2023 Writing Contest Winners
Adult Poetry
First Place: The Spring Cleaning
by James Backstrom
The Spring Cleaning – James Backstrom
Here are the things that weigh us down:
one heavy, brown farm coat with a broken zipper,
too big now for your uncle in the hospice, too nice to throw away.
Buckets of paint mixed in the wrong shades of taupe,
stacked against a wall in his garage,
where funnel-making spiders flock little canyons
among the curves of the cans that turn away
from each other with a touch of deadliness.
In his closet we unearthed the ashes of every dog he owned since 1993,
a few of his loud ties my mother insisted I keep believing fashion
goes in cycles though paisley sparked off the wheel long ago.
No one wears ties anymore, not even the yellow power tie scented in Old Spice.
Maybe we can make a quilt out of grief and slumber under its heaviness.
Boxes of old photographs of distant relatives in black & white
we keep saying on some rainy day we’ll sort through
and scan them into ghosts to hide in the Cloud.
Instead, we binge on Netflix & popcorn.
I’d dump it all, but I am afraid I might lose their generation again.
I found pictures of my folks as newlyweds,
and one of my mother posing in a new smock, circa 1960,
embryonic me in a secret spacewalk inside of her.
Three doors down Mr. Schwartz was not nearly so nostalgic.
His house burned down while he was away.
Somehow a fire started when a shorted wire ignited a can of paint thinner.
He rebuilt and bought a new car and a new wife with the insurance money.
He’s lost hundreds of pounds, he tells me,
The weight of the past and a bad marriage or two,
and any evidence of the crimes he may have committed.
He cartwheels at 70 on his newly laid sod.
“Learning to let go requires the dexterity of a gymnast,” he tells me.
“And the soul of a sociopath,” I think to myself.
Here are the things that weigh us down:
one heavy, brown farm coat with a broken zipper,
too big now for your uncle in the hospice, too nice to throw away.
Buckets of paint mixed in the wrong shades of taupe,
stacked against a wall in his garage,
where funnel-making spiders flock little canyons
among the curves of the cans that turn away
from each other with a touch of deadliness.
In his closet we unearthed the ashes of every dog he owned since 1993,
a few of his loud ties my mother insisted I keep believing fashion
goes in cycles though paisley sparked off the wheel long ago.
No one wears ties anymore, not even the yellow power tie scented in Old Spice.
Maybe we can make a quilt out of grief and slumber under its heaviness.
Boxes of old photographs of distant relatives in black & white
we keep saying on some rainy day we’ll sort through
and scan them into ghosts to hide in the Cloud.
Instead, we binge on Netflix & popcorn.
I’d dump it all, but I am afraid I might lose their generation again.
I found pictures of my folks as newlyweds,
and one of my mother posing in a new smock, circa 1960,
embryonic me in a secret spacewalk inside of her.
Three doors down Mr. Schwartz was not nearly so nostalgic.
His house burned down while he was away.
Somehow a fire started when a shorted wire ignited a can of paint thinner.
He rebuilt and bought a new car and a new wife with the insurance money.
He’s lost hundreds of pounds, he tells me,
The weight of the past and a bad marriage or two,
and any evidence of the crimes he may have committed.
He cartwheels at 70 on his newly laid sod.
“Learning to let go requires the dexterity of a gymnast,” he tells me.
“And the soul of a sociopath,” I think to myself.
Second Place: Elysian Fields
byJean Dubois
The night that Mother died
I knew before they called me
I saw her
waking not dream
clear I saw her
hair wheat-gold again
floating free behind her
across green Elysian fields
she ran to Dad
standing on the far side
arms outstretched
I watched them turn and go
hand in hand
young lovers
but for me – nothing
no wave
no kiss blown back on crystal air
no last goodbye
I knew before they called me
I saw her
waking not dream
clear I saw her
hair wheat-gold again
floating free behind her
across green Elysian fields
she ran to Dad
standing on the far side
arms outstretched
I watched them turn and go
hand in hand
young lovers
but for me – nothing
no wave
no kiss blown back on crystal air
no last goodbye
Honorable Mention: Garden of Bones
by Dan Gilchrist
This place was here before me
Before my father
Before my mother
Or my mother’s mother
This twisting ancient oak
Provider and protector
Reaching over all
Firmly gripping the earth
This wall of stone
Attired in moss and lichen
Solid testament to
The hands that laid it
This iron and wood fence
Soldierly in its youth
Now leaning, still on duty
With well-earned patina
Faithful denizens, these
Have earned their place here
Compelling the keeper’s words
This garden has good bones
Flowers, furniture
Fashionable yard art
Flashing color and attitude
They come and go
Birds, bees, squirrels
Storms and infestations
Parties and arguments
They come and go
The trees stay and grow
Moss, lichen and rust grow
Relationships, symbiosis
Patience and knowledge
This is a place of rhythms
A place of respect for time
For the past: wistfulness and reverence
For the future: concern and hope
This is the garden of good bones
And of stable foundations
Sustenance
Healing
And of wind
Sunlight
Silhouettes
Silence
And still it grows
Before my father
Before my mother
Or my mother’s mother
This twisting ancient oak
Provider and protector
Reaching over all
Firmly gripping the earth
This wall of stone
Attired in moss and lichen
Solid testament to
The hands that laid it
This iron and wood fence
Soldierly in its youth
Now leaning, still on duty
With well-earned patina
Faithful denizens, these
Have earned their place here
Compelling the keeper’s words
This garden has good bones
Flowers, furniture
Fashionable yard art
Flashing color and attitude
They come and go
Birds, bees, squirrels
Storms and infestations
Parties and arguments
They come and go
The trees stay and grow
Moss, lichen and rust grow
Relationships, symbiosis
Patience and knowledge
This is a place of rhythms
A place of respect for time
For the past: wistfulness and reverence
For the future: concern and hope
This is the garden of good bones
And of stable foundations
Sustenance
Healing
And of wind
Sunlight
Silhouettes
Silence
And still it grows