1998 Poetry Quill Awards

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First Place

THE VIEWING

By Carole Shukle

An urgency to see my mother
in death propels
me toward her--a sleepwalker.
I admire the white birch
coffin; its simple elegant
lines so like my mother.
I envision loose skin
draped in folds
over a skeletal frame,
like surplus material
overrunning a table.
I imagine raven hair
turned gray and brittle
and clothes swamping
her now frail body.
I see swirling baby-blue
satin cushioning her eternal bed.
Etched on the lid--a stand
of poplars brings to mind
a walk in the woods.
Nostalgia fills my spirit,
until I remember her sightless
eyes.
Perusing my mother's face,
my fear vanishes like chalk
from a blackboard. My sadness
tempers. Her ebony hair curls
about her cheeks. Her glasses
perch on her nose,
as if she had fallen asleep
reading. Her skin, plum and taut,
evokes a memory of mom
in the kitchen laughing
as she whips up a cake:
a mom of more than eight years
ago, a mom I had almost forgotten.
Her empty stare now hides behind
an expression of peace.
Hesitating, I touch her granite-cold
hand. Her skin is like hardened stone
turned smooth by eons of running water.
Marble statues come to mind.
She is like a Russian egg:
yoke sucked out, a mere work
of art, no essence. I am content,
now, to let her go.

Second Place

SHROUD

By Kim Smith

She roams the foothills of my mind
And I profess to see
Her haunted face
Her tortured smile
At night they come to me.

Her hands are veined and clutching
Her arms seem lost in time
They reach not for
The present day
But what she left behind.

Her neck is long and angled
Her chin, a sunken bone
She's given up
Her face sees loss
Her spirits lives alone.

Her brow is furrowed deep with time
Her hair flows long and wild
Within it's darkened
Graying strands
You'll hear echoes of a child.

Her shoulders slump both down and in
She hugs her body tight
To keep the pain
From rising up
Her demons cry for flight.

Her legs are wretched sticks to her
Her feet protest each step
But still she walks
She lingers not
Her tears mark where she wept.

Her nose is hooked and drooped in age
Her cheeks are chapped and dry
But her lips are red
From pain and dread
And constant asking why.

Her eyes reveal her darkness
They're blue as china skies
But if you look
Too deeply
You see nightmares come alive.

For in her dark and sky blue soul
Her back is straight and proud
She walks alone
She lost her faith
She's looking for her shroud.

Third Place

CHRISTMAS JOY

By Barbara Skonieczka (Britestar)

I am a Christmas angel with
wings so bright and gay,
I come to children everywhere
to brighten up their day.

I love to see their faces with
smiles that light the night,
spreading joy and happiness
with hearts that glow so bright.

I see them happily playing in the
sparkling pure white snow,
sharing warmest glances and
friendship to and fro.

Happy is my heart when
full of Christmas joy.
I'm spreading my warm fuzzies
by giving Christmas toys.

I hold a joyful heart in hand
and spread my wings so wide,
proclaiming glad tidings to one
and all at this Christmas tide.

Can you feel the joy of that
night so full of love?
Christmas joy's but one small
child blest by God above.

Fourth Place

APPARITIONS

By Kim Smith

Wind swirling sounds
Echo her thoughts
Her terror is rising
Her vision is blocked.

She prays for release
From the terrible sight
Apparitions in windows
That come with the night.

On nights when the darkness
Holds close to the glass
The shadows are waiting
They won't let her see past.

The window is damaged
That's all it can be
She runs to the next
But still she can't see.

She bangs on the window
A low moan in her throat
But the shadow is silent
And refuses to go.

She closes the curtain
And waits for a time
Then opens them quickly
The shadow keeps time.

Her terror complete
She struggles to say
"Dear God – In your mercy
Please take it away."

"I promise to let go
Of problems and strife.
Take away the shadow
I'll give you my life."

The room seemed to brighten
His presence seemed near
She walked to the window
Still the shadow was clear.

She heard a warm chuckle
And a voice whisper through
"Fear not – silly child
The shadow is you."

Honorable Mentions

FATHER FEARED
Or
In Defense of Blue
By Al Franklin

Monday, like the unconscious Sunday
before it, lies drunk on wind
and blinding sun. It rusts in memories
of wet city streets and gutters
flooded with the thick flow
of blood and barefoot children
chasing down cracked sidewalks
lofting burnt out light bulbs
onto rough asphalt, relishing
the explosions of thin glass.
The children's ears, numbed by shouts,
feign deafness, ignore cries
of, " Why, why can't you be quiet,
don't you know your father
is asleep…don't you know
he'll whip you if you wake him?"

At noon, the children stand outside
the bathroom door and watch their father's
distant face blur in the mirror
as the blade, dull edged, scrapes
graying whiskers from chin and neck..
They hope each shaky stroke
tempts a repentance in blood
for days gone unremembered.

Little boys, bored with Sunday, rip pages
by the handful from handout Bibles, curse
the New Testament and don't believe
in anything that can't be seen. They laugh
at abstractions like a 'good-family-life,
and love'. They've seen what's real:
A father passed out each morning
naked on the couch, violent at the rise
of sound. On these sunny Mondays that lie
unconscious of past Sundays, children run
berserk through city streets, drunk
on wind and sunshine, destroying anything
that isn't blue.

HATRED
By Kris Hollies

Black and long it curls, silent and invisible,
Slithering smoothly, like a river it weaves,
And curls up her leg without touching.

Seductive and secretive it winds up and around
Circling her waist, then caressing her breasts,
It cloaks her in an invisible mist

Hissing like a serpent, seductive as a snake,
With a silent voice it whispers in her ear
Things that she should not be hearing.

You hate him he hurt you he left you with your need
He took what was yours you want what he has
Hurt him wound him make his soul bleed

Slowly her eyes gleam as it dries the tears on her face
It gives her images of revenge, visions of pain
As its fingers slide in her heart to drain it dry

It pulls the shades down over the light in her eyes
And it moves her gentle hands to hurt not heal.
As it envelops her in a thick black shroud

It moves as one with her mind, then as one with her body
Soon it consumes her; no love can enter her soul
But inside she knows it is of her own choosing.

And it laughs.

FROM THE GRAVE
By Carole Shukle

I was a double-edged dagger
gutting my husband. He
bled alone.

I was a record playing
both sides at once. He
was confused.

I was a skipping stone
distorting the calm waters. He
Tried not to drown.

I was “The Faces of Eve”
rolled into one. He
wondered who I was.

Addiction
was my soul.
Alcohol...my master. He
was nobody.

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