The following poets have kindly allowed us to reprint their poems on our website.
All poems are copyright their original owners. Congratulations to all the contest winners!
2nd place, Borderlands category
Boundary Waters
by Lynn M. Hansen
Astride the Canada-US border
between Ontario and Minnesota lie
The Boundary Waters – vast wilderness
of open water connected by tiny veins
to glacial lakes and bogs, surrounded
by ancient bedrock overlain
with thin skin of soil
that supports boreal forest.
To enter you must leave the snug
comforter of the familiar, step
into the quiet transport of canoe,
be willing to improvise,
to portage if necessary,
maybe operate like a desperado, take
the next turn, explore. Why not?
The decision to continue is at the crux.
Should you press onward,
despite head winds,
into dark water as it merges
into diaphanous sky, navigate
by sparkle of starlight,
call of the loon your guide?
As commander of your canoe, check
your emotional compass, throw
fear overboard and paddle
like you never thought
you could.
Dry Creek, June 19
by Linda Marie Prather
Late afternoon light, white and defining
on the Eucalyptus, accentuating
its smooth paint pony skin.
Gorgeous old thing, standing strong and tall
through the seasons,
a welcome at the gate of Dry Creek.
Late afternoon light golden and tawny
on the slopes.
Two days before Solstice…let’s call it Summer.
It’s been a while since I’ve been out here
stumbling among the downed grass,
filtering the wind, waiting on words.
Though it’s dry, tumbleweed have flowers and star thistle is up.
Reeds and young cottonwood flourish at the little spring
on the hill near the lookout point.
But, the trail bothers me—
it’s harder, more worn and set from bicycle tracks….
once it was an obscure footpath.
O well, things change, and I wish they wouldn’t.
I must look deeper.
I remember the bronze marker, rose-engraved
near that young oak,
under the overgrowth and beneath the dirt layer.
It’s still in place…you just don’t see it—
memorial dedicated to Louise.
She has her own tree and her name living on
where the ant and rodent are,
where the moon looks down from its high vantage point.
There it is this evening, three-fourths full and knowing.
And those who will beat drums and chant chants
day after tomorrow, will be glad.
Wonder if the datura will bloom also,
luminously, spilling its potion over these dry fields?
Kids at the Hoop
by Carol Quinlan
All afternoon I hear it slap the asphalt.
Bounce without rhythm or flow
or pulse with no end in sight—
thump and bump to eternity.
I hear the kids squeal with glee
as if their screams can guide
the ball straight through the hoop!
Girls as loud and strong as boys,
cheery and quick. Pushing and shoving
and grabbing with feet hitting hard on the pavement;
and falling without tears.
I see no difference between the girls
and the boys. Clothes, shoes, waving arms,
tender poses—all alike.
Only the hair that falls long
on the shoulders or sweeps back
from a flushed face,
or cut stubby and radical
over a pink scalp like a young and dangerous cactus—
only the hair is different.
2nd Place, Trails and Paths category
A Short Ride
by Ed Bearden
Epigram: I who speak to you am old as the world.
From the poem, Autobiography, by Primo Levi,
Collected Poems
It was a short ride really,
Just a few minutes by car
across town in that strange
semi-dark half orange glow
of energy saving street lights
that never stop seeming eerie.
Presenting credentials didn’t
take long: driver’s license,
insurance card, next of kin.
Do you have a living will?
Yes. Is it on file? Yes.
There are tests: nuclear
medicine, CT scan,
ultra-sound three times,
blood twice. These are strange
machines that shake or hum or
sit quietly as if they have already
preceded you in death, while
in reality they consider yours.
There are armies of doctors
surrounded by hordes of
quiet expectant people, gray
in a way that somehow reminds
of French peasants. They wait
for the next step, if there is one.
The doctors, who now give
you their complete attention,
begin to interpret things,
dispense things, order things
and every thing they do is somehow
attached to you, belongs to you, is you.
There seemed to have been a knowing
from the start, there would be surgery
and you are not objecting.
You listen, say little.
There is no passion in you now.
No thirst, no lust, no straining
for achievement or gold, just the
simple peace that comes when you
surrender everything and everything
no longer matters. It is just this quiet
space inside, calming you, reassuring
you, protecting you. You have little
need of information, no need of
conversation, that last bulwark of old
men everywhere. If you don’t know
something just make it up. Who cares?
Not you. Not today. Today you have
taken a short ride and become
old as the earth.