Poetry Contest Winners 2021-2022

Sing the City by Charina Gray

A low thrum in the air
The show’s over, but midnight
Draws her curtain and the real
Chaos begins
Buildings shake and shiver;
The whole city quivers as
Skyscrapers unroot and
Dance on their foundations
The streets gurgle
And sway while sewers
Stretch through grates and
Asphalt into the sky with
Tendrils of aching stench
Bricks laid dormant
Reach out to every shuddering
Lamppost, bulb, and neon sign
The people—
Countless bodies: they chitter and chatter
Roil deep in their roots and
Sing to the city their history
AAEEEAAA they chant
The city sings anyways
Metal on metal and
The screeching never stops

Painting by Charina Gray

You pentimento:
You are a ghost, a
Sightless thing sitting
On the crooked neck of Picasso—
You see double, upside down,
Curling over the edge of canvas
Knowing-all and invisible.
You hide in the vibrant and colorful,
Tuck away in each line,
Curve, and swirl of paint
Because you are abstract yet elegant,
Bold yet subtle,
You deceive the eye and
Reveal yourself in the lamplight.

What Makes Her by Charina Gray

We are the druids.
We carved our hearts out of the Redwood,
Scooped our hair from algae-ponds.
Damp and frigid, we trudged the mountain peaks
To sing to the forest and desert, sea and jungle,
Our voices molded from soil and so
Coarse and crumbling it poured from our lips
And formed crevices in the earth.
Rivers.
We are the mothers of land.

As we wait for cups of chamomile to cool by Uriah Howard Allis

lean in; meet
the center of my eyes:
a galaxy
empty to obvious design
or even the chaos of these quarters
bearing your soul.
Our pupils are the blank page
of a starless sky.
This answers a question at the periphery
of our lives:
We are the precious entirety
of being intently here
and intensely human.

The Sower by Uriah Howard Allis

Cut me through–
to the core,
to the pip,
to the split
sparing the silt
from the seed.
Expose me
to acrid air.
Help me find
fields charred to ash,
purged to make way
for next year.
And this season
let me breed in the wake
of murmurs and prayers for life to take root.
Your botanical fragrance
snags in my chest, spores catching
light, chlorophyll caressing the path below us
where my fruit falls from its weight:
an offering.
Chew, swallow whole, or spit out seeds
and bitter bruises.
Pluck me from a limb aloft
in the breeze, begging you to stipple
my flesh with your teeth
Break me in two;
cut me through;
set me free.

sic erat scriptum* by Uriah Howard Allis

Love [sic.] is like a cut, it can heal only after stinging stops.
Love [sic.] is like lightning striking suburbs, cities, apartments, a home.
Love [sic.] is empty space.
Love [sic.] is afraid
[of unknowns , of us, whole truths, white lies].
Love is not a tired metaphor, simile, story, allegory:
Love is.
Love is.
Love is.

A Taste of Miss Liberty by Gyandro Marselia

Writing from between
the Wonka walls themselves.
A both physical and mental prison
disguised as a tasteful wonderland.

For she is sweet,
like a warm sugar cookie
with a delicious filling of
promising possibilities
bursting on the sides
each time you take a bite.

Freshly baked
in an oven of brutality
at degrees of poor intentions
placed on a nonstick sheet
made of racism and inequality.

Miss Liberty,
promising an ideal dream
fresh, fruity, juicy, watermelon sugar sweet explosion of tasteful hypocrisy.

A taste, so rich, like honey,
just poured from the comb.
Virgin, pure, thick like blood,
rested in hexagon shaped chambers
on luxurious beds
and capitalist pillows
under soft military sheets
to keep it’s warmth of glory.

Miss Liberty,
a blessing for the palate indeed.
A tender traitor’s kiss
on the lips and left cheek.
A forceful hug on the tongue
a sudden bitter stab
in the back of the throat
with a curse of confusion.

Yet, greedy, like a hungry child
on mother’s breast we eat
the poison that she feeds
and proudly claim her
as “The Land of the free”.

Yes Sir by Bailee Murphy

Yes Sir… by Bailee Murphy

The words carry such weight
“yes sir”
You could never know the hurt you cause
“yes sir”
The uniform gives me flashbacks
“yes sir”
“Aren’t you grateful I gave you this opportunity?”
“yes sir”
“Shut up and take it before someone hears”
“yes sir”
“If you tell anyone, I’ll kill you”
“yes sir”
……….
“I’m sorry, it’s your word against his…”
“yes sir”…..
“Here’s your discharge paperwork”….
“yes sir”…..
“Did you know that you’re 8 weeks pregnant?”

…….”no sir”………

The Song of the Season by Lydia Hoffman

The breath of Spring.
It is the smell of the lilac,
the colorful bird’s wing.
It is the first stretch of a kitten’s back,
the soft bleating of a kid.
It is the babbling water, melted and freed.
The cackling of chickens, for something they did.
It is the first stubborn green weed,
the cold air and warm breeze.
It is the laughter of a happy child.
The opening of buds, in trees.
Oh, the breath of spring, is ever so mild.

The sigh of Summer.
It is a pleasant midday sleep,
the cicada’s tune, a longing hummer.
It is an image, in the wavering heat.
The splash of cool lake water.
It is a handful of sand thrown into the air,
the laugh of the sun’s daughter.
It is a soaked towel and dripping swimwear.
The flickering of the lighting bug.
It is a dry copper grass, dancing,
the marshmallows roasting in a fire’s warm hug.
Oh, the sigh of summer, is so entrancing.

The murmur of Autumn.
It is the many bright and stunning hues.
The red maple leaf, at the leaf pile’s bottom.
It is the unpacking of fuzzy coats, and warmer shoes.
The golden wheat swaying in the breeze.
It is the ruby apples on a loaded branch.
The slow shedding of the sleeping trees.
It is the winds whipping through a quiet ranch.
The morph from one season to the next.
It is the farewell to long days of light,
the descent, of life’s apex.
Oh, the murmur of autumn, is warmth’s night.

The whisper of Winter
It is blowing white dust.
The beauties that do so well to hinder.
It is a reset of all things evil and just,
the strong will live to see the sunrise;
it is the separation of those to die.
The bed of life, as it sleeps where it lies.
It is the covering of the blue sky,
the frozen glory, of a thousand snowflakes.
It is a forever fight, that is so futile.
The great silence, surrounding land and lakes.
Oh, the whisper of winter, is brutal.

Writing is Hard! by Isobel Scarisbrick

What’s a good word to end a rhyme?
It needs a beat, it needs a time
Writing is hard! Anyone will confess!
But when it comes to writing…

I’m not the best.
You need the right sounds; you need the right feel
You need to make sure that it feels really real!
You need new ideas to grab their attention!
Their notice, their focus, and— Oh, did I mention?
You need to describe what you want them to see!
Whether it’s cafes, or love, or even a tree!
Everything counts! Yes, each little bit!
It’s so overwhelming, and— Oh! I quit!

Fear of the Mirror by Kaine D’Eredita

The lights shine bright delving into the new age, yet my reflection remains quite dark.
Following me are voice tormenting on a peaceful walk through the park.
Stepping out of the shower I see nothing in the mirror but, I still am empty like a vampire’s victim.
There is only one person to which I’d strike with a melee, yet paradoxes and bruises are its only reward.
An hourglass with pitch-black sands counting towards the cremation of the one turning it.
Screaming inside to fend off the remains of an empty vision’s taunt,
I realize the one way to end this grotesque self-inflicted haunt.
I must reach out my empty hand for someone close to catch and wait for a friend to tag in this match.
These Bonds of Steel that banish my devils my own blood has not brought,
And these at one time strangers are the ones who gave me the strength for this battle long fought.
Friends guide my blade, but it is my turn to finalize this battle against my own black heart.

Holiday Sale by Kaine D’Eredita

Once there was a man who was old,
Whom sells ale aged in barrels of gold.
In soon time his profits massively shrunk.
People did not want to be getting drunk –
From beer that’s priced hundred-fold.

Mourning What’s Not Seen by Kaine D’Eredita

Mourning what’s not seen,
Standing numb in the driveway –
Burnt by winter winds.

fireflies by Uriah Howard Allis

to catch pieces of you
i must first presume
to set aside the metal lid
to which i cling
for fear i would otherwise shatter
for if the confines of my mind
are displaced
they may make space
for the only things that matter
allowing you to enter:
firefly in a glass jar

A Wallflower’s Tale by Harley Pinto

I make mixtapes of memories
Playlists and notes
Cassettes contemplating
the stories I’ve wrote

Crumbling bricks
and thick thorny vines
border the world
in which I am defined

I watch as the garden
flourishes and grows
but remain as a wallflower
on cracked cobblestones

Perhaps one day
I’ll stray from the ivy,
float down to the ground,
let the wind currents guide me

But for now, at least,
I am content in the shadows,
to watch and to ponder,
as I craft my life’s Logos

I may be in the background
but I’ve blossomed on the vines
and I hope to tell my story through
the thoughts I’ve left behind.

12-13/10/20

Eyes Lurking from the Corridors by Morgan Kittle

Eyes wander around the tower
With silence reigning in the halls,
Doors wide open to reveal fangs
That glisten in the candlelight.
Do I remember the eyes?
Those that saw through me,
Knew who I am,
Hated every bit of me?
Yes.

With curtains hiding deities
Every corner held a beast.
With hands that reached out of the corridors
Threatening to take you with them.
Shadows prowling amongst the grounds.
The eyes are still there
Lurking within the memories
Never able to shake them away.

Get up on your feet!
Run!
Make the dust fly!
Never go back to the false light,
Never return from whence you came
The monsters that roam the halls will hate and plot,
But you will be okay.