Ocean City Life-Saving Station Museum, Showplace of Ocean City, Maryland |
|
|
WINDOWS, RAINBOWS AND SALT SPRAY, II THE ANTHOLOGY OF MANY PRIZE POEMS FROM COMPILED BY The title of our book, WINDOW, RAINBOWS AND SALT SPRAY, simply means: the windows--represent a look into the poet's mind; FOURTH ANNUAL CONTEST, 1985 | |
A SHACK DEEP IN THE WOODS
First Place, General Category
Robert Allen Smith, Queen Anne, Maryland
There slumbers in each vagabond, a yen to settle down
Beside some quiet Walden Pond, a good day's walk from town,
And end his days in honest toil and studied contemplations
And write about his bean patch or the destinies of nations.
And so, we bought a little shack, way back among the trees,
With peeling paint and leaky roof..we weren't hard to please.
It's far from rumbling traffic and the city's gaudy lights,
And the muggers and the hoodlums and the seamy urban blights.
Our neighbors are the trees whose limbs entwine to form a ring
That shelters us from winter storms and celebrates the spring
with joyful buds and blossoms framed by soft, green velvet leaves
That rustle in contentment as they brush against our eaves.
The coons and squirrels and chipmunks, here, accept us as their friends
And if we violate their space, we're quick to make amends.
Intruders in their forest, we recognize our place--
Ambassadors who represent the entire human race.
We cringe from global problems and, to keep them out of sight,
We turn the television off and listen to the night,
While rocking on the creaky porch, or gliding in the swing,
We think about the Universe, while frogs and crickets sing.
At night, we form a cozy group within the oil lamp's glow,
Our Himalayan princess and that lazy so-and-so,
Our gentle, mongrel hound-dog---we're a tight-knit little knot
And we'd fight the world together to hold on to what we've got.
The dinner's often Cordon Bleu; the wine is Beaujolais.
We pose a toast by candlelight to celebrate each day.
No sparkling chandelier enshrines a tomb of worldly goods;
The glow of love illuminates our shack deep in the woods.
SNOW
Second Place, General Category
Mary Triplette, Berlin, Maryland
Swirling,
Whirling,
Curling,
Swerving,
Hissing,
Sifting,
Drifting,
Misting,
Hovering,
Covering,
Hiding,
Sliding,
Gliding,
Prancing,
Dancing,
Glancing;
Blown
Thrown
As a child
With a whoop and a holler,
belly flopping
down the hill I'd go
Now I just sit and watch
'tis better so.
THE CAPTAIN
Third Place, General Category
Robert Allen Smith, Queen Anne, Maryland
When man sets foot upon the deck
of yacht, bateau or trawler.
He seems to throw his shoulders back
and stand a little taller.
He feels the craft yield gently, as
she welcomes him aboard.
She's his lover and his Lady
He's her captain and her Lord.
She trembles as he gently lays
his lands upon the wheel,
The love they share is evident
from quarterdeck to keel.
They're friends who share sincere respect.
She does not yearn for "Lib".
He loves the beauty of her lines
and she, her captain's jib.
Embraced in perfect harmony,
they waltz across the seas
And one outdoes the other in
the warm desire to please.
They form a team that overcomes
life's storms and evil forces
And if each marriage were the same,
there would be no divorces.
REFLECTIONS
First Honorable Mention
Robert Allen Smith, Queen Anne, Maryland
You frown before the looking glass and think you see gray hair,
And lines around your eyes and throat and wrinkles everywhere.
You pat on makeup and cold cream to melt away the years
And try your best, while doing so to hold back frightened tears.
It's only in your mind, my love, there are no wrinkles there.
Your face is smooth and lovely still, and framed by jet black hair.
The mirror only shows your face and not the girl within.
You're young and sweet and beautiful, just as you've always been.
Your figure is still firm and lush, with curves that stir me still
And I still tremble at your touch, and I always will.
You won't find youth in heartless glass, the mirror isn't fair.
Just look into my eyes, my love, your beauty live on, there.
CHIPPING SPARROW
Second Honorable Mention
Elsie A. Tourville, Snow Hill, Maryland
Redcapped clinger--
Swinger
On white Queen Anne's lace.
Blue chicory
Enchanter--
Descanter of summer tremolo;
Glorifier of
The Fourth of July.
LINGER NOT SPIRIT
Third Honorable Mention
Michael William Thomas, Salisbury, Maryland
Glide the glimmering calm
Whisk through every crevice of shoreline
Feel fury with the restless wind
Soar with the gull, higher and higher
Dive with the eagle, deep into the sea
Make a hasty retreat with the fish, exploring the fabulous depths
Linger not spirit, continue your pursuit
THE SEARCH
Fourth Honorable Mention
Betty Markowitz, Silver Spring, Maryland
I've looked up in my closet
Up to the highest shelf
I placed it in a safe place
I put it there myself.
I've looked above and then below
I can't think where to look
I've gone through all the dresser drawers
I've peeked in every nook.
If I could but remember
Just where that place could be
And yet I have looked everywhere
It's no place I can see.
At last, at last I found it!
Relief and peace of mind
Until tomorrow, can it be?
There's something else to find.
It seems that in my lifetime
I spend most every day
In looking for the one thing
I've safely put away.
FREE VERSE
Fifth Honorable Mention
Janet Wild, Silver Spring, Maryland
Crusty old Robert Frost,
That cantankerous Yankee wordsmith
Scorned free verse.
"Tennis without a net,"
He called it, and went on
Fine-tuning his iambic pentameters.
Modern poets,
He doubtless thought,
Like silly M. Jourdain,
Spoke prose all unawares
TEMPTATION
Sixth Honorable Mention
Nadia Strickland Ardis, Salisbury, Maryland
The waves crawled up from the ocean floor
To meet the beach at it's front door.
Those playful creatures of the deep
That neither slumber or deeply sleep,
Those beautiful playthings of soft, light foam
Calling me to visit their home.
Always in motion, never quite still,
Bidding me come, submit to their will,
Tantalizing taunting, temptingly sweet,
Curling and pulling around my feet,
Cool and inviting against my knee;
I have succumbed. Take all of me!
SAD DAY
First Poem of Merit
Lucinda E. Morris, Pocomoke City, Maryland
I killed two birds today,
While driving on the highway,
Not one you understand, but two;
wild, free birds who knew not where they flew.
A steady rain had fallen all that day;
even spring rains can tend to make things grey.
The meadows were covered with specks of black;
they'd cross the highway then go flying back.
Two poor birds I saw could not make their way.
Too close was I to turn and so I prayed.
I heard no sound, no plea, no cry.
Just silence as loud as the sky.
And now each time a flock of birds I pass;
my eyes go wide, my heart starts beating fast.
I hold my breath and pray.
I killed two birds today.
SPRING
Third Poem of Merit
Jay Cherrix, Chincoteague, Virginia
Exchanging colors, nature's scheme
Crystal white gives way to green
Cold opaque shadows gray
Evaporate and fade away.
Tears of spring wash sleep away
Sunlight warms the early day
Movements stir in earth and sky
As baby spring awakes to cry.
Fish and fox, squirrel and hare
Bark and flax, bugs and bear
Move in nature's dream and rhyme
It's a planting, planning, playful time.
Snow is melting in the hills
Flowers blooming quiet...still
Streams aflowing...rivers high
Singing, winging songbirds fly.
Winters gone in a wisp
All is fresh and green and crisp
Nature's giving all she's worth
It's a turning, burning, yearning earth.
HANDS
Fourth Poem of Merit
John Hreshko, Berlin, Maryland
I remember those hands from my first memory day
They held me so gently, in a loving way
They were hands that lifted so that I could reach
Hands that held books that were used to teach
Callused hands that dug coal from the earth
Hands that clapped loudly during few times of mirth
Hands that held hymnals for the church song
Hands that were used to teach right from wrong
I saw those hands the other day
Smaller they seemed, and the color near gray
As I held them in mine, I could feel them so cold
Those once warm hands that now slowly grown old
Then they reached round and hugged me
And thoughts were of what used to be
They held me close with all the love that they had
Once again I felt strength in the hands of my Dad
TO A BABY ROBIN
Fifth Poem of Merit
Wilber R. Ellis, Jr., Salisbury, Maryland
I held your form in the palm of my hand
I did not hear you gasping
I felt your soul as it left my hand
I had no time for grasping.
Sitting quietly and uncomplaining
Feathers wet from recent raining
Fell you from a lonely nest?
No food to fill your baby breast?
Or did your mother in somber mood
Tell the rest of her gaping brood
That you the favorite of them all
Had taken a dreadful fall?
You alone had the courage to try
To be the first of them to fly
You could not speak
No tears to flow
No way to let me know
Why such a placid calm
Showing no sign of patent alarm
Plucky you as you awaited the call
Little you knew you'd given your all
Hands translating love and peace
At the moment of your great release?
MY WISH
Seventh Poem of Merit
Pearl Quillen Usilton, Federalsburg,
Maryland
I never tell, and I never show
But my heart's desire is to be a poet.
To live by myself by the rolling sea,
And let my thoughts and dreams fly free.
Just to be alone, from all mankind,
To write down the words as they come to mind.
I'd tell of the beauty of the sky above
And speak of the joy that only comes with love,
The trust we can see in a baby's smile,
All the little things that make life worthwhile.
I'd shut out the lies, the hate and the greed,
And write of the hope that every soul needs.
Yes, I'd be so happy in my home by the sea
With my paper, my pencil and no one but me.
FLOWERS NAMES
Eighth Poem of Merit
Cary C. Holladay, Salisbury, Maryland
Children and lovers call my honeysuckle vine,
my name for myself is a secret name
the bees hum back to me
as low as nectar-flow.
They call me the flower of forever;
wild rose, but I am Thorn.
My scent brings back the past
to lonely ones
on this wrought-iron loveseat
with flaking paint and cherubs' smiling scorn.
Marsh-reeds,
we straddle the reflecting pond,
see wind sabotage the clouds
on gray still water
dimpled by the occasional goldfish fin.
We are those-who-wait-for-ships-to-come-in.
Listen, I am lilac. On my leaves
I catch the first raindrops.
Liquid and muted are the mockingbird's notes;
he huddles under a blossom and I
call myself the mockingbird tree
for him. But sometimes
I am the dragonflies' hut;
sometimes, the altar of cardinals.
And I, oh I am the trumpet vine!
Why should I need some other name?
Lovers tell me secrets till my petals
fold around them and I burst,
as must the hearts of my unguarded
confidantes. I let the secrets out
Again, so call me rumourmonger,
then, the name murmured to me on long
afternoons, by the lilac and the reeds,
the honeysuckle and the heavy rose.
NOCTURNE
Ninth Poem of Merit
Ralph Fallert, Berlin, Maryland
How easy for infinity
To swallow up immensity!
These stars, whose bulk could burst the mind,
Seem scarcely more, in Heaven's grasp,
Than bits of dust
Caught in a quiet sunbeam.
Stars for earth,
And stars for stars,
And but beginnings out beyond
The uttermost beginnings,
And who shall say that Truth
Must lie for sifting in the palm,
Or else be forfeit?
Shall I stand in awe of this, the shade,
Nor pass to adoration of the Shadowed?
These worlds.
That dwarf to jewels in the temple of the night,
Beacon forth a path
That reason shows
But faints to follow.
And Faith,
Like Wisdom blest,
Strides bravely on,
Laughing at words that measure not
The Measureless.
FORSYTHIA FORTRESS
Tenth Poem of Merit
Brooke Umstead Good, Ocean View, Delaware
Yes, I remember
My forsythia fortress
A summer sanctuary
That berry bakery
And many muddy smiles.
Occupied for hours
In a heavenly haven
Always wildly wondering
About the planes passing
And worldly wiles.
So many feelings
In the damp daylight
Feet feeling fingers
Drawing vain Van Gogh's
To rhythm and rhyme.
How can I forget
So many mysteries
The lifting laughter
That privileged privacy
In my forsythia fortress.
COUPON MANIA
Judge's Choice
Thelma Linz, Ocean City, Maryland
Our cabinet drawer is overflowing
With all the coupons I've been stowing.
I wouldn't go to all that trouble,
But, OH! the thrill of getting double.
Now, what a shock! There's no rebate.
We've passed the expiration date.
PARADISE FOUND
Editor's Choice
Robert Allen Smith, Queen Anne, Maryland
When first I saw the Eastern Shore,
A spell fell over me
And I became enveloped by
A sweet, warm ecstasy.
Time drifted by as in a dream.
Folks looked me in the eye,
And farmers waved from passing trucks
And smiled as they went by.
The rivers teemed with crabs and fish;
The fields were lush and green.
Through forests, bounded graceful deer,
The first I'd ever seen.
I went away and fought the spell
For thirty years or more,
And crossed the ocean many times,
But never found a cure.
Then, home at last, I passed on by
My native Baltimore;
I crossed the Bay and drove my stakes
On God's own Eastern Shore.
ISLAND AUTUMN
Editor's Choice
Jay Cherrix, Chincoteague, Virginia
Amber sun in Autumn's sky
With pink slivers hanging high
Crisp October evening's wall
Precedes winter's storm and gale.
Sleepy bay 'neath tawny sky
Clam boats with their noses high
Fall has come to Chincoteague
Watchapregue and Assateague.
Isolated old woodshop
Hatchet sounds of chip and chop
Stealthfully the woodstove's flame
Creeps out door and window frame.
Smell of sawdust, cedar, pine
Stir the senses like sweet wine
Old man sits in overalls
"Midst his tools of knives and saws.
Silver hair and eyesight bad
Shows his secrets to the lad
And bestows his art and grace
On tiny hands...freckled face.
The warmth of the old woodshop
Permeates the bay and dock
And weaves across the channel
A cloth of cotton flannel.
And the crisp October wail
Still tugs at the clam boats sail
As they sit with their noses high
"Neath a tawny Autumn's sky.
EASTERN SHORE
Editor's Choice
John Hreshko, Berlin, Maryland
Please come with me, come as my guest
As we travel along the land I love best
Of all that you've seen, you will love he much more
This glorious land we call "Eastern Shore".
As you cross the twin span, what a feast for the eyes
For the greatest of bays, just under you lies
Churning and swirling in a fight to survive
The mighty Chesapeake is still very alive.
Through the isle of Kent, the land of the boat
Moored side by side, on gentle ripples they float
All sizes and shapes, for work and for pleasure
Creating a painting, a memory to treasure.
Past the rich farmland with patchwork design
The classic white farmhouse, surrounded by pine
Through Easton and Cambridge, a traveler's dream
Colonial America, or so it would seem.
Bridge after bridge, over rivers fast flow
Choptank, Nanticoke, St. Martins and such
Mile after mile, the pleasure will grow
As we travel this land that God's blessed with so much.
Cross the shimmering waters of old Isle of Wight
Ablaze with the silver of bouncing sunlight
Ahead, the skyline, the jewel on the sea
The breathtaking sight of the ocean city
The waves never ending, fall from their crest
And the sea will roll on ever more
Like a lover's caress, on this land we love best
This glorious land we call "Eastern Shore".
FRENCHTOWN II
Editor's Choice
Dana Simson, Berlin, Maryland
It's later now,
the watermen have wrestled in their pots
and collected in long coils the lines that tie them
to this bay.
The pirates ingrained in their family tree
ever stalk these waters
plundering whatever treasure is left.
The depths are noncommittal
blue-black water kicking up it's heels
casting aspersions on mortals
and their paper ideals.
This thread of land defies the tides
bastes the waterman to his element
Old plank homes demanding the right
to perch on that last edge.
Husbands and wives rise with the Heron
read the weather as if a paper
departing into their separate domains
each with his weapon.
It's late now, and she has gathered in the children
as he does his catch
the blood red sky burns the color out of every mark
that suggests security.
For centuries he has come home
tired from tangling with the sea;
the blue-black water noncommittal
and kicking up it's heels.
WOMAN OF THE WATER
Editor's Choice
Ruth Summers, Landover, Maryland
Rising early and carrying the winter crisis
on tired shoulders,
she goes from room to room
seeing nothing but the silence.
Or sometimes in the midst of house chores,
she pauses to look out the kitchen window.
Eastward,
beyond mudflats and in the frozen calm
that holds the fishboats,
Chincoteague Waters are frozen solid
and the frozen promise of sunrise
can give her no comfort.
"How much can I endure?" she asks herself.
Enured as a waterwoman, idled by winter's freeze,
she deserves more, seeks more,
than the infrequent laugh over beer mugs
at the pier cafe.
Even her dreams come in snatches of frozen depths.
The lure of her crabtraps, the oyster beds
are never there. Nor can she reach
beyond the cattails and touch the stir
where her dream of the marsh bird
squats its nest.
|
|