Back in October, we invited "Kidspace" readers to submit poems for our fourth annual young people's poetry contest. We were hoping you would flood us with poems, and you did. We received more than 1,300.
Entries came from all over the United States, and a few from Great Britain and the Bahamas. The poems were reviewed by three judges: Diana Der-Hovanessian, president of the New England Poetry Club; Maria Mazziotti Gillan, director of the Poetry Center in Paterson, N.J.; and Elizabeth Lund, the Monitor's poetry editor.
Many thanks to everyone who participated! Look for our new contest in October. And to those of you who provided a stamped, self-addressed envelope: We'll be sending out your "I'm a poet" buttons next month.
For information about next year's contest, past winners, tips, and a teacher's guide, go to: www.csmonitor.com/poetry
for Mackenzie, age 2
She wakes in her new bed, calling out 'my name.
As my head rises from the pillow, she smiles.
She asks me if she can wake up now,
as if to make sure it is morning
and not dark anymore.
She climbs out of her bed and into mine,
places her yellow knitted blanket on my lap
and rests her head on my knee.
I gaze at her, trying to imagine
what is going through her mind.
I think she is a wonder.
She asks for a drink of water
and we go to the kitchen
where I pour her a cup.
She carefully climbs onto her chair
at the table, and drinks
while I stare at her in amazement
watching how carefully
she sips and puts the cup down -
every movement distinct, important.
Then softly, she reaches her hand to mine.
On this cold morning, I am filled
with warmth. I smile,
learning more every day
what is truly important.
St. Mary's City, Md.
Strum, end, and remnant
In my head
to which the candle flame
of its light
alluring the shadow.
In my eyes
of a brightness
of drowning dark
in rose wax.
In my heart
of a light
with aromatic whim.
J. Oscar Polanco
The ice crystals sway
on the trees hitting
against each other
making music for
the snow ballerinas
as they jump and skip
in the wind.
Music in the ground
I drop a stone down the stairs.
A blink a blank a plunk.
It sounds as if there's music under the ground
no one has yet found.
Lifted by your pride
Your burning head lights the sky
And frightens the moon
The wild stallion
He does not shine.
Scars do not shine in the sun
and he carries many scars.
From the hard hind feet of mares.
From the hard teeth of rivals.
From the hard land itself.
His mane and tail torn short by sagebrush.
His hooves worn down by stones.
He does not shine.
He does not wear the scars like medals.
Glory does not find water.
Glory does not find grass.
Glory does not save foals from coyotes.
He does not care about scars at all,
and when he stands on the mesa,
to smell the air for danger,
it is not so you can call him beautiful.
A swarm of yellow and red butterflies
float through the air
Balls bats baseball hats grass
dirt sliding diving screaming
chanting cheering hitting throwing
charging winning losing crying
shouting catching dropping running
single double triple home run
grand slam glove 1st base 2nd base
3rd base home plate left field right field
(c) Copyright 1999. The Christian Science Publishing Society