A comment from John Rice, Sol Magazine Poet Laureate 2000:

Many thanks for asking me to judge entries for this month. It always seems to be an exercise that restores my confidence in the future of poetry. There are some fine pieces in what I've seen. Sol continues to attract the good ones!

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CONTENTS:

• LETTERS
• TOOL*TIME: METAPHOR
• RIVER WILD HEAT
• POET'S CHOICE:  HAIKU
• JUNE PICK MY POEM
• BEST POEM OF JUNE
• JULY PICK MY POEM
• BEST POEM OF JULY
• Staff & Contact info

FIRST PLACE - Winner of a Blank Book

Gymnast Blake

Suspended on muscular arms,
he flings his body through the air
gyrating away from the parallel bars.

Gymnast Blake corkscrews into the mat.

Tim Floto, Scotts Valley, CA, USA

SECOND PLACE

Elsie Mae

In the tiring comfort of her dim bed
she lies. One arm along her side,
the other, stretched out elbow down,
palm up toward center of quilt.
Hand curved tenderly upward
as if in the act of serving;
would anyone care for more?
Her lovingly prepared stews,
savory soups, spicy chilis -
here have some more sweetheart,
it'll only go to waste if you don't.
Even if one attempted to force
her hand flat, it would slowly curl
back into that shape; the shape
that provides, offers, gives, serves.

Elsie Mae was a ladle.

Maryann Hazen Stearns, Ellenville, NY, USA

THIRD PLACE

Lee Adams

My friend tilts my perception bubble back on center
By reminding me of wheelchair bound folks
When I whine about minor aches and pains
Setting me straight on the benefits of showers
If I complain about the rain
She helps me see life's playing field is even
When my point of view is in balance

Lee Adams is a level

Kay Lay Earnest, Smyrna, GA, USA

Aunt Tilly

Always caused
firm plans to be disrupted
at the last minute...
found reasons why what
was planned would never work...
when you saw her jaws set
at right angles you knew
it was all over...

Aunt Tilly was a monkey wrench.

Janet Parker, Leesburg, FL, USA

Our Mother

Smoothing out our senseless sparring over
Selecting "Fibber McGee and Molly" or "Inner Sanctum"
Shaving off rough edges of disputes over household chores
She shaped us into a family unit living together in peace

Our mother was a plane

Lois Lay Castiglioni, Galveston, TX, USA

Fred Creech

You will in fact observe a man of grit
hands coarse and callused, strong
as any vice and yet, his claim to fame
is soft as silk, he shapes his world
with measured strokes and time.
How can an edge so firmly set in place
the hardened wood
be turned to gentle curves?
It is a knowledge earned
by years of work, that sands
the edges to the final grind.

Fred Creech is a sander.

Linda L. Creech, Bellefontaine, OH, USA

Mac Wiley

lived in a world with his own kind of order --
without much style, it's true. Long-winded
words could not undo the lack of discretion
when he began to rip and hack whatever
sprang up with a mind of its own. No need
for uncalled-for ideas or unruly thoughts --
even ones sown by him. The man had a knack --
or maybe a whim -- for ever wielding more
constructive destruction.

Mac Wiley functioned like a weed whacker.

Avonne Griffin, Greer, SC, USA

My Nana

A dab of wisdom splattered on,
Her lines of justness clearly drawn.
A stroke of discipline she doles,
As Grandma, Mother, wife her roles.
Applying coats of lessons learned,
We're splashed anew with tinged concern.

My Nana is a paintbrush.

Kathy Kehrli, Factoryville, PA USA

Party Marty

A chockablock firecracker
blowing hot-air poppycock
a guffawer of unplugged flatulence
but if ever the juice be needed
he'd be the buoyant one
to exhale life into the
deflation of the celebration.

Party Marty is an air-compressor

Tanya Ruth Larson, Kamloops, BC, CAN

Political Polly

Over and over on the same topics;
Self-aggrandizing opinions spoken for years
scratching the brain surface of unsuspecting folks.
The tedious topics are the same as they were
twenty, thirty, maybe many more years ago.
Like a long stick with small metal spikes
that goes over the same spot, repeatedly.

Political Polly is a rake.

Eileen Sateriale, Bowie, MD, USA

Craig Carver

Chips away at faults and flaws
Gently but firmly wearing them away.
He knows just where to apply pressure
And how much.
Resistance crumbles through his persistence.
People hardly realize
When or how they change for the better.

Craig Carver is a chisel.

Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA

Hayley Thompson

With every frown
she rips through me
the push and pull of emotion
as each word, a sharpened tooth
cross cuts my heart.
Then, from nowhere, a smile
some intricate kindness
and suddenly, I can cope -- again.

Hayley Thompson is a saw.

James M. Thompson, Baytown, TX, USA

My Momma

pricked with comments until you said "Ahem!"
ran basting words through the seams of souls
double stitched character for security
kept her points sharp through
all slubs, weft and warp
basted personalities together
until they were so well-made
you couldn't tell inside from outside.

My Momma was a needle.

Claiborne S. Walsh, Montrose, AL, USA

Marcus Boon

With barely a kiss,
He'll leave his mark.
All tough and rough on the outside,
But he leaves a nice touch.
He's nice to have around,
But soon the time comes
When he is all worn down.

Marcus Boon is a power sander.

Mikaila Zeneth, Ridgeway, ON, CAN

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FIRST PLACE - Winner of a $10.00 electronic book gift certificate from Barnes & Noble.

Slow Esopus Flow

Old Esopus Creek creaks like the old woman she is;
her geese have gone to ground, mallards take cover
under shrub or cattail patch along her back.
Her golden-eyed toads have turned to stone,
catfish are trapped in shallow pools, gills panting,
salamander sleep in satin-silt beds dreaming of the sun.
Crustaceans of cataracts in her eyes are easy picking
for those who swim in the sky, who rise above
the feverish heat of her rocky brow, who wade
through thin shade, dive down through drought of July
as the long low flow of Old Esopus slowly slows.

Maryann Hazen-Stearns, Ellenville, NY, USA

SECOND PLACE

Snake River

If someone came without knowing
what I know, they would not stay
for one day in this heat, this
unbearable, vaporous heat
rising from the floor of the canyon,
resonating back to a passionless sun.
The embrace is suffocating.
But just beyond the rise there slides
a winding giver of life, a frigid familiarity, blue
as the eyes of a lover. It pulls me in,
and I pretend I am unsinkable.

Avonne Griffin, Greer, SC, USA

THIRD PLACE

Rivere du Chein

There we were, dog days spent swimming
in youthful zest unmindful of degrees;
the humidity hanging so thick you could stab it,
slice it and serve it up wet, steaming hot
on a slab. Damp towels draped and pulled up
around us as childlike giggles and angst chilled
late summer warmth until we forgot limp,
sweat-soaked curls framing faces in the thrill of
midday's first-caught fish. Heat took on smells
of scales, the increased sound of cicada, touches
of hot boards beneath sensitive soles, wavy images
rising above paved roads to our Nirvana.
Dog days took on new meaning in name back then,
became a cooling river in August swelter.

Claiborne S. Walsh, Montrose, AL, USA

Texas Hill Country

Last month the Guadalupe lunged like an attacking python,
Swallowed its banks and the surrounding plain.
Today the river lurches like an earthworm,
Fat and sluggish, yet ever moving.
August heat bounces off the water’s surface,
Shimmers back into the air.
A mosquito’s whine breaks the silence,
Cut off by the swoop of a hungry dragonfly.
A woodpecker’s drum rattles in the distance,
Echoes through the tree clusters.
The rains that brought death to the towns,
Gave life to the river and its children.

Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA

Guadalupe River

An army of thunderstorms marched through Texas
Pelting torrents of rain into the Guadalupe River
Sending it racing to New Braunfels with currents
Driven by furies riding hungry wolves
Bent on bringing murder and mayhem
Killing people, deer and songbirds
Tossing homes from foundations like
Dollhouses from a child's playroom
Reminding residents to ask for "moderate" rainfall
When held captive in the clutches of drought
During the burning, seething cauldron of summer

Lois Lay Castiglioni, Galveston, TX, USA

Coosawattee River

Generations of Cherokees spent torpid dog days
Camped on the Coosawattee River
As it twisted past Titan-baked banks
Like a crooked country road
Children dropped into brick-red water
From honeysuckle vines
Braves floated logs for trading with neighboring tribes
To escape the scorching sun squaws canoed
Under a canopy of birch trees
Gathering purple muscadines draping overhead
The bucolic scene remained unchanged
Until white man launched gas spewing motor boats
Tossing cans and fast food wrappers overboard
Only the river bottom rocks remain pristine

Kay Lay Earnest, Smyrna, GA, USA

Cole's Creek

Emerald grass is nurtured with the warm
fecundity of moist air and somnolently
spreads across the sultry
ground, too heavy with its riches
to do anything else. Spanish moss drips
from languid oak trees napping
along the banks of the creek of wanting,
and the sheer white dress
of a young girl floats in the heavy air
until it gives up and clings to her,
an embarrassment of riches.

Susan Love Fitts, Montgomery, TX, USA

Carbonero Creek

Puddles, like stepping stones,
Follow the path where the creek once roamed.
The solar furnace burning bright,
Infects the forest bed with searing fever.
The redwood canopy offers no respite
Though sunlight only trickles through.

Tim Floto, Scotts Valley, CA, USA

River of Golden Dreams

The rain, like shards of glass piercing
the thick, leather skin of humidity,
awaits release from its cloudy cell;
Now, in darkness, it begins its shower, offering breath
as the wind picks up its feet, gusting between these
mountains that, at night, I cannot see; a scenic retreat
so alive with the smattering of pines  by day;  the sounds
of dust settling beneath the trees soothe my crimson mind;
Flaring with inspiration, rendered by the nightfall of
nature's tears and a place unchanged since childhood;
A slide-show of memories, the times we bathed naked,
bouncing from rock to rock along the icy promises of
the River of Golden Dreams;  I am back to write about
it, sheltered amongst the solitude, where all of the
world is sleeping, but the reigning river and I.

Tanya Ruth Larson, Kamloops, BC, CAN

Moss Hollow

When the heat beats down on Moss Hollow,
and the river slows over the dam,
folks gather to sit on the grass-withered slopes
and allow themselves to brood.
Many a dream has been started
and many a dream has burst
beneath the burning heat of an August sun
that many a victim has cursed.
As the fiery ball leaves its station
and drops just over the hill,
folks rise from their seats on the
sunburned slopes of Moss Hollow
and pray for the drought-ridden earth.

Janet Parker, Leesburg, FL, USA

Chincoteague, Virginia

Wild horses don't seem to be bothered
by the heavy, persistent heat beating down on
the grassy, muddy beach they know as home.
They stand in shallow water
and hope for a gentle breeze
blowing from the nearby ocean.
Otherwise they wave their unadorned tails
at pesky flies wishing they'd go elsewhere.
Or they vigorously shake their uncombed manes
to create a much needed zephyr.
Tourists, wearing wide brimmed hats,
light summer clothes and sunscreen,
marvel at these untamed creatures from a distance
not because the ponies are overheated but
because they are not domesticated.

Eileen Sateriale, Bowie, MD, USA

Red River

What times we had, my river and I,
In the sharing of our long, lazy summer days.
I would sit silently on her terra cotta bank,
My feet dangling loosely into her soothing balm.
I, with my eleven year old romantic, guileless soul
Contemplating her gurgling grins, her sighing smiles.
Sometimes I would lean a bit too close to her depth,
Trying in child-hear to understand her softly teasing lilt,
Her whispered prose sometimes winnowing tree-shades
Into foreign lands, enfolding all my childish dreamy things,
Then swirling them away into impressionistic views,
Leaving just me, reflected in her ever-ebbing crystal flow,
Breeze-rippled shadows, dancing round and round me,
As her cool enchanted spirit wet fingertip, toe, & mind
My Red River's cleansing waters gently eased the heat away.

Barbara G. Scroggins, Williston, VT, USA

Crossing the Bridge

Crossing the rusty bridge, blues play sadly in the background.
Proud seasoned river churning hormones: muddy debris
the strains of the blues from those crossing the bridge.
Far away, a tiny water's source, menarcheal waters begin
to flow their twisting journey through the fertile heartland --
Creeks and brooks merge, surging waters, expanding,
rolling, muddy now with the fertile soils deep within.
Waters grow, swollen wide and deep; expanding
as pregnant waters flow on, while birthing rivers that teem
in life, while further on the red brown waters cleanse:
menstrual, fertile soil bleeds its last: time stripped the land.
Slow waters now empty, wide river delta fingers reach out
to the gulf; the unknown, merging with the salty waters.
Peacefully looking back, it hears the strains of the blues
from those who have crossed the bridge.

James M. Thompson, Baytown, TX, USA

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

dragonfly quivers
above pond scum
frog's tongue

Avonne Griffin, Greer, SC, USA

water washed over
cold crescent shore loosely keyed
pebbled concerto

Betty Dobson, Halifax, NS, CAN

slender cattails sway
creek bed ballerinas
crisp autumnal dance

Maryann Hazen-Stearns, Ellenville, NY, USA

moonflower
unfurling perfume
summer evening

Kay Lay Earnest, Smyrna, GA, USA

seasons change
leaves fall
life's shed skin

Roland Miranda, Garland, TX, USA

neap tide brings surprise
phosphorescent moons
held within shallow water

Claiborne S. Walsh, Montrose, AL, USA

featherless, flightless
pip tooth cracking weakened shell
small bird emerges

SJ Baldock, Lancaster, TX, USA

behind a frosted door
an old cat
scolds crows

Gary Blankenship, Bremerton, WA, USA

crows call
cornstalks wither
summer ends

Lois Lay Castiglioni, Galveston, TX, USA

Dimly passing days
revealing dying embers
one fleeting loon sings

Linda L. Creech, Bellefontaine, OH, USA

ripened berries
bleeding fruitful juices
ambrosial find

Tanya Ruth Larson, Kamloops, BC, CAN

morning fog
the road appears
and disappears

Janet Parker, Leesburg, FL, USA

moving tide wets beach
bringing small pools of water
to cool sun baked earth

Eileen Sateriale, Bowie, MD, USA

maple woods shining
moonbeams reflecting off snow
beacons of beauty

Barbara Scroggins, Williston, VT, USA

no-moon night
frigid dark expanse of sky
spangled with brilliance

Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA

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Note that because there was no June 2002 Edition, this poem (from the only contest held that month) is included here for publication.

Thrice Betrayed

I
You picked me purple flowers from the thicket
near the river and I drank unmeasured
honey from a stem so wildly wicked
that I shivered for your pleasure
as I swallowed lilac liquid.

II
When you brought me bloodred petals
from the branches in the briar -
when mad bluebirds mourned
the sunrise and the moon dissolved in fire -
I embraced the sharpest thorns there,
and I bled as you desired.

III
You fed me white weeds from the roadside
where they danced in poised profusion
until I bowed my head and cried for
daisy fields that were illusion -
until I danced alone, denied.

Finis
Now I'll give you back your garden in a vase
opaquely fragile, but  you'll never know
I drowned there -  for you thought I only tasted -
and you'll never again notice
all the beauty that's been wasted.

Laura Heidy, Highland, IN, USA

Thrice Betrayed (See JUNE PICK MY POEM above)

Laura Heidy, Highland, IN, USA

There is no immediate prize associated with a poem having been picked as the Best Poem of a particular month, only the knowledge that our editors picked it over all the other prize winners of that month.  However, all poems chosen for BEST POEM of each month in the year 2002 will be automatically entered in the BEST POEM OF THE YEAR 2002 competition, voted on by Sol Magazine Members at the end of the year.  The winners of that contest will be awarded prizes and will be invited to enter Sol Magazine's Poet Laureate 2003 Competition.

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FIRST PLACE - Winner of a $10.00 electronic book gift certificate from Barnes & Noble.

WaterSounds

In the slumber of the night
Whisper patter quick and light
Footsteps on the windowpane
Rush and hustle of the rain

Tapping on the tinny roof
Stamp and trample every hoof
Drip and dribble from the eaves
Hiss and whisper in the leaves

Sough and billow in the grass
Rap and patter on the glass
Drum and grumble on the ground
Curtain spun of water-sound

Sigh and shimmy in the wind
Round the corner bow and bend
Pool and puddle on the shelf
Splash and spatter with itself

In the silence of the night
Fading like the evenlight
Thunderhorses leave again ...
Hush and rustle of the rain.

Elizabeth Barrette, Charleston, IL, USA

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Slow Esopus Flow

Old Esopus Creek creaks like the old woman she is;
her geese have gone to ground, mallards take cover
under shrub or cattail patch along her back.
Her golden-eyed toads have turned to stone,
catfish are trapped in shallow pools, gills panting,
salamander sleep in satin-silt beds dreaming of the sun.
Crustaceans of cataracts in her eyes are easy picking
for those who swim in the sky, who rise above
the feverish heat of her rocky brow, who wade
through thin shade, dive down through drought of July
as the long low flow of Old Esopus slowly slows.

Maryann Hazen-Stearns, Ellenville, NY, USA

There is no immediate prize associated with a poem having been picked as the Best Poem of a particular month, only the knowledge that our editors picked it over all the other prize winners of that month.  However, all poems chosen for BEST POEM of each month in the year 2002 will be automatically entered in the BEST POEM OF THE YEAR 2002 competition, voted on by Sol Magazine Members at the end of the year.  The winners of that contest will be awarded prizes and will be invited to enter Sol Magazine's Poet Laureate 2003 Competition.

Back to contents

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