Poets recognized in competition: Poems read at the library

The Bliss Morehead Memorial Poetry Grant for unpublished poets (ages 17 and above) on the East End drew numerous entries on the theme of “Delight and Despair.”

The competition was established by Islander Mike Zisser in honor of his late wife, who dedicated much of her life to the art of poetry.

The winner, JoAnn Kirkland, and others read their poems at the Bliss Morehead Poetry Reading on Friday, April 22 in person at the Library. Here is Ms. Kirkland’s prize winner: https://shelterislandreporter.timesreview.com/2022/04/19/shelter-island-poetry-grant-winner-named-new-contest-honors-bliss-morehead/?preview_id=58766&preview_nonce=2abdda4c3e&preview=true&_thumbnail_id=57945

Among the entries also recognized by the judges was J Walker Moore’s which took Second Place, and three others securing Honorable Mentions:

Medical Tests

By J Walker Moore

I got the call late in the day

when the drowning sun was set deep

enough to demand

the shade of a hand over the eyes.

“It isn’t there,” said the cartographer

with all the authority of a man

with books and maps and sea charts,

computers and clear satellite imagery.

“I’m sorry,” he added with unpersuasive sympathy

“the island you describe simply does not exist.”

I thanked the good doctor as I hung up

but I’m not sure he could hear me

over the cry of the seagulls

Galapagos Tortoise, the Exile

By Janet Culbertson 

From stillness you roll

Inevitable as lava, a slow stone grinding the brush a tank seeking a war

all that power to subdue the grass that horny beak, grim mouth

to eat the frailest, sweetest grass

unknowing of fight

you always stand and bear

confront with tired eyes, lost marbles that roll and blink

armored,  weighted you carry on your back the coffin in your brain

your shell dinged, cool, mapped with lines you never see does not feel my hand

polished as rock your toes,

small plates weigh each leg ground beads in your skin

ancient encrusted deity, withdraw your head rasp and hiss the music of air

played on an accordion of leather neck veins carved and unpulsed totem of your will

they say you can mate with a stone yet dream of flying snails

Alive in the Dead of Night

By Aterahme Lawrence

Incessant crickets chirp conjuring hushed souls of the night to life; the humming hymn of cicadas fill the cool air,

a great horned owl hoots every so often to let her know she’s not alone in the dead of night,

and in that cabin beneath the stars her heart can finally beat

to the sound of wolves crying in the distance.

She hopes maybe they hear her cries too.

Manipulations of the heart and the mind.

Molestations of the body and the soul.

There was something about the man in the moon that was much different to her than the others.

“I’m haunted by the ghosts of the men who have tried to kill me.”

Late night conversations with the man in the moon,

He tells her about the sun and she tells him about you.

They talk of the things she should’ve said but couldn’t.

Of the lessons she wished she’d known before,

and all those she still has to learn.

She told him of the cruel world that lived beyond the forest line.

Confiding in one another their deep secrets and desires,

now gone in the wind that rustles through the leaves of trees.

Her once silenced words and thoughts could now stand on their own. And in this moment she was

free

The day begins to break, the man in the moon now gone away

soothed by the sweet lullabies of songbirds.

Nightingales and Northern Mockingbirds begin their dawn chorus,

mimicking the critters of the night who now slumber till the moon ascends again.

And if you listen closely you can hear her freedom cries,

speaking her truth to the rising sun.

She lost herself in the dark night of the dense woods to find her voice in that cabin

and those hushed souls of the night are the only witnesses

of the woman that entered and

the one who came out.

The Woods Down the Road

By Lora Lomuscio

Late winter

Sunlight slants into my eyes

Should have worn the Ray Bans that I found on the beach last summer

Shadows make charcoal blue lines across the asphalt

Wind slides through the bare branches of the still naked trees

I pause and Bear whines

Birds trill with trepidation

A dog barks from inside a house

The owner is already off to work

Bear stops to sniff

And pee

And performs perfunctory kicks to cover her marks

Then pulls me on

The windstorm was bad last night

So I hear

I had tucked in early

Still in hibernation mode

But the equinox is not far ahead Marking spring

Rebirth

Growth

My son’s 16th birthday

For now last year’s dead leaves still crackle under foot

And dance across the road when a big gust comes

I bet there are whitecaps on the bay

But I’m not going down there

Sorry Bear,

Too cold

A biker spins by on his daily ride

Maybe we’ll see the plumber who always tosses us a dog biscuit from his van

(To be guardedly carried home and buried)

There are two rags on the side of the road

Probably fell off a contractor’s truck

They are blue and yellow

The colors of the flag of a country across the world whose people are under attack

At the base of a tree is a small rolled up American flag

Left from last spring when we placed them along the roadside

To honor the soldiers who died in our most recent war

Bear whines and we move on

We enter the woods

Trees hug us close

The wind’s whispering becomes more of a whorling

If that’s a way to describe a sound

Crispy leaves

Soft plush moss on wet old logs

Trees creak

A crow caws

There’s the holly tree we freed from bittersweet vines a few years back Happy

Thriving

Unencumbered

And here is the great white pine with the soft blanket of spent needles below

I have always thought of this as a magic spot

Under the pine we disturb a doe

She leaps off

Her bright white tail contrasts with the muted gray and brown of the thicket

Two more deer run off in the distance

The wind eases and I feel a sense of protection

I lay my hands on the dense textured bark of the pine

Notice the thick trail of dried pitch down the front

And then, for a moment,

I receive the gift of warm sun on my face

Just as quickly though,

the wind and its chill return

Down the path is a beech with brown brittle leaves still adhered to its branches

Translucent in the sunlight they take on an almost apricot hue

Soon these leaves will be released by new green growth

The birds trill more insistently now

The sun’s warmth is a little more consistent

I’ll keep making this loop in the woods

As the earth keeps looping around the sun

As the seasons come and go