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Welcome to Garden 5923 in

Click the links below to read the winning poems for September, 2005.

Poetry Gardens of Fame Index

First Place
Second Place
Third Place
Fourth Place


"I am a mother to three exceptional sons all under age 10, which I recklessly attempt to balance with being a mixed media artist, a poetry portal and a Wildchild at heart! In the next few weeks my altered journals and other art will be available in the Shoppes here and hopefully will inspire others who love a sacred sort of space to write. Thank you for this honor!"
Nici Derosier

Up Late

There is a certain poverty that arrives with midnight
When sleep tantalizes out of reach.
A simple purchase, but
The mind knows full well that fitful rest

Is merely a brief footbridge to the grim dawn,
And holds forth a forced alertness,
Assuming a posture of nonchalance.

The fingers are another matter,
They are weary, and walk into each other like silly drunks,
Uncooperative on any meaningful task.
The sewing needle jabs and breaks the skin,
The pen skitters;

Don’t begin again. Disaster is certain.

The eyes betray as well: they want the shop closed,
The tools laid aside;
They want to drop the shades and be done.
Printed words vibrate and balloon outward suddenly,
As, with pathetic optical lurchings, a page is scanned,
And scanned again, without any meaning drawn.

The morning wants you to know,
It is aggressive
And will not spare you.
It waits around the corner like a thug.

The night says,
You can stay here for awhile if you like.
We can have tea
And look at the moon.

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Jos Munro

Knight Ride

it occurs to me
after riding through the night on the Knight Rider bus
from Dunedin to Christchurch,
i have not now had had any sleep
for some 26 hours -
and i can barely keep my eyes open
while i wait for a plane here at Melbourne airport.

i find my eyes wide shut more every now
than then;
they’re tripping up my thinking brain
and i feel like an old car
trying to cough and splutter myself into life
on a cold morning.

there’s a boarding call urging me
to stay awake for five more minutes.
my ears are telling my eyes all about it.

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Clair Sauer

In Pieces

The jigsaw of her life spread before her.
There’s no picture on the box.
No cottage with roses round the door,
That’s for sure.

She does the only thing she can -
Look for the corners:
Self, family, love and faith.
Their unknown shapes and colours
Amid a million pieces,
But she knows they’re there.

Then the edges.
Countless forms that define her
Boundaries, beliefs, values.
There is always an edge -
Not in a this-far-but-no-further sense,
But a this is her edge, her definition.
This is what encompasses her life
And gives it meaning.

There are no dimensions on the box.
She cannot know the length and breadth of her life.
Just knowing it has shape and form is enough.
She doesn’t even know how many pieces -
But trusts none are missing.

The maelstrom of pieces before her
Alarms and exhilarates.
All this is hers?
All this is hers!
To make as she sees fit?
To make as she sees fit!
Her life’s work -
Coming to peace with her pieces.

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Melissa Davis

Sleeping in Sunbeams

I find myself Sleeping in Sunbeams
Stretching my Sphere
Athletic Sleeping

I welcome gifts and joy like
Rainwater gathering in garden statues
Laughing and Nesting
Tossing excuses masquerading
as truth

I reach out for
Prickly Nourishment
Accepting depression and stagnation
as a cycle of life
Much is good
Much is restorative

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