Northeast Texas Poetry Contests

 Northeast Texas Poetry Contest

September 2011

First Place Student, $400: Amberly Alpha

Battle of Texas

The radiant Sun beats down with his infinite searing temper

He shows this place no mercy

The amount of abundant life that once danced on these lands is no more

Forced into solitary confinement

The earth and luxurious grasses have turned to brittle and broken replicas of their former selves

This is the place that drought calls home

Texas

The sky on the horizon begins to grow dim formulating its strong attack

Humid air emits its stoutest perfume of advancing precipitation

This is no subtle attack as the rival rumbles headfirst

Flashes illuminate the sky giving away the opponents position

The battle of the skies has arisen

Waterless cracked land is its battlefield in this place we call home

Texas

Foes meet midfield clashing and booming as they collide

The atmosphere is being torn between the two sides

Commotion echoes in the far distance as the enemies brawl for control

And then silence seizes the land

This land that Mother Nature calls home

Texas

Just as stillness envelopes the land the roar of a freight train begins

With it comes utter chaos

The rivals have created the most malice of them all, the twister

Thrashing and deafening the unrelenting twister claims its territory

Rampant winds engulf the land; this land drought no longer calls home

Texas

Through all of the commotion the land finally surfaces

Revealing the scars from the erratic visitors

The drought has come and vanished, conquered by the rain

The twister has cleared away all from the battlefield

A new life has arisen on this unstable land I call home

Texas

Second Place Student, $300: Rhea Siemsen

Northeast Texas

The twelve-hour drive

From Colorado to Northeast Texas

Was an excruciating stretch

For an impatient child

 But the tedious ride

Was worth the wait

When the familiar lands of mountain views and suburbs

Disappeared into the mysterious and exciting unknown of Texas

The summers spent at Grandpa’s

Nestled in the Northeast Texas country

Were the best summers

I had ever known

Quiet, early morning trips

Observing the careful movements

Of a majestic doe in the distance

Grazing in the fields

Humidity making me sweat

And sweltering summer heat

Baking my skin as I stood

Under the Texas summer sun

Trying to keep up with Grandpa’s strides

As we walk through fields of grass

Attempting to memorize

The various majestic types of trees

Learning how to fish

Persevering through the scorching day

Waiting for that fateful bite

Having to throw back my small first catch

Sitting at the dining room table

Competing for the win

Learning new games of cards

With country music playing in the background

Famished from long hot days

Enjoying the aroma of

The delicious surprise that

Grandma has preparing in the kitchen

Sitting in the Texas breeze

Sipping my grandma’s sweet iced tea

Watching squirrels run rampant

And hear the distant calls of coyotes

Hating to leave the majesty of Northeast Texas

And the wild animals and fervent heat

To return to sidewalks and suburbs

My summer trips always ended bittersweet

Third Place Student, $200: Isaac Griffin

The Simple Life

A simple man

The industrious wife

A peaceful way

The simple life

Shining brightly

The sun is burning

While the simple man

His son is learning

To work, to live

To make his day

No complications

Their simple way

Working hard

And resting well,

The winter’s cold

And summer’s hell

A passing holler

Some kindly babble

Sincere concern

With idle prattle

A friendly greeting

And warm south smile

Time worn hands

 Hold a bright-eyed child

Deep southern faith

Where grace abounds

The hymns are sung

And church bells sound

Here coyotes howl

The south still wild

Boar shredded ground

The copperhead riled

Down lonely roads

Ten head of steer

Turn curious heads

From grazing there

N’er a cloud seen

A royal blue sky

Graced by a hawk

And its screeching cry

A long day done

Hear joyful sighs

For home-style chicken

And a pile of fries

Traits so simple

And yet so define

Our life in East Texas

The land of the pines

Fourth Place Student, $100: Kaitlyn Tackett

East Texas Comes and Goes

Watching the horizon

Darkening from the storm

Earth’s camera starting to flash

The roaring lion shaking the walls of the older houses with every scream it releases.

And yet, through it all, the small calf’s velvety face fills my vision with light

Such spryness, curiosity, and wonder fill this little gert’s eyes.

As the roaring ceases and the flashes stop, still she stands

The silage dries and the tractor comes

Cutting through her curiosity

It is gone.

She has nothing now

She has lost it all

It has been weeks since the farmer has come

Months since the last east Texas storm

And years since her mother was taken.  

She has grown stronger as she coped with her pain

Soon she will pass just as the seasons, come and go,

Her season is almost up

Time has taken its toll on her, and now…

Like a cool autumn breeze

She is gone.

Adult First Place:  Hannah Collier

Waiting:

waiting,

my heart clutched by exhilaration

I love this time of year

hoping and praying

with tremulous anticipation

waiting

I fear this time of year

sighing

parched and panting

I wait

aching, I wait

like the earth

like the trees

dry, brittle

longing for that which is not here

forgotten like lost lovers

whose companions have long since

turned to sweeter sins

who'll surely soon turn again

I loathe this time of year

slyly

that unfettered gypsy

wanders close to me

sauntering back from his travels

seeking to seduce

his voice beguiles

it's soft

and so cool like the mountains

cool like the deeps

it whispers

and it promises

such lovely things

that I'd falter whole-heartedly

save for that I would be a fool

to trust such, this fickle wind

that, empty-handed, leaves me here

I detest this time of year

Helios

why punish so mercilessly

withering that which

depends on your bright face for its very life

why unleash this abhorrent assault

onto your celestial kin

I wipe my beaded brow

I despise this time of year

yet

just when hope seems forsaken

the world shivers and catches its breath

for against the horizon looms a somber wall

building ever upwards, slate and indigo

bloated clouds creep closer

rains come

thunder shakes the ground and lightning blinds

caught in the throes of their heavenly opera

enacting scenes from distant memories to awe the crowds

and rivers burst and overrun

unaccustomed to the deluge

rain pours

washes away the sweat and dirt and worry

and rain drowns

the fear and weariness

it comes to comfort and refresh

comes to bring life again

winds tug at my hair, my clothes, my soul

and these liquid kisses from heaven caress my face

my eyelashes, my cracked lips

my no-longer-furrowed brow

my outstretched, upturned palms

I breathe in the scent of life and of beauty

I relish this time of year.

Second Place Adult:  Angela Wylie

DEEP SOIL

As a small child I watch the dense grassy turf

Plowed up by cutting, turning metal disks

Must not get too close!

Vibrating dark diesel exhaust

Scents the late spring air

Hanging over the nostalgic scene

As the tractor engine strains

And the ground is laid open.

Damp, brown, and rich with promise

This, the sweet deep soil.

I walk behind the tractor,

Digging my bare toes, scrunching

Down deep into the fresh coolness.

The scent of damp earth fills my nose

And excitement rises up

A primeval memory stirs inside

Time passes and I am older and helping work

My grandfather’s ‘truck patch’, as it was called

The soil is hot sand now, crystalline and white.

I bake in the humid morning sun.

There are rows upon endless rows of peas.

Bushel baskets drug behind, filled to overflowing

Purple Hull, Black-eye, Red Ripper, Cream Crowder pods.

My young back aches, my feet burn, my arms are tired

Up early at the break of dawn to dig potatoes,

Rousted out of my lazy summer sleep

Up the sand hill I go, into the cool morn.

Digging out the fist-sized red-skinned potatoes,

Tender of skin and damply clinging to their secret place

Rudely laid open by the plow’s ruthless swipe.

Yes, it is hard work, but it must be done

For it is for family that the harvest is made

Adult now and the garden is my own

A tiny small garden in the edge of the yard.

Not a giant truck patch with endless rows

Oh no! I am no farmer like my grandfather

Yet, I take the knowledge that he bequeathed

That which he learned from his own parent

Who received it from grandparent and grandparent before,

Stretching back to the eve of time.

I carefully make my rows and plant my own seed,

Planting by the moon as one must do,

Dropping each small dried kernel of life carefully

Into the open fertile earth,

Spacing them just so that they may grow strong.

A whispered prayer for increase as I tuck them in

Tamping down the cool damp soil covering over

I wait eagerly for them to grow

My garden is much like my life

I am deeply rooted to this place in the world.

This tiny corner of Eastern Texas beneath the deep blue sky.

I am a result of generations of experience and time

Memories harvested, some joyous, some that hurt.

We grow and we spread and each has their season

Their time in the sun and their time in the earth

And we all seek that the harvest-time be bountiful

Deep soil

The first memories endure

Digging bare child toes into the dirt

Filled with the primal scent of fresh-turned earth.

Placing small footsteps in those of my daddy’s

As he walks across the fresh-tilled ground

My bare footprints in the center of his large boot tracks

Stretching my legs long to match his stride

Small child, young girl has passed by

Woman and grandmother I now am

The garden comes again each spring

The soil is turned and the seed planted with hope

I wait for that first tender shoot to emerge

From the pungent fresh-turned earth.

There is joy in seeing that first hint of green

Push up and crack open the crusted soil.

There is anticipation of generous fresh vegetables

Salad greens, tomatoes, peppers, peas,

Okra, potatoes, beans all in a row

Food for the table and satisfaction in the knowing

That I am a continuation of a long line

Of dirt diggers and weather watchers,

Praying for rain, hoping to enjoy that which

I have brought into being with my own labor.

I am the result of generation after generation

Following the same steps.

Planting and harvesting and working the land.

Large fields or small plots,

It matters not.

We all tread in the big steps of those

Who showed us the way

We all dig deep into the loamy experience of the past.

And from that wealth,

Love for the land and love for each other

We will hopefully plant seeds.

For others will stretch out their stride

To tread in our footsteps

As we lead the way

Across the plowed furrows

 Of deep soil

 Northeast Texas Poetry Contest, September 2010

Sponsor Michael Whitney of Elliot Chrysler Dodge and 2010 Student Winner Hannah Collier.

Ihr Vergeht Uns Nicht                                                                                                            by : Hannah Collier

fields of gold

streams of sapphire

wild autumn sunsets that blaze with fire

opal-tinged clouds

give way

to night’s black-plum silken shroud

with diamonds strewn through the depths of the skies

some of which sneak to earth dressed as fireflies

under the eyes

of the pale, waning moon

on the sweet, pine-scented breeze

whisper to me

the quiet, forlorn voices of trees

of a time

of a place

much different

less bustling

lost to the advent

of fast-paced void

the advent

so vacant

of absence

dawn creeps upon us

showering the world with gentle kisses of dew

bright, perfume-laden flowers bloom anew

the sun crests

yawning, beams stretching

the smoky blue hills

rousing, waking

filling this twilight time with glimpses

of its subdued glory

and on the coattails

of this breathtaking

this indescribable

sliver of a shadow of the past

the rest of the world’s wayward inhabitants

forsake fretful slumber

for mechanical thoughts

and mechanical sounds

they rush to fill

their mechanical cities

with their mechanical minds

and continue to zip

through their mechanical lives

emotionless, blinded

to the beautiful complexities

residing as our neighbors

as our friends

as patient compatriots

with sadness they watch us

muttering amongst themselves

in angst-ridden whispers

beseeching

‘bitte

ihr vergeht uns nicht’

Tying for Second Place: Cody Russell 

The Fields by Cody Russell

He was born into a dirt-poor family,

Never had anything his entire life.

He had to work all day as a young man

Just to help his mom put food on the table.

He married a beautiful woman at a young age,

And went into the service right after.

They had two wonderful daughters

Of whom they are very proud.

A typical life of a Northeast Texan you might say,

But things would certainly change.

He woke up early in the morning to get the coffee pot going

And prepare for the long day ahead.

He walked outside with the early morning dew on the ground,

With the Mockingbirds chirping and the squirrels playing tag.

He loaded up into that Dodge pickup to go get his grandson

For a long day of baling hay together.

When they got to the field they drove through the cattle guards,

Out through the fences, and into the open spaces.

They took a break that afternoon to unclog the mower

With the suns’ burning rays beating down on them.

He sat down on the ground with the smell of fresh-cut grass around him.

There was an awkward beating of his heart,

And eyes that will never be forgotten.

He lived a hard life full of hard work and sweat,

But he went in the only place he would’ve wanted: the fields.

Tying for Second Place: Aaron Dunn

From the most natural of seats, I could see

the treeline. Then I didn't know, though,

that it had taken so long to be--

so tall, so thick, so green. I understood it

simply as being.

Existence to me was concrete. Here, peering

over hills and into ponds and catching fish with

cane poles and grasshoppers securely hooked,

I should not ask in dreams

where it or I had started.

Crushing leaves like cannon blasts to

ignorant ears, children sang and spun and

fell into neat piles of

two by two by two with each other--

expressions of dawning life.

Happy wanderers in the Texas maze,

blissfully unaware without the threat of

cloudy future, they twist their cheeks

upward into arcs

of brilliant flesh.

Now older but not yet old

they bend their ears toward sounds

more pleasant, catching whispers in the

Northers, hints of tales yet told,

promising the days they dream.

They don't dance as often now,

they fear pain, but know there is still time

and time for love,

yet the wind is moving faster now,

summoning the clouds.

Now the sky is dark but

they're accompanied by experience.

What's been seen is worthy and they've

little left to want.

They breathe heavier though.

With the promise of the partner of the

Texas soil they slowly steal less air,

'till the bones won't move so fluidly

and the muscles' hold is loose.

Tasting minerals now, with nothing but time.

Then I felt that I had become

me, a person,

who could think and change and experience

and dance and laugh and breathe and see and hear

and love.

I'd follow the paths those children hadn't

chosen, as I didn't have much say. But,

that was fine with me. I'd get there,

but for now,

I was young.

In grass high above my head,

sky like the most comfortable sheet,

I first knew my place, my identity,

and I was

real.

So I thank the clouds and gentle wind and

oceans of grass;

they are my rescuer from the storm of

sleep. I am awake for now, but then, 

I'll dream forever.

Third Place Winner: Jessica Rogers

Grandfather’s Farm

Many memories have died

Memories made at the farm I am fondest of

But bubby shaped times i will never forget

We fished for hours at a Cass County pond as black as tea

And I'll never forget the joyful, childish, song I sang

When he gave me palominos for my birthday

We fed 'em apples and carrots and brushed 'em together

Sometimes we just sat together

Talking and joking

We sat on the porch and watched a spring moon rise above a bridal plum tree

Thats the only thing i have from him now

The ponies are gone

The pond is but a shadow

But our Lake Country farm reminds me of him

I have the beauty of this amazing sanctuary

The calming, serene forests

A place of rivulets flowing with melody

Engulfed by thousands of greens and the everchanging blue above

This is the world we shared

Nowhere else feels the same

Nowhere else feels like him.

Jessica Rogers, Northeast Texas Community College, 2010

Northeast Texas Poetry Contest, 4 September 2009

Michael Whitney, Manager of Elliott Chrysler Dodge that has generously sponsored the contest for two years, and Shelby Parker, 2009 student winner.

Sponsored by Elliott Chrysler Dodge of Mount Pleasant

Adult Winner: Angela Wylie's

All That Remains Are the Flowers

Old homesteads dot the by-ways

And clearings along the East Texas country roads.

Silent sycamores stand guard over jonquils

And tangled hawthorn,

Different from the encroaching woodland.

Not native, are these plants which bloom

In the warming earth.

Released from winter’s cold sleep,

They rise again, withstanding the storms,

Emerging to grow and bloom as they return

To sun-dappled shadows beneath the spreading trees.

Once they were brought from another place and time

To give shade and beauty to where a house once stood.

The house, built with care and expectation of life,

Like the flowers, have watched dreams and lives

Blend into yesterday.

Here in the shade of the past,

Wisteria climbs high, feral and loosed into the woods,

As wild and errant as the dreams and lives

That have merged into time.

A shy, trembling young man

Plucked a blossom for his sweetheart,

His heart racing as she lifted her smiling eyes and

Fragrance surrounds a first gentle kiss.

Chubby, small, soft child-hands plucked flowers

To give to Mamma as she hangs out the wash.

With a sweet smile, her slender fingers delicately

Placed green stems into a wellwater filled fruit jar.

Flowers grace the center of the worn table,

The soft scent of daffodils blend with

Fried pork with mustard greens,

And cornbread cooked in an iron skillet,

Sustaining hard-working people who till the land.

The land that cradles the past and nurtures the future.

A woman wearing the worn wrinkles of life

Beneath soft, snowy hair

Sits on her porch in her rocking chair.

The rhythmic creak of the slow rocking

 Matches the rhythm of her world as

She gazes out upon the blossoms about her

And remembers.

Soft memories, sweet and yet sad.

Time had gone by and she knows not how.

Now

She watches her small grandchild pluck a blossom

The stem broken short beneath the petals,

Held and offered with a dirt- stained hand.

The woman accepts the flower

With a sweet smile

Content

Surrounded by her flowers and the love of her family

And the gift of the grandchild

 Who will carry a part of her

 Forward into the awakening spring of the future.

Once people worked, loved, lived, and died.

Built, created, and planted in the soil.

Yet, now grass and weeds cover their labor

Their houses and barns are recycled into the earth.

Reclaimed and erased from the landscape.

The earth has vanquished the toils of mankind,

Who thought themselves valiant and strong.

Forcers, controllers, and movers of mountains

They once thought themselves to be.

Gone now are their earnest endeavors

Gone to shadows in the silence of the sleepy glade.

Yet the flowers remain.

Deep-rooted now in the loamy lost yard,

Planted by some gentle woman to beautify her world.

Brought from her mother’s garden

A bit of her childhood planted with care.

A bit of the past brought with her into her new life.

Precious gift from generations of mothers to daughters

They remain now,

The flowers.

Established and unrestrained, returning each spring

Yellow and white they bloom among the weeds,

Scenting the silent air with soft whispers of a world now gone.

As soft as a whispered dream they remain

Fragrant in the dappled shadows of Spring.

Testimony of a long lost time.

And now all that remain are the flowers.

First Place Student: Shelby Parker

East Texas Paradise

Laying in a field of wildflowers

I breathe in the air

Filled with the scents of

Honeysuckle and just a hint

Of oncoming rain

Walking toward the barn

I admire the deteriorating décor

Peeling red paint and

A broken door

Beating down on my face

I shade my eyes from the shining sun

Slowly being covered by

The unpredicted storm

Falling to the ground

I smile as the

Cool drops relieve

My sun-kissed skin

Knowing the reality

I proudly walk through the pasture while

The cows and horses

Graze on the hay

Pushing open the rusty gate

I splash up the walk leading to my childhood home

Which has been passed down to me from years forgotten

Dripping wet

I take one step at a time

Savoring the moment and

Cherishing this eastern paradise

Looking out from my porch

I gaze at that lone star

Flapping majestically in the breeze

Second Place Student: Adriana Lopez

Through the Eyes of the Land

Time is meaningless

A cycle of growth, death and rebirth

Every moment a bond made and promises broken

Ever changing-a dizzying pace

Constant only is my place

Each footprint blending with the next

Naïve each brand of ownership

Abuse and comfort in every touch

Sometimes everything becomes too much

Can not move-trapped and confused

Time is meaningless-forever patient

I wait

Once untamed yet raised into obedience

Each rebellion of-crying, screaming, and silence-ignored

 Third Place Student: Peighton Huse

Expressing myself as an ethnic Texan

Yet standing apart from status quo

Have they forgotten, do I simply remember

Urban visitors take majority

Suffocating the Texan culture and vibe

Unjustified feelings of shame and abnormality inflict

Caused by music choice, lifestyle and dress

Folk, Gospel, Twang, Bluegrass

Stetsons, Boots, Buckles, Wranglers

Ranching, Rodeo, Church, Harvesting

Last of a dying breed they say

Most not sorry to say goodbye

Fighting for every next blessing of breath

Slowly succumbing to the minority

Losing the battle of mere appreciation

Nature disappearing all around

Chasing an over-rated dream to urbanize

Exchanging trees for concrete

Methods of improvement become disaster

Environments dying

Forgotten cowboys replaced with CEO’s

God replaced with economic power

Better lies in the eyes of the beholder

How do we reach a common ground

For now, we lie stuck in bitter co-existence

Honorable Mentions:

Ron Bowden

Kristen Branch

Caleb Burkhalter

Judges

Anna Elliott

Chuck Hamilton

Jim Swann

Northeast Texas Poetry Contest, 19 September 2008

Winner of Honorable Mention, Samantha Garza, reading: "Observations. . ."

Sponsored by Elliott Chrysler Dodge of Mount Pleasant

Elliott Chrysler Dodge Manager Michael Whitney congratulating Adriana Lopez

Winning Student Poem Adriana Lopez's "Weather"

Weather

Clouds weep from the heavens above

Their sorrow drenching the land once forgotten

The tears renew and rejuvenate the soil

But their choking companion envelopes the people

The moisture in the air smothers and clings

Bringing a haze of languid oppression

To be broken by the champion of light

The sun reaches down with rays of ardent want

His warming embrace lulling the land to sleep

Only to awaken her with a scorching kiss

The kiss of summer fades to grey, from winterʼs chilling bite

Slowly draining and destroying everything once green with life

Frozen and unfeeling the land lies in deep sleep

Waiting once again for sorrowed clouds to weep

Second Place Poem: "Stephen Austin Epiphany"

by Zachary Richardson

I

It’s no epic tale     

they came here     

moving west     

the frontier     

land-hungry     

profit- hungry      

glory-hungry     

cheap land     

timber cotton oil Catholic heathen souls to save     

nothing special     

Anglo-Irish wanderlust     

itchy feet     

never too many miles to roam     

their blood is in my blood     

as they say

II

These Dixie Texans     

of the pine wood and cotton patch     

and that sweet Southern variety of  English     

meandering like the Mississippi     

tempered by cicada-screaming heat     

this westernmost outpost of the Old South     

we feel like strangers in our own land     

no we are not like the rest of Them     

we do not love the razor-sharp prairie     

we do not sing Home On the Range like an anthem     

we do not dream of vast rolling oceans of mesquite and     

epic cattle ranches or     

mystical mustang herds     

we do not drink the holy waters of the Brazos Pecos or Colorado    

no we are aliens     

nobody knows who we are     

we do not belong here

III

Land of peace and paradox     

charming courthouses and town squares     

bed-and-breakfasts     

football     

low taxes     

“family values”

Spanish moss     

lots of churches 

rolling green pastures          

Southern hospitality     

sweet-smelling pine cedar oak sweetgum forests     

sweet tea     

humble muddy creeks and streams     

fried chicken     

serene meadows            

but also           

never-ending libertarian struggle for freedom and independence but denying these to certain Others     

Bible-thumping or rather Bible skull-cracking (it’s no surprise it was inevitable)     

desperately clinging to old ways while destroying them – old downtown buildings crumbling rotting

and forests and fields sacrificed paved over for Wal-Marts and shopping malls and chain restaurants it’s disgusting       

IV

I’ve lived here all my life and I still don’t understand it       

I’ve been here for 200 years

as a matter of fact     

and     

I still don’t get it     

we don’t get it     

we are converging with the rest of these strange people

in this strange land     

with the rest of this enigma     

that is America     

Electronic Superhighway     

highways and plastic and shopping centers and pizza and burger joints

defining us

no we are not special

we are destined yes

destined to be

mystery

Third Place Poem: "Northeast Texas Eden" by Maria Chavez

In the neglected land there exists a northeastern Eden.

Precious not with stones or gold, but life.

Oaks, Pines, and cypress, giants in the land

Waving in the wind, gently caressing the sky.

Bushes shrubs and ivy rustling down below,

Critters scurry something spooks,…

Dears in the clearing, shhh don’t move.

Walk through the deer trotted path and you’ll find,

Quietly settled amongst giants, mystical mirrors

Reflecting the beauty around.

Fishes, toads, and turtles, gliding inside,

Swimming, eating, and breathing, surviving in Eden.

Across the green lake there’s an old dusty road,

That leads to an old dusty town,

A tiny, historic, old town with buildings right and left.

Brown, green, muddy colored buildings, friendly and homey

Quite, peaceful , tiny town where crickets are heard in the dark

The barber’s in the corner Mrs. Smith’s shop three doors down,

I can tell you name by name who all live in the town.

By old Sally’s house there’s a much bigger road.

Black, tarry, brand new road winding away to the west.

Follow the road and you will find another type of forest.

Tall, tall, tall trees, made of glass, metal, and steel

Most square, quiet and stern not waving or gentle,

one round twirling in the sky, bright lights loud nights  

No peace or tranquility. A rush and a bustle time’s in a hurry

 Everywhere strangers busy with life.

From green to silver quiet to loud,

This is the Eden complete all around.

Winner of the Adult Division: Ronald Bowden

Kiss Me

Pounding rain

Released in torrents

Thundering echoes

Silencing the quickened halls

Winds of change

Charging the daylight

Violent swirls and shadow

Beating all life into submission

Greater than I

Or are we equals?

Rain and wind, my brother and sister

Casting your crowns upon my head

You speak between the breaths of life

Uttering your secrets

Are you spirit, brother and sister?

Who is your maker?

I rose from brother rain

I am water

I move with sister wind

I am air

I speak as god of thunder

I am fire

I drink as mother earth

Kiss me with your forceful ways

Texas thunderstorm in May.

Poetry Judges:

Chuck Hamilton

Our Northeast Texas Poetry Contest Chair is an Associate Professor of English at Northeast Texas Community College.  Hamilton has edited and written for numerous magazines and newspapers, and is a participant in Texas Renaissance Festivals.

Jim Swann

Jim Swann is a professor of Spanish at NTCC.  He is a two-time nominee of the NTCC faculty for the prestigious Minnie Piper Award for teaching, and has been a great fan of poetry in both English and Spanish.

Anna Ingram

Anna Ingram taught English at Mount Vernon High School for sixteen years, before teaching full-time this year at Northeast Texas Community College.  Born in Arlington, Texas, she prefers the quiet landscapes of Northeast Texas.