Aspiring Poet - NCTC Students.............................................................................................pages

FIRST PRIZE

Poignant

Mary Morrison

[Author’s note, November 28, 2020: This poem was written at a nature trail-turned construction site, on Thanksgiving Day 2019, the morning after hearing that my friend, Mr. B, was diagnosed with ALS and given 2-4 years to live. We lost him less than two months later.]

Present— Green pipes, pink flags Protruding. Yellow outhouse, orange cones Positioned. Metal boxes, fire hydrant Protecting. Untouched sidewalks, fresh streets Paved.

Flattened landscape, marked plots Potential. Yellow truck, tool buckets Progress. Barricaded entry, solemn warning Permanent.

Previous— Tidy fence, open sky Picturesque. Winding trail, field of grass Peaked. Wildflowers, singing birds Pleasant. Forest refuge, trickling stream Peaceful.

Berry bushes, spots to muse Plenteous. Dappled light, deer in flight Pure. Quiet space, expanse to roam Paramount.

Passing— I took for granted, assumed constancy Presumptuous. Viewed warnings lightly, sundry occupations Pressing. Delayed a walk, postponed a talk Procrastinating. Neglected truth that memories prove: all things are Perishing.

Shocking news, devastating disease Painful. Prognosis grim, a single option Palliative. Final and conclusive; we are Powerless.

Streaming tears, jerky breath Panicky. Pleading questions, cries to God Plaintive. Regretful thoughts, anguished recollections Perpetual. Human response to sudden loss Paradigmatic.

A Moment of Clarity

Ashly Morales

There are times where my thoughts try to claw their way out of my brain. Where the smallest disappointments paint themselves as demons, and the flames they bring lick at the weeping crevasses they wounded

My thoughts are the embodiment of Icarus flying too close to expectations, only to fall into the oceans’ cold embrace when I can’t reach them

When the water burns my lungs, And gasps are forced from my throat, a shadow lends its hand to me dragging me from the violent waters I lost myself in

Petals dance around a newly discovered fountain and finally, I see the faces of those I love Gentle reassurances float through howling winds, melodies surrounding my brain, distracting the demons, calming the riots in the valleys I wandered

Through the sound of the music, I create. I discovered a safe haven in the form of wavelengths that bring comfort to the lost thoughts that cut my voice out.

The demons always sit in the corner of my mind, Mocking, Laughing, but I have the upper hand I have melodic comfort; they have the hell they created and always, always fail to give away.

Homesick for November

Dylan Sanders

a golden haze; it’s gritty and it waves bright lights in your face. people with big dreams rush home from overflowing train stations and they kiss each other goodnight over and over again.

it reminds me of dewy pine and manhattans. your grandmother used to drink those. she sat you down one november, reddened eyes and silver-haired, telling you to fall in love with someone who cares about you as much as god cares for the sunflowers.

next month you’ll meet a brown boy who smells like maraschino cherries and who tastes even sweeter. he wraps his arms around your neck and whispers to you that he wants to look for your love somewhere so big and bright that no one could find it, except him.

one night i will stumble in the dim streets, walking miles and miles somewhere i can only imagine is the perfect place for the two of us. november will tell me. november knows nothing more than love.

oh, my lover, look for me in the sunflowers, for this is where i believe our love rests.

Ace of spades, and ace of hearts Are two and two of a kind. Both are kind and curved, my dear, And both walk a fine line.

A spade am I, you, a heart We are two, and two of a kind. Yet you knew, right from the start That trouble walked close behind.

A spade am I, you, a heart Oh, and how a heart can bleed. A spade is sharp and edged, my dear And a heart it does not need.

If spades and hearts cannot agree To love and to coincide, On field of red or black, my dear, My dark edges I will hide.

Hearts nor spades of red or black Nor diamonds or clubs akin; No king, queen, nor civil jack Will keep my colors hidden.

You, a heart, the spade is gone And an Ace I am no more. My edges have lost their brawn My darkness I now abhor.

The Card Poem

Alyssa Barnes