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All rights revert to the individuals published. These works may not be reproduced without permission of the author. These pages may not be reproduced without the express written permission of Performance Poets Association, and may not be stored in any electronic data retrieval system. |
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Winners |
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FOOTSTEPS for Cuddy
We take these so for granted, disregard for the music of the pounding of a heel, the sultry sucking sound of the skin of a bare foot falling on the floor, slapping the ceramic face of cool tile.
We take these so for granted— the clunk of a clog or a platform boot heel as it beats the blacktop of city streets, the static slide of a child’s sleepy foot as it fumbles, finding its way in the dark, gliding along the shaggy surface of a carpeted room.
We take these so for granted.
Yolanda Coulaz Photographer, publisher, many awards won and publishing credits, her 2nd book is forthcoming |
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POEM FROM A SLAT-RAILED PORCH
The porch at Meadowcroft provides a gap-toothed smile of welcome invites visitors to a place where fashionable ladies in bombazine and silk once sipped lemonade sorted yarn for crewel-work watched little boys pretending to be tumbleweeds while girls in dimity wove chains of blossoms plucked from grass in the field below.
A garrison of geese in full dress uniform now shuffle there, veterans with sore and swollen feet march in disorderly drill across the lawn- edge closer with each pass, rubbernecking while feigning haughtiness
pose as critics of the group upon the porch where casual-clad poets drink spring water nestle in rocking chairs, captivated by the carillon from a nearby chapel- bask in cut-clover air while stitching together a comforter of words.
Joan Higuchi Formalist poet, many awards won and publishing credits, workshops her poems on a regular basis
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THE CONDUCTOR (to Sylvia who signs)
She lives in a womb of silence never heard her mother’s cooing best friends never cupped her ear, tickled it with secrets or whispered forbidden thoughts. Love’s words never coiled through ear canals resonating with desire.
But today, like Toscanini her signing hands fly up conduct an inner music tell of swimming in the ocean her hands flit like sea sparrows or sand pipers surfing waves they soar and dip on lacey crests. As she conducts The Rites of Spring waves rise and rear like wild stallions white manes shiver in wind collide and crash on the beach. Then hands like loons, swoop down and glide to Water Music.
Even at rest fingers quiver tips pulse like robin's hearts their rhythms, her breath.
Muriel Harris Weinstein Many publishing credits and awards won, retired teacher, psychotherapist textbook collaborator, a children’s picture book is forthcoming |
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The end of the Green Line
Dachau is all rocks now An iron gate with German words Acts as an entrance for tourists Who take pictures of what once was.
Dachau is mementos made of rocks now: Three religious tributes of stone, An iron sculpture of twisted stickfigures And a granite sign in three languages.
Dachau is vacant, save all the rocks now. Only tour groups tromp along paths, Kicking up dust where wheelbarrows rolled, Walking at their own pace, no guns to prod them.
Dachau is sunny now, all rocks under the sun now. Hot. The still standing barracks are musty, Incinerator rooms bright, coal mouths wide and dull Bricks still sooty but intact.
Dachau is all rocks now. Narrow rows of raised flower beds in Lumber frames filled with gray dirt and stone Instead where buildings once stood, bodies once slept.
Dachau is all built up rocks now, torn apart rocks now, More buildings of worship made of stone More rubble of buildings eroded and razed Dusty tourist tracks that hide wheel ruts once carved.
Dachau is all rocks now. Pictures and timeliness remain To trace a past, remember where and what Went wrong, a giant tombstone for The emaciated and enthralled
Christina M. Rau Founder of the Poets In Nassau poetry group, many publishing credits, college English teacher |
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Trying to Rise
A nearly deflated Silver novelty balloon skips along the glittering main street of town like the toes of a ghost brushing gently against the floor.
As it begins to pull weakly away from the earth like a tottering silver coin falling uneasily upward.
a car comes along to knock it down, sending it end over end like a shopping bag in a swirling wind
where gravity catches it and pulls it back down
to be hit again and again by every passing car
until the helium is gone and it stops dreaming of the sky
like so many of us do.
Thomas Frederick Mattson Previously unpublished poet, PPA featured poet, a fresh new talent who will go far. |
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The Reason
You loved me with a man’s love took the days and bent them backwards till they flowed into a maze of your own contriving.
I planted small green gardens there, walked in them at sunset, buried my face in lilac, kept my secrets.
I loved you with a woman’s love, allowing you illusion.
You gave me love at the mouth, love in the hand, love that shakes the hidden rivers, but a woman wants small love, too,
words to finger like amulets in fragile hours, words like little candles to light against the dark.
Rosemary Walsh Published short story writer and poet, award-winning retired English teacher |
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