Deadline March 20th, 2021
THE LITERARY ARTS GUILD OF THE CENTER FOR THE ARTS,
LAKE SUNAPEE REGION
CELEBRATION OF POETRY MONTH
CALLS FOR SUBMISSIONS TO ITS ANNUAL POETRY CONTEST
“NATIVE AMERICAN BEAUTY IS DIVERSITY”
RULES FOR SUBMISSION:
Compose a poem on the above theme.
· New Hampshire Poets may submit one (1) original unpublished poem inspired by the theme.
· Poems should be typed in a 12-pt, or larger font.
· Poems should be no longer than one, “8.5 inch by 11 inch,” page.
· Poets should submit by mail (address below). Send two (2) copies of your poem: one copy including your name, address, telephone number and e-mail address. The second copy should have no identifying information.
· The winning poets will be notified (by telephone or e-mail) by March 30thand will be invited to read their poem at the April 9th event described below.
· Contestants who want to receive a list of contest winners should also submit a stamped, self-addressed envelope with their entries. There is no fee for submission.
· Submissions should be mailed by March 20th, 2021 to Dianalee Velie, PO Box 290, Newbury, NH 03255, (603) 938-2734, firstname.lastname@example.org.
· Members of the Center For the Arts’ Literary Arts Guild are not eligible for this contest.
· There will be 3 winners in the adult category: First, Second and Third.
· There will be one winner in each of the following categories: High School, Middle School and Elementary School.
· The judge for the contest will be Marie Harris, former Poet Laureate of New Hampshire.
The winning poets will be honored and invited to read their poems in a public celebration of poetry at
The Meeting Room of the Newbury Town Offices, 937 Route 103, Newbury, NH 03255
Friday, April 9, 2021
5:30 to 7:30 p.m.
Public invited ~ Refreshments served if COVID restrictions permit~ No charge for admission ~ Donations welcome!
If COVID Restrictions are still in place the event will be held on Zoom.
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
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,
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
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
Joyce White, Second Place Adult Category
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
Back Row: Ala Khaki -Contest Judge, Autumn Siders- Third Place Adult Category Winner, Mary Anker- Second Place Adult Category Winner, Gabriel Smith -High School Winner
Front Row: Lotus Gregory -Elementary School Winner, Tobin Smith -Middle School Winner, Katherine Leigh -First Place Adult Category Winner
photos by Robert J Popp
The Universally Besieged
Katherine Leigh, First Place Adult
Sad assignment, that of giving birth to a sterile baby
in a barren world, all countries shaken to their cores.
Takes a certain jaded courage to saddle up with only
hope enough for the slight remainder of what was
originally a full journey.
Yet we travel, pay the hand to pass us through
borders, open gates at night to the glint of coin and
bullet over bodies of our daughters, bones of our sons.
Listening to our plight has a color;
help, a shade of grey.
Carved into me is the bravery to move by moonlight.
The ‘besieged’ talk around the potato table about a
possible rebirth of remnants of family fled from damaged
culture, in a faraway imagined-place we may, easily,
So to mold a new future, to hold onto old traditions,
to carry embers of flame, to embolden sinew under the
burden of relentless intensity.
That is each waking moment if we curl for a drift of
We take time to thank Allah or Jesus or Quan Yin,
the ancestress energy, the generative offspring.
Believers, we bend our bodies to include moon and
sun, to reinforce as artists of our daily lives, of our
ourselves as stars.
Mary Anker -Second Place Adult
a mother recovers
her nine-year-old body
pulls years out of seconds
bald head worn proud
trips to Boston
a holy grail
in a chemo chair
alien face eyebrows and lashes disappear
elbow to elbow
eyes do the communicating
paint brushes, pens, journals, cards
after long nights
of floating blue
the sky of light
Autumn Siders-Third Place-Adult
I Could I could sit and watch
as you scream and shout.
I could back away
and let you sort it out.
I could hear those words,
Muslim, illegal, fag, Jew
but pretend they are just words
not to do with me but with you.
I could go home
and just wait my turn
until your hate becomes murder
and these words boil and churn.
I could wait until
those screams turn to fists
and look on in horror
as blood fiercely mists.
I could do all this
but then am I to blame
when the headline this week
is another soul has been maimed?
I could stand up
and make my voice heard,
stand beside a fellow human
and push back your bitter words.
I could stand up
and you could stand down
and realize that differences
are what make the world go ‘round.
I could lecture you on love
but you are just so full of hate,
so instead I’ll show you love
and all it can create.
The Power of Creation
Gabriel Smith -High School
This world would most certainly cease to exist,
Had it not been for our Creation, our Genesis.
What makes us what we are is what we do,
And any idea without creation, could be quite askew.
For we are creators, in everything, and every day,
Someone had the idea, and put it into play,
From your new recipe
To a song melody
All that you can see
Was made by someone just like you or me.
Do you think Da Vinci thought his paintings
Would be famous, and fascinating?
His “Mona Lisa” is the most renowned –
Even centuries later, it still wears the crown.
From design and innovation
To the plane you ride to your vacation,
To towering cities and works of art,
From the car that won’t jumpstart,
To the curriculum that you use in school
And the tools that do the work for you,
Whatever it is you need to do,
It was made to make life easier, and you can do it, too.
You may not win a Nobel prize,
It even may be criticized,
But don’t give up, you’re not the only one,
Our work on Earth is never done.
Tobin Smith -Middle School
Our beautiful country has existed
For 239 years to date.
If not for groundbreaking people,
Would we be brave enough to make?
Think of Leonardo Da Vinci,
With his wonderful thoughts and dreams.
If not for people like him,
We would be in the Stone Age, it seems.
Just imagine if Wilbur and Orville
Had stuck to making bikes,
If they hadn’t wondered, hadn’t made,
Would we ever have taken flight?
Imagine if good ol’ Walt Disney had
Never decided to make cartoons.
If he hadn’t made his movies,
Would we have shows with bug buffoons?
If Thomas Jefferson, a president,
Had never taken up in arms
The clever idea to write down
The declaration of freedom from English laws?
Yes, there’s no doubt that if we
Did everything in convention
We’d never come up with the
Fantastic word of something new: INVENTION.
So let us not relinquish
The good courage to create,
And take the job to do
Things new: more importantly, MAKE.
The tree branches sway in the milky glow of the full moon,
Casting a dancing shadow across the moss strewn earth.
This tree was different from the others in every way.
The branches protruded at odd angles,
the trunk was covered in knots and it was many feet shorter than the others.
It's beauty resonating in the air.
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