2021 Writing Contest Winners
Adult Poetry
First Place: Let the Big Man Dance
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Second Place: A Lone Blade
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Feet of feathers
shoes of air completely unaware of a round, beach-ball body turning, dipping, swirling spinning, whirling barely touching the newly-polished floor on a Friday night at the Knights of Columbus Hall The crowd gathers round still as static, stiff as starch waiting and watching as three hundred plump polyester pounds of girthful grace suddenly appear like mountainous magic right before their eyes An optical illusion or delusion, delicate, dainty? Floating above the dance floor Gliding, . . . easy as breathing He is drinking in a fluid song of liquid air swallowing it whole without a care A river flowing freely streaming sweetly completely outside himself smooth and unencumbered by inhibition or ego A fluent journey no seat belts buckled signs obeyed or maps consulted Which then resulted In a sight some would say sent to challenge gravity straightaway “to the max,” but in fact He is now A Dancer flush with meaningful mastery of musical motion He has banished the awkwardness of being shy to the outer edge of introspection; relegated all doubt to the rhythmless ranks of wistfully waiting wallflowers – musical weeds really – discordant notes wailing woefully as they grow along the spectator sidelines haphazardly like tone-deaf dandelions in a perfect field of delicately dancing daisies “Just look at him!” the weeds exclaim in unified disdain “He’s going to have a heart attack and fall flat back upon his partner” But the big man cannot see himself. He is lost in sound, doesn’t hear a word of what they’re saying. How could he? He is far, far away removed from time and space and, yes, this place of wilting weeds and infant seeds of envy Transported to an invisible place Private His and his alone A zone that has no walls or windows, mirrors, microscopes or memory A fantasy place that flows, comes and goes in song Like a filmy psychedelic fog it wraps itself in magic but doesn’t linger long The music is playing faster now Louder too Each beat shouts, yells, elbows its way deep inside the swirling heated fever filling his veins, flooding them with sound and feeling, rushing, reeling for the night or just one song, it doesn’t matter much – all bets are good – it is understood the explosiveness of Now is somehow all that matters anyhow Glorious Now! forever ready to take its bow Piercing, pulsing, ear-shattering coursing through him like fire raging, burning yearning to surf huge crested waves of passion and sweat crashing over one another while swirling strands of uncombed, tangled seaweed hair declare he has no care, no none at all to enthrall but, the crowd is hypnotized obsessed dizzy with deafness, cheering and clapping its hands in collective compliment and awe, “Look!” they marvel “How light he is!” “How well he moves!” But the big man cannot hear them cannot see them doesn’t even know they’re there He hears only the sweet, sweet promise of Escape utter, complete beautiful, alluring and replete with hope A temptress beckoning him boldly A mesmerizing musical mistress crooking her finger and calling his name urgently, before morning comes and she must leave * * * |
They say to hone thyself
To be sharp in defense of your home To help fell the trees, or spear the fish or carve up the deer Hone thyself for the use of others Be distracted with nostalgia dreams-- void of reality No, hone thyself blunt and flat Help thresh the nettles and turn flax into linen. No, hone thyself thin and spindly barely a needle to fillet that fish or pierce this maple, or shatter that ice Everyone speaks of machetes of buck knives or sabers Dream of being the sewing needle or glazier point or hatpin Useful instead of threatening Be the little paring knife, or for the butter—surrounded by company and plentiful for it Common too No one regulates the pins that prick yet they sting deeply No one is wary of the kitchen knives though they are quite deadly No one dreads the fence posts though they cause the most boundaries Everyone whispers and glances at the weapons of war, of violence and cruelty and contrived uses Those blades are the ones that silence crowds That everyone claims they envy But it is the rest of us, dull and small and specialized for the mundane that are sharpened every day while those war-full blades are left to rust as they sit discarded and on display Honorable Mention
Farm House Vicki Hone SmithFarm house
long gone did you cry out when your walls were consumed in flames and turned to ash? When the stories and voices of farm life went up in smoke did they disappear into the ether? Or does your spirit still linger? Are heavy feet heard returning home at dusk where once stood well-worn steps? Can the welcoming glow of lamplight be seen through the distant curtain of trees? Can the sound of children’s laughter the cackling of hens the barking of a dog be heard on the wind? |