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The Beautiful Spider
3rd Place, Young Writers
Poetry
A beautiful spider crawled into my hand
its legs were as soft as a butterfly wing
its skin was as black as a late midnight lake
and its message eternally transient
We talked of old times, the spider and I
conversed of good friends stretched on silvery strands
I will always recall the kiss of its breath
As the spider sat stoically there in my hand
and I asked how much it would hurt when it came
if pieces had been building up day by day
and the spider replied she had witnessed spring rain
so the moment would carry no pain
the spider then said something I could not hear
so I leaned a bit closer to make out its words
but each repetition rendered them anew
though I felt she was saying the same words each time
and a wind blew in through a cracked open window
and I cursed the intrusion, preventable but planned
and the spider, she realized that this was the signal
and she curled up like burnt paper and died
and her body was left in my hands
her thirst was quenched her hunger slaked
the need for family, friend, and foe
all gone to leave me with the ache
dispersed to leave me with perfect drops
shivering up and down my face
shivering to and fro
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Crowd in a Stranger
Honorable Mention
The enigmatic pull of persons unknown
An allure derived from a face
That morphs each time it shies away
Or is seen from a novel angle
Frustrating how memory will drift
And shroud a visage in ephemeral fog
Almost bold enough to peer
From behind blackened bars
Curved, tempered, steely, eyelashes
A fisherman whose catch consists of covert looks
He follows in the footsteps of the parables
He takes his meals alone
And all his food is seasoned with uncertainty
The soundtrack for his life is a melodious ensemble
He craves an encounter with the composer
To ask after the myriad scribblings in margins
No stranger to exercises in futility
He stands upon a treadmill in every walk of life
Hardly pausing, rarely rested, never getting anywhere
A countenance's return contrasts its departure
Slow and steady wins the race say the children's
stories
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Savor
Honorable Mention
hexagons hamper the poor trodden floor
engraved in linoleum, entombed for all time
the wondrous counters that seem to spring upward
contraptions all subservient
to the great and mighty oven
bringer of warmth, that can slice the midnight chill
the cutting board laid out in ever-ready reverence
a cornucopia of slashing, dicing, mincing
the leafy greens, being prepared to mingle
in motley mouths with deathly pale poultry
all roasted, boiled, steamed, and served
on crockery of three generations
that traversed a sea, and changed its name
to be part of an anomaly
now cue the stately queen
her dominion familiar like a lover's palm
she reaches in the darkness
for the whisk, and the comfort it provides
within its cold and curving form
security and recognition
dinner done, nostalgia beginning |