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CONTENTS:

• LETTERS
• THAT THING CALLED HOPE
• PLANT & ?
• BENEATH THE BRIDGE
• MARCH'S HIDDEN CONTEST:  BIRD & TREE
• EDITORS' CHOICE
• Staff info

FIRST PLACE - Winner of a $20.00 Book Gift Certificate
 

Origami Emotion

Hope is
folding paper cranes
even when your hands get cramped
and your eyes tired,
working past blisters and
paper cuts,
simply because something in you
insists on
opening its wings.

Elizabeth Barrette, Charleston, IL, USA

Reaching

Like a fear
so needy
all consuming and completely focused

heart beating within held breaths
uttered mentally

It is everything
that matters
reaching

Roz Garay, Riverside, CA, USA

Rhythms

Bittersweet belief,
a birth for a death

joy holds sorrow

and the grief of loss is
in the blessing of happiness,

hope is a heartbeat
in the rhythm of life.

Kathy Paupore, Kingsford, MI, USA

Mere Possibilities

Quiet as whispered wind
there to tug hearts,
it speaks when there
is no voice,
words strong and undefeated.

We have traversed this path
fearful of the destination,
yet ever willing to believe
in what lies beyond rainbows.

Linda L. Creech, Bellefontaine, OH, USA
COMMENTS:  Interesting title sets us up for the beautiful diction which follows, creating an evocative image of the strength and immutability of Hope.  Wonderful closing stanza.  Excellent writing.
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OTHER POEMS COMMENTED UPON BY OUR JUDGE AND/OR EDITORS.
============
Life in the Projects

Beaten down daily
Child support … what's that?
Jesse doing poorly in school
Means missing work for a
Parent/teacher conference -- then
Bills.  Bills.  Bills. Why,
Living hand-to-mouth would
At least mean eating regularly!
Too darned tired to attend to chores
Some of us have no hope at all

SJ Baldock, Lancaster TX, USA
COMMENTS:  The harshly cut-off endings of each line give this poem the impression of being dully spoken, with lost feeling and despondence.  Very good usage of abrupt words, as well as punctuation, to convey this sense of loss and ending.  A vivid picture of the other side of the Hope coin.
============
Infinite Optimism

the next turn of a card to an inside straight
roll of the dice for sixes and sevens
quarter toss against the wall

scratch to match
sawbuck in a nickel slot
mudder on a dry track

the next call to my bookie
the big score
I’ve bet my life on

Gary Blankenship, Bremerton, WA, USA
COMMENTS:  Great snapshot of the ultimate hope, the "next big thing is coming" hope; nicely sketched scenarios covering various aspects of gambling (cards, horses, etc.).  An interesting "take" on the concept of Hope.
============
after sleep

one
by one
purple crocus poke through
crusty snow, stretch petals
amassing flock
hugs, chatters
then scatters
the color
of waking light
after sleep

Lynette M. Bowen, Webster, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Beautifully evocative of Monet's paintings in its usage of subdued color.  This poem has a wonderful opening that slowly builds to the frenzied (yet still controlled) scatters of color in the glorious closing lines.  Subtle complexity in the paralleled meanings (sleep of the flowers, sleep of individuals waking in the morning to find Spring's come overnight).  Excellent writing.
============
Insomnia

Sorrow
depression
fear
compete for attention

until
thoughts
turn to tomorrow's
hope

Lois Lay Castiglioni, Galveston, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  An interesting conceptualization of the agonies inherent in being unable to sleep.  Nice closing lines remind the reader that there's always another night, just as there's always hope around the corner.  Well done.
============
The Preemie

incubator baby
laboring
for each breath

through armholes
the whisper of a touch
for fear she might break

her hand curls over my finger . . .
and there is hope

Kathy Lippard Cobb, Bradenton, FL, USA
COMMENTS:  This poem shows the most fragile of all hopes, the hope that someone you love will live.  Beautiful phrasings, such as "the whisper of a touch," convey such delicacy that it's nearly breathtaking.  The firm, yet sweet, tenor of the final lines is uplifting.
============
Distant Misery

Twenty shadows spring from my
feet like greedy roots, sucking
moisture from the air,

crowding out hope and feeding on each
other.  Sunlight hurts, so I look

down, down at the twisted
shades of distant misery, shades so
much, too much like me.

Betty Dobson, Halifax, NS, CAN
COMMENTS:  A painful look inward, not so much at hope, but at the loss of it and how that loss can affect a human soul.  Beautifully written, if painful to read.  This has an excellent closing which brings dual meanings and subtle complexity to the poem.
============
Neighborhood Walk

The peace of my retirement walk
Is disrupted by sight of developer's
Destruction of pristine acreage for sub-divisions

Until my granddaughter's eyes face lights up
At discovery of doodle bug digging a home

Hope for future of Mother Nature returns

Kay Earnest, Smyrna, GA, USA
COMMENTS:  "Hope springs eternal," especially hope for our world; this poem is a clarion call to those of us who may become mired in despair when seeing overdevelopment.  Nice parallelism between the innocence of the granddaughter and the wisdom of the grandma, as well as the  worldliness of the Earth herself.
============
Never Lose Faith

Sobs from a room
Sits on a stool
Hanky in a hand
Forlorn!

She's not alone
Her friends have come
Her heart heaves
She's newly born!

Catherine Escarras, Marseille, BR, FRA
COMMENTS:  A glorious testament to the ever-reaching, ever-lasting power of hope.  Very sparse imagery allows the reader to richly visualize much more.
============
And Still

You may solemnly suspend potentialities,
Ominously orate the overwhelming odds.
You may bulldoze me with brazen brawn
And still I’ll forge forward.

You may dangle dastardly contingencies,
Threaten bioterror, imminent world war.
You may menace me with meteoric maliciousness
And still I’ll harbor hope.

Kathy Kehrli, Factoryville, PA, USA
COMMENTS:  A thesaurical and alliterative triumph.  This poem romps through the English language with a strong and final declaration of firm resolve.  A call to arms for the human race.
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Weather Report

dark clouds in an angry world
gathering

the coming storm seems inevitable

a break in the clouds
becomes a peek hole to bluer skies
bringing hope that sunshine will prevail

Deborah P. Kolodji, Temple City, CA, USA
COMMENTS:  By paralleling the political world-climate with the weather, this poet achieved an intriguing way to convey the permanence of hope, even in the face of anger.  Nice diction and turns of phrases.
============
Golden Hope

On lily pad, one bloom of gold
bordered by soft tones of green.
As I watch from bridge,
raindrops form small round pools,
troubled dreams within each wake.

The pools conjoin as raindrops surge,
while dreams now lost, arise, take wing.
The lily bloom now drenched and stained,
there resting, warmed beneath the sun,
then fades and falls – we blindly grope.

Jeanette Oestermyer, Roswell, NM, USA
COMMENTS:  Beautiful, lyrical writing.  Color usage brings Gerard Manley Hopkins to mind.  Nice progression through the single to the dual to the many.  The ending lingers in the mind of the reader,  but at the same time has a feeling of finality.  Well done.
============
hope is a daughter's smile

a son thrived
how many lost their way?
another taken

before she entered my womb

this one won't make it
friends and doctors said
but I felt her move

saw her face on the sonogram

and at her birth
she was smiling

Terrie Leigh Relf, San Diego, CA, USA
COMMENTS:  A testament to the power of Hope - to keep trying, to keep believing, and to be rewarded.  Very nice opening, with its rhetorical but serious question.  A beautiful ending leaves the reader smiling with the poet.
============
Making the Bed

Every morning, for too many years to count,
I make the bed.
Our bed, where we
read, sleep, make love, talk

and from which we
rise each day and go on, never
doubting we'll reach
that which may be
not yet in sight.

John E. Rice, Houston, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Conversational opening is appropriate to the topic, and the poem neatly conveys the concept of hope in everyday life - without saying it outright.  This poet also demonstrates great narrative skill by recording this simple chore in such an intimate and revealing way, and so invites the reader directly into his life.
============
Her Poem

Pangs of nervous hope stab through her -
daggers that sheath themselves
in the butterflies of her stomach;
a timid confidence allows her to pass
the love-stained sheet into his hands.
Ginger eyes dance across words
created by dried ink and evaporated tears;
"That's nice," he says, "but..."
all she hears as knives are plucked
and empty holes drain dreams.

Brady Riddle, Galveston, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  A hope we can all relate to - the hope (and nervousness and fear and...) of showing a work of ours to someone else For The First Time.  The imagery here is apt, and nicely done.  A true-to-life portrait of a young poet  seeking acceptance.
============
That Thing Called Hope

Our lifeless babe,
taken too soon.
No cry.
No life.
No reason.

Her father and I,
wrung like sponges,
named her Hope
and moved on.

Shannon Riggs, Honolulu, HI, USA
COMMENTS: The shortness of the lines, as well as the frequent periods for full line stops, appropriately convey a feeling of hopelessness.  The metaphorical image in "Wrung like sponges" is meaningful.  The final stanza holds tremendous emotion, and gives double meaning to the word "hope."
============
Rat Race Refreshment

There’s never enough time
for the life’s frenzy.

Is there a way to make
order out of chaos?

Sitting down at the end of the day
with a cup of chamomile tea
gives hope of a gentle future.

Eileen Sateriale, Bowie, Maryland, USA
COMMENTS:  Hope as a breather - found in a gentle cup of tea.  A wonderful commentary on the madcap dash of "the rat race," as well as the rhetorical question in stanza two.  Nicely to-the-point, with an interesting twist.
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To PLS

It is long since I had anything
remotely resembling hope,
or even a close approximation.
Yet, for all of that,
love strikes, shatters me
like the ice that breaks
the river above the falls in spring,
and just as senselessly.
Sadly, there is no eddy in your life
for flotsam such as me.

George Matthew Stateson, Grand Prairie, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Painfully said, with emotion in every line;  beautiful imagery.  Interesting conceptualization of love's hope both given and taken away.
============
A Strange and Beautiful Thing

"Pray for peace," say some.
"Visualize peace," say others.
Then they call each other heretics
Or narrow-minded bigots.
In the irony of it all, hope lives on.
Love does not come easily,
Faith does not endure easily,
But we all cling to hope.
Hope links and unifies all that is good.

Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA
COMMENTS: A straightforward, true picture of Hope's place in our world today.  Very well-said, and the everyman's language and diction are effective tools in phrasings.
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The Promised Land

Arrowleaf clover
by the garden
Grandma hoes
this world of madness
She hasn't adapted
to      sunlight illumines
white, pink, purple flower heads-
Her hope blossoms

Tony A. Thompson, Lufkin, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Wonderful double meaning in "this world of madness,"
as well as in the final line.  Beautiful usage of color.  The poem neatly avoids a consistent beat and rhythm through differing line lengths and a careful choice of words.
============
rising spirit

spirit free to fly
unleashed
by a thing called hope

no inhibitions
no boundries

no fear

Daisy Autry Worrock, Abingdon, VA, USA
COMMENTS:  Beautifully spare in its language, this neatly captures the uninhibitive spirit of Hope, and points out how Hope releases us from everyday bondage.  Well done.
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Always

My Hope,
my furry, bright-eyed child,
slept in my arms
at two days old.

When her hips wouldn't work,
we paid the bills
so she could walk again.

We could never give up
on Hope.

Andrea M. Zander, Rochester, MN, USA
COMMENTS:  Wonderful reminder that Hope doesn't always have to be directed at ourselves or at the world;  it can be something as precious and as small as our beloved pets.  Very well-said, with many smiles within.  Great turn of phrase in the final two lines.
 

Back to contents

Our poets were challenged to pick a favorite plant and a serious topic, then name both plant and topic above their real title.  Each poet included here provided an interesting solution to this contest's various components.
============
FIRST PLACE - Winner of a $25.00 electronic book gift certificate.

Ayahuasca & Awareness

Vine of the Soul

Ayahuasca
you grow, almost imperceptible
Horticultural snake you glide, twist
reach through rainforest into the soul
re-mind perceptions, illusions

open the tops of our heads
free higher possibilities to pour in
loosen, in the steamy rain
the congestion of locked thought

Open my heart to the one singing
permeating the mother universe
the space-time continuum
Pachamama

Lynette M. Bowen, Webster, TX, USA

Rosemary:  For Rememberance

For BLC,  Oct. 1953 ­ Sept. 2001

With mortar and pestle
I ground rosemary into the pizza sauce.

Waiting for the dough to rise,
you lured me off for sex until,
exhausted and ravenous
we came back to the kitchen to find
our child, the pizza-dough boy,
bubbling, hissing, and scrambling -
taking over the kitchen (perhaps the world).

We had no pizza that night:
Love was food enough.
And now rosemary makes me smile, oh so sadly.
Rosemary, after all, is for rememberance.

George Stateson, Grand Prairie, TX, USA

Evergreen or Himalaya Blackberries - Loneliness

Himalaya

In my backyard rise mounds of snow,
scabrous mountains pile across the lawn
until they cover raspberries and iris beds,
fold over morning glory and croquet wickets,
the dusty house overrun until snow turns sweet-black.

Once I would have sprayed the blackberry vines,
heedless of the life that lives within.
Once I would have slashed their stakes
and burned them in huge, smoky piles.
Now I long for blackberry wine,
but am too lazy to wash the jars.

Sharp peaks double one over the other,
we slide beneath them to sip of their roots.

Gary Blankenship, Bremerton, WA, USA

Wisdom Flowers

In the age of gods
Quinquatria
Shadowed March's Ides
A day of peace

Offset by four of blood
Like scattered rubies
Minerva overcome by Mars

Yet even on a battlefield
Tiger lilies bloom
Lance-like leaves a testament
Heads bowed in remorse
Crimson tears a vow
Perennial wisdom

Betty Dobson, Halifax, NS, CAN
COMMENTS:  Concrete and abstract images developed in an
interesting way are intensified by metaphorical content.  Controlled emotion written skillfully.
============
HONORABLE MENTION
Japanese Banyan -- Being a Navy Wife

The Mighty Banyan

The far-reaching Banyan
stretches its arms wide.
Released roots tumble hopefully,
praying for ground.

Stringed roots show like underthings
and transform into multiple trunks.
It turns out an exposed root
becomes beautiful, after all.

I, a Navy wife in Pearl Harbor,
watch my children cling to one another
under its mighty, many-footed umbrella
and know this is what I must be.

Shannon Riggs, Honolulu, HI, USA
COMMENTS:  This piece hints that a work of nature may also be a work of visual art, but is so very touching in its ending lines.  Well-conceived, beautifully executed.  It develops a rhythm akin to the multiple trunks of the Banyon itself.  So nicely done!
============
OTHER POEMS COMMENTED UPON BY OUR EDITORS
============
Iris -- Joy

Queen of Hearts

Fruit of loving labor spent
-- Well spent! --
Those happy hours
Upon my knees

Restored ...
These iris beauties born
When Winter doldrums
Finally are at rest

Muted or bold
-- Purple or gold --
I can hardly wait to hold
First joyous bloom

SJ Baldock, Lancaster, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Light mood springs from serious subject.  Lovely word choices and internal rhythm make this a pleasure to read out loud.
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Dandelion - Perseverance

Teeth of the Lion

Dandelions grow everywhere,
Unexpected, unwelcome, ubiquitous.
We’ve forgotten that we brought them with us.

Now we curse them out of our lawns
And our lives, behead them in our driveways,
Poison them on our sidewalks and streets and medians.

But they remember that we invited them:
Fellow colonists, food plants able to survive anything,
Their sunny faces reminding us that perseverance prevails.

Elizabeth Barrette, Charleston, IL, USA
COMMENTS:  Well-chosen words penned with a light touch add impact to the serious message imparted by this poet.  Nicely done.
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Four-o'clock - Time

Flight of Time

Nodding red perennials
recall childhood hours
spent chasing fireflies
as parents rocked in caned chairs

Time measurements were
Dad's Elgin pocket watch
mill whistles at shift changes
echoes of punctual passing trains
blossoming four-o'clocks

Lulled by droning cicadas
during pastoral summers
none of us paused to think
how quickly life ticks away

Lois Lay Castiglioni, Galveston, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Central to this early memory are tender yet universal details that abound in every child's life.  Rocking chairs evoke thoughts of being cradled; fireflies remind of both flight and  lights at dusk, and how all children love to run after and chase these mysterious insects.  Gently written, with much sensory information. Beautifully done.
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Moonflower - Sustenance

Flora de Luna

Saucer-sized white blossoms
Release spicy fragrance
Soothing senses of evening strollers

Hovering gypsy moths gather nectar
In quiet darkness
Sunrise alerts humming birds,
Bees and butterflies

Gift of Mother Nature
Moonflowers

Kay Lay Earnest, Smyrna, GA, USA
COMMENTS:  Sweet scents, the beauty of nature in a well-paced trio of stanzas open up the poet's world for a few brief moments in these soft lines.
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Hydrangea-Mortality

Each Day Further Down Life’s Path

Hydrangea’s clustered florets
Blaze mid-June to autumn frost.
Nikko blue’s one-time show
-ing off her azure blooms.

Fading into lilac, petals sere and brown,
Herald winter’s shortened rays ahead.
-y fragrance wafts midsummer’s silent air,
Curdles in September’s breeze,
Sickening saxifrage.

-ile blossoms mimic human mortality,
Wither more with each passing day.
Hydrangea’s clustered florets
Alas cannot forever stay.

Kathy Kehrli, Factoryville, PA, USA
COMMENTS:  This interesting piece is laced through with the scents and sights of the seasons.  Kudos to this poet for breaking step with convention, and creating her own form.
POET'S NOTE:  I got a little experimental with this poem.  The -y
represents "a heady fragrance" and the -ile represents "frag(e)ile blossoms." Each of the dashes represents a link to the syllable(s) of the previous line.
============
Roses – A Promise

What We Plant

from bare root stock
bundled at the nursery
we dream of the roses
on the package photo

we dig the hole
and already smell
the perfume in our yards
in our lives

when the bud appears
we anxiously await
the unfolding of the promise
of our first rose

Deborah P. Kolodji, Temple City, CA, USA
COMMENTS:  Imagery is clear and direct, and the entire process of choosing a rose to its planting is explained from an intimate point of view, making this a very personable piece.
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Wild Columbine - Peace

Perennial Seeds

Dainty red and yellow flowers
diminutive birds hovering
over airy gray-green foliage

meetinghouses visited by
pollinating honey bees and
nectar-seeking hummingbirds
in the summer sun

autumn-dried fruit pods
delicate beaks outcurving
reseeding perennial peace.

Kathy Paupore, Kingsford, MI, USA
COMMENTS:  The idea of finding peace through nature is very clear in this poem.  The beautiful descriptions in "autumn-dried fruit pods" and "beaks outcurving" add much to the piece.
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Mexican Sage - generosity

of nature and neighbors

drawn by purple blossoms
undulating like sea anemones in a tidal wind
I cross the street to a neighbor's yard
ask, what is this plant?

Mexican Sage, she answers, returns to digging
we chat about our children, the weather
how her husband is building her a greenhouse

I turn to leave, say, nice to meet you
she hands me a rooted stalk
they like sun but not much water
I thank her, contemplate the generosity of nature and neighbors

Terrie Leigh Relf, San Diego, CA, USA
COMMENTS:  Thoughtfully written, with a compelling cadence that begs for this poem to be read aloud.  Excellently done.
============
Ragweed - Misery

Pollen Count

Ambrosia - HAH!
A taxonomist with a
twisted sense of humor
lent that Latin connotation
to this plague of half
the Nation.

A horticultural pox, surely
this devil seed slipped from
Pandora's box of horrors.

Each Autumn, Oh, eyes!
Oh, nose! Some inner fountain
flows and flows. Hand me that Kleenex,
please, here comes yet another sneeze.

John E. Rice, Houston, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Although lightly treated, the genuine misery allergies bring is highlighted by wonderful touches..."horticultural pox" and "Pandora's box of horrors" may make one smile as one nods in total agreement!
 

Back to contents

FIRST PLACE - Winner of a $15.00 electronic book gift certificate.
 

Supplication to the SEATAC Skybridge

Luminous portal from
parking to planes
planes to parking,
I watch from below as you buttress the milieu of
chugging plastic luggage wheels
wearing ruts in your carpeted corridor,
bearing the baggage of passage,
offering through ceiling to floor windows
visions of the bustling Netherlands I now pause in
between home and exotic places
births and funerals
freedom and terror.
I collect my belongings,
pick out the stairway route up to join the swarm.
Concrete patron of the quintessential traveler
watch over this one of the many gateways
I press through linking earth and sky
sky and earth, this time leaving
mother, father, sister and brother
for uncultivated territory

Lynette M. Bowen, Webster, TX, USA

Winnetka Avenue Bridge

I walked to school --
not uphill both ways. In fact
I remember and smile. Did I
mention the Brahma bull?

There was a bridge over the wash.
I didn't dare descend but wanted to
see what they did below. There
are no fish in a concrete river. The rumor
was the bad boys smoked. I thought
that must be true. I saw the curls
when I walked across the bridge,
and once a dog ran out with Camels.

One day that pent up bull escaped,
charged the boys (they were there okay)
who let loose words without a filter,
and we laughed until we collapsed!

Avonne Griffin, Greer, SC, USA

The Bridge to Manga

I will tell my grandchildren how I spent my last night
in Colombia, where my grandfather is buried. I am
here, under the bridge near the old city of Cartagena,
in the shadows, up to my neck in water. I am with the

coyote who took 300 dollars, one year's wages, to
bring me to this place. Very soon, in the dark, he will
take me to my private cabin (the ninos will laugh), a
steel container. Tomorrow, I will be loaded on to a ship.

I can see its lights from here. I will go to America, away
from my family, my friends, my beautiful country, forever
at war with itself. "Vamos!" We run like ghosts in the
night.

"Ssssst! Hombre," the coyote hisses as he swings the
big doors, "cuidate, OK?" Take care, he says, laughing
as he locks me in.

John E. Rice, Houston, TX, USA

July 4th on the Grand

I sit, stitched in, our blanket
wedged between blankets, children leapfrog
across the patchwork of families, coolers,
conversations, headed toward dusk.

The sky fades purple, bridge lights brighten,
like a string of patio lanterns, the children
become homing pigeons, return to their perches.

A band strikes chords of red, white and blue
as the night explodes, pink and gold,
curling whistles and smoke trails.
Beneath the bridge, the echo of colors
floats, suspended on the surface,
a tranquil twin of the bursting sky.

Amy Gerold, Wyoming, MI, USA
COMMENT:  Memorable scene laced with patriotic emotion brings the reader in for a closer, personal look at both the fireworks and people attending this event.  Nicely written.
============
OTHER POEMS COMMENTED UPON BY OUR EDITORS
===========
Lake Fork Bridge

Under the bridge
In brightly-colored skiffs
Float dreams

A grandson used to fish
Just there … tied up
Close to that pylon

The one that got away was
Always bigger than the
One that got away before

And small or
Large the keep
They'd have a fish fry

Under the bridge
Near brightly-colored skiff
Ashes-to-ashes float
Amid a grandson's tears

SJ Baldock, Lancaster, TX, USA
COMMENT:  This poem reflects on the sadness of the passing of time as beloved elders pass on.  Gently written memory piece.
======================
Beneath the St. John's Bridge

a weathered man
donned in camouflage clothing
sits beneath the bridge

his head resting upon graffiti expletives

a vacant stare
before taking another swill
from the brown paper bag

as the rest of the world passes over

unaware

Kathy Lippard Cobb, Bradenton, FL, USA
COMMENTS:  Chilling commentary upon the way humanity finds a way to ignore things we do not wish to deal with, even troubled people.  We simply "pass over" problems, "unaware."  Nicely done.
===========
Sugar Valley, Georgia

Standing beside slippery red clay banks
Beneath the Oostonaula Bridge
Dad recalled his boyhood days on River Bend

Whistling steamboats drew him to the riverbank
To wave at the helmsman as he churned past
Barefoot children raced across cotton fields
Slid under the iron truss to shout

When the boat appeared around the turn
Watched it paddle on to a world unknown to country boys
They spent afternoons swinging from muscadine vines
Dropping into the river and trying to snare catfish

Years later, I return to river bridge
Dad and the clear waters are gone
Youngsters can no longer swim or fish in the river
Irresponsible encroachment has robbed
Future generations of life's simple pleasures

Kay Lay Earnest, Smyrna, GA, USA
COMMENTS:  Lamenting the pollution wrought by "progress," a sweet glimpse of a simpler, purer time.  The details make this a very personal poem.
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SF Golden Gate

As the salt air stings your wide grin
and the wind narrows your eyes,
the chill is deeper than the black ribbon
of this hyperion shadowed bay

moving closer yet smaller still
you revere fist-sized bolts, complex catenaries
fathomed musseled shoals of concrete pillars
cast in the role of Atlas

Spreading your arms orchestrates the moment
the sun can once again be seen as you breach the shadows
and linger in warm, immense awe
curiously, leaving just a bit of your heart

Roz Garay, Riverside, CA, USA
COMMENTS:  Well-written.  Brisk and moody, but warming at the end.
============
Graffiti Overpass

I heard voices
on that long highway home from Sutton
and I missed you when the sun went down.

I heard voices in the dashboard, singing.
I turned up the volume and I missed you;
I thought about Graffiti Overpass
thirty years ago in Stafford Springs:
"Love conquers all; the strong will endure," it said.

I heard voices on the rise near Coventry
and I missed you when the sun went down.
As the darkness rose around me
I thought of you, that night in Forest Park,
the darkest rose in the garden,
and the long highway home, alone.

Ron Lavalette, Barton, VT, USA
COMMENT:  Haunting, tender and poignantly vivid personal reflection.
====================
Storm Drain Bridge - Wozniak County Road

A hideout under the road,
where we gathered to play
in cloistered quarters – our gang.
Perfectly safe, and no one knew
Some days we spent hours
playing marbles, or talking,
planning our next game.

Not visible from the road,
except for the low cement
culvert wall-like structure
down at the ends, behind which
we entered.

Often, I went down there alone
to have some quiet time.
I thought no one knew where
I had gone, but now I’m sure
they did, for no search parties
ever set out to find me.

Jeanette Oestermyer, Roswell, NM, USA
COMMENTS:  Childhood remembrance upon gaining adult perspective. Most children believe they are invisible, but forget how that feels as they grow up.  It is a pleasure to be reminded of that unique point of view in this nicely written work.
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Business 59 Bridge, Wharton, Texas

We were different from the community in which we lived -
wore our hair long, clothes loose
did not fit social conservative standards;
we knew who we were
and what they thought of us.

Our gathering place,
solace on sweltering Texas summer days:
the fingery sliver of sand we called the Sandbar.

The brown, mirrorless water of the Colorado
never revealed to us our reflections
but long, stringy limbs of willow trees hanging limply, and
currents fighting rebelliously the confines of binding banks
and little eddying vortices spinning away
form and time to places to be known only later,
acknowledged us, and we mutually understood.

It was a sanctity in my younger years.

Brady Riddle, Galveston, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Beautifully written piece that takes us to another time,  showing both details of place and memory that are uniquely personal and yet universally understood.  Well-done, poet!
 

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FIRST PLACE - Winner of a $20.00 electronic book gift certificate
 

Not Even

Though delicate clusters nestle
In a shield of thorny limbs,
Not even full-metal armor
Can defy nature's final call.
Just the slightest stir
Of apple blossomy breeze
Sends tender petals wafting one last scent.

As the suicidal thorn bird
Plunges deep her feathered breast,
Briar's prick serving as dagger,
Her tiny voice emits its sweetest song.
Not even her lyric aria,
Piercing once the quiet air,
Can set to beat the heart that now arrests.

Kathy Kehrli, Factoryville, PA, USA

Sakura-Spring Diary

Buto cries "caw-caw"
Boso "gaw-gaw"
one from the city forest
one from the plains;
both dance amongst the Great One's deep blushing
Oyamazakura blossoms until mating season when
boundaries must be drawn
their ink-black chests swell
scent time to greet anew the
lifetime lover build a home from
wire hangar scraps plucked zoo sheep wool
drop black walnut shells under wheels arrested by red lights
retrieve succulent nuts,
ravage restaurant refuse, dive bomb rats
wild cats for the young ones waiting to be born.

R. K. Rowe, Englewood, CO, USA

Drunken Spring

It will soon be the season,
Beloved by dogs and cats,
Of drunken robins; they fall from
The soft, feathery fronds of juniper,
Or right out of a blue sky
To stagger dazedly around on the ground.

It is the Pyrocantha's fault, of course:
The berries freeze in winter,
And ferment in the spring;
I could watch the birds for hours,
Between topping up my glass
Of whiskey.  Really,
They are such silly things.

George Stateson, Grand Prairie, TX, USA

January

Late afternoon sunlight
squints across watered skies,
touches iced shadows
like a lover's remembered warmth,
promises new life.
Muffled, clouded breaths
scatter like seagulls
in search of wind-blown tid-bits.
A lone robin pip-pips his challenge
perched upon the magnolia,
the suddenness of his voice
astonishes the silence.
And I, a snowdrop hidden below,
anticipate unfolding
my petals to the light.

Celia Lawton-Livingstone, Colchester, EG, GBR
COMMENTS:  Lovely, delicate, with a unique point-of-view - very nice!
============
OTHER POEMS COMMENTED UPON BY OUR EDITORS
============
Bushtits in the Wild Cherry

the wild cherry tree
waiting room for diners
at the sunflower luncheonette -

black cap chickadee,
black mask nuthatch,
purple vest finch,
gray flannel, Brooks Brother bushtit

greedy feeders all
hustle to limb and back again,
perch to dine, shell in beak

bushtits twelve deep at the counter
jostle for today's blue plate special

Gary Blankenship, Bremerton, WA, USA
COMMENTS:  Delightful view of the show they put on!  Nice alliteration and diction.
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Mocking Bird Stories

Limp pile of feathers lie
drenched in a shower of
white Flowering Pear petals
shaded by tree's
nubile, spring garb
You tell her that
baby mockingbird fell from a branch,
but you see the satisfied cat
bathing on the front porch
With childhood pomp and gravity
her chubby hands ceremoniously help
scoop dirt filling the ubiquitous grave
Why don't you tell me
those stories anymore?

Lynette M. Bowen, Webster, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Well-told.  Strong personal imagery.
===========
Another World Caucus

I sang my song to a mockingbird
who looked in my window one day.
Perching on a pear tree not yet in blossom,
he cocked his head in dumb curiosity.

His little talons tightly clasped
a thin branch as he strained to see
into the shadows of another world
so foreign to his limited experience.

I longed to connect with his mind,
to learn his language and his world.
But the pear is not a tree of knowledge.
He would not sing his song to me.

Lynne Craig, Terrell, TX, USA
COMMENTS:   Intriguing to look at our world from the bird's viewpoint.
===========
Is It Real?

Walking in a fantasy land
Of sunshine and sabal palms
I hear bird song floating
From each clump of trees.

Is it another mechanical detail?
Another incredible illusion,
Clean, precise, designed to dazzle?
All part of the admission price.

I look up; distinctive leaves cut the air
Iridescent black flashes against green
A grackle's loud tshaak reverberates
Something real exists, even here.
I smile.

Mary E. Gray, Newport News, VA, USA
COMMENTS:  Strolling with cynicism through the tourist trap, the poet is revitalized by birds' in the trees.  Nicely done.
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Spring Rain

April rain drops on the
apples gnarled branches
weighting delicate blossoms

wind gusts whirling
pink and white petals
in a froth to the ground

an American Robin frolics
in puddling potpourri
picking an earthworm feast.

Kathy Paupore, Kingsford, MI, USA
COMMENTS:  Nice alliteration and word-pictures.
============
Moonset

About the time our sentinel crape myrtle
is in full leaf, the old hen mockingbird
feels the weight of new life. She and her

mate nest again, deep and safe in the
green tower. Later, when blossoms fall
as pale pink snow, the two of them will

terrorize the neighborhood cats and the
postman and will snatch at what thatch
I still have. I don't begrudge them. Who

else hears the mother's sleepy, slow
lullaby at four in the morning -
just before moonset?

John E. Rice, Houston, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Nice internal rhyme and nice ending.
============
I support the Monk Parakeet.

I stand here, witness;
to the character of these
gray faced, colorfully plumed
creatures with inherent amiable souls.
Each one
brings their share of the labor home;
chambers of thorny twigs, constructed wisely
from the ground floor up; housing extended family.
Neighbors satisfy young gaped mouths
of another's offspring and the favor returned.
Here in this society;
everyone belongs and is deserving.
Humans need only to look
up into my Green Ash branches to learn the
true meaning of humanity.

Margaret Shurtleff, Ansonia, CT, USA
COMMENTS:   Lovely account.
============
Living Blossoms

The redbud bursts forth with rose in spring.
Other trees must be content with plain green.
Yet both have golden flowers.

For this is the season of the migrating warblers:
The black-throated green and the Blackburnian,
The hooded and the prothonotary:

Flitting never-still through the branches,
Hopping among the roots,
The brightest blossoms of spring.

Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA
COMMENTS:  Nice word-pictures and tying together bird with tree at the end.
 

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Origami Emotion

Hope is
folding paper cranes
even when your hands get cramped
and your eyes tired,
working past blisters and
paper cuts,
simply because something in you
insists on
opening its wings.

Elizabeth Barrette, Charleston, IL, USA
 

There is no immediate prize associated with a poem having been picked as Editor's Choice in 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 EDITOR'S CHOICE of each month in the year 2003 will be automatically entered in the EDITOR'S CHOICE OF THE YEAR 2003 competition, voted on by Sol Magazine Members at the end of the year.

Questions?  E-mail Mary Margaret Carlisle, Managing Editor: Sol.Editor@prodigy.net
Please refer to this page for Sol Magazine questions & email contacts:
http://sol-magazine-projects.org/prodigy/sol.magazine/question.htm
 
 

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