K. Valerie Connor Poetry Competition

Oh, spring!

The well-rested earth awakes

To sparkling spring showers

Refreshing rainfalls

Quench the thirsty buds

Of fancy fabulous flowers

Birds with apricot tummies

Sing songs joyfully

Oh, summer!

Beautiful blossoms bloom

The sizzling sun scorches

Flora and fauna flourish

School is out

Children scream and shout

For much outdoor fun

And spend relaxing days in the sun

Oh, fall!

The cool crisp air

Makes trees blush with crimson leaves

Breathtakingly beautiful

A reminder for us to be thankful

Then, “Boo”! Haunting Halloween

Have children shouting “Trick-or-treat!”

Cuz they want everything sweet

Oh, winter!

Brrr! The world turns frigidly cold

Draped in glistening snow

Which children treat as a toy

Building snow forts to enjoy

Christmas trees and lights

Making festive sights

Plants sleep, animals hibernate

For another spring season, they await

Stands proud, the little table;

Is pure, the table’s sheet,

And all the little teacups hold tea, strong but sweet.

White like cream,

Yellow like mustard,

Make up the colours of the daisies, neatly clustered.

Upon each little teacup,

Are these little daisies set,

Such lovely things are these, with beauty

one could not forget.

Streamers hanging low,

Sharing colours pink and white,

And through an open window pours a happy, golden light.

A laugh breaks the stillness,

All figures sip their tea;

The tea party has begun, very merrily.

There’s marmalade toast

And caramel pieces.

Conversation goes on; laughter never ceases.

As they laugh and they talk

The time ticks away,

‘Til at last the friends find it’s the end of the day.

Who peeks through the window,

To say a good night?

It’s the jolly round sun, still partly in sight.

The sky is streaked with orange

And a vibrant glowing pink;

As they watch with speechless wonder, the sun seems to wink.

Then the hostess speaks,

“Well, we’ve had lots of fun,

Let’s not wait too long ‘til we have another one.”

All the others agree,

And they say their good-byes,

While outside misty darkness shadows still

skies.

I dreamt that I could sail away

Across a sea of blue.

The wind made up the open bay

That my cloud boat passed through.

A fluttering robin, a coal black crow,

I watched in rapt delight,

Dipping and diving down way below;

Sky’s fish splashed strong and bright.

A sunken ship beneath the waves

Soon caught my seeking eye;

The structure lay low with drooping eaves,

Red dulled as time swept by.

Its weathervane twinkled in sparkling light;

The wind gently ushered it west.

Barn swallows darted in quick, easy flight,

With agile haste to their nests.

Some musty hay, once used for feed

Rustled in abandoned tide.

The ancient gate longed to be freed,

By its hinges did abide.

The old farm silo silently stood

Through years of idleness.

Weatherbeaten was the wood;

Neglected was ship’s crow’s nest.

The next fine thing that I could see,

Treasure chest full of jewels.

Fine and tall was the apple tree

That held the appled pearls.

The drowsy melody of the sea

Cradled dew-dipped vessel.

The lulling rhythm, calming and free,

Made sweet my happy travel.

Then the horizon began to blush with pink;

The stillness seemed would never break.

I aspired to catch the last sunblink…

Then the ring of the phone jerked me back awake.

The skies once blue, have transformed into gray,

Not one roaming body, nor a single child out to play,

All at home begging for the storm to go away

But the dark clouds are out and seem to stay

One drop of rain is followed by hundreds more,

From clear skies to clouds, it’s nature’s grand encore

The loud droplets are getting hard to ignore,

The rain is calling me to step out the door

Only I understand the meaning of rain,

The clouds are but friends in pain

Blown by the wind, unable to complain

Tears escape, trying so hard to stay sane

The rumble of thunder can not beat the cries of the rain

Let the rain sing you a lullaby with their echo down the drain

Let the rain tap dance on your windowpane

Let the rain kiss you again and again

Dear rain, dear clouds, please stay

I understand you, just remain for today

Without you I feel lost and astray

You make me feel almost okay

You shower me with hope and soften my heart

My solitude, you are one piece of art,

A protector from their words, plastering me dart by dart,

A blessing you are, no one can really keep us apart

Dear rain, dear clouds, you understand my soul

With you by my side, I feel somewhat whole

In your gentle embrace, I find my role

A sanctuary from the harsh world’s toll

My eyes wide open

I look from corner to corner

The walls draped with shimmering shadows

They dance with me as I move my feet

The shadows fill the room with sopranos

The windows wide open

The breeze sings as it enters

Rustling the shutters

Some curtains are dresses of beautiful women adorned with sparkling lights

Others are wild waves flowing between the night

Above us all,

The moon shines brighter than a thousand suns

Showering us with tons of twinkling lights

The stars leap across the night sky in bursts of bright blazes

At last,

I feel myself drifting off to sleep

A gentle heaviness settles upon me

As the shadows tuck me in

My eyes begin to close

But my soul is not ready

Not ready to rest

It joins the shadows

The ladies

The waves

And they dance through the night

All the world's a stage,

and all the men and women merely players.

William Shakespeare, As you like it.

Emerging midmorning from an encampment,

three men trudge to the library

where they will enjoy warmth for a while

until they are asked courteously to move along.

Routine brings order to their transient existence,

divides the day into manageable segments.

Nights are more challenging.

Later, gathering in the shadow

of the red brick Opera House,

they drink coffee out of paper cups,

smoke, joke, expound wisdom, tell stories.

Although their clothes are inadequate

for inclement weather,

they appear not to notice.

They were boys once,

the future stretching out before them.

Along the way each one came to a crossroads,

chose a path he never contemplated

would lead to this or drifted into it

like a bird borne by winds

too far off course to turn back

or perhaps he had no choice.

Perhaps the path chose him.

They nod politely as we pass by

bundled up in winter coats,

scarves and boots, clutching tickets

for The Play that goes Wrong.*

*Play written by Henry Lewis, Jonathan Sayer and Henry Shields

My mother tongue is about words that I no longer know,

And I feel guilty

How can I forget how to speak?

This is the voice of my ancestors,

I must not forget,

Forgive me, please.

My mother tongue is about emotions that are extremely confused and don’t know how to exist in two languages at the same time.

But I choose to love in Spanish,

In Spanish, we don’t love recklessly,

Love is everything and nothing,

I don’t love, yo amo.

Sadly, my mother tongue is covered in the blood of the Indigenous people of South America,

blood that was obtained during the violence of a massive genocide,

The mother tongue of the colonizers is mine,

But Chile is not the property of the colonizers anymore,

Chile is my land.

My mother tongue is about the emotions that our mothers gave us in the womb,

the generational trauma that we carry on our shoulders,

Our mothers were forgotten girls, who did not know love

We are children of absence, we are sad children,

and we cried together for a collective sadness we did not deserve.

But my mother tongue is also about resilience,

A house that I built with roots, illusions,

And the bricks of the house that I lost when I became an immigrant

I am more than a dream,

I was made of hope,

And I have all the words inside me,

My mother tongue is about a story that pain cannot erase.

If I were to say to you,

as we barbecue our steaks,

that the pit of hell is below us

and volcanic snow falls among us

silent and unseen,

would you shake your head

and crack another beer?

If I point out,

on this cold day of mourning,

that your young mother now dances

in meadows of buttercups

and queen anne’s lace,

the warm wind all around her,

would you turn away with angry tears?

But tonight on this moonlit hill,

can you see

the web of cosmos

spinning itself

into gossamer roads,

branching into virgin paths untried,

but as broken as each sunrise?

Can you consider

just this moment

without slipping?