First Prize - Jessica Veltre
Look at March
Follow the crooked tips of the trees,
Exposed and undressed, waiting for leaves.
Follow the water, not quite yet a stream,
But it trickles and traces each rock, journeying.
Gaze at the sky, it craves to be blue;
Silver still lingers, but there's hope in its hues.
Gaze at the ground, white succumbing to brown,
Green will come soon- Earth claiming its crown.
Lie in the sunlight, feel the kiss of each ray,
Feel the blanket of brightness, warming each day.
Lie in the shade, feel the breath of each breeze,
Let your mind wander, think, dream, be in peace.
Listen to the morning, the noon, and the night,
Birds flutter and sing, crickets chirp out of sight.
Listen to the air, the spirit in the wind;
It ebbs and it flows, it whispers and it bends.
Inhale the scents in flight-toasted, fresh;
Dirt greeting water-- a nostalgic, thirsty mess.
Breathe in new moisture, a livening of life,
An end to frozen fragrance, essence of nature's strife.
Use all your senses, past the average five,
Feel nature's pureness, sensations in drive.
Use every window, bestowed onto you,
To experience nature, for each day is new.
Second Prize - Kiley Conklin
Bulls are Colorblind
Praise be, to thee.
For it is you that inject life in my veins,
Pumps my heart and burns my loins,
I feel alive with you
Skirting around danger
You my bull and I your matador.
Some day you shall gore me with your horns
And my blood
Will run across the cobblestone plaza
Out of this poem and down over the keys of my keyboard.
But for now
I have sliced your left flank
And we both shall live to pace each other
A symbiotic love.
Third Prize - April Cipolla
You're just like a rabbit,
the kind they use in magic tricks;
One minute you're there
and in the next moment you've split.
I just can't keep going down this path,
familiar, but painful at best,
but I just keep on going back
to this permanent, tangled mess.
I don't know any other route;
I don't see any escape.
My life is repeating over and over
just like your old mix tapes.
Fourth Prize - Andrea Louis
Stingy yet gentle breezes wash over me
As suffocating heat weighs me down.
Sweat beads trickle down my brow,
like freshly fallen rain.
My eyes squint slits from blinding sunlight.
The silence of the sweltering day screams.
The livestock bawl out their displeasure with the heat,
No shade to be found anywhere.
Yet over all a sense of peace blankets us,
The blessing of a hot summer day.
Math Poem - Richard Seitz
Stats a First Look
As we hear the words, "Mean Median and Mode"
We thought to ourselves this is going to be a rough road
Then at first look, what are all these symbols and abbreviations
who would of thought a circle with a tail meant a standard deviation
After all the numbers are crunched to find the distribution
make sure its right or you will get the teachers retribution
With all the great Mathematical Minds, more often than not
All they could come up with was a box and whisker plot
Skewed left, skewed right, graphs, charts and histogram
Have caused nothing more than a mental traffic jam
After all the duress they taught us Z-score
Oh what a bore
If I knew the challenge of my mind would be from statistics
I think I would Rather studied ballistics.
Who would of thought trying to find simple probability
Would challenge this old mans thinking ability
Second Prize Nature - Sadie Popham
The Sugar Bush
A cool breeze winds through the trees, anticipation for the task ahead builds
The sunshine reflects upon the winding stream as I walk through the woods
On my way to the sugar bush
Standing in the forest, I look around
Dozens of metal buckets hang from the cool trunks
Tin tops like little houses
Containing a liquid gold within, just hidden from sight
I walk to the nearest tree, an old maple, fall's leaves crunching under my boots
Lifting the tin from the hook, a single drop of the gold, cool and clear as rain
Falls to the ground
The sap inside, crystal clear, taste hinting of the future
A golden brown richness the product of much love and work
A pleasure, given to us by the sugar bush
Another day, much work in the sugar house
Crystal turned to amber, much work has been done
Light from the fire illuminates the dawn
On my way to the sugar bush
The sap beginning to flow from the mother trees, the drops creating music
A beautiful sound from many tin buckets, echoing through the trees
Creating magic, given to us by the sugar bush
The magic of maple
The magic of spring
Director's Choice - Matthew Bouwens
The breviloquent nature of my name
when three letters removed
tells much about someone like me.
Who gave permission to call me this
lonely one syllable moniker?
Evil school yard children, education vast,
learned in the gift of rhyme, sought to
dehumanize and humiliate. I rhymed with a word
that was used to characterize me daily. I soon
believed that was all I was. They overlooked
that I possessed other qualities shaping who
I am. Not just a word.
This failure in turn, morphed me in the
self conscious doubter of the good in anyone.
I was only defined as a word that
rhymed with me.