Marmaduke Memorial Contest, 3rd Place – Vaughn Neeld

CupidHe sat at one end of the pew,

and I on the other.

We glanced now and then,

testing each other.

 

And Cupid,

in the guise of a teenage boy,

with ear and eyebrow pinned,

sat on the pew behind us and grinned.

 

Many years ago we’d met on a pew—

our eyes locked,

and time stopped—

for a moment or two.

 

And Cupid,

in the guise of a teenage boy,

with upper lip and nostril pinned,

sat on the pew behind us and grinned..

 

He rises stiffly,

his hand on a cane.

My own body aches,

echoing his pain.

 

And Cupid,

in the guise of a teenage boy,

with shoes slashed and clothes pinned,

sat on the pew behind us and grinned.

 

He shuffles toward me;

I raise my eyes.

Years fall away;

again thunder cries.

 

And Cupid,

in the guise of a teenage boy,

with tie-dyed shirt and scalp skinned,

sat on the pew behind us and grinned.

 

“I’ll love you forever,

plus a day.”

He holds out his hand—

then we hear his wife say,

 

“It’s time we were going.”

 

And Cupid,

in the guise of a teenage boy,

tattooed with a heart by an arrow pinned,

sat on the pew behind us and grinned.

 

One moment longer, each other we hold

in our eyes and our hearts

and know in our souls

what we should have known then.

 

And Cupid,

in the guise of a teenage boy,

hummed a tune sweetly as his image grew thin,

and he disappeared completely, except for his grin.

 

 

1st Place, Dealing with Environment/Nature contest:  Holly Chichester

Alternative Environments

Living life in a cubicle
four padded walls of gray, ten-by-ten feet
gray formica countertop with plastic digital chip writing instrument
Ergonomically correct chair tilts, raises, lowers, spins.
Grandson playing in beach sand,
husband smiling, camera in hand against a blue sky
look down on me.

Jeanne down the hall has a window,
one of few.
She sees green (green of watered, fertilized, herbicized, insecticized lawn)
resodded each spring after the onslaught of calcium chloride(salt-free) sidewalk ice melter
Whatever happened to shovels and sand?

A succession of gas mowers, power leaf blowers, efficient snow removers.
Where are rakes and piles of leaves to walk through?

Under assault from “white noise” to give us “privacy,”
I wear noise-canceling earphones.
Making more noise to avoid noise?
Do they help?
Today, yes, but will I be deaf in five years from their use?
Will I lose some hearing if I don’t wear them?
No one knows.

Pristine grounds, yes,
brilliant, green, lush.
No insects, a sparrow or two; so safe for all (if chemicals don’t matter).
Leaves roared away as soon as they fall; snow artificially melted.
I miss shuffling my shoes through the rustle, the crunch, the smell
of autumn’s leaves;
the first soft tracking of nature’s white ground cover.

I sit in my cubicle, in icy “air conditioned” dry, dry air.
I have a blanket on my sensibly summer sandal-shod feet and
sweater over ninety-degree day cotton dress.
I fantasize protesting,
a ski mask warming my face and nose.
We used to have space heaters, but they “use too much electricity.”
“They’re too hot upstairs,”
(there are no windows which open, nor shades to block the western sun).
Does the company really save money by freezing us?

Early one morning a young fox darts across the road as I drive in.
Blackbirds declare territory in cattails in the ditch.
I flash my badge and digitally let myself into my alternative environment.

 

2nd Place, Dealing with Environment/Nature contest:  Joyce Gregor

THE WATERCOLORIST

When the daylight has swallowed the night,
it is my time to awake.
I step from my tent knee deep into dawn.
Nectar burst from Stone Creek’s crevices,
the thundering squall
in concert with a Meadowlark’s song.
From this view, the foothills lunge ahead
reluctant to release their winter wool,
while a warm breath bristles the frost grass,
squeezed by the pressing sun
in a continuous drip, drip¾drip,
never missing a beat.
Now submerged in this current stream of daybreak,
I fold my tent,
add it to the weight on my back
and move on,
my footsteps in cadence
with the droplets of sun-pressed moisture.

3rd Place, Dealing with Environment/Nature contest: Martha Baker

An Etiquette of Hedgerows
(for Helen)On my last visit to you,
we drove to town one day.
The Carolina countryside
was green, silent,
heavy with growth.Bushes and vines
grew wild
between plowed fields;
formed long rows of hedges,
tangled, dense.

Hedgerows, you explained.
Your father (my grandfather)
had always depended on them
to define his fields
from those of his neighbors.

In years past
he had praised
their practical economy,
their simple etiquette.
We agreed.

Here, in Florida, I
always wake before dawn.
A proclivity, you insisted,
inherited from generations
of those who farmed the land.

I walk n darkness,
always careful to keep
my small dog leashed
against loud skirmishes
with other animals.

Still, I have, at times,
disturbed branched owls,
flushed doves from sleep,
or sent armadillos, startled,
crashing through palmettos.

Sometimes, a siren
would interrupt, invade
our morning quiet;
invoke, confirm
the nearby highway.

Helen, when John called
late one night, I knew
the news was not good.
He told the story
in few words.

How you (at eighty-two)
in early morning fog,
drove directly
into the truck’s path.
It could not stop in time.

Later, Sarah wrote me
of your funeral; of how
the driver of the truck
came, brought flowers
sought forgiveness.

After the service, he
was welcomed by, shared
grace and food with
our family. Sarah wrote:
“He was a fine man.”

Did animals, that wet
Carolina morning, watch
from still-dark woods,
from under hedgerows,
hear sirens, shudder?

 

Daisy Robinson Sweepstakes Winner: Ceil Higgins

No Need for Monuments
Far away in Burundi,
Yellow butterflies blanket the horizon.
A young man wearing a dream on his sleeve,
Travels by air water, and foot to reach the Serengeti Plains.
His heart leaps like a fish in a lake,
Seeing lions on the hunt—a zebra felled.
I long to see the stars of the Southern Cross,
Suspended by invisible wires in an African night sky.
Sprawling flatlands, dried, the color of wildebeest dung.
In Tanzania, dirt, rusty in palette, stretches before my eyes,
Turquoise grasses sway like the South Pacific.
Which is the best in show?
All radiate beauty to me.
I close my eyes and dream of falling,
Falling into the Ngorongoro Crater. Thump!
The beauty of people—the best in show.
The Masai of Kenya—young men melding with their land,
Walk in the bush like lions.
Their tall, lean, glistening bodies serve as testimonies to our Creator.
Women wearing breastplates of beads;
Regal beauty like ancient queens of the Nile.
No monuments needed to envision the earliest of times.
I laugh—a giraffe’s long neck sways like
Like a watch’s fob—hypnotizing me.
Spots and stripes—a kaleidoscope of animals.
Ebony skin—splendor under the equatorial sun.
Arid plains weave across the continent.
Lush forests crawl up mountainsides.
Africa—best in show.

1st Place, Strewn Petals, Love Sonnet Contest

By-Pass

So suddenly the rain upon the street,
Perchance, a time to wash away the past?
It’s quite refreshing in the summer heat.
Now, such a rare moment doesn’t last.

Not when yesterday rears its ugly head—
Impossible to concentrate on bliss,
Nurturing reminders of her instead.
Good times, bad times, our days were hit and miss.

What chance to cross paths stalled in traffic throes?
Her face appears through sheets of glass, I think,
Each time the evening rush hour slows.
Except, it drowns with showers when I blink.

Long last, a strange but familiar sight,
Same two vehicles passing in the night.

- Daniel Angel Martinez

2nd Place, Strewn Petals, Love Sonnet Contest

Of Fragile Things

Her childhood friendship brought but pleasant joy.
Two girls as close as if a single mind
had grown with time until they met a boy;
a rite of passage testing twin-some bind.
A jean-clad teen with personality
and burning eyes that flirted with desire
enamored them in ways most heavenly.
Then, both were caught up vying for his fire.

His kisses like a drug were hers apart
While outside love’s cocooning, friendship left.
Yet, fate would wound her with a broken heart
that crushed her mind and left her soul bereft
Who drowns with showers, tears, for she is dead?
Her long time friend, for all things left unsaid.

- Cheryl Wilkie

3rd Place, Strewn Petals, Love Sonnet Contest

Man of Mystery

One day as I unwarily did gaze
on those dark eyes, my love’s immortal light
outshone the brilliance of the moonlit night,
but unrequited passion did not faze
the one whose heart and soul I seek. For days,
I’d sought to win his love. Oh, I would fight
for a mere glance at such a handsome sight.
My love for him is like the woods ablaze.

I see him standing ‘neath the clouded moon;
no light of love shines in his eyes so cold.
He stands and stares upon the crashing sea
and passes from his terrace watch too soon.
He’ll never know how much I long to hold
him near. He has no thoughts at all of me.

- Ann L. Camy

Copyright 2009

 

2nd Place, 3rd Quarterly Contest

The Poet’s Soliloquy
To rise, or not to rise—that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
the slings and arrows, stings and marrows
of ice that await one in the bedrooms of January,
or to stretch L-shaped, a-bed in the warmth
of homemade blankets and memories of Shakespeare.
All the world’s a stage. A comedy? A tragedy?
Should one take up arms bearing flannel and fleece,
stumble down the stairs to the woodstove,
and smother this enemy of the flesh
with last week’s news, last year’s twigs, hissing logs?
Or should one, perhaps, remain a-bed, pondering poetry
and what sorts of spirits bring it to us.
Be they of God or of that which takes us from God?
Mysterious energies lurk about. We may cower,
or we may wrestle them to the page,
praying, when our book is closed, that God will forgive us
our ignorance if we penned with the Devil.
Unsettling puzzles discomfort the mind.
Do we reach for a word or accept the Word
as another ineffable sunrise—of this realm, most certainly—
steals through the gap in the curtains?
But take pause, dear souls. What heaviness is this
to start the day when the stomach pangs of light?
We must survive this mortal coil before we shuffle off.
But to our ache-ful days and wakeful nights,
our tedium, tears, and tequila
we cling wearily with dread of our finished works.

-Cheryl Miller

3rd Place, 3rd Quarterly Contest

Beyond the Yellow Brick Road
Kansas.
Going west on a good Macadam road.
I was headed north.
Like a corn-fed siren,
That road west lured me on.
Tractors, combines, cows,
Wheat stubble, corn stubble,
Corn stubble, wheat stubble.
Milo. Stubble.
Clouds white as angel’s wings;
Sky as blue as God’s eyes.
Beethoven thunder blasts the barrens.
The land billows softly, like a sheet
Floating onto a feather bed.
At the foot of a rise
A yellow diamond glares
PAVEMENT ENDS!
Oh, great. I slide to a stop.
What’s the use of twenty-five miles
Of good blacktop to
PAVEMENT ENDS?
I could go back, wasting time through
Stubble. Milo.
Wheat stubble, corn stubble,
Corn stubble, wheat stubble,
Cows, combines, tractors.
Isn’t this just like life? Decisions!
My old Olds and might look like
Ancient Hell, but we ain’t there yet!
I press the gas pedal;
Ready for what’s over the rise.

-Vaughn Neeld

2nd Place, Haiku Open Contest

Curmudgeon crawdad
burrows deep in muddy hole
hoping for long fall

- Norman Chichester

1st Place, Daisy Robinson Memorial Contest

Western Regional, Four Corners

Ancient Lands

(an acrostic Shakespearean sonnet)

The ghosts of ancient warriors have danced,

Held powwows in these sacred hills and caves.

Ears peaked coyote stands as though entranced

For moments, then moves quickly past their graves.

Once, long ago, this land was fair and green.

Upon the mesas ancients farmed the ground.

Rows of beans and squash in fields were seen;

Corn plants in tiny hills were all around.

On the special days, they danced to celebrate

Rich harvests and the victories in war.

No longer do the hills reverberate,

Ended are the drums, no songs to soar.

Recall the silent music of this place

So blessed by quiet charm and ancient grace

- Norman Chichester

3rd Place, Daisy Robinson Memorial Contest

Western Regional, Four Corners

Four Corners

(a protest in rhyming quatrains)

Two Indian Nations inhabit the land

the U.S. calls Four Corners. Here my plan

is to touch all four states by putting a hand

and foot, each in a different state. I can

have my picture taken with a Ute

or Navajo in warrior dress—big deal!

One way the Nations can recruit

tourists to buy their wares or get a feel

for the desolation they face each day.

The land is arid, full of arroyos

parched from the hot sun; this is no way

to care for families, marked by financial woes.

The U.S., in its “generosity,”

gave this land to the Indian Nations

to appease them for centuries of atrocities

committed against them, seeking their patience.

At the Four Corners stand flags and a monument.

A “rest area”; who can rest in the heat!

I can buy jewelry and pots—money well spent

and try some Indian fry bread, a treat.

This place is pathetic, a hard way to ply

a living—only canvas or wooden stalls for shade.

The blistering heat makes me want to die;

this piece of land, a U.S. “gift,” is Hades.

In its place, I’d like to see green

patches of pasture for scrawny bovines

and garden plots to plant some corn and beans,

a place a family can live, even say, “It’s mine.”

The only things to visit are parched lots,

arid, wind-cracked, blistering in the scorching heat,

a striking contrast to the verdant mountain plots

where ranchers tend their cattle, provide meat.

How “generous” is Uncle Sam to our Indian brothers.

Perhaps one day a casino will attract me there—

Four Corners, providing respite to Anglo others.

- Ann L. Camy

First Place, William Harper Huff Memorial Contest

Anything about Children, 2008-2009

Grand Child

(a villanelle)

Before me, a child so little, so grand—

Eyes open to the light of creation,

Come brush my day with your delicate hand.

Every digit in place, every strand—

What better cause for celebration?

Before me, a child so little, so grand.

Whatever business I have planned,

Now I await you with great anticipation,

Come brush my day with your delicate hand.

Bring on the choir, strike up the band,

I lift my voice high in exultation,

Before me, a child so little, so grand!

We will soar over sea and land

Listening to our hearts’ imagination,

Come brush my day with your delicate hand.

Help me to see, to feel, to understand.

I cannot find a greater sensation.

Before me, a child so little, so grand—

Come brush my day with your delicate hand.

- Daniel Angel Martine

Humor inCowboy Poetry Contest

2008-2009

The Green Horn’s Lament

One evening late at Mather’s place I heard the barmaid bawl
“Boy’s, I’ve had enough tonight, so order up, last call!”
Now, I was not the only gent a drink’n’ there that night
for a crumpled beat up cowboy lay a-lollin’ to my right.
I got a beer, pointed his way and said, “Get him one too.”
He raised up from the bar and croaked, “I don’t mind if I do.”
Both nearly swollen shut, his eyes were like two deep dry wells
he had that haunted look as if he’d lived through several hells.
Raising his glass up to his lips, taking a sip of beer
he said, “My tale’s a sad one if you think you’d like to hear.”
With a voice as cracked and squeaky as an ancient ungreased gate
his troubles and travails he did quietly relate:

“I always yearned to make a try at life out on the range
I was warn out with city life and felt the need for change
so I packed up and left the East prepared to try my best
to make it here in Colorado’s vast and wild Northwest.
I bought myself some leather boots and a new cowboy hat
I threw up more than once from the tobaccy that I spat.
I took some riding lessons, and at cards I tried my luck
and I kept a loaded rifle racked up in my pickup truck.

But still no matter what I tried I just did not fit in
whenever I would flap my jaw I’d take it on the chin.
My life had gone from bad to worse until things reached a head
a local mob came after me because of things I’d said.
That’s when it finally dawned on me exactly what I’d done
and why my very shadow folks around these parts would shun.

I was beaten battered and abused and pounded with the fist
for being both a democrat and an environmentalist!!”

- David Morris

(Died July 22, 2010)

Winning poem from the Haiku contest:
1st place:

The crows scatter now
and the world waits for winter
Night whispers a sigh

- Barbara Crick

Winning poem from the Haiku contest:
3rd place:

Crows abandon sky
to rest on stark bare branches
like ebony wind-blown leaves

- David Morris