| You can search the Artella Web site or the Shoppes of Artella RIGHT HERE! |
Second Place
Third Place
Honorable Mentions
Ann McGovern
Ann McGovern is the prize-winning author of 55 childrens books, including Stone Soup. Nearly 50 of her poems have appeared in many journals, including Confrontation, Georgetown Review, Rosebud and Passages North. She won first prize in Artellas recent poetry contest. She lives in New York City.
|
Einstein's Theory Who knows who will step out of the fog Man or beast. And how many toes. Will there be a sultry Song drifting over the damp air. Will I remember the words? If I order a martini With two olives instead Of three, will I have more Vodka in my glass Or fewer olives. Is it possible That the stars Do not shine When I'm looking away. I carry two heavy bags of groceries In the rain, in the dark, To an empty house. But is it empty? As first place winner in the Poetic Idol Competition, Ann won a prize package that includes a $150.00 cash prize; an e-Chapook of her poetry (up to 20 poems), attractively created and published for her personal or commercial use; public status as Artella's Poetic Idol in Residence; a feature interview in an issue of e-Artella; guaranteed publication in an e-Artella issue; free enrollment in her choice of Artella e-courses, the Artella eBook, "Behind the Veil", her choice of any e-Artella issue, and one month FREE Artella membership. Click here for contest details. |
Back to Index
Janice Rose
Janice Rose is a poet, essayist, writing instructor, actress, public speaker, and former journalist. Her work has appeared in Out of The Blue Delight Comes Into Our Lives, Venue, Concho River Review, Chicago Tribune, Global Peace from Vision to Reality, New Texas 95, New Texas 2001, WomenKin, FORCES, etc.
|
Tenth Summer Oak Street in the South, my tenth summer. Hurricane Hazel has yet to come. I am asleep in a blue-walled cocoon of Hardy and Drew. The slammed fist on the table startles me. Light pierces my blackened room like a crusading blade slid under the door. He is home. From their room I hear her muffled cry -- the closed mouth and teeth whimper of a wounded deer -- my wounded mother. Cornered. Primal. A slap, a thud against the outer wall. The fan oscillates in my room. Back and forth. Back and forth. I sit up in bed, pulling my pillow and knees tight to my chest. Tears stream into my silent open mouth -- survival comes in the eye of the storm: If I can hurt myself more than anyone, then no one else can ever hurt me. |
Back to Index
Allen Taylor
Allen Taylor spent 2005 in Iraq and resigned his commission from the Texas Army National Guard upon return in December 2005. He now lives in Pennsylvania with his wife and two grandchildren on a farm with several ducks, geese, cows, several forms of natural wildlife and a nosy dog. He has been published in several small press journals and has self-published a book of poems titled "Entering the Millennium" and a poetic-pictorial chapbook titled "Going Dutch," which focuses on a vacation to Germany with his wife. He is also the publisher of www.world-class-poetry.com. "Love and War" was written in Iraq.
|
Love and War All is fair in love and war, they say; But I am not so sure. When love hurts it does not kill. When she maims She leaves a little something in tact; Though hearts break they can mend. Time heals all wounds Except those of war. When the pain subsides a scar still marks Both the body and the soul. The greatest battlefield is the human heart, Moist and fallow and dry Depending on the season. Harvests come and go Just as soldiers on the path, But little is ever said of a lifetime. Generals and privates too have their petty loves. Warriors know the depth of loss, The pain of wanting to be free. Let Chalabi live, they say; So much depends on his breath. But Patrick Henry may die. And no one loves his country without injury. Betrayal begins where love and war unite And ends when bombs start to fall. Sometimes knowing is too late. Give me your eyes and ears, Lend me your broken heart. Trade your weapon for an arsenal Or a stainless steel vessel of love To guard your palace of peace. If war be like love and love be like war, Give me love. Give me just and total love. |
Back to Index
Jaime Adcock
|
South of Slow Spokes are blurred, burning bright, pedaling faster and faster on my way. Bright Lights, Big City beckon but I demure, knowing my own way lies somewhere south of Slow. I see you waving at me from off in the distance. Waving at me from yellow gold fields of wheat, and I know I can do anything. Anything is possible on the way to Slow. So I pedal faster, faster to Slow. Slow back to you. |
Back to Index
Dawn Richerson
|
What the Sand Dollar Has to Say In the sound of surf, that shared memory which echoes endlessly for the both of us, you strain to hear my voice, swallowed it seems by the tidal wave that washed me away from you and also from myself. I am no more those carefree grains of sand slipping through your hands, molded into a sandcastle masterpiece. I appear worn and thin, frail, brittle, rough 'round the edges, etched with ripples. Look at me. Hold me and discover who I am. You will see the smooth holes, missing pieces you miss in the me you remember, loved perhaps. But God, who rules the seas in mystery, works through suffering. Every day I feel those absent parts of me; but they have become a compass, pointing me always back to Source of all I am and ever hoped to be. If you look closely and hold me ever so gently, you'll find The imprint of a feathered flower, fragile petals emanating from a star-shaped center. It is not perfect, and you must look past the uneven surface into the soul of me to see God's mark of beauty; nevertheless, It's there -- majestic mark of grace, bold pattern of purpose, proof of my belonging to eternity. Before you go, listen to the rush of my heart's river, forged anew from the largest hole which points true north and sings of the sea and you. |
Back to Index
Ariel
|
Leda's Advice Let me show you the path-- there, that filament of light, that liquid-gold guitar string stretched across the river, twanging. You can't hear it yet. Just stand at the river's edge, facing west, squinting in the dazzle of the setting sun. Above you, a steel bridge, rush-hour traffic, noise. Below, like a cool finger, water riffles your toes. The guitar string shimmers on the water, as harmonics shimmer in the ear. You close your eyes. The sun sinks. From behind you comes a low animal sound, like pigeons under the girders. Something pokes its head between your thighs, something with a long neck, piercing beak, and down-- something evoked from deep within your own being, like music from a guitar. Then you feel muscles pulse under you, fluid as the river, fiery as the sun, and you are riding lightning. When you open your eyes, the river below you gleams with the fire in your mind. In your throat, the gasp of wings and wind, the song of the earth flying. On the far shore, beyond traffic, bridge, river, swan, you come to, pregnant with beauty and the seed that becomes the sun. |
Back to Index
terri st. cloud
|
Yin Yang it was in their opposites that they traveled the same direction. he walked the white. she the black. twisting and turning into each other's realms. stretching their hearts past single colors into the place of all. |
Back to Index
Tina M. Marks Shirley
Back to Index Pattie Mosca
Back to Index |