Sol Magazine
FAVORITE POEM OF THE YEAR COMPETITION

VOTING OPEN ONLY TO MEMBERS OF SOL MAGAZINE'S WRITING FAMILY
WHO JOINED US BEFORE THE LAST DAY OF DECEMBER, 2001.

 
Below is the Editors' List of Favorite Poems of 2001.
  1. Choose your favorites from this list.  All but one of these poems won 1st place in a contest, including the Poem of the Month Competitions.  The exception, while not a 1st place winner, was a prize-winning favorite of the editors, and so was included.
  2. Send us the titles (or first line where there is no title) of ten of these poems by January 10, 2002 in one e-mail.
  3. Put TOP TEN FAVORITES in the subject line of your note.
  4. Number your list, number 1 being your favorite poem.
  5. Please include your full name and address at the top of your note, so if your list exactly matches the final winners, we can send you an "oracle" award.
The poet who wrote the favorite poem of the year will receive a $25.00 electronic book gift certificate from Barnes & Noble, and, if not a previous Poet Laureate, will be among the ten to twelve poets we will invite to enter our 2002 Poet Laureate Competition.
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
Mom's To-Do List
Brown sugar pralines
Roy's employee valuation
Liquorice pastels
Grandson Trevor's anticipation
Banana nut cake
Son Bobby's expectation
Date-nut candy
Daughter Stephanie's appreciation
Table scraps
Dear dog Andy's reward
SJ Baldock, Lancaster, TX

Hops Horticulture unde CracklePopping

Come the long cold nicht of vinters blousing freeze

I sits upon mine cheeks, unde cloaks mine head from breeze.
Beyond the frosted vindow panes I peer unde beg His pardon
for I do miss and covet my little speck of garden.
Then logz in fire do crack vis mighty hiss unde pops,
I reach for crystal stein unde toast ze dew from hops.
Ze fire unde I do glow as varmth begins to spread.
Visions grow in rows within mine frothy head.
Tis time I sing, unde chuckle, as I prodz a sparking log
for me to get another Burpee's catalog.
Ron Blanton, Alpharetta, GA

Sharp Edges
Green blades stretch
rampant thistles;
bees dart like
stinger missiles;
cute girls catch
coyote whistles;
Cupid writes keen epistles.
Joe Boush, Chattanooga, TN

This Boot of Death

I see the hospice nurse in white.

Her chalky presence
blowing dust across a board.
Your i.v. drip,
an etherizing summer rain.
Clock arms set in gray concrete.
A patio of shrinking flowers,
brown spindles of geraniums,
dandruff of alyssum buds
awaiting a massaging wind.
Meals I cook and you don't eat
a wish will freeze in innocence.
Age is readier than youth
to smile on lousy poker hands.
I tip-toe through the silences,
stitch a tear in roving stanzas,
tape a shoelace, shove its stray
through tiny eyelets of the void.
Spray old beds of potpourri
with ipecac of roses gone,
bring you back like bags of tea.
Scrub my study, shine its wood
as women bathe behind a rape.
Dancing with this boot of death,
I'm all bruised shins and six left feet.
Seven years have passed
their suns and lumpy moons.
The end is still an asteroid
that crumbles as it strikes the sky.
Yolk and white in fragile shell
so whole it could be kidney stones.
Janet I. Buck, Medford, Oregon

Harbingers

Martins light in the loblolly tree

Bringing spring on purple wings
Filling winter-weary hearts with glee
Martins light in the loblolly tree
Herald April's splendor for all to see
The special month when nature sings
Martins perch in the loblolly tree
Bringing spring on purple wings
Lois Lay Castiglioni, Galveston, TX

Lazy Lois' Ice Cream

Making ice cream was a big event

In our childhood that involved:
Milking the cow, picking plump strawberries
Gathering White Leghorn eggs from the hen house
And chipping blocks of ice while mother mixed the cream.
The task of turning the crank seemed endless;
Salty melted ice seeped from the bucket cooling our bare toes
Each of us had a turn licking the freezer dasher.
The delicious ice cream had to be eaten quickly
Before it turned to mush.  The cold made our heads ache.
Later, Lazy Lois tried to revive the delightful event
Using an electric ice cream freezer
But it didn't taste as good.  Something was missing.
Perhaps it was the camaraderie of six sweaty siblings
Laughing long ago.
Lois Lay Castiglioni, Galveston, TX

Wireless Communication
Although separated by distant miles
Each night aboard the US battleship
A son still hears his mother’s smiles
Lois Lay Castiglioni Galveston, TX

(This Haiku, as is the custom, is untitled.)
swamp frog's
swelling throat
full moon
Ross Clark, Brisbane, Queensland, Australia

(This Tanka, as is the custom, is untitled.)
Held fast by winter's
blue-black flinty night, we wait
for sparks of sunshine
darkness cracking on the rim
surrendering to daybreak.
SuzAnne C. Cole, Houston, TX

Childhood
Summers on the screened porch
we play with baby rabbits,
giggling as velvet lips nibble bare legs,
hopping together over splintery floor.
We pull up tiny carrots in the garden,
taste orange sunshine with our pets.
Settling them in our laps,
we trace the veins on their ears,
listen to the hearts beating with ours.
SuzAnne C. Cole, Houston, TX

First Love
As tender as spring grass on the Texas prairie
As sweet as the sap of Vermont sugar maples
As enthralling as Bourbon Street on Saturday night
As fleeting as an April snow in Kansas City.
SuzAnne C. Cole, Houston, TX

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

Solutions
Clutching
Hot chocolate
Friends talked for hours of love
World politics and how to grow
Flowers
Kay Lay Earnest, Smyrna, GA

Seduction
It is, of course, that moment a man recants
his own death and begins a long descent
into memories bunched among mortal fiber.
With an earful of noise he begins
to count backward from infinity to zero
until one foot strokes the other, one hand
wonders what the other is doing.
Confusion, again and again, whispers
a litany of forgiveness. Words, as go-betweens,
perform in the manner of servants
anxious to please, anxious to tell a story,
even if it is a lie. Like rain draining
through empty flower pots, this is how we learn
longing. This is how we learn language.
No wonder we fall silent so soon.
Larry L. Fontenot, Sugar Land, TX

Those Dead
The gods have whispered war, let each sane woman wonder why.
They have no say as men go forth to die perhaps today,
for men are lonely heroes all:  those dead - those still to die.
The gods destroy while women mourn a future passing by.
They have no choice as men go forth to die in disarray.
The gods have whispered war, let each sad woman wonder why.
Strange gods are seeking sacrifice, tho women hear the lie.
They have no say as men go forth to hold those gods at bay,
for men are lonely heroes all:  those dead - those still to die.
Young children wail and old men weep, yet women simply sigh.
They have no choice as men go forth to fight in fearsome fray.
The gods have whispered war, let each brave woman wonder why.
Their silence sings a sad refrain of each unsaid good-bye.
They have no say as men go forth  to conquer distant prey,
for men are lonely heroes all:  those dead - those still to die.
So let the widowed women weep, let history hear their cry.
They've had no choice as men went forth and died too far away.
The gods have whispered war, let each lost woman wonder why
their men are lonely heros all:  those dead - those still to die.
Laura Heidy (Lo), Highland, IN

Down the Old Road
Shallow and skinless
am I in your sight.
Believe I breathe
and bleed and break.
A little like autumn,
a lot like everyday.
Spattering spit
down a shameful shirtfront.
They come with guilt
and a basket of dried fruit
that can't be chewed.
Lidless eyes that barely blink
still shed some tears.
More often than not, John,
I duck, dodge and dwindle
this heart between beats.
So hungry am I
for that long mile home.
Maryann Hazen-Stearns, Ellenville, NY

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

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

Once
Once I knelt as mere chattel, bought cheaply
at the marketplace for the price of a thin gold finger ring
and invisible chains around my heart.  (In China, feet
are bound and women trip tightly...possession
is somehow stated in stunted toe tips.)
I endured a fashionable slavery...stunned and staring
like a steer anticipating slaughter  - (only not in India, where even
beef is more revered) - my heart forever measured in China feet.
I gave him nothing, keeping the secret of the Indian cow.
I took instead, his male children...and feed them milk dreams.
My sons will not grow chains which masquerade as thin gold
finger rings (my joy will be your daughters, dancing on bigger feet.)
Laura Heidy (Lo), Highland, IN

Monkey Bread
Ape attack? I think not!
Butter melted, oozing hot,
Cinnamon and sugar dipped.
Diet bust, scales are tipped.
Every morsel ripe for picking,
Fingers sticky, finger-licking.
Gorilla, monk or chimpanzee?
Heck no! What absurdity!
I'm no poacher, hunter I.
Just give me cookies, cake or pie.
Knock aside the home-baked beans.
Lose the salads, pastas, greens.
Make room at the table's head.
Newsworthy: my monkey bread.
Orangutan? Heavens no!
Pillsbury biscuits' flaky dough.
Quick to rise, even quicker to eat,
Rapid ready, satisfyingly sweet.
Stop this monkey business pow-wow.
Take off the saran wrap, hurry, now!
Unlock the cages, free the beasts.
Welcome greedy hands to feast.
You'd never guess it tastes so yummy.
Zoology sure sates the tummy!
Kathy Kehrli, Factoryville, PA

New York Reporter
Out
windows
they
escape
hellish heat.
Falling
lives
words lost
in horror
mind confetti
paper shreds
smoking
how
can I
write about
it? No
tears
just facts
now.
Deborah P. Kolodji, Temple City, CA

Words Become Poems
Sometimes I take my favorite phrase
connect it to a word or two
and suddenly I hear a poem.
Simple words like sky and blue,
names of flowers or special pets,
strung together they become
poetic thoughts to share with you.
Janet Parker, Leesburg, FL

My Socks and I
My mind, just like my wide Hobbit feet, cannot stand confinement;
I'd rather traipse about in old socks than constricting shoes;
like me, they're comfy,  have stood the test of time,
with only an occasional frayed end or loss of elasticity,
a rare heel worn through.
 
My old sock drawer is a treasure trove of memories,
a scrying pond of futures both possible and unlikely.
It is an artist's canvas, unveiled,  with woolen reds and blues,
cartoon images, slightly faded, of Tweaty Bird,
 and magenta, lilac and knobby white cotton.
My poems often emerge while tugging on an old sock, as if each unbound thread leads me safely from the Minotaur's cave, into the brilliant light of day.  They sacrifice much, these socks, to support their wearer, who whimpers and consoles, feels their pain--and not a little guilt--at being so used, so like the Velveteen Rabbit, who learned that being worn-out proves you're real.
 
Terrie Relf, San Diego, CA
Love's Last Imprint
Relic of once, upon a time--
One black rose, left behind
Testimony to a love that thrived,
Yet in life could not survive.
A melancholy epithet,
To the bittersweet lives
of Romeo and Juliet.
Lynne Remick, Nesconset, NY

I Will...Not

I will not stand by, motionless,

while others take away rights
that do not belong to them.
I will not be silent, speechless,
while others take away freedoms
that are not theirs to take away.
I will remember that today,
the oppressed may be faceless.
If I do nothing, one day,
the oppressed may be me.
Lynne Remick, Nesconset, NY

Cultural Collage
Rooted in ancient continental cultures, they were
seeds carried by wind and water. Routed
by chance - a backward glance before the dance -
poet, potter, painter, sculptor, scribbler, scrimshander, all
found this land. Found fresh forage, found fountains. Fed
well, drank deeply. Old world and new, hand in hand, into
bright lights of a plane prairie palette, here today:
American Artists, down from the mountains.
John E. Rice, Houston, TX

Asperges - September 2001
Wash
me a-
shore.
Is this
my country
any-
more?
Seems there's
no longer
sanctuary
any place.
Wash me
out
to sea,
peaceful wave -
far from
here,
far from
fear.
John E. Rice, Houston, TX

Nihil Alienum (We Know No Strangers)
Emigrate. Might be too late but go. You'll never know ...
Left behind a single line, fading ink in a battered bible:
dep. LIVERPOOL FOR AMERICA 1858. Left CORK
GONE TO NEW YORK 1866. to GALVESTON '88
The only link between before and after, between
tears and laughter, between death and life. A
record of pain and peril, fear and fortitude, terror
and triumph. It's the record of us all. Call
the role as they step into the dark night those
years ago. Call it again. Watch new dawns rise
in each ones eyes. We've finally come to
realize you are we and we are you. I see
you, brother, as you step ashore. Sister, too,
looking to this open door. Come on! Come in!
Bring strong hands and bring your songs. There's
still space, you'll find a place and so much more.
John E. Rice, Houston, TX

Supplication
Turn away
from the fearsome, fanged faces
of Mars and the celebrated
Stars of War.
Feed fresh corn to
carrion crows and ragged rooks
who last fed on rotted flesh
in the killing fields
of eden.
Let the last lingering
terrible sound
be that clash and crash of
downed arms: sheathed swords,
helmets, halberds and hauberks hurled
into a bottomless bomb crater. Buried!
Take my hand. Stand with me
and sing -
sing the sweet songs
of forgiveness and
Peace.
John E. Rice, Houston, TX

Blue Rocker Memory

In Mom's encompassing arms,

I lay on her protective breasts;
my head buried in the crook of her neck.
I am carried away
on the gently rocking tide,
her songs, the soft winds
that fill the sails of my soul,
the blue and white rocker, our ship
on the sea of maternal security,
cutting through the tidal waves of
childish cruelty and self loathing.
Her motherly love,
my directing compass.
Cliff Roberts, Fort Worth, TX

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
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

Language of Love
Universal Love
So powerful and mighty.
Everyone knows that
When love speaks, the world listens
To one, single dialect.
Eileen Sateriale, Bowie, MD

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

Unraveling
What is it he has said?
I try to unravel his words,
so beautifully woven in visions
of ice glazed streets-- still
and windless--a glacial place
where trees stand rigid, and numb
comes to mind.
He says the beast is at the gate,
the kingdom is under siege, and I run
to the closest memory
where he weaves green boughs
and lilac, this I understand.
I understand when his words woo
with the magic of moonlight,
when he says roses are blooming
inside his head, I inhale
the sweet breath of June.
The sun is setting on the city, he says,
something seems lost in the passing
of chestnut autumn days. Oh! I see,
I see the swaying of those words,
as they trail into the park
where walkways become dark
lines that do not connect
and the details of joy
are suddenly forgotten.
Judith Schiele, Brandon, MS

Apoplexy
Some nights
I feel the need to get in the car
and drive all the way from now
until sunrise, but tonight I’m walking.
Not a sound
but shoes shuffling
in dead leaves. I walk
because you no longer could.
I walk because sometimes fear paralyzes
and I can almost feel how you must have felt--
the body goes, the mind stays,
the body stays, the mind goes.
I don't know which is worse.
The landscape holds nothing
but shadows. Dark as grief,
night layers me and I can't stop
walking, remembering--
the road simply ends.
In a fine powdery mist
as if ashes or dove's down,
February snow falls. Over and over
one foot plants in front of the other, inhale, exhale--.
the sky splinters amber. I look back
at the prints left. How appropriate,
your leaving at sunrise.
Now studying the horizon, a pale paradigm,
smoke splits the cold, strict air.
In its scent
you return
and the part of me
that is afraid
breathes in the good smell of aged oak.
Knowing it's not death that's hard,
it's the long dying,
I ease myself back from sadness.
Judith Schiele, Brandon, MS

Quietness Within
May this quietness within turn without
To find its way to others.
And may this peace we share
Bring such a blessing,
It bears more sisters and brothers.
Craig Soderquist, Universal City, TX

Freedom Is Not a Prize
Freedom is not a prize for the strong.
It is the right of all.
Freedom is not the whims of the majority.
It is the obligation to hear the minority.
Freedom is not the right to keep others down.
It is the responsibility to lift others up.
Freedom is not the license to do as we please.
It is the liberty to do as we should.
Those ruled by desperate clinging to their possessions and privileges
Or by hatred and contempt for others
Are not truly free - they are slaves to their own selves.
The truly free spirit recognizes truth
And is passionately concerned for justice
And knows there is no real freedom for anybody
Until there is freedom for everybody.
Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX

Genshi Bukadan (Original Child Bomb)
Ashen images, gray-green patterns
of humanity, swirled on the ground
near blurred silhouettes on blackened walls
as the city blossomed verdant growth.
Morning glories and day lilies grew
in the ashes and around the bricks:
fissured remnants of second sunrise.
Genshi Bukadan echoed that day
in the mountains and the valleys
but it touched the city in silence
and stroked it with its fiery fingers.
Hiroshima, vast river city
scarlet fire walked your shattered shores
and ashen images swirled away.
James M. Thompson, Baytown, TX

A Rebirth
Blood

To drip of color, blood red of pride

a wave in the breeze, its striped movement
a fire, core deep, magma heat
felt in our coldest, darkest hour.
Light

A dim light of words read of a need

building intensity, from whispers to shouts
line by line, sentence by sentence, a verse
at sunrise -- a gloaming knowledge.
Jazz

A morning of sound, heartbeat of rhythm

in the sway of grasses, the wind on a reed
saxophone moaning of sunshine on brass
staccato breath, a jazz and a nation again.
James M. Thompson, Baytown, TX

Et Tu

The woods in March are a consoling place,

New growth just now adorning the trees with grace.
Can you hear the brook babbling over the rocks?
Can you feel the daffodils tickling your socks?
Not so for Caesar who on the Ides of March said, "Et tu"
Thinking, "Brutus, I should have paid more attention to you."
A trusted one stabbed him at the head of the pack;
Death's icy fingers sent chills down his moistened back.
The sky now turns from purple to crimson as sunset looms
But I only feel damp air adding to my list of glooms.
The air - it's moister now that the sun has set.
Yet it's not the dampness that makes my eyes wet.
I cry thinking about the smell of her hair,
But as I turn on the log, alas she's not there.
Darkness now veils the beauty of the trees.
Frogs and crickets dampen the brook's melodies.
It was on the Ides of March, she said, "No more."
Her words like swords stabbed me to the core.
The bubbling brook and the daffodils don't ease my pain
Nor does the harmony of a frog chorus refrain.
In between sniffles, I smell the rich scent of fir,
Yet it does little to ease my memories of her.
She was my mate, my friend, and my life
For years I happily called her my wife.
The job took me away from the woods and my bride
The forest is still here, but she's abandoned my side.
"Maybe my love, I should have paid more attention to you."
As dew drops stab my back, I look to the trees and say, "Et tu?"
Andrew Verrett, Kenneth City, FL

Autumn Mandala
Along the edges of the wood
the birch's leaves have turned to gold
encircling forest maple fire.
I'd take you with me if I could
on leafy paths and I would hold
you midst those trees while our desire
rose up around us as a fire should,
as passion flared in days of old
before we sank into the mire
forgetting as but mortals would
the way it was before flesh grew cold.
Our colors wax and then retire
just as the edges of this wood
where birch's leaves have turned to gold
encircling forest maple fire.
Gary Wade, South Burlington, VT

Sometimes we are no more than company
In a room touched by thought
graced upon the walls
for quiet reading
our lives pass in heartbeats
unheard but seen,
I share silence with you,
not a word spent,
no wasted breath
beyond simple exhalation.
Gary Wade, South Burlington, VT

Octopi
From tip to tip, arms writhe and slip,
sly restless, slithering color whips.
Slow-motion crawlers radiate and sink,
ripple and blink, sucking velocity from indigo ink.
Pouring out of their shrouded lairs,
their baleful eyes glare, their fury bares.
Brooding and plotting, expanding storms
slyly drag their writhing forms along the paths of confident arms.
I worry when they descend from burrows. They hurry,
leaping and whipping like gossamer, a slurry
of tentacles flying from amphorae and pots.
Their suckering plots connect the dots
to imagination. Like grasping primordial drains,
unthinkably alien octopi draw fear from slow swimmers' brains.
Candace A. York, Austin, TX

Ancients

a flash streaks, bolts

an ancient splits
for days the rain
poured, knew this one
mother nature tagged
would fall
before wind's breath
blushed faintest warmth
roots never saw
the sky shoot fire
too busy drowning
underground
the forest always
hears death sounds
needs no mortal ears around
adorns the dead
with fragrant moss
tucks ferns that spread, fan
brightest green
in honor of these ancient ones
that stood for unknown centuries
Rochelle E Zumwalt, Federal Way, WA

 
 

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