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Welcome to Garden 604 in
ARTELLA'S POETRY GARDENS OF FAME!


Click the links below to read the winning poems for the week of June 4, 2005.

Poetry Gardens of Fame Index

First Place
Second Place
Third Place
Fourth Place





FIRST PLACE WINNER


Christine H

Red for a Blind Man

To touch a color
And see it
The red paint
   Feels to the fingers
Like the other colors
Thick

But red is a fist to the mouth
Heat and passion
   and love.

Extremes of any kind
Are the strongest human bond

The Great Red Tie is blood
For skin has many colors
And noses many shapes
But red binds us to our neighbors:
   Makes us see.

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SECOND PLACE WINNER

Sherry Smith

Alignment

Oppressed and oppressor rolled into one
My skin betrays me
Freckled and milky it speaks a common language

My heart aches in its sunburned love
My chocolate eyes scream, Can't you see?,
while nestled on the cliffs of my cheekbones

Auburn hair whipping in the wind,
like the flag of my inner country
Well, at least something is red

Wisdom is a lost cause,
in the land of this and that.

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THIRD PLACE WINNER

Cristina Butcher

all around the mulberrybush

i broke out to toke out
choke out your memory and traipse through cherry orchards.
like a blind beggar on his knees i swallowed the distrust,
watching the indiscretion smear across your face like billboard rape.
it breathed and bruised and vomited out infection
lukewarm and against the fence-
buried under chinaberry weeds.
the suffocation crept up and tumbled down like
stale apathy written in the rules of war.
you said dig deeper burn faster
i said bury the truth on hamberger hill.
you were too much color for my grayscale motives,
film noir roses painted gray out of boredom.

gardens don't grow under pale skies
this lie is dead.

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FOURTH PLACE WINNER

Sarah Fishburn

There is Compassion in Brevity

the never-ending days of January
with their harsh cold arms clasped
tightly against themselves,
deny their own poor children,
who grapple madly for the crumbs
left by gracious December
(& thus warm little hands besides)

yet bitter austerity needs finally give way
to the scarcer days of February
which gather those ragged children tightly in
(with whispered comfort) -
'We may have nothing to give you now but
our own rare warmth - please take that -
& we swear to you soon youÂ’ll have Spring.'

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