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Winners

Joyride
by Dandi M. from Newport Way

Drive, I said,
And you did.
You chased
The elusive tail
Of a curlicue
Until we ended
Up in a field
Of green where
You gave me
A bouquet of
Parsley, freshly
Cut, sweet and
Bright, and we
Made the field
Magnetic and
Revved up the
Engine and
Sped on.

Flaws of our Grandfathers
by Niyathi C. from Sammamish

Sometimes the memories
haunt me,
but that’s funny,
since I have none.

All I have is pictures,
with the eyes of their inhabitants
stalking me
from the mantelpiece
and my dresser.

Black and white,
the pictures are,
but blurred
are the images;

It’s funny
how my parents will talk
about them so easily
but I will not listen.

I don’t know why.
Perhaps it’s to leave
some to the imagination,
so that the parts of them
I do not know
are excuses
for my flaws.

I can say
they were like me too
imperfect, human,
but really we are different
for their flaws are gone
and mine are still here.

BOY BOYS BOYS
by Nacole A. from Skyway

Mama says, “Stop worrying ‘bout them damn boys so much.”
Papa says, “Well, I would prefer if I was the only boy in your life.”
My brother Khory says, “You don’t need no boyfriend, you’re too young!”
And I, well, I got my eyes on one boy in particular!
Mannnnnn, he spins my head round…. and….. round!
My stupid parents say, “You should calm down a bit, don’t go getting’ your heart broken!”
But I don’t listen to them, just my stupid parents talking.
Day after day after day
I dress in my cute clothes, with my cute shoes, and my cute accessories
Nobody can tell me ANYTHING
Cuz he’s gonna be MINE
I think and think and think about him
Then my heart is his and he don’t even know it
Didn’t ask for it neither
Papa says, “Honey I really think you should slow down a bit.”
And I play the “It’s a girl thing! You wouldn’t understand” card
Sally and Mike
Jacky and Drew
Hannah and Nick
The buzz of the school
But that’s okay ‘cuz one day
One day the buzz will be about us
And nobody can tell me ANYTHING
‘Cuz he’s gonna be mine.
Time goes on
Nothing changes in reality
But I’m positive he’s in love with me and nobody can tell me different
I wait and wait and wait
For us to be the buzz, but it never comes
That’s it! The world has ended! My heart is broken!
And all I want to do is go cry to Mama, but I can’t
Because she warned me
So I suck it up and deal with it.
2 weeks later I have a new heart
And it’s not broken
I have my eyes on someone else

Honorable Mentions

Disguise
by Rebecca from Bellevue

The soft crunch
Of autumn leaves
Beneath light footsteps
An elegant royal carpet
Disguised beneath a cloak
Of disarray

Walrus
by Anna T. from Kirkland

The baked potato
Lounging in the cold water
Getting very cold.

So the walrus sits
Ring of fat around his neck
So oblivious.

Surgery on Books
by Emma T. from Kirkland

Sometimes I wonder: If
I were to perform surgery on books
with my unsteady writer’s hands,
peel back the layers of skin pages and
explore the bloody interior, what would I find?
Would it be, as so many claim,
mere literary devices tucked into the folds?
Dried-out, shriveled-up, pre-diagnosed,
as all the experts said they would be, or
maybe their absence, the
wide mouth of a disease in their place? Truly, I have taken
knife to paper, unsure
perhaps
what I did could be qualified as torture—
after all, paper words may be the most
eloquent, passionate, brave, and silent.
It isn’t as if the paper could scream
if I was killing it, but I found
so much, so much! beneath,
hidden. The intricate curling whorls
of overlapping illustrations practically fell out
the instant I set Exacto knife to paper
to show me authorial vision.
Intestines of incredible words
like hyperthymesia and selkie and engenue
wrapped themselves around my hands
as I probed the sounds within.
Elvish, Mandarin, and Hebrew
create lumps in the tract, so I moved on to
the stomach, where acidic plot
digested characters, scenes, and images.
My hands were covered in the lifeblood
in paper shreds when I extracted a lung
and probed it to see how it breathes.
Humorously (hiccups make me laugh) and
I gently replace it to caress a rib—
An ideal. Protecting the heart
of the matter, the
Book itself, gestalt.

Body and Bones
by Becca R. from Lake Forest Park

You are the body and the bones.
You are the last button on a t-shirt,
And the light through my window on a summer morning.
You are the bass drum,
And the sound of a page turning
While I wear my cashmere sweater.

I believed that your name was for and mine was ever
and together we were eternity.

Still, you are not tattoo sleeves,
The vibrato in a catholic church
Or a lion’s eyes.
You don’t understand the corner.
Were I sit.              
Now.
And you are completely not Kurt Cobain’s hair.
There is no way that you were or ever will be Kurt Cobain’s hair.

We were pluto.
The roll of the cymbols,
An intake of breath,
And the last 2 minutes of a marathon.
And Mozart lived in my head.
I had symphonies I lived to.
But now all I hear are the violins.

You gave me an icy glass of water
When I expected an intricately laced basket of rose petals.

And a white feather floats the pale earth,
On the wings of regret to inform you,
That I am the silence after an earthquake.

I also happen to be red, red lips.
Thank God that I am not an AK 47
Or a Barbie dream house.
I am two hands holding,
The creaking of a rusty gate,
And a composted coffee cup.

I am also the cardiac arrest,
And the mute man’s voice.
But don’t worry, I’m not the body and the bones,
That is you.
You were freedom but now you are my bars.
You were the body and now you are the bones.