2023 Writing Contest Finalists
The Veil
See you in the morning,
But to reassure is to lie,
As that familiar cold touch,
Burdened me with knowing,
That I should never again,
See the light of morning.
An accepting goodbye,
Before the fear,
Of letting go,
And to fade from myself,
Into another.
Abandon the shell,
The mask of impurity,
As a ship overthrown by mutiny,
You never truly knew me,
And you never once will.
The birds sing into open air,
A fitting funeral march,
As the trees are hands reaching,
For the endless sky they cry,
Through blood-beaten branches.
The trauma stems from the root,
And the hawk soars,
In search of sorrow,
En route for pity,
But never knowing to dig.
The hawk is the traveler,
Of converging words,
From the misty lands between,
To what waits beyond the trees,
And dances across the stars.
High above,
The hawk rests with the mate,
Scanning dangers,
Protecting succession from,
Low below.
Two hawks,
Embellished in the sun,
Enemies of gravity,
As two of one,
Should never let go.
I stand on the road,
On the edge of tall grass,
With the companion of days past,
Ready to let go,
And soar further from the pine.
Standing here I remember,
Mechanisms devoted to stressors,
Regardless of interpretation,
None can escape time,
Only face the solace of 555.
I wanted life,
In my clothes,
Through my hair,
Under my skin,
And beyond my eyes.
They held the universe in their eyes,
But I was on the path to supernova,
Staring into that forever horizon,
That is increasingly flat,
Then as sudden as a snap.
The world is obscured by a white veil,
Suffocated by denied regrets,
No longer I,
But an idea,
Fading away.
Then the shock of life ever-lasting,
The veil tears through,
I am dropped down,
Into darkening despair,
But a light shines true.
From light out of darkness,
I am encompassed in a loving warmth,
Thrown from the veil,
A sculpture with no name or detail,
I am begotten again.
Donovan Whitaker
The Journey
The journey sits like an open sketchbook,
waiting for its pages to be filled with adventures.
Lying open for opportunities to be drawn in,
each new one varies from the other.
The journey stretches down like a country road.
It's filled with cracks and turns, and appears to run
Along for miles and miles.
Assuredly the destination lies at the end of it.
The journey rises and dips like the ocean's tides.
The current, harsh and choppy at times,
With its waves that tower overhead,
That we will learn to ride out of, onto the beach's warm sand.
The journey presents itself like a fork in the trail.
Different paths lead to different locations,
Each one with a unique outcome.
A choice of which one to take.
A decision depends on you.
The journey is yours, it's up to you to start the hike up.
Emma Brennan
An Unusual Journey
Something is different
No more smooth sailing
People tripping up and down the aisle
Gripping seat edges and arm rests
An orange flash, one for every seat
A scratchy voice, one cutting through mutters and murmurs
The plane tilts, just slightly
Clouds dark and darker race fast, faster
Wind howling
Lights dimming
A tip downward
Then flash
Yellow dancing across irises, clinging to aluminum
A screeching cry rings in the silence
Calm turns to utter noise
From one extreme to another
Screaming, shouting, begging
Even prayers
For a moment, blue
A ray of sun
For a moment, transfixed
Others spot it, with tears and thanks spilling from bitten lips
Red begins to spill
Slowly
A cheer, becomes many
Clambering voices, an orchestra of emotions
Whirling throughout
Yet none thank the ones who spoke, the true heroes
Those with black on their heads and gold on their lapel
Those who warned, and those who kept on
Orange floods the cabin, peering through unshuttered windows
Through unfettered peace, a sigh echoes
Golden yellow behind the hue, a tapestry of pure light
The triangle was nearly fully crossed, a few more minutes
Then sweet sweet land,
No more pretending to be one with the clouds
Orange turns to white
White to grey
Grey to black
Black with a boom
Beginning to feel like floating
Harshly dropping down down down
A TV flickers
After hours of pacing back and forth
A message to those holding their breath
They found it
A box of black dredged up from depths
The sky is grey once more
Katrina Hachkowski
Dirt Roads to Highways
Colorado Boy, in some ol' East Coast town
Needs the Rockies in the morning to calm down
Winslow's back home and he's looking out
Hoping he'll still be there by the time I'm worn out
Now I'm off alone after just eighteen years
Out to break some old beat down fears
I don't want to stay and I don't want to leave
As long as I have my six string I'll be free
Now I'm off again chasing that horizon
And I'll talk to you again when I find some town to dry in
Calhan Fielder
Too Confidential
"It's in your head."
I heard that so many times,
But what if it isn't?
What if it's the reality?
And you just can't see it.
I happened to you.
You were here before me.
How disappointing you must be?
I've never realized I had to leave to see that.
Heavy rocks, taking everything down,
Are you taking me with you?
I feel like I'm drowning in your ocean,
You're
TOO MUCH.
Correct, I am weak.
Is it because I'm a woman?
“Not good enough,” on replay.
Not anymore
You love me different
That doesn't mean you don't love me
At all.
I had to leave to see that.
Barbora Prochazkova
Beauty
There can be beauty in anything,
A mushroom cloud stretching into the sky,
Painting the world in a somber red of death,
There can be beauty in anything,
There can be beauty in the wind,
Drifting, dancing, swaying leaves,
Vivid greens or an array of colors,
There can be beauty in the wind,
There can be beauty in sleep,
Curled up under covers,
Or draping across a lover,
There can be beauty in sleep,
There can be beauty in humanity,
Fighting, smiling, cooperating,
Knowledge of times before,
And times yet to come
There can be beauty in humanity,
There is beauty in anything,
You just have to look,
Observe and enjoy life as is,
There is beauty in anything.
Elaine Maloney
I'll Leave You Be:
Day to day, I see a future, where you and I are together.
The pen makes a puddle of ink, I use, when I can't say the words I want to say.
Quickly drying as I try to write my feelings to your heart.
But this world, with an unknowing direction, I question.
Is today my special day?
Will the universe write me a happy ending?
If not, I'll make a plan.
A plan with no words, but to smile.
What's the point of a single sound, if a smile says it all.
I'll read his eyes, look through his soul, and listen to his heartbeat.
But what will I do if I can't have you?
Do I take you, do I set you free?
Were my words, I wrote too bitter,
for the one that is loved by me?
How do I make my dream a reality?
What do you consider love?
What if I don't know how to love you?
I take you, do I set you free?
You my love, I guess I'll leave you be.
Via Rose
Girlhood.
My girlhood began the first day I was told to sit with my legs crossed
Because it “wasn't very ladylike” to sit with them open,
But the boys, that were sprawled across the floor and covered in MUD
Would always go unspoken.
And the first time that I knew that my girlhood meant weakness,
Was when teachers needed help moving tables across a classroom
And asked "if there were any strong boys to help,"
And dare not look at the girls in the room.
Then soon, girlhood became boys being bullies,
And your mother telling you, "it's because they like you."
You can't remember when love and abuse became synonymous,
But I imagine it was around now that this became true.
Girlhood is hating your parents at 14, and yet somehow
hating yourself even more.
It's secret kisses in the backs of crowded parties,
And the first time that you are casually rejected
because of your LOOKS.
Girlhood is discovering the beauty of female friendship,
Even though it takes you a thousand tries.
It's sleepovers with 6 people crowded into a spare room,
And by midnight, all of you have cried.
Girlhood is being told that "this classroom is not a hairdresser"
And that we should be interesting, and not care so much about our looks.
But when we don't try, we are UGLY and LAZY.
It's being told that it's not quirky to be into books,
or being told that we cannot have passion or interests, it
Must be NAILS, MAKEUP, and HAIR.
But then this makes us too shallow, and you are not allowed to point out that this is unfair.
Girlhood is having a hair tie on your wrist, knowing it was not yours to begin with.
It's having your notes app full of pre-typed out texts,
You read them over and over, but know you will never send them.
It's holding the hair back of someone you do not know,
and being passed a tampon under the toilet stall door.
Girlhood is wondering if you tell your mother if you love her enough,
Contemplating if she knows how grateful you are,
that she made glue from her strength and somehow held this world together,
And I wished I believed her when she told me she'd done this before.
Girlhood is the message sent and then phone thrown across the floor.
It's promising you don't have a crush on him, because it's too selfish to ask for anything more.
Girlhood is wondering if you are pretty enough for the internet,
For anyone to simply make up their face.
It is sitting in front of the mirror for hours,
And POKING and PRODDING at your face.
Girlhood is the beauty of confusion,
The passion of not knowing who you are,
It's being all the things they tell us not to be,
It's being expected not to flinch when they leave a SCAR.
Girlhood is PAINFUL.
And BLINDING.
And SAD.
And BEAUTIFUL,
And supposedly "not even that bad."
Although it's only men that tell me this...
And the perfect mess of girlhood is something that they will never have.
Kassandra Santos
Stenchful Odor
Throughout the hallways I smell
The stenchful odor lingering after the bell
I wipe away my watering eyes
My nose refuses to try
I spray away Febreeze and cry
As the odor stays I can't expel
The stenchful odor lingering after the bell
It interrupts conversations as it passes
The smelliest pits of the week
Does he know he reeks? They shriek
He has a stink streak you can tell
The stenchful odor lingering after the bell
Jaden Lane
The Skirt of a Storm
Her dance is a tornado so destructive. Everyone stays away but some go closer hoping for a better look. the destruction takes hold everyone is destroyed everyone blames her. They know her strength time and time again. She proves it by dancing and spinning like no one is watching but everyone is watching. She never gets dizzy. She has always been able to see far out. She knows what is out there. She knows that the destruction that is out there is far worse than anything that she could cause by dancing. What she sees is perfection, the wrong kind. the one where no matter what she gets hurt. Don't be in pain. When you dance so beautifully no one can hurt you. Your beauty destroys but it's okay though because no matter what no one will ever see your eyes. The most deceitful thing about her beauty is her eyes. Her soul's windows shatter and everything is let out but that will never happen because you are only at the skirt of the storm. Your dance is a tornado. Don't be shy, introduce yourself, it's all okay you'll see, all the pain will go away just get a little closer it doesn't hurt. All you will see are colorful lights and the stars of all of the pain and perfection. like dark and light like the sun and the moon. Just jump into its warm embrace. Trust me, just let the blood flow so it no longer has to stay hidden. Show them the dark pain that you once lived in, come closer and look into the eye of the storm. Shatter. Bleed. Die. Peace.
Alexa James