This stone is a memory
and memories are not truth.
I carry these stones in a box,
dripping nostalgia all over my shoes.*
The box fills faster than I can make room,
old rocks settle down below.
Some get stuck between my toes,
as I limp toward another show.
It's already Tuesday again.
I've got a pile of Tuesdays stashed away,
wearing themselves down to sand,
rattling the box with every shake.
Running my finger along the edges
for the last time—I'll know,
I'll divine them across the floor
and see what remains.
On the 2nd of June, so suddenly it came.
Soft drips of liquid permeating my brain.
Sweat poured like vapors of steam.
Was it real or was it just a dream?
I was stashed away in lock and chain;
No longer consumed with fun and games.
Dark clouds formed and then the storm.
My heart and soul were completely torn.
Raindrops pounded against the window pane.
If I could, I would walk out and kiss the rain.
If only I could, my life would never be the same.
Just dreaming warms the blood in my veins.
The kiss of rain would be just the key.
That loving kiss of rain would set me free.
Was it fact or was it fiction?
Was it just my imagination?
I only know that I kissed the rain.
A squirrel with a penchant for pine
stashed acorns in spots only gremlins could find.
When winter winds blew,
it shrugged, “Not a clue~
I stashed them where the sun don’t shine.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With acorns stashed and tail afluff,
he climbed the ramp—enough’s enough!
The coaster loomed, a metal beast,
yet rodents crave adventure’s feast.
The harness snapped (a nervous squeak),
the tracks began their groaning creak.
Up, up, up—then WHOOOSH! he fell,
his tiny paws gripping the carousel.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
With acorns stashed and tail held high,
he hitched a ride down south to try
the beads, the jazz, the gumbo feast~
no nut compared to Mardi Gras at least!
In sequined vest (too tight, perhaps),
he twirled past cops and tourist traps,
stole king cake crumbs with glee so feral~
oh, what scandal! Such a squirrel!
No jack-of-all-trades
but master of one
it's safe to say
the combination spun
Jack was a safecracker
had it down pat
and a crackerjack
cracksman he was at that
not a people person
he'd sneak down halls
more a steeplejack
and shinny up walls
jimmy a window
then with stealth
jewels unload
remove the wealth
crack the code
find the fault
turn the tumblers
open the vault
locks he'd smash
break the bank
relieve the loot
of locked stashed cash
Memories stashed away in crates and chests
Sentimental keepsakes from my voyages and quests
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
Forests of Green Coniferous Trees
Forests of evergreen conifers
(Fir, spruce, cedar, pine, and hemlock trees)
Keep their colour throughout the seasons
And don’t shed foliage in autumn.
Rooted in soil and basking in sunlight,
They grow on hillsides and in valleys,
Encircling rock outcrops, swamps, and leas,
And near rivers and lakes, and on islands.
These hearty trees endure nature’s throes
Of cold, harsh, winters to warm spring thaws,
Thriving in summer and fall to help provide
A habitat for the forest dwellers.
Conifer pollen and seed cones pollinate,
And fertilized seeds disperse on windy days
—Or get stashed away by squirrels and birds—
And grow into stately coniferous trees.
Each year I make the matzoh balls,
Which come out pretty good.
My husband cooks the chicken soup;
Our roles are understood.
He always wings it when he cooks,
Just uses what’s on hand
And never needs a recipe,
Which I can’t understand.
I follow the directions
When I cook or when I bake
And measure the ingredients
So there is no mistake.
My time-worn recipes are stashed
In cookbooks or in files;
The drips and spatters dotting them
Evoke nostalgic smiles.
Yet always for the matzoh balls
What has the most appeal
Is the recipe that’s on the box
Of any matzoh meal.
That’s up until this year – there was
No recipe at all!
I Googled and saw dozens,
But not one my matzoh ball.
Until I saw a posting
From a woman who, like me,
Asked if anyone could help her
Find that box-back recipe.
Voila! Someone responded
With a picture of the box.
It’s amazing what technology,
From time to time, unlocks.
I made the matzoh balls
And hope they’re good as they appear,
But I copied down the recipe
So I’ll be set next year.
A plane had just crashed
A red flag was flashed
Secrets had been stashed
Sixty-seven died
The government lied
Helicopter too
Too low had they flew
Wonder if they knew
If the plane in flight
Was at the right height
To land there alright
I do have my doubt
The truth will come out
It's a cryin' shame
So, who was the blame
Was it just one name
Beneath the leaves
One may find
Scribbles of another kind
Written there are hidden truths
Collated by collective roots
Stashed under a different roof
Stored next to a bed of bark
Are twisted tales from the dark
You’ll find something similar to
Gideon’s Bible soaking up the dew
Nuclear holocausts they will survive
Though, these Hotels take their lives
So, if you’re a cockroach checking in
You just may want to find a friend
In Jesus!
A rainbow or counterflow … symmetry,
Time marks a question measured to wrangle,
Quantity taxes or pay quality.
First, the chick or egg, begs the novelty,
Harmony and anarchy vie tango,
A rainbow or counterflow … symmetry.
Highs and lows, trials on trails that Odyssey,
Couples meet ... kneels, and fingers … betrothal,
Quantity taxes or pay quality.
Germane proportionate necessity,
Bidders will empowerment substantial,
A rainbow or counterflow … symmetry.
Blind contends, an object than rivalry,
A contest midst, wins or lose, a gamble,
Quantity taxes or pay quality.
Observant confident, sees victory,
The keenly bid, competitors scramble,
A rainbow or counterflow … symmetry.
Won prize stashed, slips by geniality,
Bewildered notes calm, auctioneer’s gavel,
Quantity taxes or pay quality,
A rainbow or counterflow … symmetry.
Wrapped in fluffy fat rust colored blanket, staying cozy warm inside
Peering at fluffy tailed chasing squirrels who have nothing to hide
I open my mystery novel to a favorite chapter that tells quite the tale
My cozy nook a haven for my cat and I, a sanctuary where I sip my ale
Okay, it is coffee, where I meet my heroes, nemesis and literary friends
In well-love books stashed on shelves with flower arrangements at ends
I imagined I might leave you behind
But I will bring pieces of you with me.
There will be your hands
on the folded corners of my book,
There will be your handwriting pinned to my wall,
There will be your essence when I write,
Your absence in the night.
There will be your beliefs when dark touches the light.
I will have pieces of you
In the letters we will exchange
And I will give you pieces of me
By putting words to a page.
You are paper,
Scribbled with scripture,
Torn apart and stuck together again.
You are paper,
Stashed away on a shelf,
Sought out by my unsteady self.
You are paper
And I am a flame.
1. Humble gifts of Mother Nature: Free Verse: Humility
She gave a mixture of measured
Traces of gases to make a livable
Blend of air for lives to breathe well
She gave a magical potion
With rich nutrients to exist and sustain
All living things on this dear Earth
She spread ethereal carpet
Of soil to store, grow, regulate food to live,
For lives to recycle again
She stashed and stowed away fine rocks
To hold the mass good with unwavering strength
Bestow minerals to live well
She is so humbly rich to give
Such elegant presents to all lives on earth
Unworthy mankind took it all
2. Humble gifts of Mother Nature: Etheree: Humility
She,
Gave us
Air, Water, Soil,
Precious things that hold
Took million years to make
To help lives live and sustain
Balanced living - she wished to create
It floated for a while till a dawn
When human thought to use it all for self
Spoiled the gift, spoiled the giver, and failed terribly overall.
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