Thank you to everyone who submitted their poetry! It was a difficult decision to choose just three! The top three poets will receive a gift certificate and will have their poetry entries published in our May newsletter. The winners of our national poetry month contest are:
"When Johnny Comes Marching Home" by Elliot Finn, "The River Bank" by Gordon Dubois and "Books" by Kaitlyn Gable. Congratulations! See all of the entries below!
First Place:
* When Johnny Comes Marching Home * By MSG Elliot Finn US Army (Ret.) In a strange foreign, land far away in a pool of blood my friend Johnny lay. Johnny! Don’t walk into that bright moonlight! Ha, thought the sniper, he’s in my sight! Shot by the hostile from a hidden lair, whomever he shot, he did not care. Hold on! Johnny! Hold On! Sergeant, I’ve got to go to him, you see, we’ve been buddies since age three. Before High and even Grammar school we were always together as a rule. Through the bad times, over a score and the good times so many more. Hold on! Johnny! Hold On! Stay here Soldier, ‘til we get that sniper and when we find him, he’ll pay the piper. Wait here, I’ll let you know when to go. I know you want to, but take things slow. But Sergeant, he’s out there going fast. I don’t know how long he can last. Hold on! Johnny! Hold on! The pop of rifles, The shouts – it’s done. The sniper has had it, the day is won! Can I go now Sergeant, Johnny’s so grey. Sure thing Soldier, be on your way! I jump up and run fast to Johnny’s side hoping that I find him still alive. Hold on! Johnny! Hold on! His skin is so pale, it can’t be good. He is lying face down, covered with blood, I turn him over to see a hole in his chest. I reach for his pulse to give it a test. His eyes blink open, he lets out a sigh. I hear his low whisper, “Buddy – Goodby.” He’s gone! Johnny! He’s gone! Johnny’s not marching home, you see in a flag draped wooden box, he’ll be. Six uniformed Soldiers carry him home and I’ll be there so he won’t be alone. I must walk beside him, you see we’ve been buddies since we were age three. We’re home! Johnny! We’re home!
Second Place:
* Books * by Kaitlyn Gable My lines are full of more than words, like the worn patch on page 57 where nervous fingers rubbed away the rough edges and made them soft. Of the tear stains on 107 that recall the ragged sobs of a wounded creature. The bug on 63 that flew too close on a sticky summer's day, at a rough table beneath the sun. The memories in words: 49, half way down, holds a nightmare, trapped in a written bottle, 93, a smile and laughter from family, calling her from my embrace. These pages, when opened, release a voice. I am more than words, I am life.
Third Place:
* The River Bank * By Gordon DuBois Water rushing by underfoot, Signs of high water lay about: trees, boulders, sand, silt. Sheets of ice cover the river and granite cliffs, Winter closing in. Ancient broken trees cling to the ledge, Tree trunks riddled with holes from woodpeckers Searching for a tasty delight. Roots undercut by the rushing water. Ancient rotting branches Reaching with outstretched arms for sunlight, Trying to stay alive. Beech tree pocked with warts, Moss crawling up the trunk; Shelf fungus taking hold of the rotting bark. A small hemlock seedling Emerging from the dying tree. Green needles show off brilliant color, As they rise like a phoenix.A sign of new life, Replacing the old and dying member of the forest. The circle of life never ending.
Lumen
by Russell Rowland While the age of many, in obituaries black and white, I have yet to release the firefly I cupped in my hands, a child of ten in Connecticut at night, in a moist meadow flickering with thousands of its kind-- my palms not burned or even warmed, no more than Moses by a burning bush; than my skin by the full moon of my tenth July: moonlight without heat, as in the face of a beloved who doesn’t love you back. That spark I held intensified, till I could see fingers’ veins and bones. All ten fingerprints, circuits of charged wire. I wondered if everything I came in contact with would catch contagious fire, yet be unconsumed. A boy began to understand how cool to the touch is poetry.
I’VE SEEN A WEASEL IN THE WILD
by Walton Stockwell We come to this place called Bretton Woods With heavy parka, gloves, and hoods Our main intent… to have some fun In the shadow of Mount Washington I’d no idea of what I’d see Of Mother Nature’s scenery This place is special, wild, and cold Much wildlife here, so I’ve been told We’ve skied here many times before And read about the region’s lore And seen the tracks of snowshoe hare And looked at the tree bark, moose stripped bare And heard the birds that winter here And followed tracks of many deer But this day brought a wondrous sight Of Mother Nature’s white on white Skiing along the river trail My eyes always scanning each little swale When across my vision…a fleeting view A privilege given to precious few A weasel dressed in winter coat Pure white twixed black tipped tail and snout Scurrying under the abandoned house Seeking to feast on tasty mouse A wondrous creature, sleep and swift Giving my spirits a joyous lift A short-lived glance is all I get But in my mind I see it yet I feel among a privileged few To be accorded this fleeting view Forever in my memory filed I’ve seen a weasel in the wild
SHINE
By Art Abelmann LIGHT SLUSH DARKENS DARK SALT LIGHTENS FRESH SNOW HIDES HEAVY RAIN WASHES DAYLIGHT SAVINGS LONGER DAYS SUN BRIGHTER THROUGH THE WASH THEY SHINE AGAIN
I Love You
By Cynthia Leonard Did you ever wonder Why I love you so There are many reasons Some you’ll never know One of them is caring Which you always do That ones most important That’s why I Love You
Sunlight is Here
By Art Abelmann lest you forget – all must remember daylight left us back in December we endured darkness – shorter days strong granite stater’s – patience pays days go by, negative temps, snow, ice and rain cold winter days add to our aches and pain daylight saving arrived – longer as each passes celebrate, fill them up – raise your glasses a toast is in order as winter residents cheer brighter temps, warmer days – sunlight is here
A Capacity to Forget
By Brian Hayward Children for not the death of guns die Though shocked and alarmed some see us grieving In modest falsity. Tempest Torn we reunite rising Above of Ivory Towers Shining New symbols of redemption and trust. Soon in the dust we once again crumble Fragmented, shattered, rage choked and humbled Upon our foundations of rust. As young adults the cry to rally calls so We shoulder our burdens and board buses The lives of a New Generation are birthed In the blood of a grateful Great Nation. Children for not the guns of death die Yet the politics of absurdity So convincingly orchestrated Create a Swan Song Symphony For those who would perpetrate it. To the children: Let us make ourselves clear Making Amends we hold dear There is no need of us to be greedy. When we demand our Seconds The Seconds we count while Grasping your lives in fear
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