For our annual Lest We Forget Poetry competition we asked writers to respond to the theme of A Personal Story. Encouraging writers to visit Online Cenotaph for inspiration through the personal stories of service men and women. Below are this year's winning poetry entries.  

Each winner received a prize pack including a $150 Prezzy Card. Our Special Mention Winner received a prize pack. The Museum would like to acknowledge the generous support of our Lest We Forget sponsor, Michele Mann.

FINALISTS 18+

He Oranga Hou (A New Life) by Diane Brown 

You threw me to a stranger, 

A soldier looked the other way. 

You were marched on to danger, 

I survived to live another day. 

A small gold star inside my clothes, 

Name Anna, scribbled on my hand. 

My identity an unknown treasure trove, 

Many questions, like grains of sand. 

Years of war we clung to life, 

It was brutal, hard and tough. 

I grasped at kindness like a knife, 

No loveliness or smoothness, only rough. 

I could feel you with me Mama, 

As I boarded the boat to come away. 

Across the world to endless summer, 

Aotearoa, a new start, another way. 

A darling man, stood dark and strong, 

We forged a union deep and true, 

Three children to complete the throng, 

Perhaps, one looks like you. 

Thank you for your courage and love, 

I feel your guidance every day. 

A million stars shine up above. 

I am the baby you threw away. 

Residents are Reminded by Julia Banks 

“Residents are reminded  

There’ll be entertainment” said 

The notice in the room where 

All the “mobile” ones are fed. 

And hands that once held bayonets 

Flutter, dove-like to their bread. 

“The war is over!” Harry cries. 

“I might as well be dead. 

Soon the Entertainment Crew arrived 

With shining dentures bared 

With little hair and little flair 

And little effort spared. 

To the Lady at the Piano 

As the sing-along was led – 

“The war is over!” Harry cries. 

“I might as well be dead.” 

He’s seen a hundred cobbers fall, 

The trenches running red. 

He’s seen their bodies ripe with rats 

And seen how well they’ve fed. 

Once, the fleshpots of the Casbah - 

Now the piss-pot’s by the bed. 

“The war is over!” Harry cries. 

“I might as well be dead.” 

When the call for Peace was answered 

When sufficient blood was shed, 

Still the bombs and bells and shocks and shells 

Kept ringing in his head………. 

Harry turns his wheelchair to the door   

And trundles back to bed. 

The war is over. 

Harry cries. 

He might as well be dead. 

A Childhood Memory by Peter Bland 

-Scarborough, England,1945- 

Anne Bronte’s loneliness chills the air 

Above her tomb on Castle Hill. Does she 

Walk the battlements like Cathy 

Calling for her lover’s kiss? Ghosts 

Are no more than terrible longings. I’m 

Fourteen and I know these things. 

Down on the beach there’s a dead airman. 

‘Is he theirs or ours?’ the grown-ups ask. 

Don’t they know he’s gone 

Beyond borders? Can’t 

They see how close he was 

To them? Death’s everywhere. He 

Keeps me jumping 

But I’m razor-sharp 

Like those girls with cold hands 

Who wait on the wharf 

For the day’s first herrings 

Then fillet them down to the pink. 

At midnight, with more bombs exploding, 

I creep out from under the stairs 

To watch the world go up in flames. 

I’m haunted by that airman falling, 

By all our wanting 

That comes to nothing, 

By the long aloneness 

Of Anne’s cold grave. 

FINALISTS AGES 12-17
 

Dear Diary by Jaime-Rea Ruiterman 

Dear diary, 

He doesn’t talk about the war, 

Not the violence, 

Not all that he saw. 

He doesn’t talk about the hate, 

And the fighting, 

He is resigned to his fate. 

He doesn’t talk at all anymore. 

Dear diary, 

He doesn’t talk about his dreams, 

His career, 

All that he could have been. 

He doesn’t talk about his friends, 

Or the soldiers, 

Not the ones that met their ends. 

He doesn’t talk at all anymore. 

Dear diary, 

He doesn’t talk about the games, 

Or the presents, 

How we used to play. 

He doesn’t talk about the toys, 

Or our fun, 

How he used to act as a little boy. 

He doesn’t talk at all anymore. 

Dear diary, 

Dad is gone. 

The war changed him. 

We don’t talk at all anymore.  

A Man with a Mission by Samara Ndoro 

The Rhodesian Bush War, not a world war, but lives were lost. 

The Second Chimurenga, not a great war, but people still grieve. 

The Zimbabwe Liberation Struggle, not a known war, but people still fleed. 

My great-great-grandfather a Zulu man, 

With a mission to protect his Mhuri in times of bloodshed. 

My great-great-grandfather a Zulu man, 

Experienced agony in the struggle to gain independence for Zimbabwe. 

My great-great-grandfather a Zulu man, 

Could not fight for his Country, so he fought for his Family. 

With a thought in his mind and a war outside his door, 

He knew what he had to do. 

They had to flee. 

Leave the country they knew, leave the country they loved. 

But all shall be worth it 

This will protect his Mhuri. 

Rifles shooting left and right, 

People dropping dead from all angles he seeks. 

Fear in his eyes as his families live lies in his hands. 

One attempt, one attempt only to save his beloved. 

To the southern-east they reached. 

Safe and protected. 

A new life was born 

My grandfather 

who now knows this war as a bedtime story. 

My great-great-grandfather a Zulu man, 

A man with a mission to protect his Mhuri from bloodshed. 

My great-great-grandfather a Zulu man, 

Saved his Mhuri from bloodshed. 

Hi Dad by Zita Meo 

Hi Dad, today we played marbles. 

They were jarring 

I also made new friends, Alice and Gretchen. 

I wish you could meet them. 

We had your favourite dinner, roast pork 

Mum’s wasn't as good without your gravy. 

Mum’s not going too well, 

I always see her crying at night holding a picture of you. 

I cry sometimes too. 

I try to show Mum that I'm strong so she doesn't get more upset. 

But I know that your happy up there 

Grace said her first word today, 

It was ‘Dada’ it was faint but still ‘Dada’ 

I wish you were there to see that too. 

Grandma was there today, I saw her hugging Mum, 

They were both crying and I knew it was about you. 

Grandma comes everyday now, checking in on Mum. 

And guess what we had Bon Bons your favourite, 

We saved you some. 

Maybe you will come down 

And grab some ? 

Good night, Dad 

I love you 

And I miss you. 

FINALISTS AGES 11 AND UNDER
 

Through the eyes of a mother ... by Faazil Ibrahim Muhammed 

Through the eyes of a mother… 

She didn’t have a choice, 

Had to let go of her precious gem, 

Those difficult hug’s and goodbyes. 

Seconds, minutes, hours, days passed, 

Those downcast never ending cries, 

Photos and toys near the bed. 

Those letters came, 

Full of hope and peace, 

Weeks, months and years passed, 

He sleeps now in far far away land, 

Handsome, cute, clever boy. 

Not a single day or night passed, 

Till her last breath, 

Who hoped to see him again.. 
 

Through the eyes of a mother…  

Losing hope by Georgina O’Connell 

Dawn Brakes 

The trickle of light on the horizon slowly getting bigger 

We are at the train station  

Waiting for the train 

A whistle sounds as the train comes into view 

He is never there 

Every day we wait 

Slowly  Losing  Hope 

The line of passengers slowly getting smaller 

We wait in silence 
 

Suddenly he is there  

Limping 

Bruised 

But alive 
 

Where am I From Now? By Ataahua Diamond 

No longer from the wooden pier,  

no longer from the tap  

of my father drumming on his knee,  

until he can conjure  

an answer for the 12 tamariki  

gazing at him, hopefully.  

No more bedtime waiata, nor fables,  

where we all sing along.  

No longer from the marae atea,  

or the adults shouty whaikorero.  

No longer from my iwi Ngati Hangarau,  

found on the spine of the stingray,  

Te Ika-a-Maui.  

With the mana of a champion,  

and the kaha of only the greats,  

we hurtle every ounce of strength that we have,  

into the tackle of the battle,  

the battle for the ball,  

the game known as rugby.  

“Kia ahatia” the Maori cry,  

“Get him,” the settlers shout.  

I grab the ball and sprint towards the tryline,  

hoping, praying, anticipating.  

But a settler darts in front,  

Head bent down low.  

I know what’s about to happen,  

But I don’t have enough time to dodge him.  

BOOM!  

And I’m out.  

Suddenly I’m floating,  

no weight to hold me down.  

The ground floats above me and the sky underneath.  

I spin, spin, and spin, ‘til I can’t see anymore.  

Until…  

FLASH!  

Wait, WHAT?  

Where am I?  

Surrounded by endless trenches,  

Not a daffodil in sight,  

unnatural mounds appear in the dirt,  

crimson, gaping, imbrued.  

Our greatest alarm is neither rats nor fleas  

but the fear that hangs in the air,  

the doubt that “everything will be fine”  

and “it’ll be over by Christmas”.  

He aha hoki heoi ano!   

Nothing will be OKAY!  

Nothing will ever be the same,  

the world has changed forever.  

Now those songs are gunshots,  

and the fables are the tanks.  

No one worrying about sunspots,  

when their life is on the Yanks.  

My eyes slowly blur back into vision,  

a sound of concern in the air.  

I am lying on the battlefield,  

wounded.  

I get herded back home,  

along with the other not so lucky.  

This is not a dream, this is a reality.  

The Great War changed everything,  

the world will never be the same.  

Everything was taken away,  

from them and their loved ones.  

Their children, their futures, their homes.  

But let me give you some advice…  

make sure not to question ye who fought,  

for they still fight today.  

SPECIAL MENTION
 

Dona eis requiem sempiternam by Rhys Brookbanks 

Take up your weary load my friend, 

I’ll lead you down new roads, 

through forests full of silver trees, 

we’ll wander slow to pass the time, 

to feel the rustle of grass on knees, 

and for your jaded soul at last to mend. 

We’ll spend each midday in the shade, 

and find our fortunes in the clouds, 

you’ll learn to love the imperfections: 

to live, and leave small bones to rest. 

And when we’re rid of life’s pollution, 

then we’ll know of what we’re made. 

We’ll stop at every town and clearing, 

and every place the north wind dies, 

and growing bored of man’s intrusion, 

we’ll pause to check the magpies’ nests. 

For nothing flees with such intention 

as an angel: lost but still God-fearing. 

At night we’ll dream, if dream we must, 

of lovers left and battles won and lost, 

all those thoughts from which we hide away, 

and masks we wear to better blur the truth. 

But we’ll wake to find that memories fade to grey, 

and like us too, old conflict turns to dust. 
 

And when at last we reach that final bend, 

and looking, see that our two ways must part, 

you won’t look back, but stride into the sun, 

and I, I will start upon this road again, 

with another load to lift, 

and the gentle company of another friend.