| 2008's Poetry Contest Results |
| 1st Place: Jacob Allen McLong - "The Shaken" 2nd Place: Karina Pretto- "We Scaled The Fish Before Sunrise" 5 Honorable Mentions Andre Willey - "Evening Stroll" Viola Kendall West - "The Scorpion" Michael Burian - "The Sea Hag" Kyrsten Baker - "Untitled" Kai Mundwiler - "A Night Time Drive" |
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| We Scaled The Fish Before Sunrise Karina Pretto Our boots were rubber and up to our knees, our hands shaking as we dove from the far end of veganism into the shallows of the wild. I had not attached a fish hook since I was seven. A whirlpool of memories: my father's gruff, fisherman's hands, unruly wheat blond hair, ocean-blue waterproof shoes with pink plastic daisies. Beneath the canopy of trees, Dawn began to slice into its writhing, cool belly. No D, no. I knocked it cleanly behind the eyes, watched pain fade into a hollow, unseeing grey. I had not planned on doing it here, like this, the frantic sound of crickets and Dawn's heavy breath. Its scales flew into the river, churned out and rebirthed like tiny pebbles along the shore. Its guts came out all at once, left to rest and dry on stone-skipper, flat rocks. We all must breathe: I ripped out its glistening gills in the shadow of the now rising sun. The sweat of death was on my skin. We sat down in the grass and waited. For only the briefest moment, the dragonflies were silent. Evening Stroll Andre Willey I tell my friend "Check out the sunset" He tells me he's seen it before and Doesnt need to see it again I tell him its never the same Cause the winds never stop and The clouds always roam But hes too busy To look up at the sky The blends of colors From blue to yellow From pink to orange He says its the same sky Which is always there As he looks straight ahead Focused and determined To drive home I tell my friend He's missing out on the beauty He tells me he's seen it before. The Scorpion Viola Kendall West Languid waves lapped at the dock, the boardwalk- rough like sandpaper- blisters my feet; my eyes sting from squinting at the horizon- that thin smear on the canvas where light disappears. the boardwalk was rough like burnt sandpaper on my feet- Cradling a liquid pebble the shade of opal, I tossed it towards that smear on the canvas where light disappears- that sliver of easy smile you flashed me, I’ve seen it before (we changed). I cradled a liquid smooth pebble the shade of opal, traced its contours with a shaking thumb. The horizon loomed towards me, menacing like that sliver of easy smile you flashed me, I’ve seen it before, in some dream where you were forgiving. My hands were shaking, as the horizon loomed towards me, menacing, Clenching its teeth furiously, poised like a scorpion, ready to strike- as in some dream where you were forgiving. The plastic sailboats rock gently, unaware, of the moon’s approach. Clenching its teeth furiously, poised like a scorpion ready to strike- Any minute you will come home; the aroma of spaghetti sauce tingles my nose. The plastic sailboats rock gently, unaware, of the approach, As we’ll wait in silence for the water to boil. Any minute you will come home, and since it’s Tuesday, you’ll cook spaghetti. I’ll open the wine, a merlot you chose because it was on sale. As we wait in silence for the water to boil, you glance at me sideways, with a smile that now seems menacing. I’ll open the bottle, a warm merlot the shade of rubies, I sip in silence - a poison we fed each other- and you’re a scorpion, inching sideways, grinning with a smile that now seems menacing I keep a wary eye on the sailboats rocking in the harbor. Silence is a poison we fed each other, and you’re a scorpion, stinging me with harsh words and accusations (maybe they’re true), I stare at the sailboats in fascination, rocking in the harbor. One eye squinting at that toxic horizon; I consider my escape from you. The Sea Hag Michael Burian There is an ancient tale that’s told Of an old man of the sea; A gray-beard loon who piped his tune By stopping one of three. His fate is known to him alone But his story still is heard - Of ship and sea and destiny And a weary wayward bird. But not of one ship’s ill repute Does that strange tale bequeath; But rather of the hoary haggard hag that lies beneath - Her hair is like a frosty froth, Whipped by wanton winds; Her teeth are sharp as tailors’ knives - Her lips are green and thin. Her eyes shine red like firey coals In the dead of night - Making play of Sailors’ dreams, Giving them a fright. She’s older than the wise old moon And wiser than the age - But who can know her ancient will? And who can stand her rage? Now holding out a helping hand To mariners in need, And looking like a maiden fair - But looks, they may deceive. Grim and sullen, Wild and free Which way will she turn next? Her seeming sighs and heavy heaves Leave sailors sorely vexed - They know not how to have her charms, If she be had at all; And of her vows, she’ll make no bones And many a guy who dared to try Now sleeps with Davey Jones. From high above the mizzen mast, A lookout spots the shore; According to his looking glass, They are at risk no more. A ship is safe, Her crew came through With nary a mark this time - But there is no final falling-off Of this endless rhyme. Untitled Kyrsten Baker ‘Cancer sticks’ Mum called them; Her finger wagging in Marty’s face Like Rex’s tail On a day at the beach. Her cheerful optimism; ‘You’ll be dead by thirty’ Was like a breath of fresh air Through the haze of tobacco That lingered, regardless. Cocooned in his pocket they lay Waiting, Waiting, Waiting For liberation. Marty, Softly caressing death with his lips. Then came the cough, A hacking, rasping echo Through the house, Rattling the single-glazed panes Like marbles in a tin. Your anger when the newsagent Closed on Labor Day. I watched you through the keyhole Heaving and retching, Stuffing bloodstained tissues out of sight. But I kept quiet. Quiet as the whispers that passed Between my clasped palms And the sky. I remember that day With planes on the telly. When hushed sobs from the bedroom Drowned out the explosions. Tears extinguished the fires As Marty fell alongside the twins. A Night Time Drive Kai Mundwiler The empty road punctuated by the bluster of a busted muffler. A dark night sped through with naught but a pale fingernail to light the way. We chat non-commitingly, meaningless words used to fill mouths, not ears. Tradition holding sway. “keep it on the inside” the unspoken mantra silently uttered as we've grown to see the truth as irrelevant in the face of appearances. The dark silhouetted oaks and pines a grand jury passing its unwavering justice. The moon a purveyor of judgment that looks down in consternation at the weak route we take to keep up the appearance. An empty mansion that exudes success but hides the poison run rampant for generations. A weakening of the foundation that's leaked into every bent nail and board. But still we chat. Both knowing the other knows, but unwilling to choose the right words. Rather choosing words of ash that settle and stain us deeper and deeper still. Unaware of the sentence we have attained. Unaware by choice. So home we go, to our Individual rooms and Individual thoughts. Back to avoiding each other. Back to acting the part. Back to keeping it on the inside. HOME PAGE |