CONTEST WINNERS

Two Folding Chairs at Valleyview

By:  Ruth Hill (Chetwynd, BC)

Let’s just sit back, sling back

wing back, in our chairs.

Let’s just sit back, Brother,

sing to each other, in our chairs.

Let’s just sit back, Sister,

listen and lister, above the flow.

Let’s just sit back, Bro,

slow down, mow down, hoe down!  Hey!

Let’s just stake out, take out,

flake out, in our chairs.

Let’s just incline, recline,

wine and dine, in our chairs.

Let’s just fold ‘em and stack ‘em,

hold ‘em and pack ‘em,

set ‘em on the knoll above the toll.

Let’s just set our chairs

above the stairs, and stare

above the highway, below the flyway.

Let’s just suck it all up like refueling in flight.

Let’s just get crazy and sit out all night!

If a Barn…

By:  Ruth Hill (Chetwynd, BC)

If a barn had a mouth, it would be the front door,

consuming, produce, emitting squawks.

If a barn had a nose, it would be the second-story window:

children spying on parents, parents spying on teens.

If a barn had eyes, they would be in the hayloft,

letting in light:  sunrises, sunsets,

northern lights and the Milky Way,

all the world to behold.

If a barn had ears, they would be the side vents

with ears like the barn owls that wait there,

hearing yipping coyotes and howling wolves.

If a barn had dreams, they would be to be full and happy.

If a barn had ghosts, they would be from the cemetery out back.

This barn and its housewife have cared for and buried:

two generations of eagles

three generations of humans

four generations of horses

five generations of cows

six generations of…

If a barn had stories to tell, it would just stand there,

stoic, ancient and wise,

bearing its plenty and paucity.

If a barn got tired of it all, a senior barn, all grey,

wind-poked and rain-washed,

it could just lean over,

leaning on one post, a cane,

leaning over for years,

just lean over, and fall…

Opaque and Transparent

By:  Jerri Hardesty (Brierfield, AL)

A stranger’s eyes

follow me in passing,

unknown thoughts,

hidden intent,

I, not knowing

the meaning,

simply

shake off the feeling,

continue on my path.

Soon forgotten,

that momentary

sifting of spirit

under the gaze

James B. Still--While Drilling Air Holes in Crates

By:  Bill Duvall (Vass, NC)

I search along the inside of

everywhere, see what underlies

the cap of skull.  I may trepan you

but only with my eyes.  When the ague

vanishes in the smoke of night,

the shining cloak of day, you will

come through. There is a place for you here.

Christ and His brethren have found

their compass to the sun.  Black Doctor

of the Pines, colored man

who works the cure, no matter what

they call me, you can bleed and poison

a man with mercury compounds,

apply nostrums to every ill.

Nature’s God prefers the gentle

cure, a balm with no metallic

taste.  I don’t vex my tinctures

or gruel in haste!  My brother, William,

stove merchant by trade, you carry

slaves on your back like bags of coal

to freedom.  Use of ropes, chains,

packing twine, the very stuff

of bondage, up Brandywine, you drops ‘em

free and loose on chilly Toronto.

William Still--The Station Master Recruits

By:  Bill Duvall (Vass, NC)

I need assistance to ferry my angels

across the fields to Delaware,

up through New York,

over the Green Mountains into Canada.

My stove business, then my coal business,

has given me a certain visibility

which allows me to go unseen,

a black man against blue sky,

because I have acquired money,

America is a curious thing in the black mind.

Christian souls saving us.

Christian wolves hunting us.

They send us to the next life

by way of Paducah, firing as

they run along the shore, counting

the reward money with every step.

We live hiding in crates in darkness,

bent candles lighting the way for Christian

wolves to find us over the soul’s

terrain to Satan’s door.  I need slaves

willing to fold their frames like napkins

into a box 4 foot by 4.  The Fugitive

Slave Law measured the Christian soul

before, and that’s as big as it gets.

Victory Dance, 1945

By:  Nick Sweet (Shepherd, TX)

On that night in San Diego, when he danced with Betty Grable,

And with all his G.I. buddies was invited to her table

At first his foxtrot faltered on legs a bit unstable

By chorus he regained it, and they floated smooth and able

He danced as if before the war, before the occupation

Before the barefoot orphans waded through the devastation

Before he followed orders that had nullified sensation

And left him drained and broken with no glimpse of restoration

While holding Betty closely, he whispered, so he claims,

“You just have to call me if you split with Harry James.”

He never really said it, he wasn’t glib with dames

But this amended memory would help erase the flames

The many burning villages, the many refugees

Vacant stares of conquered men, sobbing mothers’ pleas

But he knew while guiding Betty with elegance and ease

Some distant day he’d care again, his haunted heart appeased

They Call Me A Bug

By:  Bertell P. Bailey (Kenner, LA)

Lowly am I, a common and despised little old bug.

Never a kind word, treat or smile, not even a hug.

Lowly as I may be, too little to see, I carry a huge bite.

I roam the world seeking thrills and cause great fright.

No one can evade me or ever kill me really dead.

Sorrow and sadness for millennium, I bring dread.

You boast of your wealth, your position and your race.

I’m in control of your body, your things and your place.

Your great minds have sought to defeat or, “Off” me for years,

I can change, mutate, and lay in wait with some big new fears.

Lowly as I am, I totally do love every one of you all.

I sit and quietly wait, silently, watching for your final fall.

I have a very large family with ugly, long and strange names.

We work in pairs, groups and gangs eating organs and frames.

Get over yourself, your looks, your color and your shapes.

We tear you down, bend you over, just like we eat grapes.

I've got in-laws who wrap things up, you know, the parasite gang.

They clean you up, tear you down, like a party, with a big bang.

If you’ve got any body, even your own, give it a big, fat hug.

I’ll be waiting in silence, just lil’ old me.  You call me bug.