Theodore Robinson, Child with Geese, 1886

Winning Poem

To Survive is to Pretend
by Helen T.

Before I wake fully I know—it is a
day of hunger.
Twisting, gnawing pains in my belly open my
eyes to a dim reality.
On these days,
to survive is to pretend.
Suddenly, my straw-like blue tunic
becomes shivering velvet robes of the deepest purple.
Low, dripping ceilings
rise to a height never imagined—the damp |
stone walls
widening, cloaked in wondrous tapestries.
The abject lack of light
chased away by a multicolored whirlwind of stained-glass sunlight, filling my newfound
castle completely.
A soft, warbling clack
leads me to heave open my grand double doors—no small feat,
even for such a king as I.
And there, upon my shining steps—my loyal
subjects!

Runners-up

Wonder is the Way to Win
by Phoenix R.

Although it’s sullen and barren,
This home still allows the flower of wonder to bloom.

Although it’s something so trite, so boring, so banal

The camouflaging, ashy feathered figures attract every bit of attention of the young.

Although not human, perhaps the birds wonder too? Who is this girl?
Why is she wearing blue?
Is she the boundless sky we fly into?

The barren sky leaves little to fly into, yet still wonder seeps in once more. How will it look when blue?

Awe drives the young,
whether it be one of flesh, feather, or fin.

Wonder.
Wonder is the way to win.

A Child-like Curiosity
by Harrison P.

With curiosity and hesitation, the
innocent child peers out,
and what he sees captivates him. A stunning
sight of the unknown:
Feelings of fear clash with the intense need to know.

What does he see?
Something almost hidden, among the
monotony of the street.
Something one notices with the keenest eye, discrete figures
distinguished by dull outlines, figures depicting unfamiliar life

But what are their intentions?
Are they friend or foe?

Fear begets retreat.
While curiosity immobilizes, as the
child peers out,
at the sight of three geese.

David F. Driesbach, And a Blue Footed Boobie (9/20), 2000

Winning Poem

And a Blue Footed Boobie: Watching the Bonds Break
by Emily B.

“Would you pass me the sugar please, my dear?” “Of course,
darling.”
The terms of endearment laced with so much venom, they were received simply as ‘terms.’

I see the smear of another woman’s lipstick, staining the man’s
collar.
I smell the aroma of another man’s luxury cologne, engulfing the
woman’s body.

All the flyers coated in black and yellow that flew above choked from the tension, and fell to their demise
The same would happen to me, I fear.
I sit upon my perch, careful not to join them.

Two sets of young eyes stare from the windowsill. Young eyes that mirror the woman’s glitzy green irises. Two young mouths move in urgent whispers.
Young mouths that mirror the man’s pale puce lips.

The flaming ember between the man and woman had long extinguished into a cold ash. But,
it is because of the two young hearts,
that the man and woman will strive to rebind theirs.

Runners-up

Alluring Fraudulence
by Gabrielle M.

Peering at his face quick enough to not make eye contact, but long enough to
even be repulsed by
the cuisine on the table. His top hat grows with every
deceptive phrase he throws at me.
I combat this with an infectious smile
and reassure him I know what I am talking about. Drinking another glass of
wine to fight back yawning,
I grow impatient. My feet begin to ache because of my size too
small heel as do my cinched ribs.
Noticeably the tulips are quite mature and smell perfumed
enchanting the bees.
He finally slides me the black paper, however, before handing me the white feathered pen he asks, “Are you sure?”
Innocently I grab the pen.
Sign. Shake his scaly snow hand.
I parade off with my poker fading off as I look back,
smile, and yell,
“You are a blue footed booby, nothing more than a joke nothing less than
a joke!”
Swaying my hips as I ascend in the distance the sun sets in
my tremendous colors.

In the Last Moments
by Taylor M.

Why must they turn away from the echoes of our despair?
It is clear from the spots and stripes
that my brother and I are nearing the end. With no succor
in sight,
Mother and Father remain oblivious to our demise, lost to their
pleasures of drink and laughter.

I feel the quietus creep in, wondering who is
there to stop it. Do not fear, reaper—no one is
here. Mother and Father do not care,
nor do they rush to help. Brother and I
shall drift off, without so much as a
goodbye
from those who should love us more than any
possession in the sky.

As I look out the window, nearly succumbing to the darkness, I see what will
remain of my past life once I descend:
Mother,
Father,
and a Blue-Footed Boobie perched above indifferent to our fate,
the silent witness to our end.

David Kroll, Landscape (Rose Vase), 2019

Winning Poem

Balancing Actions
by Brady W.

Contorted, desperate, brilliant gem, fighting for
its kin.
Every living moment spent in the
delicate balance
between life and death
Don’t give in to the temptation of false nectar and vibrant red
against the storm.
You must not falter, for
storms pass, flowers wither
and die,
but life perpetuates itself.
Through every heartbeat and buzz, through every
delicate cocoon, shading their immature eyes.

Runners-up

Teetering
by Mariella L.

Was known by others in bad connotations. Her
temperament, dour.
Had no belongings, but belonged to the wind.
Loved its strength, how it swept her to the places
her wings could not.
Her body, fragile, but her eyes,
indestructible black pearls.
Her soul was misfortuned, the unlucky whose body
would not suffice.
The day the great storm hit, she was
cursed
with a fragile, blue-speckled egg.
Its weight, anchoring her to the earth
where she could only feel the wind’s passing and her great
longing.
She did the only thing she could do; grasp a twig.
Refused to comfort the small egg, she held
steadfast.
Watched a flock of birds fly with her beloved wind.
That poor baby, one sang aloud,
on the short end of that stick.

Caged Desire
by Ty W.

IN THIS
painted PRISON of porcelain and
possibility,
roses strain against their vessel’s dreams, while
distant Mountains mock their captive state. Each
petal whispers
tales OF wind-wild FREEDOM, of Gardens ungoverned by
gilded walls. Here, trapped in perfect Stillness, Beauty
becomes ITS own cage - pristine, Preserved, Precise.
The hummingbird hovers, suspended in eternal
Approach, never to taste the NECTAR it seeks.
Below, an Egg
holds Secrets of flight not yet unfurled,
Promises wrapped in shell and
Shadow. WE
are all vessels, aren’t we?
Containing multitudes of
DESIRE