Selected Poetry, Photography, and Art Winners

by Teresa Bateman

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    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