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Poetry
Contest #23 .
. . Results! |
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August
15, 2001
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D. Armellini, Hamilton, Ontario
-- At the
Supermarket (displayed below)
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Myrna
Garanis, Edmonton, Alberta -- Yellow
House in the Painting (displayed below)
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Third, Jo-Ann
Godfrey, Sherwood Park, Alberta, Across
Thresholds.
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Fourth, Ellaraine Lockie, Sunnyvale,
California, Ode to Analysis.
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Fifth, C.E.
MacNeill, Vancouver, British Columbia,
The Son of the Boy.
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Sixth, Carla Karcha, Preeceville,
Saskatchewan, Endnotes.
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Seventh, Marilyn
Henderson, Coquitlam, British Columbia,
For the Moment.
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Eighth, Rita Mariuz, Sarnia,
Ontario, Rain.
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Ninth,
Jeramy Dodds, Orono, Ontario, For
James Stillborn.
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Tenth,
Sharon Helberg, Kelowna, British
Columbia, The
Runner.
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Eleventh, Charlotte
E. Gowdy,
Montreal, Quebec,
Maniacs.
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Twelfth,
Jo-Ann
Godfrey,
Sherwood
Park,
Alberta, The Beginning.
Honourable Mentions: Michael
McCloskey,
London,
Ontario,
Jigsaw;
Sharon
Helberg,
Kelowna,
British
Columbia,
One
Afternoon
in
August.
FIRST PLACE POEM
At the Supermarket
By D. Armellini
Hamilton, Ontario
She catches my eye, and I watch her,
Soft dark hair askew, down upon her shoulders
Sad face and tired eyes
Her body flirting with starvation.
She counts the change in her hand
Toddler whines, “Momma, I’m so hungry…”
Mother rocks the ancient stroller
Gently, soothingly…
A choice is made, but then the change is counted
Replace that box with this, and this box with that
And finally none at all, as hopelessly
The change is counted.
The bill is wadded into my hand, as I draw near
Excuse me, I think you may have dropped this…
Our eyes connect, hers illuminate, and she smiles, softly.
She knows… she knows…
That on this day a little brighter
Mother and daughter will be well fed.
They are so beautiful
So beautiful…
Copyright
(c) 2004 for the author, all rights reserved.
SECOND PLACE POEM
Yellow House
in the Painting
By Myrna Garanis
Edmonton, Alberta
I never said I was the only one
with a home nowhere but a painting,
I merely mention the yellow house
modestly framed on a modest wall:
small box with a tacked-on porch,
two slim windows facing west,
you make of it what you will.
the artist was local,
had taken a course in oils,
willing to work
for a reasonable rate, willing to paint
from a photo, stroke a burnt-down house
to life
the artist can’t be blamed
if walls turned out too yellow,
if the shed’s too far to the right,
the caragana hedge too sparse,
the lilac bush not there at all
next to the tracks,
the Elevator
vaguely resembles itself
if you close one eye,
and wasn’t there a fence?
wasn’t there more earth, less sky
or merely the standard laid down
by a thousand prairie painters:
get the clouds right,
to hell with the gate and the ditch
pretend there
were no poplars,
keep the people locked in the house,
let them stare from behind storm windows
till too-purple sunsets wound their eyes
soon enough
the memory house
blends politely with the painting,
comes to terms with the domineering sky
and the sorely missing fence,
soon enough, you will forget
the lilacs ever bloomed.
Copyright
(c) 2004 for the author, all rights reserved.
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