A Celebration of POetry-online!

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The world stopped spinning

Everything was silent,

The breeze stopped blowing the trees,

And the river stopped rolling along.

Everything was silent,

Oh, so very silent And Dark.

Sophie Stachulski, Elementary School Winner

Strafford NH

It’s funny how quickly a moment can go from thrilling to terrifying,

Just like that.

Laughter turns to screams

The world becomes so loud, yet so deafeningly silent.

The impact isn’t even the worst part,

But the pressure of the water overtaking my body and stealing my breath is what kills me.

I try to gasp for air

But to no avail.

Air turns to water and fills my lungs.

In my last moments I relive everything in my life up until now.

Every wrong decision

Every right one

Everything in between

Will the world miss me?

Or will I just be another unknown soul,

Gone?

Just like that.

Callie Valeri, High School Winner

New London NH

Mom, me, and my little sister, frowning. Summer vacation, road-trip.

Dad had rested the 1960’s Travco motor home, to extend its life

on the road. While we waited for it to quit its white-steam-sighing,

he brought his camera out to capture a gigantic Arizona cactus.

My little sister and I fence Mom, as directed, and stand in front of the star.

My oldest sister—absent—explores a Christian camp, 3,000 miles away, 

where she’ll meet her future husband and try-on Mom’s Sunday shoes. 

The star of the photo towers behind us, stiffly poking the desert sky

with its succulent-nubs, to force the rain that just won’t come.

This inside-out pincushion grows from Mom’s slumped shoulders, out

of her housewife-head, as if all of the cooking & sewing she did for us

came back in one impatient clump. Her feet swell beneath the burden 

in the degree of heat that melts cheese; another reason we are not smiling.

My golden-haired sister—dressed in blue—leans close to Mom’s right side,

gazing at the concrete with her tiny-blue-eyes. Her three-inch feet

are firmly tucked together, readying her Air Force Sergeant future.

I am captured at eleven, a tanned, brunette, bean-pole; summer’s dry-gleam

a pasture in my hair. My white pants are rolled to my scuffed knees. My 

white tank top hides two sore bumps, (soon-to-be trainees)—I match

Mom’s scowl. This trip, she tells me that it is about time I wear a brazier.

My left-hand rests on the back of my head, my elbow forms an arrow

pointing in the direction apposing her. Deep, in the distance between us, 

on my right shoulder, a highway-sign cautions, alongside a chain-linked fence:

Do Not Enter.

By Amber Rose Crowtree

First Place Adult Category

Grafton NH

A lopsided moon sends no light through the bare trees

as I stumble blindly

toward our compost bin.

One foot squishes and I jerk it back.

Someone’s cigarette smoke bullies its way

into my consciousness-a neighbor? Walker?

Undistracted, briefly stilled, I savor my small illusion

of solitude.

Joyce White, Second Place Adult Category

Farmington NH

No one knows 

The next ride could be you 

in the black hearse with the yellow fringe and tassels 

draped over velvet drawn curtains 

always parked in the dark end of Johnson’s barn. 

In her stall, across from the hearse, Lucy 

the retired black mare, waits alone. 

When it’s time, she wears an ostrich plume 

pulling the carriage slow and steady  

with its pine casket and massive iron wheels 

through the village of Sutton 

up Meeting House Hill to the Old South Cemetery. 

It might be Mrs. Ferry who is the next one to go. 

The ninety-seven-year-old woman who lives on Barker Road 

and holds the Boston Post Cane made of ebony with an engraved golden knob. 

Although the last time I saw her,  

she was on a step ladder painting her kitchen ceiling.  

Jody Wells, Third Place Adult Category

Sutton NH