WEN: 7BA537
Exhibitor Name: Art S. Tenbrink
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
My Wet Eyes Lift To See
Plump pomegranates bend branches beckoning to begonia blooms below.
Backyard breakfast al fresco , I settle here with the Times.
Sun beams on today’s headlines: Bird Numbers Dwindle. Three billion lost in last 50 years. North America alone- 1/3 gone.
Black silhouettes of lost birds fly off the page:
Aerial insectivores -32% Land birds -27% Water birds -32% Shorebirds -37%
Only ducks and geese increase.
Grieving Nature’s loss I hear a furious flutter nearly in reach. My wet eyes lift to see
the crimson throat and iridescent breast of an Anna's hummingbird dart among purple bougainvillea.
Art S Tenbrink
File: wpMyWetEyesLiftToSee2020-05
WEN: A56A6F
Exhibitor Name: Art S. Tenbrink
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Three Spring Morning Haiku
Strolling through tall grass Damsel flies recon the path Stepping into Spring Bend over creek-side Stare into glistening water See deep your own face Whitetail Kite flutters Above the tallest pine tree Drops prey in new nest
Art S Tenbrink
File:wpHaikuThreeSpring2020.05
WEN: 646191
Exhibitor Name: Dawn Salari
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Where Will I be?
Where will I be years from now? When my career starts to blossom so proud. Where will I be centuries from now? When the wrinkles finally deepen in my brow. Where will I be when I draw my last breath? So afraid of what might come next. Where will I be once I have passed on? Will I reincarnate, or simply be gone? Where will I be when the sun dies? Leaving the earth with no light in its skies. Where will I be where the earth falls apart? Will humans create a new beginning or start? Where will I be when all the stars fizzle out? In another world or reality, but I still doubt. Where will I be in the era of black holes? As they travel gently, where is my soul? Where will I be when the black holes disappear? The end is nigh, oh so near. Where will I be when there is nothing left? Nothing at all, nothing to forget. Where will I be when nothing more exists? Trillions of years away, nothing left to be missed. Where will I be, where will I be? In another place, like those in books or fantasies? Where Will I be? Where Will I be? I’m terrified, scared to death thinking hereupon So much so that I cannot continue on.
Where will I be when everything is truly Gone?
WEN: F0F882
Exhibitor Name: Dawn Salari
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
First Love
My heart begins to beat faster and louder inside my ear
My stomach does a flip when our eyes meet
I think about you in the moments when I am alone
I memorize the places you have touched
The very thought of you brings me joy
But I am very nervous when you’re around
I ask myself what makes you special?
Is it the small things you do for which I only notice?
I love the feeling of our hands entwined
The same feeling when I lay my head across your warm chest
I have this greed to be with you
And only with you do I truly feel understood
Is this what it feels like to have my first love?
If you were to ask me then I would disappoint
Because I have never once felt this
When my stomach drops it’s only due to a sudden caught attention
My heart never accompanies after
Perhaps my fate is to wait
In my daydreams or until the years pass
But waiting is an easy task
I just hope I don’t realize my situation when decades have gone by
I’ll try a bit har der, but I hope whoever also does the same
Maybe eventually I’ll have my first love
Even if it’s not today, tomorrow, or even the many days after that
WEN: 516C43
Exhibitor Name: Diana Lang
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Marvel, Being! Marvel, being, from the moment you awake! Marvel, being, at the vastness of the sky. Marvel, being, at every step that you take. Marvel, being, while you sit and wonder why. Marvel, being, at the strength of the trees. Marvel, being, at the air that you breathe. Marvel, being, at the words that you speak. Marvel, being, at the world you can see. Marvel, being! You’ll find the answers that you seek!
WEN: A158F1
Exhibitor Name: Diana Lang
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
The Road to Summer We stroll through the flowery gardens of spring, shaking off the cold, lonely dust of winter, enthusiastic about what this summer shall bring. An army of ice cream trucks is ready to deliver treats to golden sandcastle kingdoms on flowing ice cold lemonade rivers. The road to summer is paved in popsicle sticks lined with shady trees sprouting summertime schemes. Her pathway to adventure cannot come too quick! Through these shades come visions of parades, leaving lasting memories of time spent with family on these hottest of days. The night sky shines with sparklers, illuminating fun. Our hearts soar into the stars atop fireworks as awe opens up our hearts to the spaces that our dreams still lurk. We play hide and seek in sprinkler systems. We picnic among the pelicans and seals. We dance flamenco among the flamingos. We swan dive into cool waters, splashing free.
Towards the fruitful bounty of fall, we exit summer’s warm embrace, feeling grateful for it all.
WEN: 8D78D7
Exhibitor Name: Evie Groch
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
The Significance of the Everyday We spend our lives as we spend our days with ordinary actions when we empty the trash, vacuum the floors, do the laundry.
The unremarkable events we witness in a broken window, a shuttered theater, the newspaper delivered at dawn, the abandoned gas station where we once fueled up, the long lines of Millennials at the Cheeseboard on Shattuck, the strangers we open up to on BART. The trivial thoughts we admit to when we look in the mirror hoping to see a younger version of ourselves, the pizza we order with extra cheese because we won’t accept our lactose intolerance, knowing we must stand behind someone in a group photo to hide our girth, and now paying for the hair color we once naturally had. These occasions don’t merit the photographers we hire for weddings, graduation parties, bar mitzvahs, turning point birthday parties, banquets, and christenings.
Yet as years pass, the ordinary becomes extraordinary, the unremarkable, truly remarkable. Mundane moments shine in the rear view mirror to remind us they were the connective tissue for anything meaningful, potent, and vibrant. The ugly, boring ducklings swam the lake preparing it for the arrival of the swans. The paparazzi ignored the ducklings, and in doing so, never peeled back the overlooked layers of stories only they could tell.
WEN: A04593
Exhibitor Name: Evie Groch
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
No Reflection on You
Her stoic smile attached to the lower half of her face, stiff, shallow, a thin façade. Her eyes two soft muddy pools staring through you as they sap you of pity, demand your attention.
Clad in earth tones of hanging cloth, head-covering saintly as a Madonna’s, she hovers, glides, approaches for a skeletal embrace, A plastic cup in one bony hand asks for what need not be voiced. Day after day, we come across her In Florence, circling il Duomo , its aged bricks complementing her dark skin. Among the crowds she is invisible, eliciting no response, no break in brisk walk, no eye contact, just a quick side step. None of these a deterrent to her mission, like an ant, who, when its route is blocked or comrades crushed, continues on the programmed path, oblivious to obstacles, impervious to pain, noiseless, determined, surviving in silence and anonymity. This, in the city of art, white marble, and an overabundance of ruins and style.
WEN: B69FDA
Exhibitor Name: Evie Groch
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Turning Over an Old Leaf On canvasses of fallen leaves autumn spills its colors of dusk. Amber streaks slide across the ribbed foundation, blend with browns and yellows. Newly red swaths highlight the jagged outline, allowing the thin green arteries to direct their flow. The hardy rhubarb-tinted stem conducts them all like a majorette in march. And like July fireworks whose display ends in bursts and pops, all of the splendor of a leaf on parade
ends with its own majestic pop should a passerby step on it,
crush the crunch out of it and conclude the show.
Evie Groch 10-5-19
WEN: 2E90FC
Exhibitor Name: Evie Groch
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Ambivalence That was Poland, a name my mother didn’t like to say aloud, as if that would legitimatize it. What it meant to her was borscht and potatoes, kasha and cabbage and onions laced with a bitter hatred of everyone not Catholic or native. I got it. Yet when I would catch her singing a song in Polish and asked her to teach it to me, she recoiled in disgust as if caught red-faced in a bold lie. “Never!” she responded. “I won’t!” Yet into her Yiddish slipped so many Polish words, I could not discern them from our native tongue and adopted them as my own. Yet she repeatedly described the village she called home with restrained fondness and detailed objectivity.
And I never figured out if I was allowed to call myself Polish as my false papers claimed I was, or if I should be grateful I really wasn’t born there.
WEN: 47D8D6
Exhibitor Name: Evie Groch
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
At the Edge of Darkness In this perpetual present the unknown gains permanence, what has never been before is now the norm, my senses fight to adapt. If I stand in this space a while I’ll be able to see in the dark. If a new door doesn’t open I’ll feel my way around, make sense of my surroundings, or perish in the attempt.
Plagues have lives that extinguish ours, death dresses like a carrot of freedom, defiance spreads like a virus unleashed, and we hunker down in a trench of fear. I crawl to the edge of darkness where I bathe in hesitant light. I await the passing of desperation in the wake of tenuous hope.
WEN: 3329E6
Exhibitor Name: Evie Groch
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Journey of Souls Our boat mutely moves toward ritual funereal pyres along the shores of the Ganges where cremations flame with brightness. They celebrate in Varanasi like nowhere else: chanting, drumbeats, wails, prayers at the water’s edge. White-robed priests under lit arches sway in unison to mystical rhythms. Shoreline alive with color and form. Ambience hyper normal, slightly magical. Low billows of gray smoke puff out from newly extinguished burns next to raging hot bonfires. Corpses lined up for their final sendoff, first by fire, then by water as they slide into the Ganges. Profiles of bereaved families in shadows glow softly in their candlelight as ceremonies fade into memories.
We hold a candlelit flower petal, each of us setting one to sail. Soon they are specks of light, stars in a dark aspic of salinity.
WEN: 1A4536
Exhibitor Name: Evie Groch
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Ambivalence That was Poland, a name my mother didn’t like to say aloud, as if that would legitimatize it. What it meant to her was borscht and potatoes, kasha and cabbage and onions laced with a bitter hatred of everyone not Catholic or native. I got it. Yet when I would catch her singing a song in Polish and asked her to teach it to me, she recoiled in disgust as if caught red-faced in a bold lie. “Never!” she responded. “I won’t!” Yet into her Yiddish slipped so many Polish words, I could not discern them from our native tongue and adopted them as my own. Yet she repeatedly described the village she called home with restrained fondness and detailed objectivity.
And I never figured out if I was allowed to call myself Polish as my false papers claimed I was, or if I should be grateful I really wasn’t born there.
WEN: 26A508
Exhibitor Name: Evie Groch
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Journey of Souls Our boat mutely moves toward ritual funereal pyres along the shores of the Ganges where cremations flame with brightness. They celebrate in Varanasi like nowhere else: chanting, drumbeats, wails, prayers at the water’s edge. White-robed priests under lit arches sway in unison to mystical rhythms. Shoreline alive with color and form. Ambience hyper normal, slightly magical. Low billows of gray smoke puff out from newly extinguished burns next to raging hot bonfires. Corpses lined up for their final sendoff, first by fire, then by water as they slide into the Ganges. Profiles of bereaved families in shadows glow softly in their candlelight as ceremonies fade into memories.
We hold a candlelit flower petal, each of us setting one to sail. Soon they are specks of light, stars in a dark aspic of salinity.
WEN: A57E2A
Exhibitor Name: Evie Groch
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
The Significance of the Everyday We spend our lives as we spend our days with ordinary actions when we empty the trash, vacuum the floors, do the laundry.
The unremarkable events we witness in a broken window, a shuttered theater, the newspaper delivered at dawn, the abandoned gas station where we once fueled up, the long lines of Millennials at the Cheeseboard on Shattuck, the strangers we open up to on BART. The trivial thoughts we admit to when we look in the mirror hoping to see a younger version of ourselves, the pizza we order with extra cheese because we won’t accept our lactose intolerance, knowing we must stand behind someone in a group photo to hide our girth, and now paying for the hair color we once naturally had. These occasions don’t merit the photographers we hire for weddings, graduation parties, bar mitzvahs, turning point birthday parties, banquets, and christenings.
Yet as years pass, the ordinary becomes extraordinary, the unremarkable, truly remarkable. Mundane moments shine in the rear view mirror to remind us they were the connective tissue for anything meaningful, potent, and vibrant. The ugly, boring ducklings swam the lake preparing it for the arrival of the swans. The paparazzi ignored the ducklings, and in doing so, never peeled back the overlooked layers of stories only they could tell.
WEN: C8DF70
Exhibitor Name: Evie Groch
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
No Reflection on You
Her stoic smile attached to the lower half of her face, stiff, shallow, a thin façade. Her eyes two soft muddy pools staring through you as they sap you of pity, demand your attention.
Clad in earth tones of hanging cloth, head-covering saintly as a Madonna’s, she hovers, glides, approaches for a skeletal embrace, A plastic cup in one bony hand asks for what need not be voiced. Day after day, we come across her In Florence, circling il Duomo , its aged bricks complementing her dark skin. Among the crowds she is invisible, eliciting no response, no break in brisk walk, no eye contact, just a quick side step. None of these a deterrent to her mission, like an ant, who, when its route is blocked or comrades crushed, continues on the programmed path, oblivious to obstacles, impervious to pain, noiseless, determined, surviving in silence and anonymity. This, in the city of art, white marble, and an overabundance of ruins and style.
WEN: A2A664
Exhibitor Name: Evie Groch
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Turning Over an Old Leaf On canvasses of fallen leaves autumn spills its colors of dusk. Amber streaks slide across the ribbed foundation, blend with browns and yellows. Newly red swaths highlight the jagged outline, allowing the thin green arteries to direct their flow. The hardy rhubarb-tinted stem conducts them all like a majorette in march. And like July fireworks whose display ends in bursts and pops, all of the splendor of a leaf on parade
ends with its own majestic pop should a passerby step on it,
crush the crunch out of it and conclude the show.
Evie Groch 10-5-19
WEN: 32B204
Exhibitor Name: Joe Carlucci
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
TO THE BUS STOP
My week’s visit is measured not by days, But by strides down the front yard and circuitous routes to Burr Oak Road To meet the big yellow bus.
I never got to ride the school bus.
So I watch Trenton with some envy, Hopping up the rubber-ribbed steps to the old cushioned seats while Miss Lisa works the push/pull lever to open and close the door.
Each day was different.
Chasing him on his scooter down the hill, with bad knees and good intentions As he calmly wiggles his slight frame in tight curves and perfect precision. Picking up speed as if one with the steering post. Until the still-mysterious altercation with the swing on the school playground Leading to stitches and a pause on wearing his helmet. No helmet, no scooter.
One day, wind sprints!
Skinny legs flying like one of those desktop toys with the elastic string through the appendages. Arms and legs flailing in all directions, Bottoms of his shoes flapping in synchrony, waving good bye to me as they fly through the air. Staying close enough to keep an eye on him But far enough away to feel my age. He’s faster than he looks.
Then my favorite day, the slow walk.
Where we go side by side, taking our time. Examining the squashed frog at the side of the road, and wondering about his last jumps. Reciting numbers on mail boxes, and looking in the drainage ditch for any sign of wildlife. Trying to guess how big the dog is that we couldn’t see, But certainly could hear! As we near the wooded country road where he will meet the bus, I caution him, “Trenton, stay close, it’s a busy street.” He reaches for my hand And as I slowly close mine around his, we walk the last few yards to the corner.
I wish he could stay home today.
WEN: 32B204
Exhibitor Name: Joe Carlucci
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
He boards the bus for the last time this week, it’s Friday. Turns, waves and smiles, and files to his seat.
As I head back to the house, I’m a little sad. The week is almost over.
But I’m mostly happy about our walks to the bus stop. He probably doesn’t remember them, or think about them.
But I do.
Joe Carlucci 2020
WEN: 48EC59
Exhibitor Name: Joe Carlucci
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
HOUSE YOGA
Woke up this morning, feelin’ lazy, Not sure will be a yoga day. Rather, tried to meditate When a sudden thought came, “Hey, Instead, I’ll let the house take over, It could probably use the peace.” So I settled in, opened up, And let my thoughts all cease. I listened hard, but then not really To let my thoughts be free. Whatever was to come today Was what was meant to be. What first jumped out, no surprise, Was the clock upon the wall. Kept time with the beating of my heart, Love had took the call. Up next, the gurgle of the coffee pot Like the sounds within my gut That happens when you’re anxious Or something’s not right, but Inspiration, expiration Gets you back on track. The house breathed deep, its ribs went wide, I note each pop and crack. Expand my range, do I hear outside A pigeon, or a crow? The downward facing of the dog Elongating so slow. The clicking of the furnace, The nervous system wakes. I hear the “whoosh” and feel the heat, This practice surely makes
Me calm, and I appreciate The efforts of my home To make me feel so mindful And help me write this poem.
WEN: 48EC59
Exhibitor Name: Joe Carlucci
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
I come back to the rhythm Of the ticking and my heart. I appreciate my good ol’ house This morning did her part To realize all the beauty When you really do know how. Not tomorrow and not yesterday, Just enjoy the now.
Joe Carlucci 2020
WEN: 968147
Exhibitor Name: Jude Rognlien
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
WEN: 1568B1
Exhibitor Name: Juliana Abraham
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Serenity I arose to the blinding light of a sunny afternoon As gleams of light began to dance through the curtains I watch as each manifest into new forms Dancing throughout the fabric in graceful strides Each upholding to their performance
The room fills with a golden haze As I begin to draw back the curtains To observe the world that lays before me
The garden seems to glow in summer’s radiance Its white fences give way to ponds of life Lillies glimmer in the reflective pools As the sun reigns its head down Where the trees meet the sky Branches begin to whisper in its excitement The tunes of a gentle breeze
As all sing to the song of serenity
WEN: 03261F
Exhibitor Name: Lauren de Vore
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Three Stone Steps by Lauren de Vore Three stone steps are all that’s left Of the house that once stood In the shadow of the massive oak. Then a portal from haven To wild wood, three lone steps Now lead nowhere but up to down. Lichen-spotted, moss-mortared Into the grassy bank, they give no clue To the house builder, the stone setter, No hint what felled the house And erased all sign of habitation Beyond their own mute presence. But the oak, the ancient oak knows, And with each breeze it whispers The tale the stones cannot tell. Leaves rustle. Flying things flit Through dappled light. I listen. I hear. Ah, if only I spoke the language of trees.
WEN: 4E0752
Exhibitor Name: Lauren de Vore
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Cathedral by Lauren de Vore The forests once were filled with trees; So tall and straight, their branches touched the sky. Beneath their leafy vault, a breeze Wafted the voice of God upon a sigh. For eons stood these sacred groves, And men revered the holiness within, Sought haven in the hushed alcoves That held a fragment of that first Eden. Then came a time when progress raised Its mighty head, and men cut down the trees. Where once they worshiped, now they razed, And built a church with which their God to please. For ten-score years they toiled, and grand The edifice they built, with soaring spire And lofty arching nave that spanned From earth to sky till they could build no higher. With carven vine and flower, with gold And silver, precious gems in rainbow hue, With parables in stained glass told, ‘Twas beautiful from each and every view. And so it stood for centuries, More than mere church it was, but icon, meme, Till one fell day, a spark, a breeze, And fire ravaged ancient stone and beam. Men cried in anguished disbelief To see the work of ages so destroyed. But soon they rallied out of grief, “We’ll resurrect this treasure from the void!” They drew up plans, they cleared the ground, And then a gasp of horror they expelled. There were no forests to be found, For God’s own handiwork they’d long since felled. Gone were the trees, the sacred groves, Gone were the fragrant grasses and the flowers, Silent the songful feathered droves
WEN: 4E0752
Exhibitor Name: Lauren de Vore
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Whose wordless joy once filled those peaceful bowers. “No matter,” said the men, “We’ll build Anew, with steel and glass and solar power, The space with sunlight will be filled With fresh air soothing like a gentle shower.” “It will be splendid, you’ll be awed, A great improvement on past centuries.” And not a one, except for God, Grieved for the vanished flowers, birds, and trees.
WEN: 1273E6
Exhibitor Name: Lauren de Vore
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Walls by Lauren de Vore Barricades, fences, and walls Partitions nature abhors In the end, every one falls Over all, time’s army pours Palisades, ramparts, and dikes Constructs of hubris and fear Mindset of rulers and reiches History’s lesson is clear For every wall, build a door For every fence, build a stile Never forget what they’re for Else to the despots, seig heil!
WEN: 7C1605
Exhibitor Name: Lauren de Vore
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Dog by Lauren de Vore Dark chocolate eyes gaze up adoringly, So full of trust they are, so full of love. No dog can love so unconditionally As the Lab who stinks to heaven above. What did you roll in, I cry in dismay, What did you eat that your breath is so foul? It’s nasty, it’s rank, it’s just not ok, I say as I reach for hose, soap and towel. You’re a girl dog, a lady, gentle n’sweet. No rolling in compost, mud or manure, No horse poop or gross stuff are you to eat. I’ve told you and told you, you with the cur! A yellow tail waves back and forth, dark eyes Gaze up at me in silent dialog. Unfazed by scolding, she just pants and sighs, What’s with this lady nonsense? I’m a dog!
WEN: B5FC46
Exhibitor Name: Lauren de Vore
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
The Gems I Prize by Lauren de Vore What need have I of diamonds icy bright, Of pearls or moonstones pale with captured light When o’er my head the starry sky’s ablaze With gemfire timeless yet new born each night? Instead of sapphires, I have Steller’s jays That flit through branches leafed in emerald baize, In peridot and jade of richest hue. I’ve turquoise skies at noon, at sunset rays Of ruby, citrine, gold, and dawn’s first gaze Shines amethyst alight in silver dew. How can mere stones, though lovely, rare, have worth When they are naught but bits of compressed earth? The gems I prize are nature’s giveaways, Those prism’d tokens of each day’s rebirth.
WEN: 24A9BE
Exhibitor Name: Lisa Roberts
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
The New Man by Lisa J. Roberts Odysseus exulted.
With the ease of supple eloquence and slippery speech, weaving in and out of verity with verbal prowess, he swayed them.
The resplendent armor would be his. Ajax, grim determination, stood like
the march of time, implacable, unstoppable. Words failed, but, lo, what eloquence in his fingers gripping his sword, Hector’s sword, in suffocating embrace as he waited.
The armor of honor belonged to him. He battled Hector to a draw.
He besought Achilles in embassy. He butchered Trojans day by day. He rescued the broken body whose armor now he claimed. He, largest of the Greeks, strong beyond measure, yet without a hint of hubris. Ajax, unbelieving, felt his muscles fail him, as Odysseus conquered all with embellished sophistry. A web of words ensnared his feet and nearly felled him, for all his strength. What mattered strength if the armor went to words? What mattered honor and power? Perverse shadow thoughts stirred beneath Ajax’s mind as Odysseus laughed and donned the prize. Seething,
Ajax plotted his revenge, waiting for dusk, steeping in his betrayal. Rushing, bursting forth, furious muscles rippling like sails in a storm, Ajax executed his justice, slaying the judges who valued words over deeds, slaying the judges who slew him and exalted the New Man. Like lambs to the slaughter, the Greeks fell before his wrath. None could withstand his onslaught. None would outlive his fury.
How long he reveled in his retribution, he could not say, but as dawn’s rosy fingers lifted the fog from his eyes, with horror he beheld the slain. An owl hooted, sailing across the scene, the dawn illuminated the slaughtered sheep, and he knew instantly that Athena
WEN: 24A9BE
Exhibitor Name: Lisa Roberts
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
had protected her precious Odysseus yet again, and made him the fool.
With a roar of rage and futility, he grasped the sword, the gift of mighty Hector, and without hesitation, he plunged upon it, exultant in the end. Odysseus tasted bitter bile that day. The armor, a game for him, had cost his friend his life, and he grew sick of heart. Now the war grew even colder. He longed for home, all his eloquence he bent toward ending the war, honoring Ajax, no longer deceiving for personal gain, no longer misleading friends for baubles. At last when war closed its weary eyes, Odysseus turned to the sea, leaving Ajax buried on a foreign shore. Now remained only the voyage home, and an end to trickery. No more the cunning man, he would recline at home with wife and son, and rest from lies and tricks. O, how could he know of the years to come? How could he foresee the forces ranged against him, the very gods who would wrest his honesty from him and force him back upon his bare wits? The lesson learned from Ajax, the ten years of war, the pain of his cleverness, the honed edge of his intellect, all would forge him into a new man who would gain home despite all adversity. A man with a new kind of strength. A man who would say whatever needed to be said, but who would also do what needed to be done. A man of words, and of action. Odysseus surveyed the horizon of the never-ending, wine-dark sea and saluted the memory of Ajax.
WEN: 814FA9
Exhibitor Name: Lisa Roberts
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
What Might Have Been by Lisa J. Roberts
He was nails on a chalk board,
screeching out injustices, feigned
and true. Like an injured falcon, screaming at the world, he announced his pain.
Abusive parents, failed marriage,
drug abuse to dull a sharp, sharp
existence. College started, and
dumped, and, oh, the unfairness
of it all.
He would accuse God,
if he believed, ironically unaware
that his sense of injustice was
perfect proof of God’s existence,
for who demands equity from the unfeeling universe?
A woman entered his life, late,
then slipped away, unable to chink his holes. Children from his failure tried to fulfill their duties as he aged and fell apart, but there was always something else needing attention. In autumn, in the hospice alone, he tore at the tubes, kicking and screaming as he always did. A nurse and orderly easily held him down; she murmuring nonsense to sooth him. Then he died.
The bereft rain mourned what might have been.
WEN: BF3428
Exhibitor Name: Louise Moises
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
An Old Mongrel Dog I am an old mongrel dog with greying muzzle leashed to a tree with a tough rope, too tough to chew through. I wait for you, my master, why are you so late? Circling and circling, the rope tangles and shortens my reach. Sprinklers come on spraying the lawn and me
I amweary of waiting, confused by your absence. Finally, I sleep dreaming of running on the sand with you. Morning comes, but you do not. My bowl is empty. I hunger
for you: your scent, your touch. When the sun is high, a woman comes, untangles the rope, un-clips the leash, picks me up, puts me in an unfamiliar carrier. Where is he? I whimper. She does not hear me. She speaks to a stranger, No one wants him , she says Going to put him down . I don’t understand what she said. Is she bringing me to you? I hope so.
with cold water, over and over, I shake the wet frommy back until the watering stops. I pull at my bindings to reach a small piece of sunlight, where I can stretch and dry my fur, shivering, I rest. As night falls, moaning into the grass longing for you, I listen for your voice. When the moon rises, I howl like my ancestors And still you do not appear. An owl flies fromout of the oak, a raccoon wanders across the grass to dig for grubs; he eyes me suspiciously. I amnot a creature of the night. You bring me in when it gets dark. We eat together and sit by the fire; you read and I sleep, At your bedtime, I go up the stairs climb on to the bottom of your bed, where I guard you through the night.
WEN: B15518
Exhibitor Name: Louise Moises
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Meet the Bear Meet the bear, he lives under the sofa
in a ball of cat hair and dust, a den that moves easily from one space to another. Meet the bear, he is a file of receipts waiting to be recorded taxes to be prepared. He growls at your deficit Meet the bear smell his rank breath breathing down your neck.
Cobwebs hanging from lights, bed sheets in need of changing. Meet the bear, feel his rough fur matted with burrs, your car in need of servicing, garden in need of weeding. All of that, it’s the bear.
WEN: 322FF0
Exhibitor Name: Louise Moises
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Bedside Literature Cautiously the cat steps on the mountain of books on my husband’s side of the bed, the side now vacant and cold. Pawing across the slippery covers, whiskers working, he sniffs the corners, of the pillow that lacks an impression, declining to violate the sacred space, hunting instead through the bedside library. The cat carefully steps over non-fiction, ignores the novels, apparently, preferring poetry, he noses among the accumulation of poets. Curling finally in a ball of fur, he lets his white paws rest on T.S. Eliot, his chin on Wallace Stevens, a sweep of tail on Robert Frost. He closes his eyes and dreams at first in perfect sentences. He stirs and shifts his visions to iambic pentameter wrapping his entire body around Keats. nibbles at the loose pages, assesses the familiar authors. He feels the cold loneliness
WEN: 43D779
Exhibitor Name: Louise Moises
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Cougar in the Snow Cougar footprints mark a stalking trail across the vast virgin snow, winter sticks of summer grasses jut above the layered whiteness icy winds shake the grey-barked desolate barren aspens narrow tree trunks casting blue shadows on the snow
the cougar crouches low where the footprints end among the powdery snow his tense body waits a white rabbit hides camouflaged in stillness cougar cautious in blue-white landscape
lifts his paw suspended in space paused between life and death of winter’s harsh survival
rabbit and cougar cougar or rabbit waiting.
WEN: 2C258C
Exhibitor Name: Louise Moises
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Love Is... Love is the argument in the garden, scratched out between the thorny roses, dug down into the soil, where roots cling to rocks, unwilling to let go. Love is a slow dance of forgiveness after the other dancers have gone home, head on a shoulder, feet barely moving, a whispered breath between the two. Love is the growl of the coffee grinder on a Sunday morning turning the oily, brown beans to a soft powder, water dripping a dark soothing liquid. Love is sorting clothes into colors and whites, mixing soiled garments into two harmonious heaps, and after the fragrance of their freshness. Love is the curve of a bare back standing before the window with the breeze freshening the room filled with the scent of sweaty bodies. Love is a stack of greeting cards tied in a bundle with a bright red ribbon, mementos of holidays, anniversaries, birthdays melted into a puddle of candle wax. Love is a shelf of books with conflicting ideas, underlined and asterisked for future reference, aiming to support a particular position.
Love is the mis-matched recliners: one a soft pale fabric, the other a stiff brown leather, purchased on sale at the furniture store. Love is the first months of passion full of fire and flame and the last days of life... the quiet goodnight.
WEN: C57C6A
Exhibitor Name: Louise Moises
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
“Death Can’t Stop the Rap”
quote from the newspaper
Death can’t stop the rap reverse the beat absorb the heat chance defeat Death can’t stop the rap gangs still meet memories keep dreams retreat Death can’t stop the rap concrete street guns repeat bloodied feet Death can’t stop the rap souls entreat bleat like sheep life so fleet Death can’t stop the rap beneath the sheet bodies sleep brothers weep Death can’t stop the rap.
WEN: FEF1E1
Exhibitor Name: Robert Campbell
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
MUNICH
Ancient bell towers Jangle robust notes, As frenetic Zen monks
Reverberate from 14 th Century Doll houses and gothic temples, Celebrating social revivals. Cobblestone streets are rivers Where stoic citizens ebb and flow, To and fro like stern salmon. Waiting to mate with strangers, In dark taverns and quiet parks.
Robert D. Campbell October 13, 2019 Munich Germany
WEN: 83970B
Exhibitor Name: Robert Campbell
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
SOMBER TRUTHS
Lies froth as frenetic shadows, Frenzied ghosts Possessing shattered voids, Seeping with animosity. Darkness enveloped your soul as Putrid molasses, spiritual napalm, Burning truth, your divinity Into pyres of angst. Phlogistic memories remain as Warm ashes, mental thorns Left to cradle torpid, Banal existences. ‘Living in the moment’ pure torture. Waiting for deliverance, from Your mind, Your somber bastille.
Robert D. Campbell February 4, 2020
WEN: 0F156C
Exhibitor Name: Robert Campbell
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
DACHAU
Unhallowed grounds Gated by ‘Arbeit Macht Frei’ and other lies October breeze stirred lost whispers of screaming souls. Vaporized in brick-forged pyres. Their carbonized ashes quietly spewed From a lone chimney, Sprinkling the countryside like Subdued, dry tears of angst On the emotionally deft and mentally silent Below.
Robert D. Campbell October 14, 2019 Dachau Concentration Camp
WEN: 9C579E
Exhibitor Name: Robert Campbell
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
AUBERGE DU SOLEIL
Music swirls and twirls as Invisible firefly notes. " LA Woman " playing on the deck, Naked expressions of love, Of mystery, Coupled with chardonnay and Lustful intentions of slothful hedonists. Boundaries are in vain my love.
Robert D. Campbell June 7, 2019 at Auberge du Soleil
.
WEN: F5B249
Exhibitor Name: Rosario Milelli
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
On Finding a Feather Part 1
This is about a dear friend Her husband, a cruel cancer did end
Their love, bright as the sun in the afternoon But, “til death do us part”, came way too soon Majestic Eagles, they both did admire Like their love, soared higher and higher Strong wings made of feathers, kept them above A single feather, a treasured symbol of their love Part 2 A feather, so light, so soft Your spirit surrounds and soars aloft
I promise to love you forever A feather brings us together Sweet memories, thinking of you Finding one, makes it true
WEN: C8C2C8
Exhibitor Name: Stephanie Hom
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Nan ’ s Place
I walk the dirt path that my nan once showed me, A road I only thought existed in stories. My feet tread lightly as I watch the night sky, With the sun to the west and the clouds right on time. The pastel colors and light hues above me sing, With the faint look of stars that capture my being.
X marks the spot, I follow the map to the edge of the water, “Miss the rocks and leave a footprint where the boulder and soil come together.”
Knelt down to see the bottom, but I only saw the top. The moss was covering a carefully preserved rock. Not by force, but by nature, it held its roots. Only those who looked for it could see its truth. Nan once told me of this special place, Somewhere that shown only grace. she said “Come here and listen close, Gather around and snuggle your toes. I know where there is a secret door, Useless to the wealthy but rich to the poor. Unordinary to the blind eye But of unmatched meaning to you and I” I‘d only heard of and pondered the thought for most of my life, Wondering if it would be a mystery till the day I died. The gravel was loose and the mud around wet, the stone moved free and what I saw I’ll never forget. What was inside was a time capsule
one that held my nan’s most prized jewel. a pendant with a diamond on its band,
one that its memories she’ll take to the next land. Amongst it were things from past and others’ time, with a space she had left for me to place something from mine. A tear ran down my face, for this is what she meant, for all the times I felt an angel, they were Heaven sent. I knew that in time it would be my turn to place my own, I put the stone back and thought as I walked on home. What would I put? What would I give? What would I leave behind?
I sat down and began writing what was on my mind. “To my daughter, my brightest light. Be not frightened, of what I tell you tonight. Soon in time, it will be my turn to go, but when I leave there is something you must know. Go to the place that my nan said of once before
WEN: C8C2C8
Exhibitor Name: Stephanie Hom
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
and you will not be alone anymore. I put a star for me and a place for you, for when you feel lost just look to the moon. I’ll be a star and shine up there, for then you’ll be able to find me anywhere. I love you to the moon and back, I’m so proud of you; you need to know that. For when the winds get restless and the water high, I’ll be right there, always by your side.” I signed my name and closed the note, said goodbye and then got on my boat. To those who need proof that angels are true, If you need one , I’ll be one here for you. To my nan who was my stars and moon, I’m coming home ; I’ll be up there with you soon.
WEN: 18640C
Exhibitor Name: Stephanie Hom
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Cards
I’m sitting pretty, waiting at this bar Claiming my seat, hiding in the dark I’m h unting for a player to settle the name I take a shot and light up a flame He deals the hand and calls the round I’m all in, are you on steady ground? The cards are folded, so pick your one Get ready to play because the game’s begun There’s no set of rules so play your ace I’m not hinting, see my poker face ? My hair is curled, black net, and lipstick red My little hat perched high on my head My shiny fitted dress brushes just past my knee Fishnets and high heels only for me I hide the laugh behind my eyes Can you tell between truth and disguise? The cards are folded, so pick your one Get ready to play because the game’s begun There’s no set of rules so play your ace I’m not hinting, see my poker face? You better be careful and watch your back Because I’ve got moves and you’re losing track I ’ve won the last two rounds, you’re at zero to two Stay on it because you’re a bout to lose The chips are in and bids are done It all comes down right here to this one. The cards are folded, so pick your one Get ready to play because the game’s begun There’s no set of rules so play your ace I’m not hinting, see my poker face? My corset’s emerald gree n and pulled tight Covered on top, it’s not that kind of night Look into my eyes to find your move You are bluffing, y ou have a tell that’s not so smooth I put down my cards and have you plus 10 Three to nothing; g ame’s over, I win .
WEN: 18640C
Exhibitor Name: Stephanie Hom
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Last call’s overheard , I’ ve finished my drink I look over, you send me a wink The sign outside has gone out and I’m headed home Leaving the mystery of tonight to roam Nothing but clicks on the pavement And the memory of what happened. The cards are folded, so pick your one Get ready to play because the game’s beg un There’s no set of rules so play your ace I’m not hinting, see my poker face?
WEN: 79126B
Exhibitor Name: Stephanie Hom
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
In The Rain
The skies are cloudy this morning I’m sitting here in my nook Perched with my legs up A book and my go to coffee cup Water dots the windows I watch the rain like a sad little pup My sorrow’s not too far behind The tv’s sound in the distance It’s playing the early news Alarms are ringing Another rough night, candle burning It’s pouring down outside My heart is heavy, my head low hanging I’m gazing off with a blank stare I’m jumping in the rain Feeling the drops fall on my face I’m splashing in all the puddles Watching them go down the drain Dancing around without a care Getting rid of all that I don’t need My boots feel lighter Like a weight off my shoulders And I’m free I’m free I’m sitting here and day dreaming Thinking of what could have been Now that’s gone away You pulled the rug out from underneath Why did you, how could you Because it could have been just you and me But it’s over, there’s nothing left for us So I’m jumping in the rain Feeling the drops fall on my face I’m splashing in all the puddles Watching them go down the drain Dancing around without a care Ridding myself of all that I don’t need My boots feel lighter Like a weight off my shoulders And I’m free I’m free
WEN: 79126B
Exhibitor Name: Stephanie Hom
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
I fight the voices in my head I get up I’ve had enough My room is a mess I change from my dress into my sweats It’s over and I’m done I take off my make up and your necklace Pull on my boots, let down my hair
I’m jumping in the rain Feeling the drops fall on my face I’m splashing in all the puddles Watching them go down the drain Dancing around without a care Getting rid of all that I don’t need My boots feel lighter Like a weight off my shoulders And I’m free I’m free
The trees blow in the wind The river flows It’s really storming now But I don’t care
I’m jumping in the rain Feeling the drops fall on my face I’m splashing in all the puddles Watching them go down the drain Dancing around without a care Getting rid of all that I don’t need My boots feel lighter Like a weight off my shoulders And I’m free I’m free
I’m free I’m free
WEN: C6E80A
Exhibitor Name: Stephanie Hom
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
Magic Show
Welcome to my magic show Where I will take you down below To my cavern underneath Come on close and walk with me Looks can be deceiving do you follow me? I’m not your standard deck of cards I can rip your soul to shards I am there in every trade A queen of hearts and jack of spades There turning lemons into lemonade
1, I’ll snap my fingers 2, I’ll close my eyes 3 is where I reach down way down deep inside 4, I’ll make some magic And 5, you’ll realize I have changed the deception right before your eyes Green is red and black is always blue Are you still standing or did I lose you Is it swirls of fear or sunshine on my face First I’ll appear, and then you’ll lose my trace Gotta be quick to catch me, I will be your ace
In a box that’s nice and neat There are things you cannot beat Fly it high or swim to shore Stick with me and you will know The magic that lies here below
1, I’ll snap my fingers 2, I’ll close my eyes 3 is where I reach down way down deep inside 4, I’ll make some magic And 5, you’ll realize I have changed the deception right before your eyes Green is red and black is always blue Are you still standing or did I lose you Is it swirls of fear or sunshine on my face First I’ll appear, and then you’ll lose my trace Gotta be quick to catch me, I will be your ace
Slowly we will make our way Through which is my one escape Through trees and water down below Find the door to my bungalow Stop. Are you ready? Then let’s go!
WEN: C6E80A
Exhibitor Name: Stephanie Hom
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
My bed is there, my pillows too Don’t forget those high heeled shoes My old soul has holes on its ear My make up there, stuffed animals near A cozy sofa, it doesn’t just stop here
1, I’ll snap my fingers 2, I’ll close my eyes 3 is where I reach down way down deep inside 4, I’ll make some magic And 5, you’ll realize I have changed the deception right before your eyes Green is red and black is always blue Are you still standing or did I lose you Is it swirls of fear or sunshine on my face First I’ll appear, and then you’ll lose my trace Gotta be quick to catch me, I will be your ace
In my place where I can truly be I can be anything I want to be In this world I live in shadow So, I hide out here down low What you know is just the lights Poppy and all shiny bright Most we wear a mask all day So, here is where I come to play
1, I’ll snap my fingers 2, I’ll close my eyes 3 is where I reach down way down deep inside 4, I’ll make some magic And 5, you’ll realize I have changed the deception right before your eyes Green is red and black is always blue Are you still standing or did I lose you Is it swirls of fear or sunshine on my face First I’ll appear, and then you’ll lose my trace Gotta be quick to catch me, I will be your ace Behind all the smoke and mirrors There is a small soul that lives here Find it and then you will see An open heart saying this is me Looking back at you is just another being 1, I’ll snap my fingers 2, I’ll close my eyes 3 is where I reach down way down deep inside
WEN: C6E80A
Exhibitor Name: Stephanie Hom
Division: Poetry (Adults)
Class: 01 Poetry
4, I’ll make some magic And 5, you’ll realize I have changed the deception right before your eyes Green is red and black is always blue Are you still standing or did I lose you Is it swirls of fear or sunshine on my face First I’ll appear, and then you’ll lose my trace Gotta be quick to catch me, I will be your ace
Come see how my trick is done And when it’s over you’ll know one Before you know it, I’ll be gone So, watch me carefully.
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