Social Issues Month

Most of Sol's June competitions were judged by our Poets Laureate.  The comments each judge made reflect not only expertise in wordsmithing, but also each judge's philosophy about poetry in general.  These comments are well worth reading, and we not only salute our Poets Laureate, but also thank them for their gracious participation.
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Our topics touch a variety of subjects about nature and the nature of humanity.  The purpose of our all-volunteer organization is to educate poets, and to foster the reading and writing of short poetry.  We are not a vanity press.  Not every poem submitted will be published.  We are a family magazine.  Do not advocate the use of alcohol or drugs in your poetry then ask us to consider your work.  Please read our monthly rules before sending us your work.

DEDICATION:  dedicated to the memory of my mother Anabel Ruddell Lay, who managed to keep her sweet smile while raising six children.

• WELCOME
• LETTERS
• TOPIC ONE:  TOO QUICK OR TOO SLOW?
• TOPIC TWO:  LIFE AT THE POVERTY LEVEL
• FIRST IN 2001:  RISING ABOVE
• THE BEST POEM OF JUNE
• HIDDEN CONTESTS:  UNEXPECTED, POETIC TOOL, HONOR YOUR FATHER

FIRST PLACE - Winner of an electronic $10.00 BGC from Barnes & Noble.

Frayed

Like the afghan she crocheted
we packed her up, trundled her off
when she was no longer needed,
forgetting the love running through
every thread, weaving in and out,
a handmade spell of love and warmth.
Every once in a while, when we shiver
from the cold of conscience,
we pull her back out, wrap her around us
for a moment's warmth, then pack her back up
and shove her back into the closet again.

Cliff Roberts, Fort Worth, TX

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SECOND PLACE - Winner of a Sol bookmark.

Lifelines

For the life of her momma could never
figure out why I came into the family. Yes,
one of those surprise late-borns that
you're not really too thrilled about.
I heard this story time in, time out.
I wondered too how I had come to be
in her kingdom. For the life of me, I could
not surmise the reason.
But living's a funny thing, and every being
has its season and mama too had
plans and reasoning for life.
But at the end, when plans were
stroke-amended, it was she and I
that ended up roommates, friends
and I became caretaker for the life of us.

Claiborne S. Walsh Montrose, AL

Family Games

Your face shuffles the cards,
playing the hand wrongly -
a smile fades when we say
you needed a straight not
a four-of-a-kind.  Eyes sigh
around the table each waiting
for someone else to make a move
postponing the next hand to play
unable to cheat life's game.

Deborah P. Kolodji, Pasadena, CA

The Rest Home Blues

Her bright blue eyes have grown pale and milky;
Her step is staggering and skinny;
She has no remembrance.
Grandmother Lee has no recognizable grandchildren
And her children are all dead and gone.
Not one of them has or had insurance, and
Nursing facilities cost dearly.
The forgotten grandson has a job, but
His wife lives on disability
And they have debts enough already.
Nothing more than love
Can obligate one person to keep another alive,
When life has already passed from Lida Lee's blue eyes
And memory.
Love over gold, life, and heartfelt, acceptable, blue debt.

Coke Brown Jr., Fort Worth, TX
JUDGE'S COMMENTS:  The poet paints a precise picture of family life faced with providing care with love the only resource.  The reader is taken into the home and allowed to feel the emotions of the care providers.  Accurately depicts the dire circumstances of someone who has outlived her children.  Coloring debt blue in the last line is an effective ending.
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Death Came.

wanting for a soul, He
peered serenely through their
cataract-clouded windows
but nobody was home, so
He didn't bother knocking
-- just placed a Do Not Disturb sign
on the quietly closing doors
then went to seek out greener pastures
'cause no matter what's been said
the grass isn't really greener
over the septic tank and
ending up here is about as
horrible as life gets.

SJ Baldock, Dallas, TX
JUDGE'S COMMENTS:  Sparsely written description of a fading mind.  The poem sparks a visual image of the cold clinical setting.
EDITOR'S COMMENTS:  Wonderfully vivid imagery in the use of "cataract-clouded windows." Ironic touch of dark humor in the reference to Erma Bombeck's comedic work, "The Grass is Greener over the Septic Tank" in a poem as serious as this.  Chilling.
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Geriatrics

Grandma's sitting on the sofa dribbling
cream of chicken soup down her chin
and wiping it with her palsied hand.
Her teeth chew air by the side of the plate.
She shits herself
and most nights wets the bed.
She gets lost on the way
down the hall
from the bed to the bathroom.
She doesn't know who I am.
She got ugly and started hitting
this week, and now the children
are scared of her.
We brought her home to die
with dignity.

Jennifer L. Gadd, Kodiak, AK
JUDGE'S COMMENTS:  Excellent illustration of the pathos of age.  The dramatic statement "chew air" may well flash before our eyes at each TV denture care commercial.
EDITOR'S COMMENTS:  This gritty poem tackles head-on the dilemma faced by a family who brought home someone to die in dignity, but find there is no dignity in the long drawn-out disintegration of a loved-one.
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Roll Over Ruthie

1902: At foot of stairs, back broken, small in dawn light. Bersie!
Run fetch Dr. Levy! Can you roll over, Ruthie? Can you feel this?
Strap her to a board, Mame. That should help.
1910: Can you wiggle your toes, Ruthie? Good girl! Has Pa been by?
He said he would come sometime this afternoon.
Here are your puzzle blocks for later. Now roll over, Ruthie.
1920: Shall I bring Margaret in? She's on about Elsie's cake today.
Here now, roll over Ruthie; I'll get that. Are you done?
You can come on in now, Maggie.
1930: Shall I open the window this morning? No. Mama's not good
I'm afraid. Yes. I will. You've much correspondence today,
here's your tea. Roll over Ruthie, that's it.
1940: So! You've finished the afghan? The orphanage will love it.
Yes, I'll post these letters in the morning, Ruthie. Roll over.
1944: Roll Ruthie over Ray. Pull the board out before they arrive.

Maryann Hazen-Stearns, Ellenville, NY
JUDGE'S COMMENTS:  The poet records the essence of this long-term tragic story in a concise manner.  Capturing the highlights per decade reveals how family life continues flowing in the face of adversity.  Compelling and thought-provoking writing.
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crash

racing to beat him she lost
rushing to meet him she stepped
out of the office neglecting to mention
that we should hold her calls
running an automated routine
my grandmother bored began
crunching the memories
the value of past to the infinite degree
her digits no longer could grasp a fork
uncomprehending it was food on her plate
preferring to shred her newspaper to bits
grinding at last to a halt
no control, alternative, or going back
we loved her too much to press power

Jack Lewis, Chattanooga, TN
JUDGE'S COMMENTS:  The title sets the stage leading the reader to an ICU ward.  Family faces the devastating decision of ending a life without knowing the wishes of the victim.
EDITOR'S COMMENTS:  Interesting comparison runs throughout this poem via phrases such as "automated routine, crunching memories, no control, press power"; each one takes on a deeper meaning when placed contrast to a human life.
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Waiting for the Dawn

I gaze into glazed eyes,
that don't recognize. Eyes--
once laughing and vibrant green
I wait
for a small spark,
a hint of recognition.
I wait
for the light,
a once unwavering beacon light,
to return home.
Surely, with
a familiar phrase,
a favorite object
or a beloved granddaughter's touch,
it will. It has to...

Lynne Remick, Nesconset, NY
JUDGE'S COMMENTS:  Title evokes the question:  Is Dawn the coming day or the granddaughter’s name?  Touching story of devotion and helplessness, both frequent bridesmaids in life/death dramas.
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Colors of Age

Pink and Grey upon her breast, Silver in his hair.
Painted rose on time-worn cheek, A bow-tie tucked with care.
Fingers brush over wrinkled flesh, myopic eyes twinkle bright.
Dulled ears still hear his smile, and faded vision view her light.
Coal black suit on ivory chest, brown age spots caressed.
decades together sharpen senses time-robbed of their best.
Nearby a babe, pinkend cheeked plump, round and new.
reminds the couple of their lives, difficult years passed through.
One envious smile fades away as his hand cover hers
would they trade a moment of time for the baby's promised years?
Pink and grey, wrinkled and smooth Silver and dark black coal
Rosy cheeks and deep brown eyes entwined in young and old.
Though what remains may be a day, a month secure, a farewell kiss,
A tearful farewell leaves grandparents in another's care
A sigh of relief and pain closes the door leaving them together there.

M. Rose Steed, Roseville, CA
JUDGE'S COMMENTS:  Juxtaposition of age and youth flows evenly in this warm poem.  Years of love as devotion are captured by the rhymes in rhythms matching the heartbeats of elderly.
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Beatrice

Dark brown eyes, dulled with age, a faint fog
clouding lenses recognize only misty familiarities.
Sound above the ambient fluorescent din, persistent beep
and whir of the machinery of life, hope: a click, a beep
-- repeated again
but again, familiar here and there, voices, background whispers
and echoed words: "Mother, it's me." Joan or Bill
the name's bright, a luminous gleam in memory, children
her hair curly, his straight, the dreams of sea green lawns
surrounding tall white pillars and gray flagstone porches.
In the years, white paint chalked and flagstone cracked, weathered
children became grandchildren and black hair, ever so slowly grayed.
The gray now strangely green in the haunting electrocardial glow
liquid digital reminders of the fade of life, of hope
of a candle light as the flame crumbles to ash.

James M. Thompson, Baytown, TX
EDITOR'S COMMENTS:  Charged with vividly clear images.
 

FIRST PLACE - Winner of a $10.00 electronic book gift certificate.

Red and Yellow, Black and White

You read me and assume I'm black - like no other woman
Knows prejudice and poverty, oppression or abuse?
Like no other woman knows about EEOC or AFDC or
Grants-in-aid so we, too, get a bigger slice of life?
Well I say: "Girlfriend, your racism is showing!"
Better pull it up higher under your armpits so
It don't hang down below your skirt.
Sister, there is all kinds of slavery...
And I've been a slave to hard times and hard work
Same as you.

SJ Baldock, Dallas, TX

John Masefield (former Poet Laureate of Great Britain) once quoted Michaelangelo speaking about art, "The only light which counts for a work of art is the light of the piazza (public square)". For Masefield, the "light which counts" for a poem is that it must be made to be spoken. This poem satisfies that requirement. It will stand tall in any of today's piazzas. Very powerful piece!
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SECOND PLACE - Winner of a Sol bookmark.

Section-8 - Surprise Inspection

Getting the kids ready for school, getting ready for work,
I must let them in, and I haven't had a chance
to do the dishes yet. Check. There are crumbs
under the toaster. Check. Grease on the stove. Check.
Is there food in the refrigerator, Ms. Hazen? There is dirty
laundry on the bathroom floor. Check. Ms. Hazen, are you aware
of the drip under this sink? Check. Ms. Hazen, these violations
must be addressed immediately. These are quality
of life issues, Ms. Hazen. We don't want to evict you.
We will return in seven days. Have a nice day, Ms. Hazen.

Maryann Hazen-Stearns, Ellenville, NY

THIRD PLACE

Different

He stands there with the team, just like one of them;
his head back, and shoulders square.
The white shirt didn't look that gray and wrinkled in the dim light this morning, his hair could have used a comb, if there was one.
I thought he looked like a prince until I saw him standing next to the others, but no heat no hot water no soap no iron no comb no bed
is written across him like a neon banner tattoo.
Thank God he can't see all this, and feel the shame.
After all, he made the team, and his playing shines.
I'm the one who didn't make the cut.

Steve Ballinger, Arcata, CA

HONORABLE MENTION
Poverty Line

To live hand to mouth
when tiny hands are empty
and the fingers bloodied
ripped and torn from the ledges
the jagged edges of life.
It's not a line, it's a cliff
a tenuous hold, unending scream
falling between the cracks
without a crumb, without hope.

James M. Thompson, Baytown, TX
JUDGE'S COMMENTS:  This short, powerful piece uses subtle internal rhyme to catch us on its jagged edges and deliver its strong message.
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Mary Martinez

Mary Martinez doesn't want to be medicated--
Denial of thorough but harmless illogic
Drives her to the dumpsters for food and shelter.
You can't just round them up and cart them off
Like they do in New York City--
We allow freedom, even if thoroughly illogical, if harmless.
But what of the harm she does to herself?
I see a starving, schizophrenic woman,
Washing her hair in the bathroom at Burger King,
But no burger for Mary.

Coke Brown Jr., Fort Worth, TX
JUDGE'S COMMENTS:  Makes good use of subtle, well placed alliteration to deliver its strong message.
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If Only All Our Bills Were Williams

We're so broke we can't pay attention
to the bills that fall over, burying the
phone as it rings with another bill collector.
We can't pay them, but lie that we will.
Even with insurance, the deductible
is too high to go to the doctor,
so I pretend the ache in my chest
is a muscle strain from the job,
praying that it will go away, and I will wake up
and go to work tomorrow to make too little, too late.

Cliff Roberts, Fort Worth, TX
JUDGE'S COMMENTS:  Very nice. Excellent final line.
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A Gift

Boney knees tucked up beneath a tattered gingham dress
yet the child smiles.
An apple clutched tightly in dirty fingers, A dog barks nearby.
A bruise colors cheek in hues of purple and yellow.
A broken step menacingly taunts any who would dare to climb.
A man shouts and a woman shrieks somewhere inside the unpainted hovel,
but on the porch, a child clutches a single precious apple
and lovingly caresses the shiny red flesh
and smiles.

M. Rose Steed, Roseville, CA
JUDGE'S COMMENTS:  Very nice imagery. Reminds us that hope can come in apple sized packages.
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Bantu

Lord? Lift me up cuz my mind's
drained this tired body. My soul's
too sick to heal, too tired to steal n'
I just can't deal with it.

There is no up for me, Lord.
Just long days of workin', scratchin' knuckles,
bendin' backs, scrapin' these knees.
Might as well pray, for it eases me.

Lord, let the world learn of Swahililand
this place where only pain and plains are free.

Claiborne Schley Walsh, Montrose, AL
JUDGE'S COMMENTS:  Subtle alliteration and internal rhyme contribute to the anthemic quality of this well done poem.

Worthy Words

When the bills are stacked so high
that they get me down,
and the cupboards echo
along with barren tummies;
when illness strikes
with debilitating repetition,
I remind myself of my
used bookstore job, where
I feed hungry minds
leftover words, for only a dollar at a time.

Cliff Roberts, Fort Worth, TX

Prize: 1st Place - Poet's pick of a poetry book from our shelves, or an electronic $10.00 BGC from Barnes & Noble.

Misplaced

If I sit still long enough I'll fade,
become common as the statue in the garden.
I watched robins the better part of the day,
watched till dusk settled their busyness.
Underneath the arbor, now soaked
invisible by night, I listen
to the gentle nestling above me.

Moon-flowers, too fragile for touch,
drape the fence in transient bloom.
There seems a misplaced memory,
an almost audible message
woven in their fragrance.
I want to gather them, bury my face deep
and feel the stir.

Grappling with my mind, morning will come
and the first lashing of light
will fold them tightly back into themselves.
I'm afraid of wasted life.
Tonight the sky is vacant. I can paint
any scene I choose.

Judith Schiele, Brandon, MS

UNEXPECTED - 1st Place - Winner of a copy of "The Bayou Review 1999, The University of Houston Downtown Visual and Literary Arts Journal."
 

Forgotten Sunday Brunch

I headed out to Saunderskill Farms
intent on bread and berries
destined for a lazy Sunday brunch.

Late afternoon discovered sacks of bread and fruit
abandoned on front steps
as newly adopted Gazanias
turned their radiant orange faces
smiling towards the door
inviting family to adventure out.

Maryann Hazen-Stearns, Ellenville, NY

POETIC TOOL - Please note - it was difficult to choose between these two wonderful verses singing the praise of our poets' favorite form:  alliteration, so we "prized" them both.  The first, by Maryann Hazen-Stearns, is totally "alliteric," using only "a" as a leading letter, except in the title.

1st Place - Winner of a copy of "The Bayou Review 2000, The University of Houston Downtown Visual and Literary Arts Journal."
 

The Art of Alliteration

Alliteration accidentally acts as an aphrodisiac,
alluring and appealing affectionately.
Although, amply applied, always aggravates
and apparently activates, an audience
almost arbitrarily avoiding alphabet abuse.

Maryann Hazen-Stearns, Ellenville, NY

2nd Place - Winner of a copy of "The Bayou Review 2000, The University of Houston Downtown Visual and Literary Arts Journal."
 

Alliteration Lunacy

Listen! Lovely alliteration lends itself to language listings
low and large, leading to a legendary library of liberal leisure,
levity lifting lyrical, laughing lines to life's lavish liaison or
littering lackadaisical laments, formulating lumbering leviathans
with laborious limits, leaving only lethal lexicographical lemons.

Cliff Roberts, Fort Worth, TX

HONOR YOUR FATHER - This young poet, now eleven, writes simply, with the conviction that there is no one like her daddy, and lists all those things that endear him to her.  We had many other entries, all clearly written from the heart, but somehow none more touching, or more memorable.

1st Place - Winner of a Blank Book in which to write music or poetry.
 

My Daddy, Martin

My comforter
Anyone's buddy-buddy
Really bad cook
Terrific guitar player
International fight settler
Nobody like him

I love you, Dad.  Never Change.

Emily Katherine Earnest, Smyrna, GA

Sol Magazine will mail no book prizes to poets outside the United States of America.  Electronic book gift certificates from Barnes & Noble or Amazon will be substituted.  No exceptions.
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Write to us at:  Sol.Magazine@prodigy.net

Or at:
Sol Magazine
P.O. Box 580037, Houston, TX  77258-0037
Phone number:  (281) 316-2255 weekdays 8-5 Central.

Sol Magazine's Website:  http://www.sol-magazine.com
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So you want to be judge, guest editor, interviewee?  Tell us.  Judges are asked to write a guest editorial on a topic we set before being invited to judge a contest.
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All poetry remains the property of the poet, except Sol Magazine reserves the right to publish all poems (once) at a future date, and/or to post them to a web page.  NONE may be reproduced without permission of Sol Magazine.  Electronic forwarding is permitted as long as no portion of this magazine is changed and all credits are given.
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Sponsors in 2001:  M.G. Angel, Mary Margaret Carlisle, Lois Lay Castiglioni, SuzAnne Cole, Jim Lay, Cliff Thomas Roberts, Marsha Rose Steed.
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Angels in 2001:  Leo F. Waltz.
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Book donors in 2001:  Paula Marie Bentley, Katherine Elmore, Maryann Hazen-Stearns, Glynn Monroe Irby, Peggy Zuleika Lynch, Carlyn Luke Reding, Cliff Thomas Roberts, Kathleen Elizabeth Schaefer, Craig Tigerman.

Corporate book donors:  Barnes & Noble, Bookstop.  New sponsors and angels always welcomed.  Thanks for your support.

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