TYWC  - WORLD POETRY DAY 2003
Contest Winners

american idols

those were the days
and we were Americans, so arrogant
and beautiful- 
When I think of then I think of
country fairs that got rained on, rhinestone studded
quarter horses loping to the beat of
a static-mangled PA anthem. I think of grease-proof
papered sausage and how we hated
'them damn immigrants' working in concessions,
as we ate pita bread and hummus
knowing we could hate them
because we could walk through fields of gold
as beautiful and blue-eyed as
our very own American sky.

these days, the bodies in the streets
are beautiful and blue eyed
and we can walk through fields of radioactive
gold,
remembering those first fighter jets
who streaked across our sky and tore it with their fumes, 
and later their flames
leaving us cold in the face of fire because, well-
don't they fucking know we're Americans?<br>

until now, when we stand not-so-united,
looking up through the smoke, the acid rain
and our own acid tears, at
our very own American sky.

Smile

One smile
Frozen in time forever;
That was all it took.
A single spark to
Light the fire
That has burned through the ages.
Conquering scowls
And frowns
And grimaces,
Blossoming on faces like
A soft white apple tree.
It radiates its own special sunlight
To dispel the darkness.
Every smile
One smile
And that was all it took. 

Spring

The Snow melts,
It's time to play outside.
The tree's get buds,
the flowers grow up from the ground.
Spring is such a wonderful thing.

Battlefield

I trudge on through the rubble
dodging the debris
I touch my grimy stubble
and someone cries to me

The bodies lie in straight lines
two by three by five
a gunshot in the distance
and none I see are live

I’m walking up a steep hill
the grass is full of blood
I slip and then I fall
in a puddle filled with mud

The sky is gray with rainclouds
a dreary, morbid day
I glance around once more
and then I move away...

Always the Visionary

Infants are fighting wars for political crackpots.
(It’s come to this.)
They have the expression of Buddha, 
That same fat baby cheek of apathy, 
Eyes that have seen more than their share of the world 
And what it has to offer.
What it has to offer?
Illegible subpoenas requesting the exclusive presence of Satan.
Give him a leather chair, 
Strap him down, 
And beat him like ol’ Rodney.
Take turns now.
“Yes Mas’r.”
Swear him in with the bible; 
Let it burn from the graphic memory of Auschwitz.
May they all burn in guilt.
And the skies will bathe the land in soot.
Valleys become mountains. 
A good boy doesn’t cry;
He follows orders without question.
He gets down on his knees and does what he’s told.
Vile men violate innocence, 
rape all of the daydreams, the lollypops.
Give the lad a puff, the magic dragon.
Give him his desert.
Give it to him.
Loot their pockets, confiscate their sweets.
Make them squeal.
Make them come back for more.
“Thank you sir.
May I have another?”
Put the puny to sleep with a silencing lullaby.
In Myanmar alone, we have 70,000 children in uniform.
Nepal and Colombia are also chauvinist pedophiles, 
Just a little FYI.
Not vivid enough for you?
Read on, and enlighten yourselves.
Can’t get any worse, right?
Best-case scenario,
Lightning’s small voice decides to spare us 
>From radioactive fallout.
We can all rest at ease with the knowledge 
That petechiae will be our fate.
Now, I can finally fit in with the rest of society.
We’ll all be lepers with small spots from hemorrhaging. 
Equality, extinction, utopia at last.
For three or four weeks, 
There will be a cruel period of remission.
Rest assured. 
He’ll get off His couch eventually to take in the view.
Our hair will fall out, and (Tell him what else he’s won.)
Our mouths will bleed, along with our bowels.
Personally, and this is just me, 
I’d rather get it over with.
I’ll take a thermal pulse any day of the week, 
Thank you very much.
I’ve always been partial to catching on fire 
And shortly being reduced to a charred corpse.
It would be the rage (against the machine first album cover).
That’s the way to go, baby.
But hey, that’s just me.
Then again, this is all subjective.
A blast wave would do just fine.
I think Edward Munch’s “The Scream” was prophetic.
Discoloration, tangible agony, mangled features, a lasting icon.
I know what you’re doing,
You vapid expanse of toxic, potato chip waste.
If you have a mind, you’ll grow a brain.
Don’t be a freethinker or a skeptic or an Atheist.
(God knows that a golden calf could do more good.)
Be a car test dummy,
Be a lab rat.
Science will save us, won’t you Einstein?
Eureka!
God will save us, won’t you Alzheimer?
But, people don’t just spontaneously combust out of thin air.
Right, keep telling yourself that.
Keep telling yourself that.
Keep telling yourself that.
The world is a sad strobe light.
In violent frames, 
You’ll see your skin melt, 
Your bones crumble,
Your arteries choke, 
Your lungs implode, 
Your heart detonate, 
Your fine particles disintegrate into the sun’s welcoming furnace.
With time-lapse photography we are able to see
A flower hatch from pollination, 
Then bloom in all its glory, 
And hastily die all in the course of one minute.
After all, a picture is worth a thousand bodies.
When the first Neanderthal brought fire to light, we were ruined.
When Truman got away with murder 
we laughed and said, “Served them right.”
Too bad nobody listened to Leo Szilard.
Killing off an entire race;
Now, that’s something to be proud of.
I’d say it warrants the Nobel Peace Price.
What I want to know is if any roses 
Will be left to fall on my grave.

No longer yours

Go to the handicapped dunes,
where myrrh of blood blends
with sweat dust and death:
you shall guess what you thought to be war-
portrayed in blue-shaded films
with self-sacrificing Rembos.

Reach out your hand 
for the quial of memory,
when only sky could tell what lay
beyond ephemeral smile,
ready to echo in eternity.

Dance out with your nightmares,
unleash fear that made your
breath quicken, heart stop
and mind paralyze 
in desperate desire for morning.

Yes, you have forgotten
that chaos lives by its own laws,
your prayers could not penetrate;
that your "self", at war, is no longer
yours.

For Nola Rae Wanke (Drowned at Age Four)

I remember. . .
Her impish smile like fluttering dove feathers
and baby teeth like little pearls.
Milky fine hair
like golden angels’ wings
tossed in messy yellow curls.

Her colorful world:
Monsters, doggies, white bunnies,
velvet gardens with silk flowers.
She dreamed of
Fat balloons and big barbecues,
kindly witches and crooked kings,
upside-down couches, kitty mouths,
and all “pritty” things.

I still hear 
her feathery whispers.
Her words run like spider legs,
spinning intricate webs of
denial and sweetness,
pristine and untouched
by the spoils of Earth.
I asked her to read me a story
and she told me the world.

Blood stained faces

blood stained faces
splattered with tears
can be seen
peering out from behind shattered buildings
at dusk on dusty streets
they’re pondering
if it’s safe

by day they grip each other tight
hiding from the fear
of being caught
in the crossfire

look beyond the men with guns
that patrol the streets
and see the weeping mothers
dying fathers
and orphaned kids
now on the street

A Nestful of Stars

Look up.
The sun, blazing, hypnotizing,
Streaking the sky like a fireflame chariot,
Edging the clouds with giant’s gold.
I wonder what’s inside the clouds.
If only I could fly up on glossy green wings
And peep inside those fluffy white nests
To find the hidden treasure.

Look up.
The sky, now dark and dreamy,
Expanding the world into infinity,
The night’s magical cloak hiding everything from sight.
I wonder what’s inside the cloak.
Suddenly, from behind the clouds, a silver moonbeam gleams.
The secret of the treasure is revealed …
A nestful of stars.

This Morning

i saw a butterfly this morning.
it was ironic because i didn’t think
there would still be any beauty left in the world.
little sister cried at the dinner table last night,
pushed her chair back and left the room...
she was scared and i was scared
and we fought because neither of us understood it all.

this morning we joked about it.
said ‘f*cking hell
don’t those politicians love to kid themselves
they mean something...'
it was futile
but at least it made us laugh.

we’re at war this morning.
it’s painfully real
and yet so detached
we can hardly believe it’s happening. 
i hate turning on the TV because
i know his face his words will be there – 
it's thursday, and last tuesday seems like
another life time.

this morning we comforted ourselves
with the knowledge that we would still play
inter-form hockey on tuesday.
it wasn’t enough (but it was better than nothing.)
our smiles were tense and his face
his words
were there
it was so real and yet detatched
we were scared
and we cried because we didn’t understand it all.

i saw a butterfly this morning,
and it was ironic,
because my thoughts were black and i half expected
the world to have turned black over night.
but it hadn’t.
seeing the butterfly wasn’t enough
(but it was better than nothing.)

Don't Judge

Please dont judge me by my face,
by my religion or my race. 
Please dont laugh at what i wear,
or how I look or do my hair.
 
Please look a little deeper, 
way down deep inside. 
And although you may not see it, 
I have a lot to hide. 

Behind my clothes the secrets lie, 
behind my smile, I softly cry. 
Please look a little deeper, a
nd maybe you will see.

The lonely little girl, 
that lives inside of me.
Please listen carefully to her, 
she'll show that she is insecure.

Please try to be a friend to her,
and show her that you care. 
Please just get to know her, 
and maybe you will see.

That if you just look deep enough, 
you'll find the real me. 

American Beauty

gothic roses and chinese acrobats 
fly through tuesday  
with blood-soaked handkerchief wings 
and overhead all the minus men say isn’t that pretty 
it’s like the thin ice on a winter lake 
and who care’s if it’s manmade? 
the deadman walks through the sunken summer 
he’s got dandruff for hair and mascara for eyes 
his tears stain his face and he just cries why 
but the blood red pantomine goes on

today is a c-minor day, with cross-hand 
arpeggios for hours and e-flat minutes 
with piano chords splintering the air
and when someone speaks 
their words seem to freeze and you can see them as 
blocks of  ice 
and if they’re sexy and their words are hot 
the ice might melt and form well-spoken puddles of mercury 
on the permafrost ground

it’s wednesday now in the land of the blood-red pantomine
and nursing home pornography is filling our tvs
and when we sit down to watch
our blood will be black but our lips will be as red as ever

Innocent Iceolated

She wakes up
whatever she does
shower, eat
adorn her eye-like
daggers
with black and purple
and every glitter in between
she looks on to the 
day who is timidly coming through
and declares
War

She straps those blades
on her feet
low comparison to what's within
shifts her eyes
while she swallows the Pelican
she makes ready for
War

I come in
my Bible in my bag
and a prayer running repeat
on my tongue
maybe she wont stab today

Enemies always have
perseverance 
and good guys always turn
the other  cheek
she flashes through with
shoulders that say 
War

Over the bridge 
over the edge
past all the straws
I am peeled
torn
stolen
separated 
from Simple
that I Love
as frozen tears cake
my eyes
Casualty