I was out at sea in a fishing boat,
fishing in calm waters;
standing, I held a rod,
longing for the tug on the line
at the baited hook.
And as I stood there,
I saw everything around me suspended
like an image within a frame;
the white flight of a gull in the air,
the sun’s bright reflection on the water,
the boat’s intoxicating sway upon the foam—
all within the same frame.
At one point, the line was pulled taut,
and the world changed in an instant:
the seagull vanished into the northerly wind,
the sun hid behind the clouds,
the sea turned turbulent,
the fishing boat tossed like a walnut shell on the waves,
and—with such stubbornness—
I struggled to stay upright, clutching my rod.
And as I battled the wild waves,
holding the rod with all my might
against the pull of the line,
suddenly the boat soared like a seagull—
a white sail fluttering where wings should be—
yet, with such stubbornness,
I still held fast to the rod,
fishing for dreams
in the open sea of the frame.
Anxious as my thoughts paint out a canvas,
Tenuous strokes with each choke,
As I look at my hands, they soak,
Covered in blisters of oak,
As I wept through the saunter,
With no words their daughter says,
No peak at the herds,
Hoarsed around in their glammy gala,
Oh this fiesta, I could've taken a siesta,
Envied with this gluttonous rake over my bulging eyes,
Oh I'm shaken by this phrase,
Starved moons left to rot for this,
I cower with no fight to arise,
I begin to tremble with no cries,
Shots fired but it's only light,
I am in frame for only tonight.
So we’re punished and estranged
Would it make us better?
So how sweet was the revenge
Does it really matter?
It’s like noting white on white
Maybe green on green
When you come, I dim the light
Blinded by the screen
As the evening soars my eyes
I calm down a bit
Thinking it’s the useful lies
Naked truth can’t fit
It’s like permanent repair
Of a thing unfixable
It’s unfair, but we didn’t care
Everything is mixable
So we turn out quite the same
As we were last night
Only now there is no frame
But just white on white.
thought becomes
structure in the mind~
not a truth,
just a frame
through which the shifting world turns
into something named
Willows waving in the window frame.
Six cheerful mice dancing on the door.
I’ve changed my sweater to the same;
It’s gray as the daytime clouds outdoor.
Deciduously delicate as lace, ne’er still.
Dependent on limbs, movement with wind.
Inside the poet’s space, her spouse sawmill.
Does he dream of the zigzag step incline
Or a lovely walk to church on Easter Sunday?
Does he trace the smiles and shadows of sun
And the rising of our Savior; celebration heyday
As we praise shoulder to shoulder as one?
The willows wiggle like children on the pews;
Dressed in Spring green, sunny yellow, sky blue.
Like branches, the mothers hold them in the queue,
Though little bodies, hats and ties are all askew.
The poet’s husband’s hopped up in time,
Forgotten what was on his mind, in sleep.
The writer’s rat-a-tat-tat must quit her rhyme
And ask her tree for help with counting sheep.
O map of skin where rivers deeply run,
Thou art the ledger of the years I've known;
The weary eyes that softened with the sun,
And silver crown that time has slowly sown.
I sing of joints that stiffen in the cold,
Of 'measured treads' along the dusty way,
For in this frame, though 'immeasurably old',
A 'steady flame' still burns against the gray.
Speak not of mere decay or entropy,
Quiet strength that rises through every storm,
A 'vibrant vessel' filled with artistry;
Resilience found in every 'weathered form.
Here's to feeling old, a bloom fading away,
Praising 'slowed hands' that hold each memory,
Yet leaves a tender trace of every day;
And a 'soul grown bolder' through its history.
For beauty lives beyond the face, we see,
In the 'unadulterated wisdom' of just being me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The wire rims~
thin as a whisper,
holding the weight of every page he turned,
every clockface he squinted at before dawn.
Now they sit,
empty orbits on my desk.
I lift them,
and the world bends~
not as he saw it,
but as I imagine he did:
The morning newsprint smudging into prayer,
the stubborn lawnmower that refused to start,
my childhood face,
always slightly out of focus,
as if love itself were a thing
that needed adjusting.
I wear them like a ghost.
The bridge rests light,
almost apologetic,
as if they knew
they were never meant to be mine.
Through Pop’s lenses,
the light is softer,
the edges kinder.
The coffee stains on the counter
look like continents he never visited.
The crossword puzzle~
half-finished,
pen dropped mid-clue~
becomes a map of all the words
he didn’t have time to say.
I take them off.
The room sharpens
into my own life again,
but for a moment,
I swear,
the air smelled like his aftershave,
and the light was gold,
the way it is
just before it fades.
That last day leaving summer camp,
didn't know she would be there too.
My protector, my ghost..
I expect each of us as kids dreamed,
yet scared to define the two.
Watched as she drove away, life lost a little of its taste
so far out of my league, yet always wondered,
what another life could've replaced.
Don't invest in secrets of yesterday,
and certainly not tomorrow.
Put all your coin on this today..
that which all old men
seek to borrow.
Carry your heart for all to respect,
live long all precious days.
Don't trust your soul to intellect,
for it'll abandon you..
just when you trusted it
to stay.
There's genius in a child's clutch,
and love in life's brocade.
Without it most don't hold to much,
and see all wither that they made.
Don't know if the past matters much,
to me remains ever just the same.
When two lives shared all in touch,
and one just a picture in a frame.
In the frame of our heart
They will stay for a while.
On the wall of our heart
Is projected their smile.
Their voices will echo
In the chambers of our heart.
They live on within us
When we physically part.
We capture their memory,
Their love and devotion
And our minds replay them
In 3D motion.
We carry them with us
In our very core
Throughout our lives
And through each opened door.
In the frame of our heart
Is an infinite space
For all who we cherish
To have a lasting place.
Until the time comes
Where they are back at our side,
In the frame of our heart
Is where they'll reside.
A cute little lady from Spokane,
Said, "Sir, you can call me your Nan."
She had a nice frame,
I said that's my game,
'Til I learned she was granny to Stan!
My soul is on your shelf,
Nobody's catching that.
Next to your photo frame,
Which gives me a heart attack.
Did you wanna tell me something?
Oh, I could make it clear.
Open the door, B-I-R-D-I-E,
My soul is on your shelf.
whatever the change of season
I’m happy for no rhyme or reason
AP: Honorable Mention 2025
A boy walks slow through halls of glass,
His shadow flickers, thin as grass.
Each step a secret, each breath a theft,
Of hunger’s war and weightless heft.
They whisper when they think he’s gone,
“Is he okay? He looks withdrawn.”
But laughter fades when backs are turned,
And eyes like his are never learned.
His plate remains a battlefield—
Each bite a blade, each meal unsealed.
He counts the crumbs like ticking clocks,
His ribs a cage, his soul in locks.
Inside, a storm no one can see,
A gut that groans in mutiny.
IBS, a cruel refrain,
Twisting joy into quiet pain.
His friends? Just echoes in disguise,
With hollow jokes and plastic eyes.
They smile sharp, then look away—
He’s present, but he’s not okay.
They call him “buddy,” slap his back,
Then laugh the moment that he cracks.
Lonely, yet he's never alone,
A ghost among his flesh and bone.
He’s drained—of hope, of strength, of care,
A paper boy in poisoned air.
Yet no one sees what’s underneath,
The brittle scream behind his teeth.
And so he walks, a whispered name,
Fading into his hollow frame.
Each day a mask, each night a sea,
Of pain no soul will ever see.
Your eyes?
They're like midnight — not stars, just... midnight.
Dark, full of something I can't name.
I get lost there. I always do.
It’s frustrating, kind of thrilling too.
Your smile? Trouble.
The kind I’d trip over twice and still chase.
It hangs in the air after you leave —
Like perfume or a half-finished thought.
I hate how much I replay it.
Your lips —
They look like they keep too many secrets.
And somehow, even silence looks good on you.
When you pout, it’s ridiculous.
Seriously, stop that. (Don’t.)
That cheek of yours,
pressed against your palm like the day got too heavy —
and I swear I felt the world slow down.
You weren't posing. That’s the worst part.
You just are.
Every glance, every pause —
you’ve got this... poetry thing,
like you don’t even know you’re writing it.
You don’t try. You just... happen.
And I keep wishing you’d happen to me.
Somehow among the hidden leaves of time
when quietude swerves on a lane,
there is a throb of evening's breath
panting inside those marble eyes
that if I gaze long enough into darkness
your iced look will blink,
to open windows that are locked
by hinges creating angst enmeshed.
The distant screams paint your irises
jutting out from a frame of hard lids
buried deeply on frigid weeds---
and the night loses its elegance
while your crystal tears invade the glow
in the lamp of your eyes-- I understand
how private this time is when you
fade away...knowing not I am there.
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