News - Local News

POSTED: Sunday, May. 10, 2009

Winning poems in Boynton contest

Local writers of 25 poems will be honored at an awards ceremony for the Sue C. Boynton Poetry Contest. The event starts at 7 p.m. Wednesday, May 13, at Whatcom Museum.

Ten "Walk Award" poems will be put on display outside Bellingham Public Library and will be printed on placards for local transit buses. In addition, 15 "Merit Award" poems will be displayed on local buses.

WALK AWARD WINNERS

SQUALICUM

Roof tops, sidewalks slope to the shore.

Freight trains wend under stars of the north.

Pack trails, skid roads buried in trees.

Brick dust and tide mud laid deep in the seams.

Twinkle of wind chimes, mournful blare of the horn.

Shadows of the continent creep through the morn.

Fir branches dripping, steeples poke through the sky.

Seagulls and eagles circle and cry.

Clapboard city heaped on the bay

Blockaded by mountains, seized by water and waves.

Blue Islands brimming, stretch and yawn on the beach

Sea-washed dirt-worn, lapping murmuring creek.

Then old man sunset takes a stroll down the reach

Slips on a log, betrayed by his feet.

Blazing horizon, rusty cannery bones

Ghost fish grinning over cold sifting stones.

- Erik Burge, Bellingham

A Reefnetter's Paean to the Sea

Dedicated to Will Wright (1918-1998)

Rusty flaked salmon blood and sequined scales

fall like leaves from my limbs,

like cherry blossoms on the lee shore.

What great solemn fields of broken water

have I plowed for you;

I am a petal upon a raging sea.

I am brittle fabric on a flagpole;

A wayward standard, stranded high

in the tidal wind of your passing.

I am cold, wet, hungry, and lonely.

Great mother of rain, of pearls, and of life:

Deep water, green with dizzy depths of fathoms running,

of seething currents.

The ebb ... the flow:

My keen affection keeling over now, for the moment,

to you.

- Tyree Callahan, Bellingham

Indian Plum

I measure the coming of spring

by the size of the Indian Plum buds,

appearing even before the crocuses,

I can almost see them grow.

In the afternoon sun

the small leaves on austere branches are

luminous, slightly transparent like

dabs of electric paint in the air or

chartreuse flames.

- Esme Dutcher, Bellingham

Bare Feet

Bare feet squish squash

in the hot summer mud.

Bare feet flip flop

on a warm spring day.

Bare feet shake shake

on cold winter days.

Bare feet kick dry

leaves on windy fall days.

Bare feet are the

best kind of feet there are.

- Tessa Haggerty, third grade, Bellingham

Awe

The dim,

delicate arrangement of colors

cast by the departing sun,

the serenity that the

faint glow set in.

It was as if nothing mattered,

as I lay in the soft grass of foreverness,

the moon itself could've fallen right out of the sky,

but I wouldn't have noticed.

I was simply being.

No rushing thoughts occupying my mind.

I was a bystander in the ticking of time.

There I sat,

consumed by only

the beauty,

stranded

on an island of beautiful nonsense,

unruffled by the imperfections of the outside world.

- Oksana Hanson, eighth grade, Ferndale

Forever Breeze

The snow and hail pound icy roads

The breeze whistles

The sun shines and the flowers bloom

The breeze whispers

The rain stops and the days grow long

The breeze cools

The leaves cover the ground and hot chocolate is brewed

The breeze bites

No person nor thing can stop it

No season nor storm can be without it

For it is, forever breeze

- Sarah Hill

Spin

At arm's length, you can

almost love anyone.

Touch at the fingertips, both of you

speechless. Your hand in his as he holds

a place for you to twirl under

the arch of his arm.

Every second Saturday, go up the

stone steps of the Fairhaven library

to the dance floor, long lines

stepping forward

and back, a band

playing old time fiddle.

Listen: Klezmer, Greek,

now Celtic fiddle to help you find

your feet. Balance with your neighbor,

rock back on your heel, and swing.

Or spin on a single axis anytime.

In the center of the gold and red carpet,

arms outstretched, bare feet flying.

A Sufi swoon, a child in love with

the wildly veering world.

- Kathryn Humes, Bellingham

Diminishing Returns

My mother stands at the shoreline

as the tides ebb and flow. Some days

the water recedes so far out, reaching

toward the horizon, exposing rough

rocks and stumps of trees long sub¬-

merged. Purple and orange starfish

cling to rocks in tidal pools. Here and

there old memories surface, glitter

like beach glass in the mud. She

crouches down for hours, turning

each one over and over in her hands.

Other days the tide rushes in too

fast, rippling in late afternoon light,

erasing delicate tracing of snails,

Morse code of sandpipers and gulls

engraved in the sand. Steel blue waves

snatch away names, places, dates,

smoothing convoluted pathways

of the brain, obliterating every-

¬thing in their path. On these days my

mother peers into the distance, longing

for landmarks, searching for all

the drowned stories.

- Kate Berne Miller, Bellingham

LITTLE MOTHERS

Our daughters become our mothers,

as we shrink into old age.

They hover over us,

take our gnarled hands in theirs

as we step off the curb

into the menacing street,

match their long strides

to fit our short, tentative ones,

walk us slowly to stores to buy

something they decide we need.

They ask what we did yesterday

when they make their daily calls,

give us all the time it takes

to remember the answer.

We let them play their parts,

knowing their need and ours,

try for patience, for gratitude,

cannot believe how powerful

and kind they have become.

- Dorothy Regal

Invitation to Jake

You, full of your love for trains,

should come tonight to Eldridge heights

overlooking night-shined Bellingham Bay

at the foot of the BNSF yard.

Sit through evening's passing

while city hall clock sums the hours;

sit and feel the smell

of hyacinths around the fountain.

Listen to the waxing churn of motive power,

protesting squeals of Westinghouse brakes,

the meeting-clash of iron knuckles

and the rolling tread of steel on steel.

Hear the hard ding of monotone bells

and nervous, out-late laughter of

young women crossing the dewy grass

of Elizabeth Park under the sharp, wailing

mating moans of switch engines.

- Gary Wade, Bellingham

MERIT AWARD WINNERS

Mayfield Lake

You and your family took me to Mayfield Lake,

Like I was one of you.

I'm not sure if I ever told you,

But it kept me sane that summer:

Those short trips, with the hot car ride and the

Refreshing release at the lake.

I ate zucchini for the first time.

The swimming was fun

And the tans we got were rich and warm,

But I think the best part was the talk on the trail

Up to the swing set.

That talk was so easy, so uncomplicated -

I hadn't had a talk that simple in a long time.

You offered no judgment, told me only truth.

I needed that, because at the moment,

I wasn't sure if anyone told the truth anymore.

After that day things were different.

Lately, when I've been saying different,

The context is negative and rushed,

But I want to clarify that different, with you,

Is perfect and positive and necessary.

- Alexis Austin

I Build You a House of Whale Bones

jailed on a beach in winter

lodged among lungs, left-over fish

we waited for the whale to spit us out

counting barnacles to pass time

handcuffed to the ribcage 'longside you

I dreamed the day the whale would die

decay 'round us

I'd find keys to the cuffs, unlatch your wrists

then swath the skeleton in rags from my dresses

we'd build balconies of sun-bleached bones

and gather feathers for our bed

plant roses near sea grasses

that they might twist their heads

inside the slats and brighten our quarters

but they would never

not in a garden of sand and saltwater

during this forever you'd twist your frame over

my skirts, bring me gifts of eggs and lavender

things not made on beaches

we've been waiting forty days

'prisoned in the belly of this beluga

punishment for misters and mistresses

who dare to stare into the sun

- Brenda Beehler

Rain Words

Rain on the grey of galvanized tin,

rain on the roofs, rain in the basements, moss

rooting into our shoulders the shaded side

toss salt for good luck and look down:

it becomes sea before it hits the ground.

Rain on the cemetery so much

that things long settled shift. Terse rain.

Kryptonite rain, Rain with a half-life

of ten thousand years. Notched rain.

Rain we cannot speak.

The itch of our rain hairshirts; rancorous rain,

we knew, all along, that we have conjured

all this rain.

Rain sonata, dampened notes, rain on the Pleiades.

rain in hell, rain nails on barn windows,

rain for dinner again; a cloudburst over our tables.

And just when we think we've become it,

And just when we think we know our watery,

weakened hearts, we look down: Rain.

An entire epistemology in a puddle at our feet.

Untouched amid, something new and green is rising.

- Angela Belcaster

The Moon

The Moon sits on the sky.

Looks down at the Kids Playing

Before they go in.

- Madeline Bowler

IN THE BLAST ZONE

(Mount St. Helens, 28 years after)

And if you go, try walking in the pumice

one step forward, two steps back

catastrophe and rebirth on Loowit

her beauty changed forever?

not so fast, pearly everlasting.

"The mountain is a window

open

on the moment of creation."

And the mistake:

thinking the destruction

will be followed by

a long slow restoration

No, a process of

sudden change and renewal

not returning to what was,

not diminishing

but enlarging

And after all who was Helen?

fiery saint,

master gardener.

- Kai Bretherton

10/1/08 Bellingham trains

Bellingham trains sound like foghorns

their great calls travelling long, rolling distances.

Well, maybe saying reminds me of foghorns

is more like it.

They may not have the foghorn's guttural, primitive

mighty sea creature-rising-from-the-depths' bellowing

carrying through misty night over black swells.

Rather, the trains

despite all their gritty tons and grinding metal, are

lighter, more ethereal in their distant announcements

as they pierce through old mists & dark night.

Yet something about them still

borrows from those haunting calls cast by shallow seas.

The bay is very close

we feel it on our skin, on towels that rarely dry,

in the very breeze at dawn.

So even our trains send out resounding calls over water

a call of the last wild, long & lonely & forlorn

bringing to mind the lost lumber mills,

the smoking day labor hopefuls,

and those who sought to leave

these fading seagulls & rusting memories

but never could.

- Julie Dunaway

You can't have it all ...

However, you can have the beautiful memory of watching

the bright, yellow sun come up after a long night of fun

with your best friends. You can have the imagination to

dream up adventurous stories to tell your playful nieces.

You can have the high pitched meow of your fluffy,

orange cat and the rambunctious playing of your small,

smelly pug. You can have love, though often it is

confusing and mysterious but all the while worth it in

the end. You can have cheesy Gordita Crunches, Fiesta

potatoes, and a medium Baja blast from taco bell at 1

in the morning. You can be grateful for make-up, the

way it paints your face & enhances you to your finest.

You can be grateful for weeping willows, their big,

beautiful way of life that brings a smile to your face,

and gives you a pang of sadness just for a second.

You can have baking lessons from your loving grandma

but all the while she is teaching you a deeper meaning

of life. You can be grateful for shampoo, the way it

cleans your silky hair and leaves a wonderful scent

after you wash it away. You can have sailboats,

experience the way they rock with the wind and waves.

You can be grateful for leaves, as they turn different

colors in autumn and then fly away from their homes

soon after. You can't have it all; however you can be

grateful for what you do have.

- Stephanee Henderson

Watching the Storm

With wind gusting to 45 knots, waves on Bellingham Bay

roil grey-green and formidable, they slap

over the breakwater, in a white, foaming froth.

Spindrift shoots southeast out of Hale's Pass dousing

the Lummi shoreline, obscuring Eliza in a veiled mist.

This is a day to be inside, onshore and cozy,

sipping coffee, keeping a weather eye out of curiosity,

not out of necessity, feeling solid footing,

instead of riding the swells. A stout, green and white

Foss tugboat with a bone in her teeth

hastens towards Fairhaven on a mission

to retrieve a barge broken free of its moorings.

Watching the tug's determined course in such a

tempest, I think of the crew and speculate whether

they sip coffee, and talk of sports, or other storms,

and if for them this is all in a day's work?

- Christine Kendall

Heart Song

A young heart, flying through the winds of life.

The only thing keeping it from falling are

Love, hope, curiosity,

And imagination.

On a mission to explore every

Object and idea,

Every feeling and dream,

The heart soars without skipping a single beat.

The amount of faith and bravery the heart has

Keeps it on top of the world.

When it is above the ground all that

Is heard is the calm, steady beat of

Love, hope, curiosity,

And imagination

Being pumped through its veins.

The heart yearns for

Passion and trust.

Longing to be pure and just.

All that is needed is patience and determination.

Love, hope,

Curiosity, and imagination

Carry the young heart higher than any bird or plane

Ever could.

- Taylor Knutson

A GROWING FAMILY

The deer are back. No sign of racks

on two full sized adolescents,

the first to be seen this spring in

the wooded ravine beneath my

living room window.

Do they shed their horns?

Or are they too young...

or sisters maybe?

By this time next year I will have

had my cataract surgery,

can probably figure it out

for myself...will see more clearly.

These two summered here

last year with ol' mom.

She's cut them loose now, has two new

speckled babes in tow who will grow

up and move on as did their sibs.

Ol' dad has never been around.

I've known guys like that.

- Bob Markey

Boulevard Park

It is true this was an industrial site once.

With lumber and shake mills gone now, pilings

rotting, shoreline propped up with broken

concrete slabs and brick, it has been

reimagined into a community gathering place.

Jacobsen's Western Stone Garden (with its

shaved boulders) echoes the islands ringing,

and beyond, the bay. Isabel Morca loved to

dance nearby; I imagine her flamenco at

water's edge and see her dance - and those

boulders - as initial claims by beauty in

redeeming this land and this sea. Here I have

marveled at dew caught in countless webs in dark

evergreens, and have admired a sea otter and all

manner of birds, including herons and (once) eagles.

In 2007, in witnessing canoe family landings we

raised hands shaking urgently in silent applause.

To officials acknowledging Coast Salish contributions,

a tribal elder replied "We have always been here."

This is a place for healing, for doing what we must do.

- Andrew Shattuck McBride

Wife of a Fisherman

Do you see that lady? At the end of the dock

In the dark, in the rain; wind tossing her hair?

Do you see how she paces? One way then the other

Stops to look; stares into night, wet jacket flying?

She is the wife of a fisherman and knows that a night,

One like this, dark and dirty, makes the water mean.

She's been out there too, she knows the sounds,

The constant motion, water, boat, everything aboard.

In the dark rain-thick air, out on the black water

A dim light appears, fades, disappears, shows again.

In a flying cloud of spray, the faint shadow of a hull

Twists in the sea, defined by red and green sidelights.

Rounds the breakwater as men on deck lower fenders

Call out cheerfully; toss lines up to the dock.

The fisherman's wife unclasps praying hands

Takes a line, drops the eye neatly over an iron cleat.

- Niel Pfundt, Bellingham

DESIRE

Ride a palomino across

an alluvial undulation.

Rest your cheek between

the rolling shoulders,

(his withers sticky with pomegranate

and persimmon).

Into the angel ear whisper

A mellifluous temptation:

Liberate me.

Beneath the porcelain bones

a prickly heat.

Allure of phosphorus.

The dazed and luscious

cataclysm of flame.

- Kimberly Roe

Migration

I stop to touch the

gaggle of scarves flapping

wings of silk across the sidewalk

vendor's door. Impulsively,

I reach for my leather wallet,

buy the first one that caught

my eye. Don't think about it!

Do it now! Later, I do think.

Decide perhaps I needed that bright

length of texture. Needed the greens,

blues and nearly-golden swirls

to hold myself together. Bind

myself to this fragile belief, this

yearly migration of despair

to the far northern latitudes.

- Colleen Schwartz

Waiting for our ship - 1935

I imagined a sailing ship coming into Eagle Harbor,

Carrying answers to our wishes

Like the Wells Fargo Wagon coming into River City.

"Wait until my ship comes in" she'd say,

When I asked for a thing in a novelty catalogue

Or when she wished for an electric stove, a well...

Just wait until our ship comes in!

I knew it would come from another country.

I hoped to be there when the sailors got off the ship.

We had long orders sent off in balloons.

And on its way, a ship weighed down with our cargo

Struggles against alien gales and becalmed seas.

I dream of it rounding the Olympic Peninsula

Into Puget Sound to our island.

Over the years there are rumors of sailing ships

In the fog off Point no Point.

In the Summer I walk down the hill to the dock,

Where I find others waiting,

But even on foggy days no ship appears.

I walk back up the hill and report my dejection.

She's at a wood stove canning peaches or making jam

And says, "Well, Rome wasn't built in a day!"

I find a maple branch, make myself a whistle and wonder

if I could ever make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.

- Dale Wallace