Selected Poetry, Photography, and Art Winners

by Teresa Bateman

Tumble to Thimble

When I was young and tumble
my life was greens and pinks,
with rounds and squares
and shorts and talls
and any kind of feel at all,
with promises in winks.
The holidays were orange,
with brown, creased grocery sacks,
or greens and reds
or reds and whites
or red, white, blue against the night
and sometimes blues and blacks.
Then I grew older
colors didn’t feel the same to me;
blacks and whites
but also grays
would dominate my times and days;
they weren’t as clear to see.
Now I am old and thimble,
the colors clear and bright,
the squares and rounds
and talls and shorts
and almost any feel, of sorts,
I’ve earned, they’re mine by right.
Yet I will always wonder
as I see the tumble play
If all of them will make it
to the thimble
past the

[photos] Photos by Roberto S. Herrera Jr.

Rain Song

There is a tenseness in the air.
All is silent, nothing moves.
From the East roll monsters
In cloud.
A breeze rises,
Tingling the back of my neck.
The scent of rain intoxicates
As the drops begin to fall;
The small staccato of melody
Upon the lake crescendos.
I dance among the raindrops
And laugh in wet fields
As others shelter themselves
In dripping huts.

[photo] Photo by Terry Hankins

[photo] Photo by Rick Calcara


I know you won’t see this
no matter how I write it
or where
or how high.
I know you wouldn’t hear me shout
if I installed
inside my throat
and speakers
underneath your mind.
I’m sure you couldn’t
feel my nearness
if I enveloped myself around you
and hugged your dreams inside.
And yet,
my knowing,
my hearing,
and my feeling
make it all real for me.

[photo] Photo by David R. Freeman

[photo] Photo by Kjirstin Youngberg

[photo] Photo by Scott Lee

[photo] Photo by Norman J. Weiss

[photo] Photo by Dave Thomas

Golden Lace

Last golden light rays
on the surface
of the sea,
Making patterns
in gold lace
of the ever-changing waves.

[photo] Photo by Terry Hankins


Night descends early
In far-off wild forests
Softly hushing life

The Answer

It came
so quiet
so soft
so sure.
I followed.

I Stand Here Looking

I stand here looking
at your footsteps that are
far beyond mine.
if it was you who left me
me who stopped going your way.

[photo] Photo by L. Hofmann

[photo] Photo by Bob Harpster

[illustrations] Illustration by Cary Henrie

[illustration] Illustration by Ron Bell

[illustration] Illustration by Brooklee Jentzsch

Summer Afternoons

Brown bodied
we hunted lizards
during the hottest part
of the day,
not caring, only knowing
that we wanted to hunt lizards.
Our talk of everything
talk of nothing that filtered
through the air, resting upon
kitchen windows with hot moms
at the sink, seemed to make
the dry sagebrush come alive.
We splashed in irrigation ditches
and made our worn-out Keds
slurp and gurgle.
After catching lizards (and even more
lizard tails) we’d return
home, dusty and freckled,
to show mom our treasures.

[photo] Photo by Ron Knowlton

[photo] Photo by Yvonne Wright