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ARTELLA'S POETRY GARDENS OF FAME! Click the links below to read the winning poems for September, 2005. Poetry Gardens of Fame Index |
Second Place
Third Place
Fourth Place
 | "I am a mother to three exceptional sons all under age 10, which I recklessly attempt to balance with being a mixed media artist, a poetry portal and a Wildchild at heart! In the next few weeks my altered journals and other art will be available in the Shoppes here and hopefully will inspire others who love a sacred sort of space to write. Thank you for this honor!" |
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Up Late
There is a certain poverty that arrives with midnight When sleep tantalizes out of reach. A simple purchase, but The mind knows full well that fitful rest Is merely a brief footbridge to the grim dawn, And holds forth a forced alertness, Assuming a posture of nonchalance. The fingers are another matter, They are weary, and walk into each other like silly drunks, Uncooperative on any meaningful task. The sewing needle jabs and breaks the skin, The pen skitters; Dont begin again. Disaster is certain. The eyes betray as well: they want the shop closed, The tools laid aside; They want to drop the shades and be done. Printed words vibrate and balloon outward suddenly, As, with pathetic optical lurchings, a page is scanned, And scanned again, without any meaning drawn. The morning wants you to know, It is aggressive And will not spare you. It waits around the corner like a thug. The night says, You can stay here for awhile if you like. We can have tea And look at the moon. |
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Jos Munro
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Knight Ride
it occurs to me after riding through the night on the Knight Rider bus from Dunedin to Christchurch, i have not now had had any sleep for some 26 hours - and i can barely keep my eyes open while i wait for a plane here at Melbourne airport. i find my eyes wide shut more every now than then; theyre tripping up my thinking brain and i feel like an old car trying to cough and splutter myself into life on a cold morning. theres a boarding call urging me to stay awake for five more minutes. my ears are telling my eyes all about it. |
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Clair Sauer
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In Pieces The jigsaw of her life spread before her. Theres no picture on the box. No cottage with roses round the door, Thats for sure. She does the only thing she can - Look for the corners: Self, family, love and faith. Their unknown shapes and colours Amid a million pieces, But she knows theyre there. Then the edges. Countless forms that define her Boundaries, beliefs, values. There is always an edge - Not in a this-far-but-no-further sense, But a this is her edge, her definition. This is what encompasses her life And gives it meaning. There are no dimensions on the box. She cannot know the length and breadth of her life. Just knowing it has shape and form is enough. She doesnt even know how many pieces - But trusts none are missing. The maelstrom of pieces before her Alarms and exhilarates. All this is hers? All this is hers! To make as she sees fit? To make as she sees fit! Her lifes work - Coming to peace with her pieces. |
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Melissa Davis
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Sleeping in Sunbeams
I find myself Sleeping in Sunbeams Stretching my Sphere Athletic Sleeping I welcome gifts and joy like Rainwater gathering in garden statues Laughing and Nesting Tossing excuses masquerading as truth I reach out for Prickly Nourishment Accepting depression and stagnation as a cycle of life Much is good Much is restorative |
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