Ante thesesBefore the washing machine, the river
Before the river, the ice that explains Neither itself nor the machine Before the navel, the shell Before the shell, the softer semblance Neither known nor unnavigable Before the nemesis, the prayer Before the prayer, the organist urgently pressing pedals and keys Before you, me Before me, a story that ends Neither with me nor without Before the thunder, the lightning Before the lightning, the surge Neither spoken nor sayable Before the word, the squawk Before the squawk, the egg dropping, slipping bearing down by Renae Keep Ante theses is an honorable mention in the 2018 Third Quarter Poetry Contest. Congratulations Renae!
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Birds to Stars
We must protect them, the two birds. Must pocket the one stone, or toss it back, underhand, into an ocean, the river, a stream. We can decide swiftly, trust in our power to revise the ancient idiom, understand the sway of suggestion, strength of words. It’s time for a new edict. No more killing two birds with one stone. Let’s catch two stars with one reach. Simply this: Two stars, one reach. by JS Nahani JS Nahani is the winner of our second quarter poetry contest. Congratulations! Mid-day Sunday
Seasons shift, one to the next shadows dance with bright skies someone’s theory about the passing of something small, the second hand its steady tick tick tick and already, we’ve moved on. by JS Nahani JS Nahani's poem Mid-day Sunday is an honorable mention in our second quarter poetry contest. Bashō in Bellingham *Bashō was a 17th century Japanese haiku master (i.) gawky herons straddle twig nests whiff of skunk cabbage (ii.) eating berries at the Farmer’s Market teeth stained blue (iii.) tumbling fall creek fishermen line its banks salmon leap for the moon (iv.) damp winter winds locals advise, wear layers, a fleece jacket from REI By Susan Erickson Susan's poem is a runner up for our second quarter poetry contest. Congratulations Susan! Underfoot, Shredded Petals
We sheep across winter’s grayscape to arrive, wool sodden and mucked, neutered, at spring’s sludge pond. There’s enough wet to raise the almost-dead: blossom from bud, caterpillar from egg, bee from hexagonal hutch. Drowned for months, the evergreen roots have been silently screaming. What silk scarves are concealed in tree sleeves? What disappearing trick will vanish the memory of morbid hours? Tucked in our pockets: needles, black lichens, moss. In the distance, Mt. Baker turns its face to the sun. Come migration season, even a caged bird will face its intended direction. Overhead, a chorus of swallows. Overhead, swarms of them travelling by starlight. by Dayna Patterson Dayna is the winner of our March 2018 poetry contest! Her poem will be on display at the Poem Booth through the end of the quarter. Silence
Come on Whisper your truth To the clouds, shape shifters Into the owl's ready dark hole The light. by J S Nahani If Sloths Danced About
If circles were squares, if peaches were pears, if the broom stayed home with the moon; then dreams would be real, then drab would have zeal, and death wouldn’t come far too soon. If bottoms were tops, if straight downs were round ups, then snow would be common in June. If all in were all out, if sloths danced about, then sprinkles would be a monsoon. If earthrise were seen by a non-human being, if you played all day in your sleep-- where yawns were bright lights, and fawns flew like kites, then we’d all have hug bugs to keep. If passion were pity, if country were city, if chiefs could not utter a peep; then a scowl would be fun, snacks impeccably done, and we’d give away all that we reap. by John Green The Wayfarers
beginning to dawn blue barely lines the horizon golden sun nips the tips of craggy mountain peaks five old growth firs four wayfarers stand on a beach last stand of trees spines and trunks silhouette black by Lynn Geri DivinationThe long body of the Buick
is brown like a doe. The open hood reveals inscrutable innards of iron. Steam rises from the cavity, the open stomach of a deer on a hard November field. Both Buick and doe can carry a man through winter. My father reaches into that space, his back bent with effort as if through haruspex he will solve the mystery of what doesn’t work. I can’t tell him where gears go wrong, but I know what stopped the doe. By Jory Mickelson Jory is the winner of our fourth poetry contest! You can see his poem on display at the downtown co-op December 1st - end of February! Night ShiftsHow good the green air felt against my skin when I broke from the foundry’s door, to leave behind the vulcan light we pounded thin for thirteen hours until it turned more delicate than wire, became a tracery of orange against the skin. How the hammer echoed in the ear and followed me into sleep. How loud the body’s metronome. Below the tic of cooled muscle, eyes dim in their sockets, the web of breath remains. The headlamp mind, released from the body’s tether, drifts toward soft-edged trees. How similar the road at waking to the one bound for rest. How the hammer of the heart swings, as if for hours, in hand. By Jory Mickelson Jory's poem is a runner up for our fourth poetry contest. Thank you, Jory, for your submission! |