April 2009
FIRST PLACE:
Planting Rice
by Jocelyn Noe
I remember, on our heads my sister and I
carried bundles offender rice plantlets
we pulled on bended knees from a seed bed
near the brook shaded by a fern tree, hairy
as a lion's mane. Climbing step by step
with bare feet and with trifle trepidation
keeping our balance, we trudged the slope
of this hill planted with sweet potatoes
and few banana plants that had
green fruits and purple shoots. It was
January, showering and the wind
was near freezing. With our skirts drenched
we shivered like puppies
in the cold rain. Reaching the rice field
at the top of the hill, we unloaded
piling the seedlings at the paddy's edge
near a stone smothered with
dead white algae.
On bent backs, calf-deep in the mud,
We transplanted the seedlings one by one
in rows and straight lines while
we romanced the sun
At sundown, we straightened our backs.
SECOND PLACE:
Summer days in 1960
by Maureen Ford
My thoughts go back to the meadow crew
And cut long grass 'neath morning dew,
In swarths so neat and flat it fades
On the shorn close-cropped grassy blades.
As the warming sun and blustery breeze
Dry the moist limp rows on one side,
With two-grain fork we turn and ease
And fold each drying layer, mowed wide.
We labor in tandem from headland to end,
Men moving faster than the children.
We chat and joke as we work the land,
Develop sore welts on our soft hands.
Hay teased and gathered, trammed and trussed
We sneeze as we breathe the seeds and the dust,
The smell of new hay, like fresh-baked bread
Is wholesome and infiltrates the head.
The sound of the horse chomping and wheezing,
The peace and tranquility of the day all seizeing.
Sweet distant bird-song and cawing crows
Distract our thoughts from weary bones.
We search the sky for threatened rain
While we drink sweet tea and spot the train,
Which tells us it's four in the afternoon
As it puffs and shuffles along the distant line.
Hungry and tired we finish, head home,
Pick wild berries from briers in the lane,
Or gather fresh mushrooms, birthed since morn,
Stringing them on long stems of fern.
After thankful prayer our vibrant chatter
Fills the kitchen as we pass the platter
Of crusty warm bread, bacon and mustard
Stewed rhubarb over warm custard.
HONORABLE MENTION:
Mama's Pastime, My Future
By Janice Fine
Mama used to look out the window
watchin' people passin' by.
I can still see her young face
through them white curtains,
her smile pretty like the lace.
But it ain't pretty the way
people I knew for years,
almost like they was my friends -
A boy from way back, kindergarten, moved
Everybody moved.
No one said nothin'.
Even the fast talkin' gypsies
found their fortune on a busier corner.
The neighborhood -
a giant heel grinding in hopelessness
Treeless streets, empty lots
Rentin� for less, livin�
With strangers
Can't run - Don't own, so I can't sell to
buy a nice place.
Mama�s past, my future.
Lookin' through torn yellowed lace curtains, caught like a fish floppin' in a net.
watchin' people pass me by
HONORABLE MENTION:
My Backyard Fence
by John J Buchholz
I can not see from my lanai
beyond the fence in my back yard.
Wooden slats veil from my view
events I heard and trace with words.
A faint whistle of a marching tune
reached it's zenith at my backdoor.
Then fades away in morning mist,
like a leaf on a flowing stream.
Children laughing injoyful play
would tantalize my lips to smile.
I wondered when they fussed and cried,
were they spoiled brats or craving sleep?
Conversations in foreign tongues,
irate shouts with four letter words,
sirens, horns and barking dogs,
a pipe's aroma all drifted by.
A backfire from a passing car
this violent shock disturbed my sleep.
In darkness awake, alone I thought
was that a shot? Had someone died?
From episodes I could not see
like an echo or foggy dream,
These undertones would help me grasp
how one must feel if they are blind.
SPECIAL CONTEST WINNER: PANTOUM
I Heard You The First Time !
by Victoria Maynard
To make a point, some must repeat
the word just said, in moments past.
A vexing habit to defeat.
If you talk slow, I'll listen fast !
The word just said, in moments past
so like an echo, coming 'round.
If you talk slow, I'll listen fast,
please, stop that repetitious sound
so like an echo , coming 'round.
You plague my ears incessantly,
please, stop that repetitious sound,
once uttered, is enough for me.
You plague my ears incessantly
a vexing habit to defeat.
Once uttered , is enough for me
to make a point, some must repeat.