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ARTELLA'S POETRY GARDENS OF FAME! Click the links below to read the winning poems for the week of March 9, 2005. Poetry Gardens of Fame Index |
Second Place
Third Place
Fourth Place
Linda Sky Parker
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Parched
those mornings he made coffee for him in the pot had the stain baked to the bottom and made milk for me served it in white mug with blue flowers and so many chips around the rim there wasn't even one smooth place for my mouth to sit he looked at me through sluggy gray slits that seemed more like his eyebrows than his eyes he didn't say much on those mornings and didn't say much ever and with so few words, memory's not real crowded so the words he did say I remember each one (even though everyone says I was too young to remember anything) like once, he once told me that he couldn't see any of my momma in me "not one trace" he said and then we looked back at our matching chipped cups and the moan of neglect scraped at the shutters a chorus of burnt pot, chipped cups, and me |
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Joe Testa
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A Rusted White Truck
I stormed out the door, frustrated by her angry words. Failure, disappointment; dagger words she used to cut me down. My soul, once precious to me, had sold at a bargain. There was nothing left to give. My precious path would sooth me. I stepped out, head down, and felt chilled; the air was ominous, electric. The hair stood up on my neck; my path had never done this to me before. With nothing but hurt behind me, I walked on. A white pickup, rusted, tilted on an embankment. Bracing my hand on the roof, peeking through the window, I was jolted by images that flickered to life and were gone. A toddler laughing in a car seat, fearless next to a god who drove with one hand on the wheel. A dog, black and proud, blind trust, wagging tail, wind on his snout. A wife sitting up high with smiling eyes, secure in her proud love. A man, cocky and strong, smiling inwardly at success he knew would be his. A drunken teenager furious at the words of that a**hole (no longer a god). An ancient blind dog, trusting, making his last trip to the vet. A broken wife, makeup smeared, fleeing to her sister's house. A man, dead drunk, gripping the wheel, one handed and white knuckled. Drained of energy I stepped back and wept. Turning around, fear froze me motionless. My path would lead me back, but to what? Home or a rusted white truck. |
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Ann McGovern
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In a Taxi Riding to the hospital, my daughter-in-law sang all the rivers of Ireland very fast and recited the alphabet backwards. The surgeon removed a growth, right there on the pituitary gland, close to the brain. She feared going blind, dancing naked in a garden, feared becoming a vegetable. She hated vegetables, hated Rumanian gypsies in Ireland, and hospitals. My son, feared she would die while I feared the rock I was becoming would crumble into the rivers Liffy, Lee, Shannon, Barrow, Noir. |
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Paul Okwudili Nwankwo
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Sound of the Bugle
Unleased from the abyss Those spurring spirits of the hades That fitfully provokes the mortal To damn the spitles of a mortar Paaapaaa...puuu...! Sounds the heroes bugle Striking demons to eardrums Of the most reasonable of men Manipulating the adrenaline And triggered men to be men Confronting the spirits with courage In a stare that glows like a fire In a quake of the earthquake Prepared to lift the mountain Even though the heavens fall Paaapaaa...puuu...! |
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