Bo's Poets Contest - 2010 ... October to the end of year 2010

January, 2nd, 2011 ... Bo's judging is complete and the winners are ...

Poem 1 - by Alex Thompson

Off we plow in stern and bow,
Among the wind and wave;
Against or with, I care not how,
Any, to leave this cave.

Of noise and sick and custom too,
That flap like the devil's tongue,
That press against my skin to blue;
So normal but felt so sprung.

But good I am to know so well,
That liquid sits at scale!
With pine stood round, and simple sound,
And skies stirred pink and pale.

That fire can flicker and snap the air,
About the starry night;
The shadows it casts, so flippy so fast!
Touching around my site.

That blow can wrap my heading face,
Like a sheet spread round a dove;
And wipe me to some empty place,
Where it is light, and love.

Off we plow in stern and bow,
Among the wind and wave;
Against or with, I care not how,
Just so long I stay.

The View from Lower Spectacle - by Mark Scarlett

Under brilliant blue, a solitary loon,

head down, fishing.

What can it see in these tea dark waters?

We drift closer, silently,

closer. Surely it will dive.

I am amazed by its dazzling feathered complexity,

intricate rows of white on black, black on white,

spectacular checks and stripes, whiter than white,

blacker than black.

Too long unmoving,

still head down,

I see, it does not see.

cannot.

Its head tilted, just so,

a ruby eye reflects the sun,

empty, clouding over.

Close enough to touch,

I do not.

An awed spectator,

wonderstruck by beauty

and death,

I drift on.

The Wild-life - by Stewart Brownscombe

The forests and animals are not alone

We are wild, we are animals

We from the city have come to be wildlife

From bright lights and loud noises

From the ceaseless masses we come

To be wild, to be animals

Not to conquer or to vanquish

(That has already been done)

But to commune, to return, not to think but to be

As wild and alone as the forest and animals.

The Experience - by John Vandalen

Poem 2 - by Alex Thompson

O ripple, you have slid to me!
From no place—it has been said,
As trees cannot fall where cannot be seen;
No ripple could have been.
But you're here and you move—
I see you clear!
A lump on this liquid mirror.
Inch by inch, you slip me by,
Bulging those clouds and sky.
And you I call a ripple,
And this is what you be,
When light move from you to me,
And tell me what to see.
But shrink me down to the frantic fly,
Who lay wing in, wing out:
I gasp for air at a timed breath,
As lake teases my spout.
And ripple it comes like tidal-tank,
To me, blacker than death.
For hit me wrong, no use to shout,
Underneath rotates my spout.
Me to scream and you to rest..
By the colors below your boat.
By the ripple pass—smooth on glass,
That turns me over to choke.
Ripple to you and Rumble to me;
To it—we can not see.
But to it is right, slipping through night,
Alone, away from sight.

Last Paddle - by Lee Gilbert

Her depths remain warm
Yet she wishes to change.
The cold has come
winter’s now in range

Fog in the shallows
The white pine frozen
The fir, The asp white
This my day chosen.

Ice breaks on my bow
Pushing forward is slow
Should I push on?
Where should I go?

Options of exhaust fumes
and of human chatter?
A day pushing ice
Nothing really matters.

Stuck on the ice
I’ll choose the last
More appealing to me
Than discussing the past.

The ice gives way
Just north of here
Pictographs with ravens at play
Canoes, demons, deer.

The evenings are short now
Sun closing down
Stoically and relaxed
My feet touch the ground.

My boat on my shoulders
I begin the portage
Mounted, engine started
Soon back in the garage.

I switch off the engine
And stare off into space
A day in Algonquin
To redefine my place.

Algonquin Heaven - by Diana McElroy

To step out of the tent into a still and chilly night
Under a tapestry of stars
Listen to the land breathing
And the secret life moving all around
The wolves singing their magic across the water

To sit at dawn on slanting granite by a lake
While mist swirls over calm water
Watch the brightening day
Beside a red pine that leans out from the shore
Waiting for the sun’s warmth

To wind along a creek between brushy shores
Paddle alone across a lake
Pause to watch the fish dart in the amber water
Pause to wet a line
While the wind ruffles the surface
And sends clouds dancing across the sky

To lie on sun-warmed rocks at end of day
The work on river and portage done
Camp made and supper finished
Watching the light slowly leave the sky
Listening to the spirit voices in the water
As they tell a bedtime story
As they sing a lullaby

Heaven has many faces
Meets us in many places
Algonquin

A Moment of Algonquin's Past - by Grant Dawson

It's day break and the sun is burning the morning mist off the lake.

Though not alone you are the first to greet the day.

You can't help but let your mind wander and think about how it once was.

A time long ago when the trees were large and the hardships larger.

A park for recreation it wasn't, but a place of work it was.

The sounds of hand saws and horses echoed across the frozen lakes.

Imagine a time when canoe routes gave way to horse drawn sleighs piled high with the day's harvest.

You picture a time when men sat around a cabin table anticipating ice out and the log float to the mill, not the season opener.

Oh, how times have changed.

One can't help but think of those who lived and died in this park to provide for their families.

History can't be changed, can't be rearranged but should be embraced.

We all learn from our past and for that we must be thankful.

May this park live on for generations to come.

Ghost Canoe - by Mike Ormsby

Canoe Lines - by John Scarlett