Feature

Editor’s note: While we thought we had a mathematical formula that would make a tie among our winners virtually impossible, the editors at the rn&r once again proved we’re better at words than math, and Marilyn Melton and eric Brooks did indeed tie for first place in our first-ever poetry contest. congratulations to all our winners and runners up. thanks also to the more than 300 people who entered.

My Rattlesnake By Matt Sherer

National Geos and sixth grade science revealed a little biology: reproductive parts, triangular heads, brunette blotches, and sit and wait predation. Others found you. Me, I met impostors— relatives, I suppose. But their forked tongues kindled no threat, just curiosity, and to them, I gave little warmth. After years, some coming of age, I saw you twice on the same day, roused by the pulses of my passes. Now, I need to know why it worked this way, if you too prefer the solitude of mornings, what charms you, and where you sleep at night. I grapple amid impulse and instinct, envision reactions if you were to emerge from shadows of boot or foot of bed, or coil in the breast of my den, this crib, and if I’d strike first, or if I’d settle.

PHOTO/ERIC MARKS

FIrSt place:

the Passing of a BRidge oveR tiMe By MarIlyn r. Melton

artist-writer Marilyn royle Melton is a fourth-generation nevadan whose interests are art, the humanities and history. as a life-long (80 years) resident of reno, the city’s future is one of her greatest concerns.

Purple hills and majestic mountains Embraced the verdant valley That trappers, gold miners and pioneers Traversed on their way to the sea

The route brought wagons and cattle To cross the meandering stream That came to be named for the Paiute guide Who led them west to their dream

A succession of spans carried traffic Over the Truckee’s current But smashed by heavy loads and snow-fed floods Down river they were sent

Myron Lake built a hotel and bridge And bought the surrounding land. Lake’s Crossing became a lusty Wild West town Under his command

But when the railroad from California came In eighteen sixty-eight The growing community officially became A place to celebrate

The proud Silver State of Nevada Welcomed the new city of Reno Founded and christened for A genuine Civil War hero

Businesses flourished, gamblers, Rascals and scoundrels did too Schools, banks, homes lavish and humble Were erected as the town grew

A substantial world-class overpass was needed To link the banks of the river Imposing, attractive, and strong enough To carry streetcar and flivver On the site of the original pioneer trail A fine concrete structure was erected With electric lights and wrought iron rails Reno was at last well respected

Completed and dedicated One hundred and six years ago Her life has been turbulent and wild Both above and below

Horses, carriages, buses and trucks Joined the strollers promenades While celebrations, libations and festivities Shared days with many parades

Now after decades of pounding By flood-born debris The thoroughfare’s charm and beauty Will become history

Preservationists and citizens raise Their voices to lament The last days of Reno’s pulsing heart No pleadings can prevent

In twenty-fourteen the Virginia Street bridge In pieces she will fall Another part of our history gone With the purge of the wrecking ball

We say goodbye, farewell Our treasure of memories intact— Gone with the Mapes and other lost icons... We loved them like friends, and that is a fact

Death he came a-callin’; he said, “My boy it’s time to go.” I looked up from my bong hit and said, “Wait a minute, bro. This weed I have is sticky green and stony as can be. How about you cop a squat and smoke a bowl with me?” Death he scratched his bony scalp and set aside his scythe. “I suppose I could take a couple rips before I take your life.”

Now I was scared but played it cool and packed old Death a bowl.

“So,” I asked, “where am I going when you cut loose my soul?”

Death he grinned and flicked my Bic and took a deep breath in

And pointed through the floorboards, down at the place of sin.

“Fuck it,” said I, and we finished that bag, both stoned to the core, Then Death pulled back his hood and asked, “What’d I come here for?” I patted my roommate on the head, who’d passed out from drinking beer.

“I believe you said when you came in, you wanted Johnny here.” What porcine splendor doth on hearth becrisp? From field and dale the haunch of heav’n afire, What alchemy brings forth the fragrant wisp? Ere twilight bids to still the day’s desire. ‘Tis not the bread of heav’n nor its wine But flesh of fauna wild in fields of green, That’s rendered from the mortal into brine Our taste of Zion ere we sing that final keen. Feast now while dancers still ascend to flight Till curfew steals the gleaming of the day, Turn not nor meekly cower from the light Yea, dine upon the bounty of the ley! Give thanks for piquant strips so lean and fair From noble shoat recumbent en plein air.

FIrst pL ace:

untitled By erIc Brooks

eric weaves the tragic, natural and perverse into webs sometimes a little too recognizable. He also likes to look at pictures, and can be found wandering the streets of reno doing just that.

it is tuesday. morning has quietly passed on to afternoon, to evening, to night. there is a crack of bright coming through the shaded window from the street below.

the cat moves in a slow motion stretch, arching, then quickly coils back to a dreamless sleep next to an ancient porcelain heater. i touch her softness, feel life inside with invisible antennae.

together we wait.

yesterday, last week, a year ago we stepped over cracks while touching smiles and carrying sacks, loaded, from the market down the road.

i want to dance while cooking. rather than sound, carrots and onions play an orchestra through scent and taste. the knives need sharpened. the garbage emptied, but the dishes are clean and the cloth napkins stacked perfectly on top of the humming refrigerator.

PHOTO/ALLISON YOUNG

intentiOn By suzanne swan

It’s so attractive to start over, do it again and get it right this time.

Like a full box of crayons and blank report card, the glimpse of pure love in that first kiss, hopeful anticipation before the first stroke when all eighteen holes can still be par.

Or life-changing resolutions on New Year’s Eve to exercise more, work less, build a nest egg, give to others, be more loving, more decisive, more organized or a thousand variations on a theme.

But crayons break, love can be elusive, the ball still curves out of bounds, and resolutions fade into the shadow of ingrained habits. This year I’m replacing resolutions with intention and belief, the intention to have a healthy happy beautiful life and the belief that I deserve to attain it.

So when I start to feel anxious, unsettled, angry, or frustrated I will gently remind myself of that intention And just observe what happens.

Like a sculptor working with stone I believe I will remove the unnecessary, and chip by chip, reveal the beauty that life can be.

Every moment is a new beginning. Bikini clad bodies lying side by side Laughing, sharing, so much to confide Childhood memories memories temporarily at rest Today, the present, is this now the best? Oh daughter mine, I love you so You’re grown up now, the years come, they go You make my life joyful, oh don’t let it end Cause once I was your mother Now, magically, we’re friends

BlAck hOles By Vonda Lea noVeLLy

I’m oh so tired of Quasars & Pulsars, And all that gobbledygook.

Like big black holes that binary systems Are always revealing In their endlessly circling loops.

There’s Nebulae of glowing gas. That once were stars they say.

And galaxies that spiral, Like Andromeda and our Milky Way That are set to collide one day.

But don’t you worry, they’re not in a hurry And won’t happen for a zillion or more.

But I keep coming back To those things in the skies, The hungry black holes without any eyes.

It is a fact they’re here and there, and big and little, too, And go about their merry way to eat the light when due.

Until one day, there’ll come a time, When they have gobbled ‘all,’ And then will be the final crush of even time and space.

Then something will be nothing, and Nothing’s what’s left of something, So something could never have been.

It tis the end of all I fear, Things upside down and backward.

But, wait a minute, can this be? Because nothing is nothing with no beginning, and nothing beginning could ever be ending.

There’s no upside down nor right side up, Nor backward nor forward they say.

And it’s now that I hear of parallel places That have no black holes. They’re universes, not traces, So they do not suffer the end of all days.

So don’t you worry ‘cuz things will change At a place where physics is in refute And quantum mechanics the one to compute.

And the parallels, universes with means, Reside in an ever-present now it seems.

So what about those scary black holes? Are they the doors to parallel places? Existing to ferret out all of our final traces?

“POETRY CONTEST WINNERS”

“POETRY CONTEST WINNERS” continued from page 13

ThiRd pl Ace:

tuolumnE By spARky Allen

sparky’s favorite poet is d.h. lawrence. she’s a potter, a skier, and into drought-tolerant gardening with lots of boulders. her personal hero is Bullwinkle J. moose.

Did you detest this alien life: your voice lost in monotony of daily son Russet hawk keening above you in the blue; between granite walls, his beating wings center the void, and the pulse

of your sad blood.

Yesterdays are made small at the caress

of a raptor’s breeze.

Chari Boom, formerly known as Knowledge, is an award-winning musician and lyricist. Boom’s brain child Knowledge Lives Forever, a six-piece hip hop ensemble reminiscent of The Roots, Rage Against the Machine, and Lauryn Hill has opened for Allen Stone, The Flobots, Sage Francis, DJ Quik, The Skatalites, and Nappy Roots since its 2009 inception. Chari Boom is the founder and organizer of the Giant Secret Music Festival, and has been voted Reno’s Best local rapper (2013) by readers of this newspaper. Gailmarie Pahmeier teaches at the University of Nevada, Reno. Her work has been widely published, and she is the author of the poetry collection The House on Breakaheart Road and three chapbooks. Her most recent chapbook, Shake It and It Snows, won the Coal Hill Chapbook Award from Autumn House Press, and a new collection of her work, The Rural Lives of Nice Girls, is forthcoming. She is a recipient of the Governor’s Award for Excellence in the Arts. Jared Stanley is the author of two books of poetry, The Weeds and Book Made of Forest, as well as four chapbooks, including How the Desert Did Me In. He is a member of the public art group Unmanned Minerals, whose latest installation, It Calls From the Creek, is a site-specific walking poem installed on the Deer Creek Tribute Trail in Nevada City, California, on view through September 2014. Stanley is a 2012-2014 Research Fellow at the Center for Art + Environment at the Nevada Museum of Art, and teaches at Sierra Nevada College. He lives in Reno. Recent poems have appeared in Dreamboat, Manor House Quarterly, Bombsite (Bomb Magazine), textsound.org, and Peaches & Bats. Iain Watson was born and raised in Reno. Watson attended the University of Nevada, Reno for his undergrad and Sierra Nevada College for his master’s in teaching in elementary education. Iain is currently a second grade teacher in Washoe County and the co-founder of the Spoken Views Poetry Collective. Iain organizes and hosts monthly spoken word poetry events through his organization Spoken Views and the Holland Project.

PHOTO/ALLISON YOUNG

gutEnbErg By Jim mccoRmick

I

Scriptorium. low hall in a dark reign with monk, bent low and squinting over his high table. a candle’s prancing radiance illuminates quill dipping in a black solution, wet to dry, letters decanted from words pour into sentences, indecipherable to every man but he who holds to a cryptic vow.

II

Gutenberg, the goldsmith of Mainz on Rhine, cuts loose letters on the single sheet and casts about for different text. He ladles each face in a blue-gray element, sets them single file, a line that will issue inky words to any person at any time.

thiS iS thE laSt day of thE firSt of your lifE By TimoThy michAel Rhodes

There is no end, there is no beginning toaster waffles bury the city of angles missionaries assume the position fork you, fork me they wield their steely blades we defend with plastic spoons we are the beating heart of the beast the hands, the feet and if we fail, break down, who needs necromancy replacements are plentiful and cheap “Out of my way” the Great White Sale has begun from the hills of Afghanistan where blood red poppies soothe our souls through the rest of the world who cares how much blood is spilled as long as black ink continues to flow to the bottom line? New Madrid & San Andreas cry out “It’s not my fault” no, not theirs but ours, yours, mine, we are the king makers who look the other way wrapped up in the latest from the evil empire what hungry children you have the better to cloud your vision with what stupid children you have the better for cannon fodder we’ll leave no child behind what a large military/ industrial complex you have the better to crush you all to dust dust to throw into our eyes dust that must be cleaned up by underpaid imported wage-slaves eating frozen waffles and preaching the gospel of capitalism demonic voices in the city of angles where there is no beginning, there is no end

ShardS of obSidian/ EdgE of black rock dESErt/ 1972 By Alex Angelo

We come upon them in morning light, after a long night of shooting stars. Shattered but purposeful, fragments of eternity, sheltered in Earth. Unknown time gaps human purpose.

The curvature of the Earth (only visible here) sets limits to our wonder. Ancestors passed this way over a century ago.

One perfect arrowhead floats up between them; polished craft of survival. Nothing in these broken forms knows more than we do, or less. Voyaging through the arc of time, they arrive in our visionary questions, telling garbled, dusty truths to our lost remembrance.