2008 Poetry of Place Winning Poets
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So this is Papillion -by Paige Hawk The cool, silky breeze of a Midsummer's night Catches my hair and tangles it in knots. The hues of vibrant pink and purple Caught my eye Oh so many years ago. Laughter. Basketballs bouncing against the pavement. A mother's constant reminder All remind me of the resistance of a young child To go inside And get ready for bed. The honking of car horns Occupied by rebellious teenagers Has long since faded. The buzzing of 84th Street Now lay quiet and sparse. The red and green traffic lights Have become tired. I look once more at the horizon, The warm glow of the summer sun Is now gone. Only fragments of color remain. As I stand up and turn, Beginning my steady journey home I smile and think, This is why I love Papillion.
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I'll Have My Memories -by Lindsey Hofer The stars have come out To remind me Of my race against time, And curfew But maybe I'll lie here just a little longer Here in the arms of the one I love Maybe all the fights and worries Will disappear Maybe you finally got me to believe That forever yours will be the only heart I hear Maybe what I've done to you Won't matter any more And maybe the world can learn to love each other Like we do one another But I know That when the stars fade Everything I left at Dusk Will return with the sun And all I'll have left Is my memories
Leaving me -by Lindsey Hofer My heart breaks As you break me the news But I'll paint on a smile just for you Unable to believe you're another I have to lose
You're just one more person Who has chosen to flee One more person Leaving me to be free
Free from those that brought us down Free from those that would decree Free from the disappointing looks Free from...me?
Set in denial Reassured that you'll never go That you'll stay forever Time, passing at anything but slow
A simple hug A wave good bye The standard promise to write And never to cry
'I love you', a single tear And you're already gone I'll miss you forever But forever without you seems so wrong. My Nebraska -by Lindsey Hofer Don't call my Nebraska a desert Don't call my Nebraska flat Don't call my Nebraska a waste land I'll show you a Nebraska that's anything but that
A friendly wave and a smile Is expected from a man you've never met As you roll along with the hills Into an always more beautiful sunset
We are more then just rural conservatives We have more then just cows and corn rows We are more then just farmers and hicks We have heart the never slows
Heart for our friends and family Heart for our Cornhusker red Heart for our land and history Heart that once started as a homestead
Summer days can do us no wrong A few rain drops will keep us smiling for a week The constant wind fills or hearts With snowstorms better then even at the highest peak
So don't call my Nebraska a desert Don't call my Nebraska flat Don't call my Nebraska a waste land I'll show you a Nebraska that's anything but that
-by Lindsey Hofer Remember growing up together Moving on And moving up Remember me when I'm gone
Remember the nights Where we stayed up till dawn And the ambers we watched fade to ash Remember me when I'm gone
Remember the dumb ideas The colorful pictures we have drawn And all the games we never stopped playing Remember me when I'm gone
Remember the love we felt The relationships where our hearts were stolen And why they meant so much to us Remember me when I'm gone
Remember the carefree summer days The snowball fighters we would take on And the leaves we piled together just to ruin Remember me when I'm gone
Remember the small town The home we've loved for so long And all the memories impossible without it Remember me when I'm gone
Remember the victories The teammates we came upon And all the fans that never let us down Remember me when I'm gone
Remember our dreams The things we set our hearts on And the hope we never would let die Remember me when I'm gone
But most of all
Remember the laughter and the lessons The people that kept you hanging on And the good times with good friends Remember me when I'm gone
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-by Garrett Janzen
I remember the grassy field Across the street from my front yard Where I netted garden spiders and toads in the summer.
I remember the white chalky path That led from the road's dead end Past the dragon flies' puddle into the cool frost's shade.
I remember the old oak bridge Over the small winding crick Finding its way through the mud with the help of my hands.
I remember the high mud walls Carved by a once great torrent Roots and rocks jutting from the sides into open air.
I remember the scent of wet grass The stench of the swampy pone The dust and the pollen making me sneeze.
I remember glowing pixies at dusk Floating fireflies in the failing light No streetlights or headlights, but brilliant moon and stars.
I remember the slime of a leopard frog's back The burning of peroxide on scraped knees The feel of pond scum squeezed through your fingers.
I remember the thrill of discovery A beaver-hewn stick, a possum's jaw A slug at the water's edge, snails clinging to the rocks.
I remember what it means to find one's home Among the rocks and trees and living things To find solace in the sound of rustling leaves high above To discover someplace as changing and unknowable as yourself To have a place become a part of your soul That stays with you long after you have stepped back out into the sunlight.
Origins
-by Garrett Janzen I'm from red dirt roads Red brick fireplace Red with anger when my brother broke my toy.
I'm from praying mantises and horned caterpillars Neighbor's garden fertilized with turkey manure Crazy neighbor boy burning G.I. Joes The crows nest in the tree I used for spying Now just a stump.
I'm from the bend in the crick Bend in the elm tree Bend in bark where I tried to carve my name The open air and clear skies Exploring the woods and making them my own Climbing the dirt walls and bridging the two banks Possum's jaw bone on the sandbar. I'm from spaghetti and imitation crab Chilled chocolate pudding in a frosted glass I don't know how mom made those cookies so good.
My older brother's a genius, Big, solid and quiet My younger brother's social, Thin, blond and free And I'm from in between.
I'm from my first bass at the cabin Caught it with a jig, From our pet rabbit Hoppy Dad caught it with his hat in the cornfield, From my first time down a slope on skis Wipeout at the bottom, first time off the diving board Stinging, burning pinpricks on my red stomach.
I'm from a magnifying glass and a newspaper And a black backyard, From the orange soda stain on the carpet Hidden under a pillow, From corn fights with my brothers Got a kernel down my ear. I'm' from the garden spider in the window well and the toad who ate him.
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The Memories I'm Made Of
-by Peyton Kauffman I am from a pile of farm magazines Sitting next to the Marlboro-scented recliner. I'm from made up songs sang in made up keys, Often about the magnificence of boxed potatoes. I am from weekends planned by the radar. From praising the rain but cursing the storm.
I'm from Motown Mornings, From the perfume dance and the hair-curling song, This Little Piggy and 10 Little Indians. I'm from trips to the grocery store and a Stop in the toy aisle. From green beans and canning prayers, Corn-on-the-cob and homemade pies.
I'm from the boy with the tabooed middle name, And the other boy who thought he was Dad. I am from the sheet-made palace under the stairs, Where John made threats of Mable Able's ghost. I'm from nights ling under the Christmas tree With the Nerf war masters, From "leftover days" and Stay out of Mom's Hair.
I am from Beavy Chicky Woman and Dorkster Porkster, Old Spice hugs and "Oh boy!" I'm from ping-pong and shuffleboard And the enormous freezing storage room. I am from awkward holiday dinners And matching cow print dresses.
I am from Spesh Presh Profesh and Finally I have a sister. From the grown-up five-year-old And the girl who slapped every boy on the playground. I'm from recesses filled with games of "house," When I always had to be the mom.
I'm from the blessed moments when we're all together And the memories pour from the back of our minds. Those memories are of the precious people and places Which defined me, molded me, made me Who I am today.
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The Pool -by Morgan Mallory Walking past the gate on June first. The sizzling sun on my back weighing me down. A breeze of sunscreen catches my nose. Laughter and yelling all around. I lay that old faded towel of the chair. Slipping off my worn flip-flops, I set my brown sunglasses down. Walking... Running... Tweet! "No running!" says the burnt auburn lifeguard. I steadily dip the edge of my tow into the oh-so-lovely ripples. Holding my breath, Take one leap and while I'm in the air, I think one last thought. Before you know it, I've plunged into the H20 of a life time.
Movie Theatre -by Morgan Mallory The room where tears are shed and laughter is heard. The home of a screen fifteen feet tall. Where a cola is left, to be spilled on the floor. Lined with those creaky, lumpy seats. The buzz of the projector fills the room. I am a place where yonly your dad could fall asleep. I always overhear every shcush, and kernel pop. In the fron of the room, there is a case filled with caramel candies and taffy galore. I am the eeir darkness until all is over, or as some peole would say, The end
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A Journey through Nebraska -by Kelsey Maris
Start your journey in the west and just what might you find? Hills of sand and prairies dotted with cows from time to time. For some, it seems there's nothing here but dirt and clear blue skies. For others it's the greatest place, a home seen through their eyes.
Move to the east a little ways and the landscape starts to change. More fields and houses you will see instead of open range.
On to the east a little more and the range is entirely gone. You see cities on the horizon at the break of dawn. Cities are a good sight too, if city life is the life for you.
In Nebraska, you decide just how you want to live. Wherever you choose to go, you'll find Nebraska has a lot to give. The choice is yours west, east or anywhere between the two. Our motto: "The Good Life" will still be holding true.
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Clearing -by Ciara McCormack The deer had been there, Too close to the music for comfort And left the grass bent As though the fairies had danced there. There, too, had been the drunkard Who sat on the broken stump and dropped the empty bottle as he staggered away, a green teardrop frozen among the grass.
Discovery -by Ciara McCormack When I watched the palm trees morph into low and gnarled shrubs, I raised a shee glanket from the inside and looked for inspiration.
I found it in the red rock that covers the canyons as though it guards precious histories bound within the structure.
I knew it in the moon that glowed like the sun a silver shadow in a clear black sky.
I felt it within my voice, which discovered words to justify distrust which follows love because it can.
And when I watched the palm trees morph into low and gnarled shrubs I raised a sheer blanket From the inside
If you thought it was flat -by Ciara McCormack Those who say Nebraska is flat Must never have been here, Or they have come from Colorado, straight from the Rockies with the notion that anything less majestic is bluntly uninspiring. But Nebraska isn't that place. Nebraska isn't the bland expanse of nothing for miles. And perhaps it only come from living in this last place on earth that we begin to understand, (and only after years) to finally appreciate each curve in the road each rise in the prairie grass, each subtle glimmer from the ponds and streams formed in the heavy rainfall or hidden in the rows of cottonwoods that trace their paths.
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-by Samantha Menard Grab your fishing pole along with a bucket of dirt-covered night crawlers.
Slip surreptitiously past parents recalling stories of the good old days.
Run through the open field of uncut blue grass. Let the wind whirl ast your face, carrying the aroma of burnt out campfires and barbeques.
Make your way around the lake until you reach a row of maple trees guarding a treasure trove unbeknownst to most.
Crawl under the biggest maple. The last drop of this morning's dew falls upon your nose. Don't stop to brush it off.
Enter into a far off world. Imagine you're a captain of a pirate ship trying to catch a ticking crocodile. A carp splashes water in your face.
Take it as a sign: relax, never grow up.
Abandonment -by Samantha Menard Twenty years Since the last rain The town deserted Houses in shambles Without doors or shutters Rotten, termite infested
Cornfields that once flourished Have now eroded and blown away A broken-down tractor Covered in a bittersweet rust Sits abandoned and unnoticed
Underneath the lone tire A blade of grass Vibrant green Shoots out, reaching For the warmth of the sun Its fate like the others To shrivel and sink back into the ground
Dirt roads Cracked and ragged From years of impoverishment Covering a soul Emptied and lifeless As soon as he walked out the door Never to return A shock surges acress the town Brief but effective Eradicating anything left over
The sun A red disc fading away Sets for the last time As the lat husk of corn Flutters across the land In search of something Just over the horizon
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Growing City -by Tyler Plugge As the city grows the cornfields and grassy plains begin to be eaten up by big corporations and Shopping malls. The heavy machinery rumbles and billows out heavy black smoke choking out the suns rays.
Looking left and right there are signs of big money. The metal girders and cement spread like a disease plaguing one field after another caring not what it covers.
The wind that once cooled our faces now throws dust into our eyes in disgust. The sun never sets as the parking lot lights shine through the night standing straight, mocking the trees that once stood there.
Now instead of grassy plains and creeks full of wildlife, we are stuck with the seas on concrete and drainage tunnels with cold metal shopping carts as its only inhabitants
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-by Nathan Sousek I know a place where the wild flowers still bloom, And the pollen still floats, reddening the moistening your eyes. Where the brome grass still rustles in the still free blowing winds And the trees still bow to the continual rolling Bohemian Alps.
A place where the cows still graze on green grass pastures And the hogs wallow in pure clay mud. Where the birds still sing in the mornin' And the deer still frolic with the least of cares Where the bugs still buzz at your ears And the field mice still chitter in the golden corn fields.
A place where ducks still wade on crystal ponds And the fish still swim to your hook. Where you can still place your feet in freezing streams And have the tiny tadpoles nibble your toes.
Were there are clear starry night skies And the still full moon and gleaming sun still take their shifts. Where the seasons still change the land throughout the year And the old cottonwoods still stand.
I know a place
-by Nathan Sousek Whenever it falls from the sky We still stop and listen to the softness of precipitation We walk through it letting it soak us slowly to the bone And moisten our faces forming tiny droplets of water, As if we were crying after an old friend had passed.
It still trickles down the asphalt with a rhythmic flow It sloshes down the gutters taking fallen brown leaves with it, boats in despair. Still it sends the little critters for cover; The birds to their nests, the snakes to their holes, the field mice to a tin can.
It gives the earth a shower, washing worries away, Leaving a welcomed Springy freshness.
Whenever it falls from the sky, We still stop and listen to the softness of precipitation We walk through it letting it soak us slowly to the bone And moisten our faces, mixing with the tears, totally being touched from within...
It still rains in Prague, Nebraska.
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Nebraska Weather -by Sadie V. Today it is snowing. The flakes fly through the air And land gently on the wet ground That is wet from the rain the day before. I turn to see Out the front door All you can see is sunshine For miles on end "How can this be?" I ask myself, "One side is gloom and the other glee?" As I think of a reasonable answer I figure It is just Nebraska weather Unexpectable as can be
Small town Nebraska -by Sadie V. Tractors are not uncommon Puttering down the main street. Kids playing basketball at the park, Or getting itchy after rolling down the hills. Trucks stopping mid mile to talk about the weather, And any other gossip the old men have raked up. The women working on their gardens, The corn rises above their heads. A man sits on his porch whittling, A humming bird out of a piece of pine. There is a harvest moon. This is a sign That crops will be hauled into the town elevator soon. This is small town Nebraska Where everyone knows your name.
The Creek -by Sadie V. The sun is shining It is mid summer Sitting on the bank Reluctantly taking off our shoes Rolling up our jeans And gently slipping our feet Into the crystal clear water The cold runs up your spine The slimy goo slides Straight through your toes As your legs submerge You are almost frozen The water is not so clear now As we trudge up the stream The minnows swim frightened As you walk even farther The trees growing straight up Out of the banks Roots reach the water And beavers hide in their shelter Sitting on a fallen tree you realize That this is where you want to be It is growing late And the amount of sun you soak up is One big sunburn Then you realize that you have to make it home The walk is long The gravel stings Trying to walk without stepping too hard When you make it home Mom tells me to hose off So we end up having a water fight Thus resulting in getting a warm shower to Get back to body temperature Mom sees our burn and tells us to get the aloe This is stored in the fridge She slathers pumps of it on our backs These are the memories I have of the creek
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The Old House -by Olivia White Sanctify the slanted house How the grass is slowly taking over Wildly whisping in the wind Crunching under you feet Tan, like the color of your skin
See the bare bean field Empty and forgotten Smells as dirty as harvest season
Sit on the old porch Stare at the red oak leaves rustling in the wind Feel the weathering wood Rough, until you notice the sliver in your finger
Notice the house How it leans like an old lady Reminiscing the past Of children and a family...
So This is Nebraska -by Olivia White Mile by mile, squared Brown sparrows soar over the patchwork quilt Fields of green corn, yellow goldenrod, Milo patches of red Spread out lumpy like Grandpa's feather bed
On each side pivots square dancing to the tune of motors humming in the distance Z-man passing by in his rusty red pick-up lifting one finger from the steering wheel to wave
Windmills harvesting the wind with their muscular arms their legs reaching out from farmstead to farmstead
Nebraska...
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