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• FLOWER GARDEN
• STONES & SEASHELLS
• NOT FAR AWAY
• THE CLICHÉD MUSE
• EDITOR'S CHOICE
• Staff info

There were many fine entries into this competition, but only the top three poems were published due to the length of the Pantoum form.
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FIRST PLACE - Winner of a $15.00 electronic book gift certifiate

Knotwork

This is how it always goes –
Boxwood, privet, English thyme –
Laying out our lives in rows:
Clockwork seasons, even rhyme.

Boxwood, privet, English thyme
Make smooth borders round the beds.
Clockwork seasons, even rhyme,
Hint at flowers’ nodding heads.

Make smooth borders around the beds.
Dig them deep and rake them fine.
Hint at flowers’ nodding heads:
Foxglove, phlox, and columbine.

Dig them deep and rake them fine.
Tend the garden plots with care.
Foxglove, phlox, and columbine –
What’s that pansy doing there?

Tend the garden plots with care.
Keep the woven pattern clean.
What’s that pansy doing there?
Here’s a scarlet running bean!

Keep the woven pattern clean?
There’s some rose and there’s some rue.
Here’s a scarlet running bean!
What’s a gardener to do?

There’s some rose and there’s some rue,
Laying our lives out of rows.
What’s a gardener to do?
This is how it always goes.

Elizabeth Barrette, Charleston, IL, USA

COMMENTS:  This poem sets down each line in fine clean rows and blossoms with rhyme, and while the meter and rhyme are finely controlled, each line reads naturally.  Nice personification with "flowers’ nodding heads," and a clever invasion of the unexpected "pansy" and "scarlet running bean."  So, just like in a garden, in a poem we must tend to the unexpected.  Skillfully crafted.

Reflections

Because at last, the stain has dried,
white pine has been transformed into red oak.
It's time to brush on a layer of clear varnish.
I look longingly through the glass at my garden.

White pine has been transformed into red oak.
High gloss shimmers in the sunshine as
I look longingly through the glass at my garden.
Hummers have come to drink.

High gloss shimmers in the sunshine as
giant hibiscus bob in the breeze.
Hummers have come to drink.
They whir and whirl together in mid-air.

Giant hibiscus bob in the breeze.
Lazy wasps, bumble bees, butterflies glide;
they whir and whirl together in mid-air.
My brush slides along the shining red wood,

lazy wasps, bumble bees, butterflies glide.
I've become entranced by the dazzling sheen.
My brush slides along the shining red wood,
a reflection stuck to the glimmering windowsill indoors.

I've become entranced by the dazzling sheen.
Tomorrow I will go into the garden, no longer
a reflection stuck to the glimmering windowsill indoors
because at last, the stain has dried.

Maryann Hazen Stearns, Ellenville, NY, USA

COMMENTS:  This poem has more than its strong intricate images of a garden; having the speaker set apart from the garden creates space, tension and action in the poem.  Nice use of alliteration in "whir and whirl" and "bob in the breeze."  Good layering.

Desert Delight

A secluded spot, a plot where roses bloom,
one corner of my garden set aside
in hues of coral, lavender and white.
Each dawn, sweet perfumed petals seek the sun.

One corner of my garden set aside,
as golden honeysuckle climb the fence.
Each dawn, sweet perfumed petals seek the sun,
blue morning glories take another stance.

As golden honeysuckle climb the fence,
a desert willow sets at center stage.
Blue morning glories take another stance.
Now sweet pea trellis fills with pods, pink buds.

A desert willow sets at center stage,
with trumpet-flower treats for hummingbirds.
Now sweet pea trellis fills with pods, pink buds,
grows free, as volunteer that claimed its space.

With trumpet-flower treats for hummingbirds,
a tree that tolerates our arid clime,
grows free, as volunteer that claimed its space.
Hot summer days we nurture, reap delight.

A tree that tolerates our arid clime.
We’ve walked full circle, grasped rare beauty shown.
Hot summer days we nurture, reap delight.
A secluded spot, a plot where roses bloom.

Jeanette Oestermyer, Roswell, NM, USA

COMMENTS:  This poem is alive with color as the flowers become characters in a serene scene.  Beautiful images of "golden honeysuckle" that "climb the fence," a "sweet pea trellis," a "desert willow sets at center stage," and "trumpet-flower treats."   Well paced meter and nice slant rhymes  in "fence" and "stance," "shown" and "bloom."

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

Lacuna

I go to visit my relatives’ graves, each on the anniversary
of their death.  People today leave plastic flowers for
memorials – but I follow an older way.  I leave twigs
from my yard, crumbs of earth from my garden, and
seeds, always seeds.  They, too, loved these things.  I pull
memories like stones from dark water, cupping my hands
around them, listening to the drips raining back down.
Like this, the song of fishing line through summer air,
Like this, splash of bobber into pond.  Memories.  Stones.
Grass stems press themselves into my flesh, etching
obscure inscriptions across my knees.  I take rubbings of
names and dates.  I run my hands over the smooth
gravestones.  Scattered throughout, I see tiny seashells,
fossils, embedded amidst the crystals.  Here one has fallen
out, leaving a lacuna of grief.

Elizabeth Barrette, Charleston, IL, USA

COMMENTS:  Excellent title.  "Lacuna" can be defined as a missing space or an empty part or gap, and the subject matter of the poem perfectly exemplifies the meaning of this word, and vice versa.  Beautiful imageries weave back and forth in a duality that parallel present/past, memories/experiences, physical/corporeal, and so many others.  The intermingling of senses (touch, sight, sound, smell) lends a feeling of immediacy to the poem.  A beautiful and haunting, eulogy for the stones, the seashells, the person buried beneath, and for the person left living.  Near rhyme and consonantal echoes throughout enhance the quality of sound.

Walking With The Medicine Man

Lone owl hoots startling my tented slumber.
Anishinabe medicine man, soul stirring,
guides my journey through sacred burial ground.
Leaves are restless the moon full, holding breath.
Each spirit has a low house of silvered-lumber,
a rough window, a ledge for birch-wrapped offering.
I walk among decaying houses, pick up litter around
inverted totems marking death.

I pluck blackberries from their bramble border,
shelf them for totems, lone owl hoots.
Wind whispers, spirits assemble, rattle stones
and seashells, dance to beating drums, and disperse
in westward journey night-walking the road of souls.

Kathy Paupore, Kingsford, MI, USA

COMMENTS:  Fascinating portrayal of Indian beliefs and the night spirits; lyrical imagery creates such a feeling of absolute stillness that one can become lost within the lines.  The excellent attention to physical details as well as to feelings brings the poem to life.  Nice use of textures and sounds, not just appearances, such as "rough window," or "leaves are restless," or "rattle stones / and seashells, dance to beating drums."  Wonderful closing image leaves the reader feeling slightly unsettled in the best of ways.

Winter winds wail through the willows
Over circles of headstones
Staring at the sky
Throughout the year
Gravesites are decorated with
Sprays of autumn foliage
Spruce Christmas trees
Bearing miniature ornaments
Sprigs of forget-me-nots
Seashells outline small plots
Placed by parents buried
In grief for life

Lois Lay Castiglioni, Galveston, TX  USA

 
COMMENTS:  Splendid alliteration follows an intriguing title, which is  explained later in the poem.  Excellent use of spare imagery to properly convey the time of year and the season, and the usage of miniature versions of everything (sprays of foliage vs the full-grown tree - miniature ornaments on small trees - forget-me-nots, one of the smallest flowers there is) all lead up to the "small plots."  Excellent closing lines and parallelism between the earth that buries and the grief that buries.  Repeated internal rhyme emphasizes the tonal quality of the poem.

Stones and seashells;
Each becomes the other over time,
But each rests most often
In funereal state,
Not that brief, sharp state
Of alive, being-ness,
Whether the greenness of algae,
The blind hunger of a clam,
Or the frightening intelligence
Of a woman or man.
Those things pass,
And we are left again with
Our mother, this tomb
With her womb full of
Seashells and stones.

George Stateson, Grand Prairie, TX, USA

COMMENTS:  Wonderfully cyclical, this brings to mind both Mother Earth and the mothers we all have.  The poem has a feeling of a chant, rhythmical, over and over, alive with energy.  Excellent parallels drawn between the stones and seashells reminds that we are all from the same and we will all return to the same.  Beautiful diction and word choices throughout.  This kinetic poem is beautifully aching in its conclusiveness.

I would not be buried in an old graveyard,
where kin gather once a year to hallow old bones
with dinner on the grounds after mowing, and raking
up weeds and empty snail shells, laying borders of fresh
clamshells, tearing out ferns twining around marble stones
that sink into mounds as if drawn by those buried below.

I spurn a burial in a new-fangled 'restland,' marred
by hired strangers mowing over tin nameplates
or, perhaps, flat, colorless stones already level to earth,
and where, on occasion, kin bring flowers for metal urns.

I would be buried far from shore and join mates now gone
where fair tradewinds bring wealth but do not disturb sleep,
and graves are marked by seashells scouring the deep.

Lynne Craig, Terrell, TX, USA

COMMENTS:  This lament deftly weaves common images from graveyards into a whole, somehow merging dissimilar concepts to turn it into a simple case of being buried on land or buried at sea.  Nice use of kinetic action in the first stanza illustrates the constant to-and-fro of such a burial place - to be paralleled by the "hired strangers mowing" in the second stanza.  Longing is apparent in this piece.  Well-chosen words and artful imagery throughout.  The musical quality of rhyme sounds within the lines add increased enjoyment of the poem.

Funerals were a family affair for Early Americans
The deceased was bathed and laid out in a pine box
Suspended between two straight chairs in the living room
Relatives and neighbors sat up all night
Protecting the body from predatory wild animals
Mourners walked behind the horse drawn wagon
To a spot marked by hand hewn stones and sea shells
Without a physician to pronounce the death
Burials could be a mistake
A rope was placed inside each coffin
Connected to a bell in a nearby tree
Giving old Jack a way to summon help
And have the last laugh
At least for a while

Kay Earnest, Smyrna, GA, USA

COMMENTS:  Interesting narrative on the way things were, with an interesting twist at the end.  Nice conversational language, very much a person-to-person spoken poem.  Good use of details that might be overlooked otherwise.  The final lines intensify and enrich the theme.

Toward the end of the day,
when fireflies play among laurel,
I stumbled upon a graveyard
at the edge of a hidden meadow.
The fence was broken down,
gravestones lay all around,
and wildflowers danced in oblivion.

Two little crosses stood erect
in a corner beneath the trees.
Seashells lay on their mound,
connected and white as wings. Still
as a granite prayer, I found
no words, only stones and seashells
among the trinkets and bones;
and wildflowers danced in oblivion.

Avonne Griffin, Greer, SC, USA

COMMENTS:  Lyrical, the words of this poem dance along the lines just as the wildflowers must have in this scene.  Wonderful mental imagery here, bolstered by careful word choices to heighten the sense of a surprise discovery - such as "hidden," "broken down" (fence), and the fact the wildflowers were rampant, leading us to surmise that no one had kept up the gravesite.  It's a lonely scene, but it is made warm and beautiful by the presence of those marvelous wildflowers.  Beautiful diction with well-captured emotion.  Interesting scene, with strong distinctive imagery.

Among stones and seashells lichen grows.
Snails maneuver gracefully between
meaningless letters carved into granite.
The words carry no purpose for the one within
or below. The words carry no purpose,
except to the ones who come to read them.
Those who whisper to robin, field mouse,
the fluttering monarch who dares not linger.
The words are a balm for the spirit
for those who must remain
in the world of bluebells and bones.

Maryann Hazen Stearns, Ellenville, NY, USA

COMMENTS: Calm, almost prayerful, this poem measures out its words and sentiments with care and grace.  Lovely images help heighten the sense of an impartial observer.  Nice gradual build-up and revelation without being over-the-top.  Lovely imagery.  Lines are linked by repetitive sound.  Metrical variety adds a pleasing vivacity.

At the seaside graveyard that houses
my ancestors' bones, we search
for the gate, the pickets overgrown,
like Gran's eyes these last years,
by weeds, not a trace of white left.
The sun skulks in the vines of a willow,
where widows once replaced bouquets
of wildflowers on Sundays, and the lighthouse
keeper's daughters weeded the half-acre
of mounds by hand, children’s' finds of stones
and seashells under knees at the granite bases.
When the gate that no longer budges
falls like flotsam with my kick, I guide my gran
through the tunnel of hedges, her hands overflowing
seashells for her father:  Keeper of the Light.

Tanya Ruth Larson, Kamloops, BC, CAN

COMMENTS:  Wonderful interweaving of present and past with just a few simple words to open the poem.  Good parallels between many things, such as the overgrown picket fences and the unseeing eyes of the grandmother.  The images are startling in their clarity.  The entire piece is a continuous shifting back and forth, much like the waves of the sea ever-present, between the present and the past, weaving a shimmering line to yoke the two together into one strong whole.  Strong closing perfectly sums the feeling of the poem.

Some large monuments to the dead,
epitaphs engraved in rough gray concrete
speak to those who walk silently there.
Dates of the interred reach into history,
most committed before the Civil War.

A few small markers show a fallen few,
simple stones bear name, date of birth and death.
Crude-hewn cross, with only name embossed
leaning northward, pushed by a southern wind
to warm hearts of fossilized saintly spirits.

Trek among diverse memorial modes,
a passionate journey through place and time.
One site adorned by a circle of seashells,
around the rustic gray symbol of remembrance.

Jeanette Oestermyer, Roswell, NM, USA

COMMENTS:  Compelling in its simple language, this is a moving tribute to those fallen dead before our time.  Lovely use of internal rhyme in several places, as well as alliteration in others.  Some very interesting turns of phrases, such as "to warm hearts of fossilized saintly spirits."  Beautifully done, and genuinely felt.

Walk with me through this old graveyard,
the wooden slabs seem warmer
than our modern stone.
I love pebbles on the paths, don't you,
with seashells scattered here and there?
I always look for one still whole.
There is history here and legend, too,
some say ghosts still linger here.
It seems too peaceful to be true.
One plot there against the wall
tells the tale of a family.
Sad the parents outlived their child.
I see you've scribbled epitaphs to save.
Some are so wise makes one think,
what will they have my headstone read?

Janet Parker, Leesburg, FL, USA

COMMENTS:  Wonderful opening lines have the air of a plea, and the conversational nature of the lines is well suited to such a topic.  Excellent way of conveying what is being seen via what one would say to another, as opposed to simply transcribing the particulars. Thought-provoking final lines leave the reader thinking, and wanting more.

Daily I drive by a white wood cross on the roadside.
It must mark the death of someone, staking out
the place last seen by the person who was lost.
Here there is no peaceful yard of stones and seashells
or honeysuckle breezes.
Instead these fallen memories are trusted
to the care of whizzing cars and diesel fumes,
to the distracted drivers with cell phone ears,
and teenaged bass booming speakers on wheels.
Those of us who notice, the choir being preached at
by the preacher, we notice and wonder, but never stop
to read the yellow newspaper obit glued to stones
among the shells of discarded beer cans
and greasy fast food bags.

Jen Planxty, Arlington, TX, USA

COMMENTS:  A very common sight for many motorists, yet this poet turns this into something compelling.  Many words are so harsh, so true, that they can make the reader wince and wonder if we aren't all a little too cold.  The title is perfect.

I walked through a neglected graveyard in Ireland
locating resting-places of long dead ancestors.
I felt at peace wandering around the raggedy, emerald field.
stepping around sharp stones and seashell like markers
where my ancestors ambled, generations earlier.
I heard a voice as I tiptoed on the sod and dead leaves.
I turned around and spied a cement obelisk.

I read the engraving and clasped my hands together
"Michael Roche, 1903-1964."
My great-grandmother's family name.
Must be a relative, I thought, as I genuflected.
I said a prayer and wiped a tear from my eye.
As I retreated, I heard an Irish brogue whisper, "Good day."

Eileen Sateriale, Bowie, MD, USA

COMMENTS:  A sweet scene well captured in everyday language, one that effectively portrays the way we all feel when we discover another piece of our pasts.  Good usage of choice words to properly convey the sensations, not just the appearances, of being in the graveyard.

There are more than dates carved on these stones.
Memories are carved as well.
A love note, a poem, a prayer for peace,
A tear or a quip--
Laughter through grief.
There are more than weeds blooming in this place.
Flowers and ribbons bloom too.
These fresh and lovely--these nearly dust,
Left for friends long forgotten,
By friends now gone as well.
The flowers are wilting; the stones will crumble.
The cliff will fall in time.
Only the soul endures, long beyond the sea
That rolls far below, and covers the beach
With stones and seashells.

Katherine Swarts, Houston, TX, USA

COMMENTS:  A well-spoken reminder that all is temporary, that the only things that persist are the things we cannot see and cannot touch.  Nice parallel between the dates carved and the flowers left. An interesting progression through the carving to the flowers wilting to the cliffs falling, as if the world is slowly falling to pieces, until all that's left is the sea and the soul, rolling along.  Interesting word choices and imageries.

The old Captain is buried there, it's said,
ancient headstone now  well disguised,
woven by tresses of wild ivy and thorny bramble.
Old ballast stones powdered and mixed with crushed
seashells made a tabby cover to cap a long buried
coffin, these being the things he knew in life.
Seabreezes for ships stilled in his death
continue to cool his resting place on the tor.
Long ago, they filled his fine canvases,
now they remain as reminders of an old wooden ship
replete with its seaspirit Captain who sighs forlornly
from a craggy, Scottish hill where once full
sails have become blown tufts of unmown grass;
a seashell and stone heart held captive by landbound fences.

Claiborne S. Walsh, Montrose, Alabama

COMMENTS:  Persistent in its imagery, this has the air of a tale often repeated and told from generation to generation.  Good usage of phrases and images to accurately convey this feeling of detachment, time-wise, from the event itself.  Wonderful closing line.  This narrative seems to slips from mere story into a larger mythology, a legend told and retold until actual history becomes mystery.

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

Turkey’s Delights

Chance meeting, Istanbul carpet salesman and Yankee traveler
Brown fingers deftly grasp mine, and whirling dervishes
we dance streets tourists never greet, stop only to drink tea
from delicate cups, eat fried sweet cake in back-alley shop
buy from street vendor supple scarf swimming in butterflies
Swathed in silk headdress, I watch you translate, old man’s
animated face imparting sacred tale of man and woman merging
within thin marble slab mounted on small mosque’s inner wall
At dusk we steal kisses under cover of city’s singing prayers
I, Aphrodite, fly away, your salty tears simmer on my lips

Lynette M. Bowen, Webster, TX, USA

COMMENTS:  A dancing poem with kaleidoscopic colorful imagery that sweeps past with brief tastes and textures and a continuance of an ending that goes on beyond, past words and paper's edge.

The City of Eternal Spring

The maps of Mexico may say Cuernavaca, but the people
Who live there know better. They call it La Ciudad de la
Eterna Primavera, and that name shows its true face.
The evenings smell of gardenias, and the clouds drape
Themselves over the setting sun like bougainvilla on a wall.
In the distance, mountains appear and disappear like mist,
Visible one day and gone the next. Rain falls warm as
Wash-water, but on a clear morning, if you don’t cover your
Soda fast enough, hummingbirds will steal sips from your
Straw. Without winter, spring’s innocence reigns immortal.

Elizabeth Barrette, Charleston, IL, USA

COMMENTS:  A poem to slow one's internal clock like a mini vacation, with sensuous metaphors of look, sniff, listen and touch, climaxed with a triumphant finale.

The Netherlands' Village

Perhaps it is the scent of moon's mist whooshing
between windmill blades in green grass meadows,
the click of crickets beneath bird baths; harbingers of rain.
The squiggly mizzle of drizzle down the windowpane,
the color of the air we've never seen. Oh, Van Gogh
would know. What silent shades of dawn in Dwingeloo.
What colors kiss the tulip's lips, fly upon the sky,
blaze across the surface of the skin upon my eye.

Maryann Hazen Stearns, Ellenville, NY, USA

COMMENTS:  Enflames the senses with vivid samplings using a language of  "-ances and ations"  to slow, stun and pop flash bulbs amongst words and phrases.

Lemuria Island

Come cross Africa’s bridge from Madagascar to Lemuria
That island paradise profuse with palm
Where gentle breezes blow and inland coves
Have blessed Neptune most bountifully
Restore dispirited soul in verdant valley below
The Mountains of the Moon, where primitive man yet
Knows no greed (nor any need) - exists in blissful harmony
Come cross Africa’s bridge from Madagascar to Lemuria
While yet you may … before consigned to Myth

SJ Baldock, Lancaster, TX, USA

COMMENTS:  An urgent invitation to the still hopeful but hesitant.  Beautiful alliteration and word-play, with an irresistible ending.  Wonderfully done.

By wandering Thames' embrace
she lies, this mistress of all England
The Ten Bell's lamps light Spitafields
the old lion's roar fills speaker's corner,
and Guy Fawkes' prize stands still.
Night's children head the call
Babel's voices ring from Piccadilly
Nelson's marble glimmers cold
and spirits whisper around the Tower's ancient halls:
This place is London capital city of the world.

Ron Miranda, Garland, TX, USA

COMMENTS:  In this nicely done poem, the ear is given much to hear, and the eye is given much to see.  The language, tone and even the rhythm of this poem is an invitation to visit London.  Very well done!

Shenzen lies at the bottom of the belly of the Dragon -
across from Hongkong and the New Territories. It's like
Houston must have been sixty, seventy years ago, falling
all over itself to be a Big City but country to the core. Look
West: tall buildings, the best. Look East: hills and mountains
crumpled up - multi-colored deep pile Turkish towels on the
Emperor's floor. Old men dance Tai-Chi steps in morning's
mists, later wave willow wands tending flocks of geese, stark
white against emerald stalks of sprouting rice. People stare
at fair, round-eyed visitors but are infinitely considerate.

John E. Rice, Houston, TX, USA

COMMENTS:  A powerful beginning into a great lumpy stew of description that yanks one's thoughts around trying to keep up, and then gives pause with a contemplative final few words.

At Avebury, close by Silbury Hill,
Paired megaliths flow from two directions
And run a mile or more
To spiral together in the little town:
As if a marriage procession
That ends in a spinning dance.
Your hand in mine,
We walked that walk;
Happily, dizzily,
We danced that dance.

George Stateson, Grand Prairie, TX, USA

COMMENTS:  Wonderful mini-travelogue that takes the reader by the hand to run, happily, dizzily, in a dance by the megalits.  Lovely language and precice word choices.

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FIRST PLACE - Winner of a signed copy of Between Landscape & Dreams, by Mary Margaret Carlisle

It's All Geek to Me

Beware the hotshot young hacker, they say,
But some of us are old enough to remember
Coding on cards, when size did matter.
Forget the whippersnapper, I say,
His baroque is worse than his byte.

Elizabeth Barrette, Charleston, IL, USA

Knotwork

This is how it always goes –
Boxwood, privet, English thyme –
Laying out our lives in rows:
Clockwork seasons, even rhyme.

Boxwood, privet, English thyme
Make smooth borders round the beds.
Clockwork seasons, even rhyme,
Hint at flowers’ nodding heads.

Make smooth borders around the beds.
Dig them deep and rake them fine.
Hint at flowers’ nodding heads:
Foxglove, phlox, and columbine.

Dig them deep and rake them fine.
Tend the garden plots with care.
Foxglove, phlox, and columbine –
What’s that pansy doing there?

Tend the garden plots with care.
Keep the woven pattern clean.
What’s that pansy doing there?
Here’s a scarlet running bean!

Keep the woven pattern clean?
There’s some rose and there’s some rue.
Here’s a scarlet running bean!
What’s a gardener to do?

There’s some rose and there’s some rue,
Laying our lives out of rows.
What’s a gardener to do?
This is how it always goes.

Elizabeth Barrette, Charleston, IL, USA

COMMENTS:  This poem sets down each line in fine clean rows and blossoms with rhyme, and while the meter and rhyme are finely controlled, each line reads naturally.  Nice personification with "flowers' nodding heads," and a clever invasion of the unexpected "pansy" and "scarlet running bean."  Just like in a garden, this poet tends to the unexpected.  Skillfully crafted.

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:
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