FIRST ANNUAL POETRY COMPETITION APRIL 26
In honor of April as National Poetry month, the Progress Energy Art Gallery held its First Annual Poetry Contest. This year’s judge, Frances Mancuso Durler, stated she was very pleased with the number of poems received and delighted to see that the attendance at the gallery’s Saturday, April 26th Awards Ceremony was to a standing-room-only crowd. With the wonderful response to the first Call to Poets contest, Ms. Durler states she looks forward to this celebration of poetry at the gallery to become an annual April event.
The winning poems appear below:
FIRST PLACE
My Pen Threw Up Today
By Holly Marie Bliss
My pen threw up today
as it clung to its porcelain
God: an 8 ½ x 1 inch
spiral bound notebook.
Drunk on sappy
sentiment it
blew clichés all
over the place.
“Was it love lost
or found?” I asked.
“Who cares – it’s from
the depths of my soul!” it whined.
I shook my head in disgust
at the muck, as emotion –
unchecked, unimaginative,
unoriginal, uninspired and
gasp unedited –
dripped and oozed down the walls
into pukey pools on the floor.
Nauseous and slightly scared,
I slowly backed away and
started planning how I could
leave, as my pen began to
(Oh my God) dry heave.
My final thoughts, as
I tiptoed toward the
door, were – exactly
who was going to
clean up this mess?
SECOND PLACE
I FIND MY GODS WALKING THE STREETS
By Michael Turansky
On most Sunday mornings,
he’s smoking Marlboros,
coughing, with sandals on his feet.
Jehovah’s breath stinks.
His hands tell stories of time,
fingertips yellowed, burnt,
weathered by years of abuse.
Glanced at, his arms begin to speak.
Scarred, scratched, burned,
sailor ports and jailhouse tattoos,
retell most his stories.
Jaundiced fingers push back
long-stringy-tattered-untamed hair.
He pulls it to one side,
then nervously to the other.
His pace quickens.
One side, then the other,
he’s anxious and in need of finding.
“Don’t deceive me,” he cries out.
Pounding and pounding the cigarette machine,
tightly gripping the machine,
he shakes,
then more furiously
“I knew you’d find me,” he says
as he turns with his prize.
Later, Bible under one arm,
he strolls, he glides, without elegance.
He is hobbled by bad footwear.
Walking on barbed wire rocks, brought to
temperature by the Sunday’s sun,
he’s a miracle worker.
Blood red eyes, emptied of peaceful sleep,
stare through the witnesses.
He curses these apostles.
Coffee stained teeth batter back
the spit of emphatic speech.
as he walks to join his flock.
Jesus sits beside me,
and I don’t speak up.
THIRD PLACE - #1
THE CAT WHISTLER
By Christopher Costabile
Alanbury was such a confined town
that Henry sheltered and fed forty cats
-- some with litters on the way -- and we could
name them all: Sheik, the Siamese ratcatcher;
Crowley, crawling rooftops after dark;
the black-furred lounger, Falstaff – we can’t say
what went on inside the house, but Henry
let them prowl our town at will
until he called.
So we christened him The Cat Whistler:
he would put his thumb and index finger
to his mouth and conjure such a jolting
echo, that they’d motor toward his door
in droves, without promise of some yellow yarn
to claw at, or that tempting pheromone:
Nepeta Cataria.
Nor were these
felines ever swayed by elegance of
domesticity: they preferred the dirt
and rumble of the junkyard – to watch
the rotating ball mills bursting metal
into powder as they licked their paws.
Some took up residence at Giallo’s Barn
and tiptoed through mud with the swine, who banked
their heads, noticing
a billowing tail.
Still, that whole, odd process was a marvel
of instinct and obeisance, and, well,
Let’s be truthful – fear: to hear Old Henry
Brandt’s tarred, leathery lips rip into it
like Hell’s Locomotive, then see them dart
as one, great arrowhead onto his porch
to curl through his legs, drunk with attendance.
THIRD PLACE - #2
MY WHEELS
By Jenny Leigh Hodgins
Cherishing the slap of the wind against my face,
As I ride my wheels through the bike path,
I feel your spirit next to me, embracing fresh air,
Marveling at gorgeously green leaves, cute, quick bunny rabbits,
Graceful birds in the sky, frothy waves crashing on a quiet beach . . .
I ride alone, or with a new friend by my side,
But always, you are there with me,
Like the skateboarding youths on the other side,
Or the red-haired boys eating ice cream or
Diving into the sandcastle walls on the shore . . .
I feel your energy, pushing my pedals,
Steady to the beat of my own breathing,
There you are, your voice providing silent
Commentary on the exhilaration of the outdoors,
Laughing at the joy of moving fast,
Under the warm sun, to the sound of bird language,
Or crumpling leaves underneath –
the thrill of rolling wheels down a steep hill,
the silence of the blue on the water’s waves,
the golden farewell of an inflated beach-ball sun
rolling beyond the horizon of vast ocean.
You are there, in the air, in the floating clouds
Drifting far away above me, and yet, at one with me.
Sometimes, I can feel your big arms around me,
Bear-hugging me from your invisible seat in the universe,
Or hear your cocky laughter in my ears,
When the memory of one of your silly antics
Crosses my mind as I remember our moments
Together in this life –Before I started riding my bike to be with you again,
To make quality time with your spirit . . .
‘Cause I know you would love my wheels
and the distance I have pushed myself to go on
for the sake of our bond, my dear brother.
Let’s go ride on . . .
SPECIAL ACHIEVEMENT AWARD
LIMELIGHT
by Jillian Kane – Age 10
The stage is dark, the curtain opens.
Deep breath, deep breath – I’m ready.
People are watching.
I do my best and love every minute!
The limelight is on me right now,
but sometime
off in the future,
it will fade and move on.
It will be someone else’s turn.
I know it will come back
and I will treasure my time to shine
in the limelight.
Shine, shine, shine though it’s not all mine.
The winning poems appear below:
FIRST PLACE
My Pen Threw Up Today
By Holly Marie Bliss
My pen threw up today
as it clung to its porcelain
God: an 8 ½ x 1 inch
spiral bound notebook.
Drunk on sappy
sentiment it
blew clichés all
over the place.
“Was it love lost
or found?” I asked.
“Who cares – it’s from
the depths of my soul!” it whined.
I shook my head in disgust
at the muck, as emotion –
unchecked, unimaginative,
unoriginal, uninspired and
gasp unedited –
dripped and oozed down the walls
into pukey pools on the floor.
Nauseous and slightly scared,
I slowly backed away and
started planning how I could
leave, as my pen began to
(Oh my God) dry heave.
My final thoughts, as
I tiptoed toward the
door, were – exactly
who was going to
clean up this mess?
SECOND PLACE
I FIND MY GODS WALKING THE STREETS
By Michael Turansky
On most Sunday mornings,
he’s smoking Marlboros,
coughing, with sandals on his feet.
Jehovah’s breath stinks.
His hands tell stories of time,
fingertips yellowed, burnt,
weathered by years of abuse.
Glanced at, his arms begin to speak.
Scarred, scratched, burned,
sailor ports and jailhouse tattoos,
retell most his stories.
Jaundiced fingers push back
long-stringy-tattered-untamed hair.
He pulls it to one side,
then nervously to the other.
His pace quickens.
One side, then the other,
he’s anxious and in need of finding.
“Don’t deceive me,” he cries out.
Pounding and pounding the cigarette machine,
tightly gripping the machine,
he shakes,
then more furiously
“I knew you’d find me,” he says
as he turns with his prize.
Later, Bible under one arm,
he strolls, he glides, without elegance.
He is hobbled by bad footwear.
Walking on barbed wire rocks, brought to
temperature by the Sunday’s sun,
he’s a miracle worker.
Blood red eyes, emptied of peaceful sleep,
stare through the witnesses.
He curses these apostles.
Coffee stained teeth batter back
the spit of emphatic speech.
as he walks to join his flock.
Jesus sits beside me,
and I don’t speak up.
THIRD PLACE - #1
THE CAT WHISTLER
By Christopher Costabile
Alanbury was such a confined town
that Henry sheltered and fed forty cats
-- some with litters on the way -- and we could
name them all: Sheik, the Siamese ratcatcher;
Crowley, crawling rooftops after dark;
the black-furred lounger, Falstaff – we can’t say
what went on inside the house, but Henry
let them prowl our town at will
until he called.
So we christened him The Cat Whistler:
he would put his thumb and index finger
to his mouth and conjure such a jolting
echo, that they’d motor toward his door
in droves, without promise of some yellow yarn
to claw at, or that tempting pheromone:
Nepeta Cataria.
Nor were these
felines ever swayed by elegance of
domesticity: they preferred the dirt
and rumble of the junkyard – to watch
the rotating ball mills bursting metal
into powder as they licked their paws.
Some took up residence at Giallo’s Barn
and tiptoed through mud with the swine, who banked
their heads, noticing
a billowing tail.
Still, that whole, odd process was a marvel
of instinct and obeisance, and, well,
Let’s be truthful – fear: to hear Old Henry
Brandt’s tarred, leathery lips rip into it
like Hell’s Locomotive, then see them dart
as one, great arrowhead onto his porch
to curl through his legs, drunk with attendance.
THIRD PLACE - #2
MY WHEELS
By Jenny Leigh Hodgins
Cherishing the slap of the wind against my face,
As I ride my wheels through the bike path,
I feel your spirit next to me, embracing fresh air,
Marveling at gorgeously green leaves, cute, quick bunny rabbits,
Graceful birds in the sky, frothy waves crashing on a quiet beach . . .
I ride alone, or with a new friend by my side,
But always, you are there with me,
Like the skateboarding youths on the other side,
Or the red-haired boys eating ice cream or
Diving into the sandcastle walls on the shore . . .
I feel your energy, pushing my pedals,
Steady to the beat of my own breathing,
There you are, your voice providing silent
Commentary on the exhilaration of the outdoors,
Laughing at the joy of moving fast,
Under the warm sun, to the sound of bird language,
Or crumpling leaves underneath –
the thrill of rolling wheels down a steep hill,
the silence of the blue on the water’s waves,
the golden farewell of an inflated beach-ball sun
rolling beyond the horizon of vast ocean.
You are there, in the air, in the floating clouds
Drifting far away above me, and yet, at one with me.
Sometimes, I can feel your big arms around me,
Bear-hugging me from your invisible seat in the universe,
Or hear your cocky laughter in my ears,
When the memory of one of your silly antics
Crosses my mind as I remember our moments
Together in this life –Before I started riding my bike to be with you again,
To make quality time with your spirit . . .
‘Cause I know you would love my wheels
and the distance I have pushed myself to go on
for the sake of our bond, my dear brother.
Let’s go ride on . . .
SPECIAL ACHIEVEMENT AWARD
LIMELIGHT
by Jillian Kane – Age 10
The stage is dark, the curtain opens.
Deep breath, deep breath – I’m ready.
People are watching.
I do my best and love every minute!
The limelight is on me right now,
but sometime
off in the future,
it will fade and move on.
It will be someone else’s turn.
I know it will come back
and I will treasure my time to shine
in the limelight.
Shine, shine, shine though it’s not all mine.