2020

Poetry

CONTEST

DAYTON METRO LIBRARY

WINNIN

G ENTRIE

S

Older AdultCathryn Essinger - Plodia InterpunctellaKathleen Glover - Better Than WellbutrinBarbara Astor - Wasteland

AdultErica Manto Paulson - St. Anne’s Hill, After the QuarantineRose Tyler - In the Tired Space of YesterdayLynette McGee - Untitled 2020

TeenJulianne Marzluff - The Place Where the Stars Meet the SeaChase McMannis - I Remember the FeelingSiera Shafer - Perspective

Grades 5-6Zoey Deibel - For the Love of SeasonsPeyton Kearns - A Child Like MeAlina Shroyer - Look at the World Around Us

Grades 3-4Ingrid Halpin - Safe EggsPayton Griffith - Growing ColdZoey McQueen - Gateau

Older Adult

Plodia interpunctella The FDA allows up to 75 insect fragments per 50 grams of wheat flour. The pantry moths came in with a bag of birdseed that we can no longer keep in the garage because the squirrels have become so good with lids and locks. The moths are such an easy kill, their soft bodies so swattable, that it begins to bother my Buddhist conscience, until I find two coupling in the corner of a cereal box. Enough is enough! Their only defense is to fly to the ceiling where they are easy to bring down with a broom. I know some things are meant to be eaten-- "feeder animals" naturalists call them--rabbits, minnows, Mayflies, for heaven's sake, which live so shortly they have no need for mouths. But Plodia interpunctella? I wonder if the spider in the window sill, our resident consumer of everything wiggly, is counting her losses just as I weigh the price of good, organic granola. I toss two dead moths into her web, and she trots out to have a look and then backs away--not good enough. She wants them to protest--a meal should be hard won. I offer the couple from the cereal box. She gets right to work, tying them into a permanent embrace while I try to decide how this complicates the conflict with my conscience. And then I remember the squirrels, clever and determined, and deprived of birdseed for over a week, and I know what I am going to do with the granola.

Better than Wellbutrin

First, get yourself to Ethiopia.

Squat on the shore of Lake Tana, watery hatchery of hominids. Daub muddy vestiges of Eden into the crochet of wrinkles wiggling over your face and the parchment-thin skin over your heart.

Invite light from the indigo sky— that’s perforated by specks of pink suns spinning like Oromia dancers on edges of the floor we call time— into your retinal forest.

Supinate on earth’s womb. Push your spine hard into the sediment, feel tectonic plates quicken— fetal African mountains ripe to be born.

Plant your feet into the squish. Suck up strength from the vibrations of long dead elephants as they pummeled the ground during musth.

Hear the whoop of your simian ancestor that made the leap to human.

Carve a little cubby in your brain, right beside your nucleus accumbens, cram in all you can of Lake Tana, Stick in a little spigot, go home and turn Lake Tana on anytime life erupts into a screaming shambles or your heart’s butt starts to drag on the floor.

Adult

St. Anne’s Hill, After the Quarantine Dayton, Ohio I learned to not take things for granted by feeding horses when I was very young. This is especially important to me now when we are skeptical of everything, having known so many bits and bridles that have pulled us by our teeth during these months of staying distant from your body; mine. If we will ever hold each other again on the hill where the tall grasses touch the stone wall like a painting, we must stand still like the horses, who were here, in this valley, a thousand years before us, and let the wind carry our scent to where we find each other drinking coffee in the sunlight of the old violin maker’s workshop. I’d like to think if I hold out my palm, flat like a plate and balance the round, beautiful fruit that has ripened from all we have lost, you will come to me. And standing like creatures in a pasture, nuzzling over the fence, we will embrace this new longing, distant though we may have become for a time.

In the Tired Space of Yesterday What time has harvested, I have loved and lent already. The sweet passing of an era into piled up nostalgias heaped with time and age: an echo of a name or the scent of cooking oil. A gray-haired haggard breath and a tattered note of handwriting are memory’s body herself. Naked, rain-blessed, despairing, she ricochets between her dark and quiet home of the past and then the bleeding present that cries and cries and cries for her now. Always fleeing time’s carnivorous consumption, she shelters in the tired space of yesterday where voices were softer and the world seemed still and mine. She, of all things, eludes us, tempts us with her traces in the dust of eighth floor Paris apartments or the silver of 53-year-old twice-worn earrings. And yet, these are but faint echoes of her— pathetic reproductions, pallid portraits. All that she was, I have loved and lent already. And all that I have now will one day be hers— time’s unforgiving shadow close behind, until all I can do is search for her footprints in well-used perfume bottles and in the pages of a favorite story.

untitled 2020 the storm of insanity cometh that unsettling light, still just a speck a timebomb trainwreck pushing us apart, crushing us together wishing for what, far fairer weather? all the distance in society can't protect us from what is on the way a soft-focus gray day and darker clouds on the horizon all the things that used to be prized on hiatus until further notice we can't see the fortress through the trees consumption eats us, devouring from beneath fake-awake masks covering gnashing, gnawing teeth searching every aisle to stockpile misplaced grief who decides how big a personal bubble is? making trouble just for the heroes-become-slaves who only pray to the new gods of minimum wage can't avoid death if we're dying from nothing something that kills and worse, makes us stop thinking stay here or stay away play the same games, drift through the rift off into dusk, will the dawn come again? asking for a friend…

Teen

The Place Where The Stars Meet The Sea

“Hurry,” they laugh, as we start down the road,

“To the place where the stars meet the sea”.

And they say that we are well old enough now

To have fun and kick back and be free.

My friends from the water have warned me before

Of the place where the stars meet the sea.

They say, “You’ve never been to the surface before,

and you don’t know how grave it can be.”

My friends from the water are weary of them,

those who go where the stars meet the sea.

They say to be a star, to be brighter than you are

You can’t bubble in false pleasantries.

My fishy friends don’t start down that road,

That goes where the stars meet the sea.

For they know of a path that is boring and grey

That will get them where they want to be.

And I do want to be a star someday,

Where with wealth and with comfort I’ll gleam

But that path is a bore and so much of a chore

When compared to the place where the stars meet the sea.

So I head down the road with these strangers,

And when we arrive I agree

That it’s high, and it’s smooth, and it’s warm in my throat

This place where the stars meet the sea.

And as morning arrives I can feel it

All the head-throbbing toxicity

But at night I am flying and it’s too damn exciting

To give up the place where the stars meet the sea.

They say that the stars don’t respect us,

But fish wait for the day they can be

On this fun middle ground that we teens have now found

Called the place where the stars meet the sea.

I Remember the Feeling

i remember the feeling. i remember the feeling of my heart beating the feeling of blood coursing through my veins i remember the feeling of holding the blade tightly between my thumb and pointer finger trying not to nic myself the temptation overwhelming i remember the feeling of peeling away my clothes to find the right spot unseen the feeling of fiddling with the blade making that first cut not deep enough i try again it stings it hurts but only for a moment then the blood that once ran through my veins full of life comforts the sting as it rushes out like a blanket covering the pain sometimes i miss it the sting the blade the sweet release of a crimson ribbon i remember.

“Perspective”

Just be yourself. You need to be this, do this, be that, do that.

Wear a skirt, not too short or you’ll be immodest.

Wear a skirt, not too long that’s unstylish.

Put on some makeup, don’t reveal your real rosy red complexion. You wear too much makeup, guys like natural makeup.

Don’t talk to boys, you're too young for a boyfriend.

Why don’t you have a boyfriend?

Why aren’t you eating very much? You eat all the food, you fat munch.

It’s fine, everyone else will be late.

Why were you so late?

She’s so rude, I hate her. I love you so much!

You’re too skinny.

You’re a chubby monkey.

You’re a stick. You don’t need to be bulky, men are bulky.

Just be a lady, but how?

Grades 5-6

For the Love of Seasons Summer is relaxing. You’re lying on the beach with the sun shining on your back. Summer is lively, With birds cheerfully singing and kids out playing. Summer is fresh, With crisp green grass and sweetly fragrant flowers. The bright green leaves change color, and it’s fall. Fall is bountiful, Full of good food and warmth. Fall is vibrant, With leaves of orange, red, and gold covering the ground. Fall is full of love, With family and friends gathered near. The leaves fall, the temperature drops—it’s winter. Winter is serene, With delicate snowflakes drifting from the sky. Winter is cozy, When you lounge by the fire with a cup of cocoa and a blanket. Winter is bright, With Christmas lights glowing on your tree and carols being sung. Temperatures warm, plants bud, and we fade into spring. Spring is a symbol of life, With flowers blooming and baby animals taking their first steps. Spring is perky. More people go outside, and animals emerge from their burrows. Spring is fragrant, With clean air, blooming flowers, and new growth. The air gets hotter, leaves cover the trees—it’s summer again.

Look At The World Around Us Our World can be delightful But the liter on the ground is remindful We must keep our World clean We must remember what’s happening in the Marine The problem is many Marine animals are becoming so sick And this is really happening so quick Now why you ask Well just listen to me class This is happening because some humans don’t clean up their trash Now that’s not right But it’s as easy as flying a kite Lets slow this thing down And clean up our town.

in my eyes the best things in life

are the simple things.

maybe it’s reading or playing

with a stuffed animal

or even playing outside.

but in my mom’s eyes

the best thing in life

is me.

we go to the store

and we spend time together

and always play board games.

if we were ever separated

it would be the worst

thing in the world for me.

Look At The World Around Us Our World can be delightful But the liter on the ground is remindful We must keep our World clean We must remember what’s happening in the Marine The problem is many Marine animals are becoming so sick And this is really happening so quick Now why you ask Well just listen to me class This is happening because some humans don’t clean up their trash Now that’s not right But it’s as easy as flying a kite Lets slow this thing down And clean up our town.

Grades 3-4

Safe Eggs

Blue eggs in a nest, Warm in their mother’s feathers,

Safe in a tall bush.

Growing Cold

Snow falling, White as an owl.

The land gets cold, And leaves drop.

The birds fly south, And hibernation unfolds. The air is as cold as ice,

And the fields are empty and quiet. Even though I am alone,

I can discover myself in nature. Growing cold is a dream come true.

Gateau

Lovely, moist

Vanilla or chocolate

I love them all.

I chew and chew

Until my soul

Glows.