Great Spirit Publishing

* * * FINAL NOTICE * * *

* * * SENIOR POET LAUREATE FLASH * * *

2015 NATIONAL SENIOR POET LAUREATE CONTEST RESULTS!

Senior Poet Laureate

National Honor Scroll

Native American Honor Scroll (new category!)

Judge's Choice Award

see details below

CLICK ON IMAGE ABOVE OR GO TO BOOK STORE TO ORDER THE FINAL EDITION OF GOLDEN WORDS 2013!

(for program historicalreference only - previously published official notice)

GREETINGS AND CONGRATULATIONS!

It’s time to reveal the Winners in this final National Senior Poet Laureate poetry contest!

This national poetry contest especially for poets age 50 and older, was created by Wanda Sue Parrott and Vera Jane Goodin Schultz over 20 years ago. Over the past two decades, thousands of poems, hundreds of poets, and dozens of awards have been given out to both seasoned and novice poets.

Before the big announcement, I want to say a big “Thank You” to EVERY POET who entered the contest. Even if you didn’t win an award, you are to be commended for taking a chance on poetry! The depth of humor, comedy, drama, or other emotion expressed in the verses of the poems was humbling to say the least, and it was an honor to read all the entries. I wish there could have been more cash prizes – you all deserved it! I respect and appreciate each and every one of you for being part of this contest. ALL entries provided an opportunity to take a peek inside your soul – whether your topic was devotion, emotion, or commotion! The list of winners appears at the bottom of this announcement, along with the top three winners; you may read all the winning poems by clicking on the link at the end of the winner’s list.

THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU, to the Judges and EVERYONE, for being part of this national poetry event. Over the years, the SPL contest has created a lot of memories and opportunities for expression by poets who were ready, willing, and able to show what they are made of. I encourage you to keep writing poetry and sharing your Poet’s Spirit!

Be sure to watch for Wanda’s September 2015 Diploemat, newsletter of the Amy Kitchener Angels Without Wings Fdn., which will also recognize all SPL winners. It will be published this month and a link will be available on her website at www.amykitchenerfdn.org. We thank everyone for their patience in waiting for the announcement while we dealt with some production and printing processes which caused a slight delay in this announcement and sending out the winning certificates. Winners have been notified simultaneously with this announcement regarding certificates and cash awards.

Thank you so much for being part of SPL! Blessings to all of you!

~ Barbara Quin, 2015 SPL Administrator

I don't remember much of Dad, there's little I can tell.

Confined to bed his final year, he died when I was ten.

I often lie awake at night, thoughts drifting back to dwell

on memories that linger, to recapture them again.

I bear his name; I wrote it with a Jr. at the start.

I used to try to emulate the flourish he employed

but never learned to master Father’s signatory art.

This early failure may have marked me – shades of Sigmund Freud!

Whenever stocks got low he’d send me off to buy his “smokes” –

unfiltered Lucky Strikes – he lit up twenty every day.

In that far time the laws were lax; they’d sell to little folks,

nor did they warn that cigarettes don’t lengthen life’s ballet.

On Saturdays if I’d been good he’d slip me fifteen cents,

a double feature, Loony Toons, and news would take two-thirds.

Next stop, Old Fashioned Ice Cream Store; disdaining the expense,

I’d exit with a two-scoop cone. Perfection had no words!

He’d read the Sunday funnies to my sister, Joyce, and me;

the ape-man Tarzan, Katzenjammer Kids were favorite strips.

I still can smell the corn he popped, a fragrant potpourri,

we wolfed it warm, its melted butter greasing greedy lips.

My Dad had never prospered, left no nest egg when he died,

no life insurance contract, and my mom did not re-wed.

Thank God for FDR, whose Mother’s pension saved our hide,

and when I got a little older I helped buy the bread.

I wish I’d had a father’s love and guidance as I grew.

Instead, I’ve but these scattered bits, a fading residue.

Dad’s lain long years, now next to Mom, their grave a modest shrine.

I wonder how his life, if longer, would have altered mine.

“Look at you! You’re like me!’ she said

as she held hand out flat, revealing

a partial amputation of middle finger.

“Yeah,” I answered, “sandwiched

between a TV and concrete floor.

The fingers lost.”

“My mom got mine in a car door.”

We laughed how we both try to

conceal damage with the other hand.

We shared the likeness.

But we were different.

She had cancer, I did not.

She sat across from me asking for help,

I was the one offering information.

What in this world offered me this seat?

Why this position? Why this time?

I had problems; I had troubles too,

but in this instant, here I sat as aide.

Conscious of how quickly roles change,

guaranteed of nothing,

innately concerned,

unequivocally caring.

Black hand reached out in thanks,

grasped by white hand in appreciation,

both afflicted and flawed but not

incapacitated . . . so much alike.

"My tears fall like drops of rain; I hear my voice in the depths of the forest but no

answering voice comes back to me."

~ Chief Joseph, Leader of the Nez Perce Indians

In this once beautiful land,

Indians canoed serene waters;

cared for the trees, hoed the land,

smoked the peace pipe, lived in harmony

with nature. Before we came – waving

our flag, our hubris, our Eminent Domain.

Now, like the Cherokees, we walk

a “trail of tears.” We have been

up-rooted from the land, our land – our

heels dragging on this barren path to nowhere.

Our “Eminent Domain” now empty domain,

we are starving; thirsty for Mother Nature’s milk,

the past, the simpler lives of the Native Americans.

Oil gushes our beaches; white gulls, pelicans, now

black, slippery, grounded – dead baby dolphins

wash ashore, shrimp with oil bellies float –

Trees, precious old growth where squirrels nested,

buffalo rested, now chopped, shipped –

All to grow back someday, they say.

Underneath it all – a thick layer of greed.

Oh Chief Joseph, we do not hear your voice in the forest.

We are displaced, our priorities misplaced,

your ancient wisdom buried like hearts at Wounded Knee.

The voice we hear is the media, the constant excitement –

The latest frenzy – brought to us all channels,

a baby down a well – Wisconsin, the Heart Land –

The anchor, a catch in his voice, struggles through static

to hear their man on the spot. There is some hope, he says.

We cry with relief when she is pulled up, blinking

into the lights, dirty and bewildered – like us,

tears in our eyes, reaching for our mother,

on the once beautiful Third Planet from the Sun.