1st Prize

Bureaucratic Adage
by Yonel Pierre, Somerset, NJ

Don’t speak to those
Who sit on the bench!

If you do so, you’ll break
The silence,
The peace,
The magic,
The distance,
The spell…!
The line is drawn
Where we name you and them.

You may walk down the stairway,
Walk in the hallway,
Smile at them,
Wave to them,
Talk to them…!
Sit in the Cafeteria,
Eat with them,
Walk down the street,
Hold their hands,
Hug them,
Kiss them…!

But, once you walk down the hallway
And enter the room,
Never speak to those who sit on the bench
For they belong to this other world!
It is us against them.

No relationship,
No connection,
Except servitude!

We are their servants.
And the moment that the line is broken,
They may never understand.

You may address them by their last names.
And even Sir!
But, never speak to those who sit on the bnech
Unless to ask how you may help them
For we are their servants.

2nd Prize

Because We Are
by Judy Lewis, Kingston, NY

I am not the children, ragged and tattered
who died in the fires,
But their memory burns on
in my heart.

I am not the children, hungry and lonely
who died in the gases,
But their spark lives on
in my heart.

I am not the mothers, helpless and desperate
who died in the box cars,
But their essence lives on
in my soul.

I am not the fathers, wretched and downcast
who died on the work gangs,
But their spirit lives on
in my soul.

I am not the prayer books, yellowed and tattered
that burned in the pyre,
But their words remain
in my memory.

I am not the young men, valiant and hopeful
who fought in the alleys;
who hid in the cellars,
but they live on in me.

I am not the young girls, gallant and dauntless
who fought with bare hands;
who held their heads high,
but they live on in me.

We must treasure their memory.
We must salvage their spark.
We must preserve their essence.
We must rekindle their passion.
For they were we are.

3rd Prize
A Life’s Worth
by Judith Van Valkenburgh
Shokan, NY
He was worth 100,000 dollars.
The paper said.
The bum on the bowery.
They called him the delerict!
They reported him dead!

Any yet, two days ago
He asked to wipe our window shield for money.
Five dollars, one dollar, can you spare a quarter?
Some pennies pass his way.

His death made the paper.
His living never did.

But what of him?
Did he know the secrets?
In asking for pennies, or did he just know too many secrets?

The blur of cheap wine faded out the memories.
Living with others who expected nothing
Except a sweet guzzle when he had it.
Never know he could have owned their suls.

Yet maybe each of them is worth a million in their own right.
Millions seem to come in many ways:
Pain and grief, anger, discouragement.
Too many friends or not enough. Never been loved or loved too much.

And so…I must admire him for his courage.
Because he never gave up and took his own life,
There’s got be a strength in that,
If life is so worth living.

So in his death is there not a simple truth”
Too elusive to define.
Too harsh is not unspeakable.
Is it yours and is it mine?