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• Annual Literary Reviews • available at all events |
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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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A Question of Happiness
Who is that weeping?
The rat because her burrow is strewn with bones.
The coyote because she pleads with the immutable prairie.
The owl because her little ones fly alone in the appalling glitter of stars.
Who does not weep?
The hare because her legs carry her over the snow, the ice.
The fox because her tail sweeps memory skyward.
The bear because she comes from black concavity into spring
Robyn Supraner Robyn is a widely published poet, poetry teacher, children’s book writing teacher, award winner and author of more than 100 children’s books.. |
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SMALL GIRL IN TREE, EARLY JUNE
She springs up, grasps a low branch Of the curbside tree and swings, A colt’s mane of brown hair, palely parted Whips from side to side; Bare feet pedal air.
A neighbor’s child Seven, maybe eight I do not know her name. She hand-walks out along the branch Back towards the trunk, Shouts Look, Look to someone I cannot see.
Small knees pistoning She does not feel my pincer gaze Pluck her image up, drop it onto pungent cotton, Cap the jar; does not know herself labeled Small Girl in Tree, Early July
Collected none too soon- Already gray wisps twist to a tight knot Above her wizened nape; Knuckles tighten, coil like dried vines; Blue-veined feet sag groping, Groping for the ground.
Jane Lawliss Murphy Singer and published composer of five albums of songs, essayist and licensed Jin Shin Juytsu practitioner. |
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Harbingers
A movement of earth, a tiny tilt of axis, this little spring in February, blustery and sometimes mild, I must peer closely to find it.
Red wing blackbirds appear and take possession as if they never left. A flock of early robins finishes off red holly fruit.
Quince, with no regard for proper timing blooms pink against gray leafless stems, live Asian painting.
Red-eyed, black and white, sleek, sinuous swimmers, I have a rendezvous with loons who, in the schedule of their year, sojourn a few months on the river.
Better this preview, this glimpse of harbingers than May and April’s full-blown message that it cannot last.
Dorothy Schiff Shannon Retired teacher and published poet. |
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Hospice
Pick of the litter of pups At a Stanford fireman’s home, In the span of fourteen years, Our children had grown, left home.
His regal head turned gray, Hips weakened, Hind legs lazy, He had become a living room rug.
If he’s not enjoying life, You said we’ll put him down. How will wee know? He will tell us.
Incontinent and diapered, His ammonia smell Announced his presence. Then summer came.
Each day diaper-free, Dosed with steroids, We left him on the lawn, Immobile in his place,
Enjoying himself, Until an unexpected storm Washed away his happiness. His fur soaked,
We carried him indoors Toweled down and powdered, Diapered for the night, His eyes told us
What he could not speak. Next day we found him, Under his blanket, A statue of his former self.
Richard Bronson M.D., teacher and researcher, writing poetry for 10 years |
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Performance Poets Association® |
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HAIKU MEDLEY
In the deep of night, without making a sound- birds prepare their songs?
Dew on dove feather on the grass,
lady cardinal’s orange beak takes the drab out of a grey morning.
Must be good friends, three sparrows gathering on a lilac branch,
four pitchers of water to fill the birdbath. Shaking of wings and they fly.
Mankh Walter E. Harris III Essayist, student of Kaballah, Haiku poet, epic poem “Singing an Epic of Peace”, chapbooks,independent publisher of AllBook-Books |
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Gateway
I am looking for a thin place, a small, quiet space that leads to a threshold between two worlds. It is a window of opportunity where you can stand hands down, eyes up and feel a spot of grace like a thin clear stream of solitude set free from the fret, and hear the wind in the reeds play the pipes of the soul. There you can suspend disbelief, and listen to a small voice that whispers from a weir of absolute silence.
Carol A. McCarthy Prize winner, English teacher, poetry workshop leader, and widely published poet |