April Poetry Contest Winners!

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photo courtesy of australianpoetry.org

Congratulations to the winners of this year’s poetry contest!   A big thank you to all who entered and to Randy Phillis for being our judge.  We’ll see you again next year 🙂

1st Place – Barbara Meeker, “the edge of a poem”

2nd Place – Chelsea Tryon, “Home, 5:15 p.m.”

3rd Place – Ruth Michels, “perhaps”

 

 

 

Barbara Meeker, “the edge of a poem”

smoky haze hangs low in the hollow
where poem and non-poem come together,

boundary between, hidden by waves of grass
moving in response to whispering winds;

clouds curl around like smoke
circling out of a chimney

at the far rim of the hollow –
a cabin hidden

in the shadow of a wooded patch,
a path winds to the back;

in the lock of the door,
a rusted key hangs

or lays lost in gangly grass, a droplet
of left-over morning dew

dangles from its edge, ignites light –
a spark amidst smoky rays;

a hazy semblance of the poet
appears, he plods toward his cabin. . .

so much happens
at the edge of a poem

 

Chelsea Tryon, “Home, 5:15 p.m.”

In the basement a wooden horse
Sways above the cement floor
Calmly, like a receding shore.

Upstairs Mother cans peaches.
I hear the clink of tin on glass—
And smell the humid sweetness.

In the backyard the sandbox hilled and holed
From afternoon play, bumpy
Sand grains sleep between my toes.

In the bedroom Father removes the tie
Of his nine-to-five office life,
Leans against the bed post, sighs.

In the basement I hold tight
To the reigns, swaying light-
ly, like an outlaw, like a knight.

 

Ruth Michels, “perhaps”

Artists say, you cannot paint sunlight, only
shadows as they snake under tables and

slither up walls; masquerading ghosts in
search of a home to haunt. In their silence,

they translate unspoken words into art-forms,
that force open windows of unsuspecting souls.

As an empty canvas battles mastery, masks
attempt to camouflage one’s identity beneath

a skin of doubt. Too soon light’s luster leaves
the crucible of bones to watch as shadows

expire into nothingness, illuminating the illusive
while revealing the wardrobe of our

emperor-self.

 

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