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Welcome to Garden 1015 in

Click the links below to read the winning poems for the week of October 15, 2004.

Poetry Gardens of Fame Index

First Place
Second Place
Third Place
Fourth Place


Jonathon Ambrosino

And the wind left me

Dead, listless
This is how i stand, propped against the wall
arms hanging limply
legs buckled, knees touched
fingers curled at grotesque angles
the slow steady tread of white wispy smoke
rising in this strands off my bald, skinless scalp
I am fully clothed, protecting my grey bones
      from the harsh elements of the fire squelched blightly through my empty eyes
I look at myself now, I see tattered clothes
      hanging as if by string
not touching
that of my skeleton
      They seem to be repealed by an almost tangible force
In this image in my head, I see that this force is naught but my pained emotions
      that they are so strong; they permeate, apparent even in my abandoned bones
      lifting, filling the cloth that surrounds them; making them appear
full of mass
The wind passes by, no longer unseen, but a solid entity
      barely a stolen glance passes my way
      as if her intention was to leave me lost and alone
the wish of the smoke barely disturbed by her passing blow
After she was gone, the fire returned in the corpse's eyes, blue and bright
      wave after wave of pulsating black consumes my image
      pulling me farther away, pulling me twords the absence of the
bright white light

-at the end of the tunnel

Still there, slouching against the red brick wall
      the absence disappears, drawing with it my fire of life
      my fire finally gone with the sand of the earth poured over
Wind returns
      Kisses the dead and listless
      and sulks away with the single tear of the silent slight night

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Carole Trickett

The Potato Harvest

Go, go, out into the garden!
Plat your red sneakers right down on the dirt!
Put one foot hard on the digging fork,
pulling up those funny blue potatoes.
Some are one pounders.
They will push out the Idahoes.
Some are tender and nubile,
soup pot nuggets.

We planted them as a memory of
Gram's childhood, now 80 years past,
in Conception Bay, Newfoundland.
She found them advertised last spring
in Jackson and Perkins catalog.
"If I send for them, will you plant
them,?" she asks her loyal son.
"I remember, we used to grow these

After weeks of waiting and the frequent
question, "Have they come yet,"
a small package from Jackson and Perkins
arrives in Dick's UPS truck,
a wonderful promise of the taste
and the feel and sight of a
childhood past.

Into the earth the go, bearing
exquisite potato blossoms by July.
Mother and son nurture and hover.
The plants grow.

It is October now, our red sneakers
are hard on the digging fork.
A row and 100 pounds later, we have,
a washed mound of glistening,, gleaming
Purple potatoes.
"My potatoes weren't so purple,
Gram says,
they were blue."

She takes home a sack of her potatoes
of remembrance.
Now at 90, she boils, roasts, mashes,
the taste, the feel the smell
and sight of candle-lit memories.
"Well, Mum, how were the potatoes?"
her son cautiously asks.
She replies, "Your sister, Constance,
can't stand them."
And, she cooks them no more.

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Okwudili Paul Nwankwo

Our Birds Mourn

On network-like electric wires that spread across the city
A various groups or flights of birds mournly perch or sit
Dreaming 'bout the dense vegitation that existed in the past
Where the fore-birds lived and fed on insects among other pests.

On roof-tops,balconies and streets,the poor homeless birds hop
Cursing the human civilisation that deforested the told field of hopes
Also, there were no trees and bushes for hoping and the flight lessons
And they never complained of nesting materials for the bleeding season.

On our houses,the birds have revengely come to build their nests
Since we have built our cities in once a forest where they rest
With our broomsticks the birds have decided in acrimony to build
Their nests,since we have destroyed the quiet niche where they breed.

Our flying friends mourn,despite our joy that a new city was born
For happiness would never be the same since their natural habitat was burn.

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Kim Gelinas

The Dance

We have a dance, my dreams and I
Unscripted, unrehearsed, without choreography
Balance is the goal and action its best friend
Sorting through the many paths that lie ahead

The dance more a game of hide and seek
Dreams hide; I seek
Dreams call; I try to answer
Dreams dare; I hope to rise to the challenge

The boldness of their persistence amazes
Their screams for release are deafening
"Come" they say
"Dare, live, be"

"Wear bright colors
Sing out loud
Laugh so hard your sides hurt

Rejoice in the wonder of being"

"Paint, draw, write, create
Put pen to paper to show who you are
Color that with all the hues of life
Score it as Beethoven would"

"Don’t give your voice or your power to anyone else
Own all that is yours, both good and bad
Your character depends on it
Your artistry will not exist without it"

I listen with all that I am
Mind, heart, soul, and spirit
I embrace the needs of my dreams
For they are me

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