For the 2018 Poetry Challenge, participants were given three options: write about Electricity (recognizing Nikola Tesla’s death 75 years ago), Monsters (honoring the 200th anniversary of the publication of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s Frankenstein – though poems did not need to directly touch upon the novel), or write a Golden Shovel, a contemporary poetic form created by Terence Hayes.
The Golden Shovel celebrates former Illinois Poet Laureate Gwendolyn Brooks. Terence Hayes used the complete text of Brooks’ We Real Cool poem about seven pool players at the Golden Shovel as the end words of his poem. Poets adopting this form may use a line from a Gwendolyn Brooks poem or a favorite poem by another author. The new poem does not need to directly refer to the original source.
Poems were selected by our guest judges. Wisconsin poet Sue Roupp chose the poems about electricity. Local author Janet Tabin judged all the poems about monsters. Former Virginia Poet Laureate Sofia M. Starnes made the selections for the Golden Shovels. Since Highland Park Poetry received numerous submissions from poets living outside the United States, the judges chose to create a new award category for international poets.
We thank all of the poets who shared their writing with us. The quality of writing made the judges’ decisions difficult. We thank the many parents and teachers who encouraged their students and children to participate. We thank our guest judges for their time, energy and enthusiasm for the project.
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A Brief History of Nikola Tesla
By Marjorie Rissman
1st Place
Highland Park Resident
| extraordinary inventor,
spoke eight languages.
his greatest ideas came
to him from solitude
like a poet, a philosopher.
he rode the waves
from poverty to wealth
back to poverty.
tall and handsome
outstanding student
consummate host
yet never married
friends became enemies
who stole inventions,
who one day financed him
then pulled out the next.
he knew remarkable success
and dismal failure, known as
a mad scientist by many,
as brilliant as his light bulbs
to others, his life as strangely
alternating as his circuits,
ending homeless devoted to
beloved pigeons in the park.
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| Jonathan Montgomery Pollock, Photographer |
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Strange Crop
By Fiona Theokritoff
1st Place
International
| Solar panels bloom in fields
turn blue faces to the sun.
A crop, propped up on white stems
Linear mosaic
occupies the space
Photovoltaic cell
plunders the light
Invisible harvest.
The blue grid sparks
to feed our neon hours.
Insatiable.
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Electricity
By Grace Tipescu
1st Place
Student Grades K - 5
| Electricity is like a rope, when you pull it, it hurts.
When you look at it, you can’t see it, like steam.
When you hear it, it crackles like cereal.
When you smell it, your nose burns, like burnt toast.
When you taste it, it’s painful like you just ate lightning, can you eat electricity?
Electricity is all sorts of things.
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| J. Ray Paradiso, Photographer |
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Without Electricity
By Joseph Kuhn Carey
1st Place
Adult Non-Resident
| Without electricity
where would we be,
moving about the streets
like dizzy unshackled prisoners,
bumping into each other
with wide eyes and outstretched hands,
free of devices and looking out
at colors, trees, birds and
beautiful white clouds dotting
the sky like songs waiting to be heard,
we might go for a walk
or read a bookor sit on a swing and feel
the wind blowing leaves past our feet
and soft sunshine within our minds,
a powerless yet empowering place to be,
dancing alone with others
away from the lights
and into the moonglow
looking for crumbs that feed the soul
and tapping joyful toes to the beat of
an unplugged-in existence,
the inner electric switch turned on
and dialed into the universe,
crackling with the big boundless
beauty of love.
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Edison's Light
By Constantine Soutsos
2nd Place
Student Grades K - 5
| Electricity
Zap zap zap
You make light for us
You sparked the idea for a light bulb
In Edison’s mind
A trapped fire in a bulb
But later on he made a light out of you
Electricity
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| Jonathan Montgomery Pollock, Photographer |
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Today
By Adrian McRobb
2nd Place
International
| Today I learnt many things; mostly about resistance.
To be positive about electricity even when the lights go out.
That batteries go to landfill and are not recycled.
Halfords have been fined for recycling their products.
Laptop batteries hold less charge the more you charge them.
Lights have come back on because I thought negatively.
Lemonade bottles when charged with polymer ions make fleece!
Sheep's wool (under certain conditions) attracts lightning.
Lightning is invisible, when the lights are on.
Rechargeable batteries lose their charge, if you leave them in the charger...reverse polarity!
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Julie Isaacson – 2nd Place, Highland Park Resident
O, Puerto Rico
I flip my light switch, confident that I’ll achieve the desired effect,
And think of you.
I gaze toward the sun and moon, paying homage to these orbs as your only light.
In modern times, you live an ancient life, maximizing light before deep darkness envelops you.
In every moment, do you think of the old days, when you controlled your light? Long months ago, when
you could read at night, and cook for your family effortlessly? Exist in comfortable temperatures?
Surely you feel forgotten by a world plugged in, charging devices to our global communication.
We use our sleek adapters, yet you are the true adapters, adjusted to a life controlled by Nature and
Politics. And a tunnel of promises as dark as your twilighted life.
Truth to power.
Voice to power.
I pray for you, our brethren, may you soon see—power to power.
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Tricia Knoll
2nd Place,
Adult Non-Resident
High Wind Power Outage
Strap on head lamps
like miners scuffling
on carpets of coal. Enter each room
to a flickerless switch,
mere habit of walking,
mere notions of sight
where I left clogs, notebooks,
my mother’s necklace of garnet beads
in disarray, fallen to the dog’s blanket.
A cell link
to the electric company hotline
that doesn’t know the cause,
the location of the blowdown,
when it will end, how cold it will get,
who suffers the most,
what will be lost.
For security reasons
the girl‐computer names only
numbers in our address,
not our street, nor our stress
where we walk shiftless
through our hallway tunnel to bed,
your hand pulling mine.
| Sharon Flynn
3rd Place, International
Electric Corsets
Designed especially
for the fairer sex,
they promise
to relieve internal problems,
ease hysteria,
cure the pain
of other female functions
no one names.
As an added bonus,
they assist nature
in developing
the chest.
At ten and six
for two, by post,
they are available
to ladies of all stations
from the offices
of the Medical Battery Company.
In advertisements
the model’s waist is very small.
Electrical darts
spark from her anatomy.
She is décolleté,
and in her underwear, of course.
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| Jonathan Montgomery Pollock, Photographer |
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Lightning
By Judith Bernstein
3rd Place
Highland Park Resident
| Crack!
Lightning
rends the night
into before
and after the bleak
cataclysm of dark
destruction frying the wires
that string together modern life.
Electricity gone as we sit
fearing the blackest night devouring us.
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Root Lock
By Sylvia Cavanaugh
3rd Place
Adult Non-Resident
| This tree slowly freezes
eases into the solstice
to a root lock
of tundric embrace.
If color
is the language
of light
on this waning
afternoon
what amber glow
might we see
pulsing
in feeble rise
and steady fall
beneath the bark?
Nikola Tesla insisted
on his alternating current.
Childhood persists
in the linger
and cling
of moss and lichen.
O, how my sap snaps
electric,
sparking towards
the gathering brittle.
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Electric Storm
By Bennett Doran
3rd Place
Student, Grades K - 5
| Crashing flashing delight,
There's no such thing as fright!
Thunder, BOOM
FLASH FLASH ZOOM!
Lights sparkle through the night.
Clouds light up like gems in the night,
Shooting out light
Moonlit skies shine,
The sky looks divine!
When the sky looks like a fright!
When the moon hides away,
It reveals the day.
A moonlit storm is now sunlit
It's as though the moon can sit.
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| Gail Denham, Photographer |
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Power Struggle
By Linda Mohr
Honorable Mention
Adult, Non-Resident
| My tunic hangs like a limp dish rag
My skin feels like tacky glue
Day four following Hurricane Irma’s visit
I stick my head in freezer every hour
Thankful for neighbor sharing generator
Insufferable 85 degrees at 9 p.m.
Last night the houses across the street
lit up like a Dickens Christmas village
I remain in the dark
I’ve been through this before
Hurricane Wilma left me powerless for two weeks
while I stared at the neighbors’ lights for seven days
I survived but maybe now I am climate challenged
Like moving from north to south
Your blood thins and you freeze in 50 degrees
Still I must tolerate this minor inconvenience
My mother slept outside during heat wave of 1936
Laura Ingalls lived in one room for six months of blizzards
Day five the teasing continues
All houses on my side of street have blazing light
I remain in the dark
My status is now designated “special case”
But I don’t want to be special
I just want simple pleasures
Hot showers, cold drinks
78 degrees during day and 72 degrees at night
Clean clothes, sparkling dishes, cool bed linens
I pray for relief, patience and expert line workers
On the seventh day you shall have power
And thank you, I do!
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Lennart Lundh
Honorable Mention
Adult Non-Resident
Redundancy
The lamplighter sits
at home these days.
Refusing Edison’s seduction,
he reads by candlelight.
[1] Poem first published in
Poetry Beyond Borders
| Cora Vitek
Honorable Mention
Student Grades K - 5
Sky
Cloudy, grey
Raining, blowing, getting dark
Dark clouds, thunder, quick flash, bright light
Strikes, goes zig zag, it makes a crackly sound
Zappy
Flashy
Lightning
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| Anne S. Bell, Photographer |
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The Electric Fence
By Barb Meier
Honorable Mention
Adult Non-Resident
| The wheat, radiant rays to the sun,
Dazzles our eyes in a Klimt shower of gold.
Grasshoppers play dodgeball with our sunburnt bodies,
fwipping the air with their wings.
We laugh at the dog - the sentinel dog,
jumping so high to see the way over chin high walls of wheat.
The horizontal landmarks: tree, fence post, wire.
The tree to catch the clouds, the fencepost to nail down the grass,
the wire to conduct electricity.
All to keep us and the cows in the field.
We'd march militant into the rows of wheat,
keeping time with hidden cicadas.
Southward to the border, field rimmed and wired,
grounded in a metal pole with porcelain earrings.
A silver strand, a spider's bite humming in its veins.
The wire forbidden.
"Did Daddy really say?"
"Would it really...?"
We reached to grasp the silver line,
whispering in the silence.
We felt the bite, disobeyed our dad.
Years later our daddy dead, the sentinel dog a ghost
between the stalks of wheat, and the fence corroded,
I remember the disobedience of death in a father's words,
and now know the obedience of a son
to take the sting of electric fences.
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The Flash of Light
By Noah Carson
Honorable Mention
Student, Grades K - 5
| From the flip phone to the Iphone X the new 3D
projections create more complexions.
When the first lightning strikes on one of those nights,
You get quite scared so don’t say you don’t care,
When your hair is like needles, standing up on your head,
You’re stuck in your bed, filled up with fright.
You hear that shock and a sudden flash of light.
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The Life of a Lightbulb
By Parker Pollak
& William Sheahen
Honorable Mention
Student, Grades K - 5
| The life of a lightbulb is very long and hard,
The glass case is a guard.
Of the important interior,
The bulb’s wiring is very superior.
And then comes the hard part, the bulb starts to flicker and flacker.
“CHHK CHHK!” Could it be a hacker?
Oh! But it’s not; the lightbulb is dead, alas!
It’s time for lights out; let’s go upstairs and put it to bed.
It had a good life
So bright and so bold.
But now the story has been told
About the lightbulb who was as good as gold.
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| Joe Glaser, Photographer |
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Lightning
By Becca Gordon
& Nora Gladstone
Honorable Mention
Student, Grades K - 5
| There is lightning outside,
My little brother is about to cry.
He hates lightning and so do I.
My parents aren’t home
So I call their cell phone.
They don’t pick up
So I go to my pup
And hold him tight
So I don’t get a fright.
I tuck my brother into bed
To get the bad thoughts out of his head.
My parents finally get home
So I log onto my Google Mac Chrome.
My fear is all gone so I write
A story and add on and on about my crazy night!
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Electric Shock
By Jonathon Adess
Honorable Mention
Student, Grades K - 5
| The electric shock scared the little boy.
While he was just peacefully playing with his toy.
But he realized it was just a spark,
And left his room without a trace.
The little shock hit his face,
Bothering him for the rest of the day.
He went outside to play with his friends,
Until he shocked one of them!
But it just was a little shock what could go wrong?
It started raining all of a sudden.
The little boy invited his friend inside.
So they played a game of Ping Pong.
As I said, what could go wrong?
The electricity in the little boy and his friend, made the ball go oddly fast.
As it started to spark a bit.
And then it was on fire!
The ball hit the little boy’s arm which made him wear a cast.
As the ball flew outside,
The little boy was lucky he wasn’t on fire.
As a little spark burst in a wire.
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At The Glorious Full Moon
By Judith Bernstein
1st Place
Highland Park Resident
Source: "Jabberwocky" by Lewis Carroll
| At the glorious full moon ‘twas
the time to dance under the brillig
sky, to dance with joy and
with happy feet to greet the
night. O, from the prairies to the slithy
swamps we capered ‘til the toves
ran wild. In silver moonlight we did
cartwheels high above the gyre.
Yes, we danced free and
stomped down wildflowers, to gimble
far afield, full of such tumult in
our singing voices alongside the
rushing, frothy wabe
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| Joanie Tooley, Photographer |
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November Moon
By Ayla Goktan
1st Place
Adult Non-Resident
Source: "The Rain"
By Robert Creeley
| After all
we tasted, we chose night
to hide our genuflections, to watch rise the
snowy mountains in the morning moon. Sound
arrives in orisons, echoing fears we had
and left behind, immiscible with this life. Come
the hands of sun, come the back
and forth between us, I say weft and warp again
to pleasure you, and
rain and river interweave again.
Then, along our path to the falls,
you whisper this:
though love is quiet
it calls us persistent -
though love is quite as rain.
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Poets In Love
By David Subacchi
1st Place, International
Source: "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock" by T. S. Eliot
| Those heady days, when we labored to let
The light of inspiration shine on us
In crowded libraries, where we would go
To read the great poets, whisper and then
Write romantic verses from me to you,
Blushing at our inadequacy and
Screwing up our passion. You said that I
Was far too critical of myself, when
In anger and frustration, I took the
Mock-Byron lines I'd crafted all evening
And burnt each embarrassing word. What is
That dark feathered demon with talons spread,
Tearing at your confidence, clawing out
The brightness of your eyes, striking against
Your sense of good judgement? I had not the
Wit to answer. Nothing under the sky
Could console me. But you Cheshire Cat like,
Grinned and purred reassuringly, as a
Nurse before a troublesome patient
When every hurt has been etherised,
Placing both of your soothing hands upon
My burdened shoulders, before sliding a
Sonnet of your own onto the table.
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Not Truly Hollow
By Tristan Deeley
1st Place
High School Student
Source: "The Hollow Men" by T. S. Eliot
| Straw eyes, you say, as you regard this
A field of models, is
The way to go, you command, the
Glint in your eyes sure this is the way
It must be. The
Bullets end the world
But only when directed to your ends,
By supple bodies and willing minds not
Perceiving of their actions with
Conscious thought. This man is but a
Hollow man, a straw man, bang
And he, suspended by gravity, which he thought his ally, but
Alas not, will soon fall, as his flesh might be straw, but a
Commander knows that his heart is tangible. Beaten and trained not to let out a final whimper.
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| Wesley Schwartz, Artist & 5th Grade Student |
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The Announcements Before The Battle
By Emily Beall
1st Place
Elementary Student
Source: "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night" by Dylan Thomas
| “We must rage
Against our enemy. Rage
Is what we want,” yelled the Chief. “We’re fighting against
Our will!” The crowd cheered. “The
Enemy has taken our king! The king is dying
Because of us! Hear that? Because of
Us!” The crowd murmured. “Let the
Battle begin!” The crowd left nothing behind except a fiery light.
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Joseph Naftzger
2nd Place, Elementary Student
The Golden Shovel
“There’s a shovel” says I
It shines golden, I Wrote
Garden shovels, Trench shovels, and Such
If a shovel hits you, you would yell AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA!
A golden shovel is astoundingly Beautiful
One could describe it in a Book
What would I write that book For?
To share what the golden shovel is with You
Source: “Blame” by Shel Silverstein
| Natasha Ely
2nd Place, International
Alone
I looked around, here and there
Blinded by the loss. I was
Drowning in the blight and drama
Of his passing. I’d had enough
Their false concerns hiding curiosity, wolves looking in
I sat alone, with thoughts whirling helplessly within my
pain. Our talking, touching, loving, had turbulent
foundations. A tear. Gone. The past.
Source: “Being Boring” by Wendy Cope
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Robin Wonder
By Emma
Alexandra
2nd Place
Highland Park Resident
Source: "Mending Wall"
by Robert Frost
| When the earlier than usual dawn tells me it’s spring
I walk the soft edges of young grasses where the morning is.
Cool liquid sky moments surreptitiously reveal the
robins hide and seek games behind brush, playful mischief.
Fragrance of winter’s snowy wetness still palpable in
spaghetti like underbrush. In this potential nest bed, not meant for me,
I search for the hop, busyness, tussle of orange bellies. Treading softly and
relishing the seasonal rituals I rediscover the familiar with joy. And,
I slow my steps to elongate dawn’s passing. Robins call out “find us,” I
reply to myself, I’d rather search some more, search prolongs my life, my wonder.
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| Joanie Tooley, Photographer |
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Explain It
By Gail Denham
2nd Place
Adult Non-Resident
Source: "Having the Right Name"
By William Stafford
| Don't want to frighten you by pointing to the moving
figure who just barely shows through
that clump of trees.
The wind seems to be whispering
directions to
stand your ground; you
opened that box of worms at
the beginning. I leave you to explain to the night.
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| Joanie Tooley, Photographer |
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The Sled
By Marjorie Rissman
3rd Place
Highland Park Resident
Source: "Dreams" by Langston Hughes
| Take hold! Take Hold!
Down the hill so fast
Feel the rush of cold to
Speed your thoughts to dreams.
Soon daylight fades for
Starry moon-beamed night when
Even the whitest snow dreams.
One last downhill run to go!
Like a chapter in my life
The climb is slow, the wait is
Long until my turn a
Well- worn path so barren.
Like the farmer’s field
Brown stubble now and frozen
Maybe while I sleep with
A blanket of the softest snow.
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After a Long Day, Rosa Rests
on the Mountain Top
By Sylvia Cavanaugh
3rd Place
Adult Non-Resident
Source: "King pointed to the mountain
top and we ran up" from the song,
Glory, in the movie Selma
| Responding to the quiet fortitude of her struggle, a King
said Walk for 381inclement days. She pointed
the path in resting, catapulted herself from invisible to
visible. The police, the southern traditions, the
Jim Crow festers in fetid cesspool beneath the mountain
while those who hard-climb to at last reach the top
rejoice in proclaiming oneness with the stars and
sometimes weep to view the world so vast. Eons ago we
stepped onto golden grasses, danced for ancestors and ran
as one in and out of Africa. Rosa sits down and people rise up.
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| Joanie Tooley, Photographer |
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Misplaced
By Kerry Ann Leaf
Honorable Mention
Highland Park Resident
Source: "Love is a Place" by e. e. cummings
| My table’s set with love,
As I define what love is,
Yet would you grade my love an A,
You who haven’t lived in my place?
Would you judge and
Penetrate my soul through
And through, measure this
And that, put me in my place
To assess my intent, of
Which you might taste love
Or rather feast on my move
From mostly tender, with
Moments of darkness and brightness,
Waivers between denying and thinking of,
Words spit from anger, then melted to peace,
Blending into a love that is all,
All-encompassing, splattered in many places
Where sometimes heart is, yes,
Yes, so obvious, but then there is
A heavy day, leading me to a
Deep breath, an escape from my world
To solitude, to I, not we, away and
Free from camaraderie, all rolled in
To my definition of this
Entity called love, explored in all the world
Of religions, of cultures, of
Traditions and, yes,
Of fairy-tale stories, people who live
In magical lands of words, skillfully
Dreamed alive so I can sit, curled
On my sofa, wondering if our love is like all
Love, if our world is like all worlds
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Wilda W. Morris
Honorable Mention, Adult Non-Resident
Ode to Florence, Italy
Florence, you have drawn me close. I
wander your byways, find I like
treading where the Medici ruled. I amble past this
house where Dante lived, look for the place
where he met his beloved Beatrice, and
where he wept his tragic loss. Willingly
I stroll streets where Michelangelo could
have walked as he planned how to remove waste
stone, disclosing David hidden in marble. My
days are filled with great art and gelato, my time
too short to see all the visitor is offered in
this city; I could happily spend years in it.
Source: As You Like It, Act II, Scene IV by William Shakespeare
| Kate Hutchinson
Honorable Mention, Adult Non-Resident
For Elie Wiesel, 1928-2016
Some have begun to say that hope
is a trap, that its rosy glow inspires
false faith. But when we stand in the
abyss, its dark chill creeping, no good
sunlit gardens to hoist ourselves in to,
we can only believe the last inner wick will reveal
its white nub, will catch and sputter, will ignite itself.
Source: Hope inspires the good to reveal itself. - Emily Dickinson
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| Emma Alexandra, Photographer |
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When Despair for the World Grows in Me
By Judy K. Mosher
Honorable Mention, Adult Non-Resident
Source: “The Peace of Wild Things” by Wendell Berry
| Winds pummel, push me to new places when
discontent rains, downspout floods with despair.
That Pina Colada I think I thirst for
is not really what refreshes, but, the
truth is, the hidden splendor of this world,
this sweet spinning coconut, only grows
from travel in these murky waters, and in
these depths, I discover more of me in me.
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Empty Nest
By Jennifer Dotson
Honorable Mention
Highland Park Resident
Source: #1540, Emily Dickinson
| We looked forward to becoming empty-nesters as
one by one the children left home. Imperceptibly
we’re surprised at the sudden silences as
we find ourselves alone together. My unexpected grief
at adding entries with their new addresses in the
book because before our home was their home. Summer
ended dropping them off at their respective universities. Time lapsed
differently. We yearn to hold them now that they’re away.
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| Joanie Tooley, Photographer |
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Dream - Less
By Constance Vitale
1st Place
Highland Park Resident
| Dreamy little girl, Daddy’s pride, Mother’s pearl
Pearl of great price, too great perhaps
Snow White, Rose Red, Beauty and the Beast
If we knew our destination
Would we dare the dream to waken?
Would we enter into gardens
Would we let the seeds be sown
Would we let our hearts be taken
Or lock tight the cloister’s gate
Heart within the woodsman’s box
“No” is learned much too late
“No”, no power once the fates
Have pulled back the veils
Through which we have not seen
In truth a fairy tale world
We wait on princes and babies
With hair as black as coal
And skin as white as snow
And lips ruby redAnd forget poisoned apples and trolls
We see the glimmer of gold
In the big black bear’s torn fur
And bid the beast’s every deed
To protect the illusions of the king and queen
Whose safety we suffer to secure
If we knew our destination
Would we dare our dreams to waken
And pull back the veils before we enter
And start down the garden paths from
Which dreamy young girls do not return
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Lady of the Garden
By Laura Potts
1st Place
International
| It is the first snow of the year.
In the falling cloak of a coal-cold night and the light
which breathes its last, here with the blood-bright
eyes of stars through dockland fog and foreland far,
our sleeping town remembers you. Ah, spark
and girl of lavender, back-lit in the bygone spring
forever green-of-grape and gone, the wind is bringing
winter on and swings a mist of you towards the gallows
where I am: long the light in which you stand, and oh
the always-infant eyes that sang when shorebirds banked
the garden leaving for another land. And in the blackcurrant
dusk of a fireside lamp is Mam and we, a decade apart, sat
one to each knee. There are more years between us than that.
See, with the fist of the wind came he in a burst of night,
that darkest branch of our ancestry, rising by the candlelight
with looming beaches in his eyes: Death in fighter’s finery,
his fatherlight dimmed dull. That bloat upon his skull, berry-
burst and bullet-full, forever thunder-shook the blood
and up-and-swung away the sleeping bud of you, and crooked
the cradle where you stood. Then, oh, the last and lost of love:
he stopped your choral-church of throat. And that was that.
Dawn cracked. Last, a man in a big black hat took you off.
But I still see you, years away, staring past the snowdrops.
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| J. Ray Paradiso, Photographer |
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Loch Ness (Ian's Day)
By Tricia Marcella Cimera
1st Place
Adult Non-Resident
Poem first published in
Prairie Light Review, Fall 2008
| In the morning
Ian’s wife asks him
To buy the baby milk.
Oh, aye, he says
And pinches hard
His baby’s soft flesh.
In the afternoon
Ian’s mistress asks him
If he truly loves her, only her.
Oh, aye, he says
And twists hard
Her blue‐veined breast.
In the evening
Ian’s best friend asks him
Will he pay the money back.
Oh, aye, he says
And suddenly, fiercely
Ian stabs the man dead.
On the banks of the Loch Ness
That flows so black and wide
Ian stabs his best friend dead
Oh yes, indeed he does
And then he walks away.
Below the loch water,
The creature watched.
He shrank away
And thought with fear,
There still be monsters up above.
Oh, aye.
There still be monsters up above.
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Madison Hahamy 1
1st Place, Student Grades 8 - 12, Monsters
& Honorable Mention, Golden Shovel
He Came for Me at Midnight
He came for me at midnight, an outstretched hand and
Wordless promises. He came for me but I, I
Followed him with nothing more than an infinitesimal
Pause. He riveted my entire being,
Lured me until I was drunk
On the sickly-sweet words spewing out of his devilish smile with
Those piercing blue eyes. The
Child in me shamefully slipped through the door, but the Woman in me stayed, knowing that Great
Loves do not exist. This is my end and these starry
Moments fill a forever loveless void.
All humans are made in the likeness
Of God, but He is made in the image
Of
No one. He is an elusive mystery,
And I have never felt
As much myself
As I do with him. But then he looks at me. A
Look that makes me feel Pure.
Innocent. Childish. Small. And I know that I will always be a part
Of
Him before I am a part of Me. He came for me at midnight, but I, I followed him because maybe the
Great Loves do exist, and maybe this time He will save me from the loveless abyss
Source: Poetry by Pablo Neruda
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| J. Ray Paradiso, Photographer |
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Somewhere in a Dark Cave
By Henry Gamson
1st Place
Student Grades 4 - 5
| Somewhere in a dark cave, where a basilisk rooms
He is there, standing by a couple hundred tombs.
Somewhere in a dark cave, where a hydra does sleep
The meals she really, really likes never make a peep.
Somewhere in a dark cave, where a werewolf prowls
Whenever the moon comes out in full, he howls and howls and howls.
Somewhere in a dark cave, where a mummy lies
He will walk around quite stiffly to make sure he never dies.
Somewhere in a dark cave, where a vampire drinks
He will get up and fly away to feed his own pet sphinx.
Somewhere in a dark cave, where a necromancer writes
The dead come to his call even when he bites.
Somewhere in a dark cave, where there a ghost does float
She will scare and scare and scare and in the end will gloat.
Somewhere in a dark cave, where an ogre has reigned
He makes sure the monsters there are always quite contained.
Somewhere in a dark cave, where the stars never show
A little elf just sits there a-playin’ on his banjo.
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Olivia Tuazon
2nd Place, Student Grades K - 3
Monster Under the Sea
I see something down below
Tentacles in the dark?
I see two wide-open eyes looking at me
Could it be?
Ah! It’s coming closer!
I get in my vehicle and
Run the other way!
Goodbye, monster! See
| Constantine Soutsos
1st Place, Student Grades K - 5
Midnight Monster
Creep, crawl, squeak
Shhhhhhh!
Don’t make a peep
I’m trying to sleep.
Stop it, Monster
I know you are here
Don’t try to come near.
You have nasty toenails
and big, sharp claws,
Also puffy purple fur that smells rotten
and such muddy paws.
“I only wanted a bedtime story.”
The baby monster says with a weep
“otherwise, I will not be able to sleep.”
OK, only one story, Monster
and you can stay
until the night ends and it is day.
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| J. Ray Paradiso, Photographer |
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Him
By Amelia Cotter
2nd Place
Adult Non-Resident
| He intercepts the blood flow with careful, gradual steps.
He seeps into the bloodstream,
Finds his way into the ribcage to wait and watch in safety.
He holds the heart between cold hands and demands the body speak for him.
"But don't worry," he says, climbing the chest wall on his rib ladder,
Up the larynx, the throat, and into the mouth.
From there he can make short, easy trips to the brain
to light up a cigarette, maybe a fire, too, filling the entire cavity with smoke and fumes.
So often does he invade like a disease,
The count of blackened bodies stacking up --
charred remnants under the terrified sun.
|
Synopsis
By Carol Spielman Lezak
2nd Place
Highland Park Resident
| His well-intentioned urge to seek perfection,
his unwillingness to accept the inadequacies
of mere mortals, the futility and sadness
and ultimately the madness
begot not an ideal but a monster.
And thus, what Frankenstein created,
he shunned, he abandoned in horror.
What he dreamt of became his nightmare.
In his quest to create, to surpass nature,
he became more monstrous than his creature.
No Pygmalion tale, this, whose perfect creation
became his perfect love.
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| J. Ray Paradiso, Photographer |
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Scarlet-May Eziashi
2nd Place, Student Grades 8 - 12
Everyone
They’re in your closet, under your bed,
You may believe you’d rather be dead,
But there is no escaping the demon inside you,
You continue your life, there are no monsters here,
Only the ones inside you, that will stay there forever,
For you are the monster and the monster is you.
There are stories everywhere, feel free to look around,
A whole analogy about you and your nightmare,
Who will know and who will find out,
The monster is everyone.
You claim you could never hurt a fly,
Then you seep into other people’s lives and make them the ant you step on,
You, are afraid of the monster?
There’s you and there’s me, we all share one thing in common,
We all have a monster, and the monster is everyone,
We all try to hide it but it will always be there,
For you are the monster and the monster is you.
|
Nathan Peterson
2nd Place, Student Grades 4 - 5
When We Were Children
When we were children
We learned to fight
Fight the monsters
Under our bed
But how do you fight?
How do you fight
The monsters in your head
They are coming...
They are coming...
They are coming!!
But how do you fight the monsters in your head?
| Shirin Mulla
2nd Place, International
Liberty
All the birds locked in cages,
Their stories scattered on torn pages,
For the freedom they aspire,
Liberty is what they desire!!
Who likes a life behind bars?
Dream to fly high and reach Mars!!
Set free your mind,
Liberty expects you to be kind!!
What comes with the liberty?
Sense of unity and equality!!
When it is dark you search a light,
A shine that may makes a future bright!!
Reason for these tears is slavery,
You ought to gather some bravery!!
Fight the monster of suppression,
Leave a long lasting impression!!
Teach to world to touch the height,
Fly in open sky like a free kite!!
When life seems like drowning sheep,
So are your unable lips,
Thou eyes utter integrity,
An urgent call for liberty!!!!
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| J. Ray Paradiso, Photographer |
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Ode to Halloween
By Oliver Mansfield
3rd Place
Student, Grades 8 - 12
| Halloween, what a scare!
I love horror, I adore the dark,
But most of all, I love the fun!
Whether it’s me or a 6-year-old kid,
Or the baby in the stroller or the tired
Chaperone, oh I love your costumes!
If you scare me with leather splattered red
Or dark faces reflected in pale moonlight,
You’ve more than earned your treat! Bring me tales of
Shambling ghouls and screaming banshees. Or
Perhaps cute princesses and cool heroes are more your style?
Oh, what a joy! Frankenstein's monster and Count Dracula
Have found their way to my doorstep!
I’m coming yes! But first, I must ask you, my dear reader…
Trick or Treat?
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Monsters Are Very Scary
By Sam Ackermann
3rd Place
Student, Grades 4 - 5
| Monsters are very scary,
Some can be the size of a blueberry,
And some can be the size of my big Uncle Larry.
Some can be as fast as a lime
And some can be as skinny as a pickle
And to play with one,
You don’t even need to pay a nickel!
Monsters can be slimy,
And I’m trying my hardest to make this poem rhyme-y,
And if you don’t have a nickel,
You can pay with a dime
And if you don’t have a dime, we’ll give you some time!
Wait, I said you don’t need to pay
So I guess you don’t need that money today!
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Nosferatu's Garden
By Ed Werstein
3rd Place
Adult Non-Resident
| If Nosferatu were a gardener
he would raise beets
and beets alone,
fang-rooted Rumanian blood bulbs,
vampire of vegetables.
Sucking redness from radish veins
leaving its innards colorless.
Rutabagas, potatoes, parsnips
are no match for its red-robbing wiles.
Only the longer rooted carrot
has managed through the centuries
to cleave to a bit of orangeness.
There is an eastern European wives tale
claiming that before the beet bit
you could get blood from a turnip.
Bubbling in a borscht bowl,
the beet could sustain our fabled count
through those long cold damselless nights.
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| J. Ray Paradiso, Photographer |
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Judith Bernstein
3rd Place, Highland Park Resident
Perseus
I steeled myself to face the Gorgon.
In one hand the scythe of Hermes,
In the other the shield of Athena.
Ready to face the feared Medusa,
Her head of seething snakes
Ready to turn mortals into stone.
I raised my burnished shield
To catch her reflection before
She caught a glimpse of me.
Around each corner I crept,
Shield first, until I heard the hissing
Of her ensnaked approach.
Then out I leapt, scythe high.
Judging distance only by my shining shield.
Once I swung, twice, third time victory!
Even in death the snakes squirmed above
Her vile visage as I stuffed the head into a sack
To carry in triumph my Goddess Athena.
| Jennifer Dotson
Honorable Mention, Highland Park Resident
Those Greeks got it all wrong.
Medusa, a serpent-headed gorgon,
so ugly that men turn to stone?
Lies and misrepresentation.
Medusa said It’s all natural so what’s the big deal?
Her hair, not snakes, flourished
in dark waves from her crown.
Straight strands flowed in windblown
wheatfield formation on her arms and legs.
Longer crinkly ones sprouted from her pits.
Strays surprised her chin and nipples.
Coarser coils marked a sign between her thighs
Here is hidden treasure.
The truth about the persecuting Perseus
is that he turned his shiny shield against
the maid Medusa
as a mirror, a vanity trick
attacking her sense of beauty
seeding insecurity
and offering her a solution to her problem
with tweezers, razors, lasers, and wax.
Poem published in Clever Gretel (Chicago Poetry Press, 2013)
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Teresa Godfrey
3rd Place, International
Dr. Frankenstein
I will climb the dark hillside
dimmed by lies and shadows.
When whispered
threats and fears
take hold of me
I will not be afraid
I will walk the barren plains
into the bleary nightfall.
When my eyes fill
with the dust
of wind-scorched bones
I will trust the darkness.
I will enter the icy storm
and face the frozen numbness.
North winds will haunt me.
When hidden clefts fall
open at my feet
I will plunge without fear.
The monster in the deepest cave
is my creation,
his broken, patched up skin
my own design,
his hollow soul
my own.
| Tina Cole
Honorable Mention, International
Minotaur
In the myth he is easily recognized,
half man, half bull,
prowling the labyrinth,
turning at right angles
through fretworked shadows. A Caliban
creature with the musk of darkness
wrapped in his pelt stalking
those whom fate has chosen,
his snarling stench
hot against white breasts.
In the flickering movie,
a ragged creature is reflected
back. Hairs prickle my neck.
I turn on lights to keep shadows
on best behaviour as the long
tongue of the lock licks into place
and a slick of panic cuts
my throat. I know you at once.
You have my scent and seek deep cuts,
flesh wounds never enough.
In the garden
frost has sharpened each blade
of grass as the moon’s horns
are unmasked by cloud. Sated,
he crosses the poisonous breath
of traffic and veers down to the tunnels
of the local Metro.
First published in Wolf Hoard, a collection by Border Poets (Autumn 2017)
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| William Vollrath, Photographer |
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Lennart Lundh
Honorable Mention, Adult Non-Resident
The Tall Man by the Bar
He dressed as Frankenstein's monster to amuse the grandkids and, truth be told, irritate his wife just the slightest bit. Besides, who knows if there'll be another October's end, deep as he's wandered into the inescapable woods of his personal winter? Unlike the anodes and crisp, jet hairline, the creases set deep in his gravemould-colored face and hands aren't the work of careful makeup. And the awkward, half-limping gait? Something he's walked with so long it's all but forgotten. Sometimes, when somebody calls it to his attention, he's startled and bemused, working to remember when this happened.
Poem first published in Scare Me, an Anthology
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The Edge
By Charlotte Digregorio
Honorable Mention
Adult Non-Resident
| Months after you ditched me,
my head’s still dizzy, my brain wires dangle.
“Haunted by delusions,” my therapist says.
A mummy afoot enters my home,
walks up behind me, knocks at my skull.
Racing out the door, Godzilla stalks me
with god-awful rants.
Outrunning him on the beach,
I swim out to sea, swirling to
the depths of seething sea serpents.
Crimson fears savage me,
despair clots my blood.
Tangled in seaweed, my body surfaces.
Dazed, I wander in the salt fog of
the coastal range, attacked by a werewolf
with sparking fangs. Skeletonized,
I creak and crackle along crooked paths.
Near my tumbledown cottage
on the eroding bluff, my black shadow
dogs me, goading me over the edge.
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Jenny Neiman
Honorable Mention, Student Grades 8 - 12
The Monster Within
A monster inside me devours my soul, bites me in half making me less than whole.
Death not departed but closer than near. All I can smell is anger and fear.
Smoke and fire, a burning desire, to vanquish the demons that live deep within.
Torture and screams gather around. Other than silence not a single sound.
My cries for help forever ring, for songs of joy I'll never sing.
A fire blazing like a war never won; a war that's forever, and never done.
A knife that can shatter one's heart into two. The war is against me, but I'm trying to kill you.
The monster inside me is tearing me apart. It started with my soul and ends with my heart.
I'd say I’m going to hell, but yet I'm already there, and in the end all I can say is
I really don't care.
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Monsters Day & Night
By Nitya Jain
& Abby Taub
Honorable Mention
Student, Grades 4 - 5
| In the morning I wake up out of
bed with those monsters
in my head I fear those slimy,
scary, creepy crawly, icky,
thinking monsters near me
I don’t know what to say.
I hear them crawling in the night
No one seems to see their sight
In the night I scream in fright
They’re in my dreams throughout the night
Starting from the top those
monsters will scare you
I don’t know what to say, but I
think they are stalking you and me
every single day. Hey!
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| William Vollrath, Artist |
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Ella Engelman
Honorable Mention, Student Grades 4 - 5
The Monster in My Room
The hairy scary monster gave me a little shock, he was so big and mean and he said he wouldn’t stop.
He pushed me and shoved me and moved around my room; he said I was in for some really big doom.
“Thump Thump Clunk Clunk,” as he tore apart my stuff. It was so awful and he was way too rough.
He pushed me and shoved me and threw me on the wall, but then I realized there were no monsters at all.
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Brash Bash
By Lynn West
Honorable Mention
Highland Park Resident
| It was a warm August night
Her spine tingled as she tasted beads from her brow
Golden gleaming waves of muscular mass pass over tortured torso
Broken in two like a twig
The coroner covered the corpse once more
Twisted tan toned
Model male
Blemished blow by blow
Tell-tale signature…crushed cyanine kiss…
Beautiful brunette…buxom blonde
Seen at the site…on that warm night
All for her bliss
Sealed with a kiss
What kind of monster is this?
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At Sunset
By Tim Callahan
Honorable Mention
Adult Non-Resident
| He had killed and would surely kill again.
Taking the lives of others gave meaning to his own.
From all the human cattle, he chose as victims those
he deemed unworthy by the meaningless emptiness
of their dull and shallow lives.
She was in all ways mediocre. She had some friends –
was not one whose tortured loneliness gave some depth
of character. She was neither fair nor ugly and worked
with middling competence as a cog in a machine,
that and nothing more
He had stalked her for some time and thought today
with swift and sudden certainty to end her pointless life.
So, on this dull and clouded day as she walked westward,
all alone, toward a sinking sun by clouds obscured
he followed swift and sure and now closed in.
Just then the sun slipped down between
obscuring banks of clouds into a sliver of clear sky
and for an instant brightly shown and spread a ruddy glow
across the clouds in bright and sudden splendor.
She stopped transfixed and gasped, caught unprepared,
held enthralled, in rapture, by its numinous beauty.
He saw her bathed in scarlet light and caught in awe,
no longer one of pointless dullness, and so, no more
a fitting victim. So, he let her live that day and for
the sake of that brief instant’s transformation,
sought nevermore to end her life.
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| Jonathan Montgomery Pollock, Photographer |
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Coffee, Tea or Chablis
By Radomir Vojtech Luza
Honorable Mention
Adult Non-Resident
| But of all
The monsters and villains
In fiction and reality
None strikes more fear
Into innocent hearts
Than that Lance Corporal
Of deception and dance
Little Red Riding Hood's
Big Bad Wolf
A snout to sniff and smell
The good from the bad
A midnight coat to fool
The brightest of minds
Magnifying glasses for eyes to dream up
The most far-fetched of schemes
The audacity and gumption to follow through
With those bold ideas
Mommy, mommy
This wolf
He serves a cup of tea
Between slices of me
He puts me on his knee
And with unabashed glee
Has me with
Crackers and Brie
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Michelle L. M. Gale
Honorable Mention, International
Victoria
Legs so long and hair jet black she could not hold her talent back,
“I will be a dancer, on the stage” she said with tears and fists of rage.
“No” said her father “it cannot be, Madam Gomez is the best you’ll see
She dances with all the skill and might of a butterfly in mid‐flight.
Madam Gomez cannot be beat, there’s magic in her dancing feet.”
Victoria said, “I can be the best I’ll show you father, I can beat the rest.”
She practised hard both night and day, she knew hard work would make it pay.
By age sixteen she was the best in town with all the young men buzzing round
But Victoria knew she could not stop were she to gain her place on top.
She had shoes made, lucky colour red and danced until her toenails bled.
Madam Gomez soon heard of her fame, she cursed the dancer spat her name.
She knew Victoria one day would take her spotlight position in Swan Lake.
She’d have to put a stop to the dancer and her beauty in her mind it was her moral duty.
She too trained hard many years ago and would be dammed to let it all go!
Victoria danced well and soon won acclaim, on her eighteenth birthday the lights spelt her name.
The Old Vic Theatre on opening night Swan Lake, leading role, her future was bright.
She danced like an angel turn after turn but at the stage door jealousy burned.
Victoria shed tears as she took her last bow, she had reached the top, she was number one now.
Then suddenly there came a deadly hush and passed her ears the wind did rush.
The old trap door in spotlight place had been triggered by an unseen face.
Poor Victoria met her death below on a mattress spring placed just so.
On rushed Madam Gomez hideous in a wig of black, eager to take the spotlight back.
She brought tragedy to a girl all the rage, and dancers still see blood on that haunted stage.
Poem was first published in Still I Try Anthology, July 2017
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Jayla Marcus
Honorable Mention, Student Grades 4 - 5
Hall of Fear
A creaky door opens
into a spider web-filled
dusty
cold
heart attack world
deranged shouts and
loud bangs from
cages,
jail cells,
closets
crying babies,
shrieking kids,
helpless cries for help
come out of a glass jar
crammed on a tilted shelf
shadowy figures make
footprints stained
deep red
you walk the hall
until you see it
20 feet in height
dripping goop
instead of eyes
fangs as long as swords
sharp as axes
shrieking gets louder
something touches you
you rip off your headset
virtual reality
is too realistic sometimes
| John Grey
Honorable Mention, Adult Non-Resident
The Count Going Blind
I figured I had it made,
living outside this Romanian village,
a castle of my own,
thick forest surrounding it,
and plenty of virgins
wandering through those woods
unaccompanied, unaware,
unimaginatively naive.
But a fog bank has crept in,
muted my eyes,
sheathed my fangs,
blacked out my hunting grounds.
This is what I am reduced to.
I can no longer discern moon from sun,
stars from that cruel blue sky.
The clock's no help.
In my new world,
midnight and noon are interchangeable.
Poor old Igor.
He needs a hip replaced badly
but if he doesn't hobble me into my coffin
come dawn, I will perish.
Likewise, if that poor soul
can't lure young, unsullied females
into my lair,
I will die of thirst.
I am afraid that soon enough
I'll be nothing but
a pale, washed-out bloodless corpse.
Believe me, I know the type.
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| Lynn West, Photographer |
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Monsters in My House
By Jake Grossman
& Joey Eisenberg
Honorable Mention
Student, Grades 4 - 5
| The monster in my bed is hairy. The monster in my shed is scary.
The monster in my bathroom is tall. The monster in my mathroom is small.
The monster in my dining room is short. The monster in my shining room is in a fort.
The monster in my playroom is fat. The monster in my dayroom is flat.
I know there is nothing to fear, because they are all in one scary nightmare.
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Milo Vitek
Honorable Mention, Student Grades K – 3
Scary Monster
Monster
Scary, red
Hold, grab, roar
Bloody teeth, shivers, goosebumps
Run, scream, yell
Scary, frightening
Fear
| Leilani Maxwell
Honorable Mention, Student Grades K - 3
Monsters in the Shadow
Monsters in the Shadow
Shadow
Dark, black
Scared, run, get out
Scary house, basement
Big eyes, warts all over
Eat, hide, scared
Furry, scary
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| Cora Vitek, Artist & 1st Grade Student |
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The Perfect Bowl of Monster Stew
By Peyton Pollak
Honorable Mention
Student, Grades 4 - 5
| The perfect bowl of Monster Stew
Isn’t very good for you!
It’s got Slime, Toenails, Hair, and Ox,
Metal, Cabbage, Even socks!
The perfect bowl of Monster stew
Is just for monsters, not for you
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Forgotten Trinkets
By Sasha Cohen
Honorable Mention
Student, Grades 8 - 12
| I look in the mirror at my reflected appearance,
Expecting a bright, symmetrical, and beautiful mask,
Yet all I see is a spirit of abhorrence.
It stares back at me as I ask
What is a monster, a beast, a terror?
Is he a complete disgrace
Or simply something conceived as a blatant error?
Perhaps she resembles something you misplace:
A penny, a key, a watch, a phone,
Something of which you completely disown;
It is a mere trinket with no appreciation to gain.
We are the creators of what one is worth
All of which root out of vanity.
It is from birth
Until death,
Until one takes its final breath,
Whether he is only a mere trinket or a grand successor;
Whether she shall be forgotten or remembered.
But now is the time for standards of such ignorant measure
To be severed.
Everyone of high caliber,
Are not the victors nor the failures,
But rather the true monsters, beasts, and terrors.
And we must live with such stripping degradations
Every time we look in a mirror in search of our worth.
It is from birth
Until death,
Until we take our final breath,
We are the mere forgotten trinkets.
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The Living Dead
By Sophie Seligman
Honorable Mention
Student, Grades 8 - 12
| As he dreams he looks towards the sun and the sky,
And sees the stars and the moon with the daytime collide.
Underneath this universe are many wonders to be seen,
Yet the biggest wonder that he has never noticed is closer than it seems.
When you fear and you hide,
You keep your soul deep within.
Not experiencing the real world,
Not living on a whim.
Missing out on everything that could change your own life,
Can make a person fly insane through their mind just like a kite.
A kite on the windiest of days,
And on the darkest of nights,
Where will your next stop be?
Suddenly struck by the thought,
With thunder from the sky,
Electricity jolts through the veins
Of his yellowed body and eyes.
“It’s alive!’’ Victor yells as he takes a first glance.
But the creature’s moans and groans puts him in a trance.
As Victor Frankenstein runs, he runs for his life,
As this demon like creature is once again alive.
He runs from Ingolstadt,
Closer towards his home.
To see the silhouette of this creature,
Standing in a field,
Like a lightning sky dome.
There is no going back, for this creature is undead.
How to end all this madness?
Except for a possible journey on a sled?
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Thingies
By Max Sparber
Honorable Mention
Adult Non-Resident
| Loggers they useta tell durned stories
about thingies in dem woods up North dere,
Like one I remembers
and they called him the Hidebehind
because no matter where inna woods ya went
he was out dere, ya know,
hiding behind ya.
At least that’s what dem old loggers say.
I had dem too when I was a sprat
just, ya know, sort of lurking in my durned house
and had I thought ta I woulda named them:
the underbed; the innacloset;
the gottabebehindtheshowercurtain.
I never seen dem, but omigod,
dems was dere.
But I’m all growed and I know something I didn’t
which is dat dem durned loggers
was just making up stories,
and I grown outta my fears and there ain’t nothing
just, ya know, sorta lurking
in my house no more.
Ain’t no more nights up late a shaking,
blanket over my danged head,
sure there was something, something,
I dunno,
something elsein my danged room with me.
And it’s a safer world
but by god
ain’t it less fun?
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| J. Ray Paradiso, Photographer |
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2009 Fall
Muses' Gallery Archive
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