Shadows tightly folded
into the hour of noon.
Clock hands clasp
and time stands as the stork does:
unmoving and going nowhere.
Venerable old men,
anchored on park benches,
idly stare in hagioscopic squints
at panting patrons
of sidewalk cafes.
A fly buzzes,
decelerates,
comes to rest…
The dog twitches,
unhitches the fly,
stretches under the table.
Another glass of wine sedates thirst
in warm sips.
A waiter trips.
The dog growls.
Time unclasps its warm greeting.
The stork repairs its stance.
The old men look the other way.
Shadows begin to unfold slowly.
And, as the last chime of twelve
hangs in the air,
only the waiters rush about
like buzzing flies.
(Premier Trophy Win)
Clad in doldrum
with yarns of fuchsia
hemmed here & there
twisted amidst the layers
& simulacrum
esoteric verse
slicked in ethereal
& outvying
of vehemences, I goad
to scatter zeal
into the waves
grand & unbiased
while perching with
a quintessence unclasps
to the orbs thence
& the musings of yours
undying zest
for morrowing unfolding
in yearnings
& beyond.
1St Place Contest Winner
Written: July 13, 2022
A BRIAN STRAND PREMIERE CHOICE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Brian Strand
Fledgling child unclasps
Turns and flees,
Away unhitched.
Blatant rebel, free
Rejects parents as uncool,
But as an adult, reunites.
Petal by petal my black rose is dying. Weeping blood as it's stem turns brown. With
its beauty forever gone and its heart not beating, it shall die. His leafs fall off and
his last petal unclasps from him. Finally, he is left in complete silence as his last black
petal falls to his feet. As for him, he falls to the ground, dead, as the last petal hits
the ground.
-Kallie Mason
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