ate all the pencils last night, and Bert’s

special pen has gone. You think you need an X-ray. I

scout the floor for the minute hand, head towards your

pillow where you hide keys and Dad’s watches. You block

my way at the bedroom door, say, on no account will you mess

with my ducks, they’re all in a row. And anyway, one is a chicken.

You unwrap chocolate ducks, smooth the next hour of no

time over with yellow foil.

Highly Commended

roasting-chestnuts 

chittering crickets

cling of sea salt

to hot cotton dresses 

green cabbages and

fat red tomatoes… 

lacy lingerie??

coral, turquoise 

electric blue!!

an older woman’s 

sun-weathered hand 

adjusts bra straps,

her measuring tape

a rosary of

joyful mysteries, 

her smile -

secrets kept  

a young girl 

asks for the right fit 

but the woman  

with the rosary knows 

it’s not really the fit  

she prays for, 

but the joys  

of sequins and sex

the girl’s grandmother 

selects a plain white one

old hands touch 

in shared understanding

Winner

I’m climbing

out from a hole decades deep

excavated by the Punjabi men and women

that raised me to feed off

crushed beneath their hateful heteronormative world I could not leave.

They’d pluck the feathers off a boy

to stop him believing he had wings 

so the young man in me never dares to fly

out from this dark well I was groomed for

and married to.

The well watered my family bearing the fruits of their hopes and dreams

and for me, this well was a drought of dreams

the dreams I would never dare hold.

Deep in their murky waters I carry the reflection of my parent’s image onto my

own

in a sinking place where souls go to un-see where once they belonged.

Is this bloody water in the veins of my children?

The water that carried me to fatherhood

Waters that stopped me from sinking?

But I’d been drowning so long

I told myself I was swimming 

I was losing and winning.

I hit the bottom so hard

knowing not how I avoided it til now

when it was always there 

waiting for me to smash against

Crashing through the bottom of the well

shattering the core of my own self image

the lie forced unto me

Now I face a vacuum in which I am the void 

Liberation awaits at the end of the tunnel

but the air tightens in my chest

as I descend toward it

letting go of all those who kept me underpinned to the bottom of the well

My mother can only love me if I suffer. 

My sisters were really only sisters to each other.

I hold my own hand, and the hand of my son, who leads me up to the light and

says “Daddy, I love you unconditionally.” 

And I don’t even know how to love anymore, without fear.

Highly Commended

View from a helpline worker

Door closes, hum subsides. Screen, papers, scratched desk, coffee circles.

Cup sips, window out.

Car park, grey today. Tree shapes break concrete lines. Green shoots brave the cold.

Team smiles, greeting, briefing.

Today, tasks, timings. Projection and introspection.

Phone rings, headset, connect and haptic switch – the frame reverts. Window in.

‘Hello?’ breath in the ear. Strong, uncertain, tense or clear.

First warm words ‘you’re through to…’

Story starts, someone’s world, window in.

Pale grey outlines darken, colours form. Their time and pace. Share much, little, none.

Burst, full colour saturation. Or snapshots, fleeting flash then shutters.

Calls are lives. A hundred, thousand windows in, to unseen helpline spaces.

Wide angles show communities, suppressed or spoken histories, campaigns, emerging

wrongs or rights.

Or macro focus pinpoint lights, a single ‘why’ or ragged sigh.

Calls from homes, streets, waiting rooms.

Shouts, traffic roar, child wails, TV, sirens, wifi cutouts, fails.

Or whispers, clock tick echoes by photo frames of smiling years, of loss or fears.

Trusted, allowed in. A privilege to listen, gently unfold a call and affirm.

A single call maybe enough.

Or calls over many years – ‘me again’. To update, to ask my question, or just ‘I’m still here’.

Calls bridge gaps. Options, ways ahead or just to sit beside. Often no answers but maybe

left lighter or developed a sharper focus.

Sometimes, new choices, sometimes lives saved.

Years of windows in, unseen. Pictures held with care in a listening frame.

Highly Commended

for the students of Chiltern Hills Academy

Listen - they say values live on posters, tidy words in tidy frames.

But values grow in real-life moments, in the grit,

in the cracks, in the calling of our names.

Compassion isn’t passive - it’s the courage to stay awake.

It’s seeing someone breaking and refusing to let them break.

It’s a hand outstretched when the world looks away,

a quiet resistance you choose every day.

Forgiveness isn’t weakness, nor letting go on demand.

It’s looking straight at what hurt you and saying, “I still choose to stand.”

It’s not erasing the bruise or pretending it’s fine -

it’s reclaiming the story, one line at a time.

Honesty hits harder than a truth you didn’t choose.

It’s the tremor in your ribcage when you’ve got something to lose.

It’s the fire in your chest when the whole room’s still,

and you rise - because silence isn’t the same as free will.

Hope isn’t floating; hope is fought for.

Hope’s the beat in your feet when you hit the cold floor.

Hope is planting your flag in a storm-torn place

and saying, “Not forever - and not in my space.”

Love - real love - is radical, ferocious, unafraid.

It’s the shield you become when someone else feels flayed.

It lifts, it holds, it breaks open the night. Love isn’t gentle - love is a fight.

Respect - now this one’s tricky, ’cause they’ll twist it into fear.

They say “give it, don’t take it,” but let’s make one thing clear:

Respect isn’t shrinking, or swallowing your song.

It’s meeting another soul and knowing both of you belong.

It’s not something they steal, or a mask you engineer -

it’s the space you take up when you say, “I’m here.”

Self-discipline? Forget the neat version they tell.

It’s not just timetables, or doing school well.

It’s the daily decision to grow into your name,

to walk towards your future with a nerve that won’t tame.

These values aren’t décor, they’re a toolkit.

A call. A map for the climb and a net for the fall.

They’re torches, bright torches, for places gone dim -

so lift yours up high and pass on the flame within.

Write the poem that rattles the windows.

Speak the line that refuses to bend.

Stand up so fierce that the room shifts with you -

and remember: Every revolution was started with a pen.

Winner

The wind is up, and I walk into the wilderness 

The trees around me are swaying in the breeze 

Like dancers twirling to a nature song 

I see the great God Pan before me 

His horns curling like a coiled tornado 

His fur the colour of earth 

Soft like a hug from a loving family 

I see him there  

Calm floods through me like a gentle wave from the tide 

He looks at me with an ancient loving look 

I felt at one with the world 

His was the presence of nature

Then the god of the wild disappeared

And I saw him no more 

And I was left

Longing for him to return 

Highly Commended

Squelch squelch shriek

Two unfurling wings like the dead of night

Fifty abhorrent orange eyes narrowing to slits

A gaping maw opened and a tongue flopped out

The creature’s throat bulged like it would burst

The Blabbergoogle’s claws stretched out and it croaked….

“Would you like some tea?”

Highly Commended

Ready for take off,

Pass the lakes and streams,

Ready to take on the journey of his dreams.

Pack up your suitcase,

Luggage and supplies,

The world is better than you think, you’ll get a surprise.

Past the boats, canoes and channels,

Above the houses with wooden panels.

Land in France, Troyes and Paris,

Sightings of the Eiffel Tower and people crowded around the palace,

Swoop down to the boulangeries with a whiff of croissants.

Land in Greece, Athens and Corfu,

With paradise beaches for the family and you,

Past the olive oil factory and the bush of trees.

Land in Japan, Tokyo and Kyoto,

Through the cherry blossom trees,

With mount fuji in the background, please do take a photo.

Ready for take off,

Through the Arctic Circle

Keep your eyes peeled because the huskies might be having a snuggle!

Seals with adorable pups across the North Pole with Santa’s reindeers in their

huts.

Finally he’s here

Safe in Chesham

Safe but tired

And our bird has been inspired.

He recognises Lowndes Park and our little train station

One last push to go and you’ll be home

Always remember there’s no place like home

Because Chesham is Chesham and this is our home

Our home sweet home!

Winner

Mirror.

The one that reflects back at me.

My shining waters.

My cold grey skies.

It sees my whole.

The words I speak,

The thoughts I think.

I look into my reflection.

Ominous clouds lurk at the back of the glass.

Its smooth surface laughs at my mistakes.

The sinister smile glowering behind.

My mirror lies deep within my heart.

Hiding there for pleasure.

Or maybe it’s just a figment of my imagination.

Highly Commended

I think I’m nice, why wouldn’t I be?

I think I’m kind, is it hard to see?

I think I’m honest, but liars would say that.

I think I can rhyme, but you can decide that.

I think I’m stylish, all my clothes are cute.

I think I’m lovable, but I’m so confused.

I think…

I think I’m cool, can you see easily?

I think I’m hot, do the boys like me?

I think I’m smart, but don’t want to be nerdy.

I think I’m fearless, but I tend to worry.

I think I’m fun, I’m the favourite cousin.

I think I’m sweet, but I never get chosen.

I think….