April Poem of the Month contest

For April, the Poem of the Month prompt is a special one, because April is National Poetry Month. So, in addition to my read-a-poem-a-day challenge, my blogging in April will focus on poetry of place. Therefore, the contest prompt is: Write a poem about York. Your poem can be about the city, the country, a specific building, landmark, park, business or person. As long as York County is recognizable in your poem, anything goes. Tell the world where you’re from, in a poem.

When your poem is finished, copy and paste it as a comment on this post. Be sure to include the poem’s title, your name and your York County, Pa., township of residence.

About Stacia M. Fleegal

York Daily Record multiplatform journalist. Degrees in creative writing from Lycoming College and Spalding University, and a coupla books with my name on them. Central PA native who came home after floating around for a while, but always grounded by words and the places and people I remember.
This entry was posted in Poem of the Month 2014 and tagged , , . Bookmark the permalink.

10 Responses to April Poem of the Month contest

  1. Carol Clark Williams says:

    Open House

    This charming, rustic redwood structure,
    accessibly located in a city park,
    is open wide on three sides to the sun.
    Its simple ventilation system also permits
    exposure to all elements, providing
    a totally natural climate. Facing northwest,
    the occupant has a panoramic view
    of tranquil, man-made lake, replete
    with wild and domestic waterfowl.

    Gulls shrieking above the placid water
    conveniently double as alarm clocks.
    To the south stately pines add color and shade.
    On rainy days grassy slopes provide cold running water
    in such abundance that the practical concrete floor—
    functioning as bedroom, living room and den—
    converts the tenant’s sleeping bag to waterbed.

    At all four corner posts, colonial blue
    trashcans offer a variety of fast food options.
    Neighboring squirrels are easily
    utilized as garbage disposal units.
    Dry branches and small twigs
    are readily accessible on site:
    during winter months, the occupant can build
    small fires for warmth in the brick fireplace,
    as he watches snow gently falling outside
    and in through the picturesque walls.

    The cost of this establishment
    is high. Rent is paid daily, in loss and loneliness
    and grief—and it is always paid in full.

    Carol Clark Williams, North York Borough, York PA

  2. First Saturday in June
    By Kristopher Ivie

    Kreutz Creek warms as the weather breaks
    The human deluge inundates
    A small town overflows by noon
    Save the date, first Saturday in June

    Stream of cars in a procession
    Banks are lined with old possessions
    They get picked up with foreign hands
    And swept away to distant lands

    Footsteps break like waves on a shore
    New voices shape the river’s roar
    All Hallam sings up a monsoon
    Save the date, first Saturday in June

    The bric-a-brac is washed away
    With food and drinks along the way
    The tide goes out at three o’clock
    On the mile long, make-shift boardwalk

    The Kreutz Creek starts to settle down
    Transforms back into a small town
    Hallam returns and life resumes
    Save the date, first Saturday in June

    • Kristopher Ivie says:

      For anyone who might still read this and doesn’t know what the poem is about: It is now one week until the 24th annual Hallam Borough Community Yard Sale (on June 7th). A large number of houses normally participate along the 1 mile stretch of Market St (462) that runs through the borough from Freysville Road to Wilson Lane. A number of places have food and drinks available and the streets and sidewalks are normally packed with bargain hunters. It really is an amazing event.

  3. Marilyn Neuburger says:

    RIDING THE RAIL-TRAIL

    We travel this day, eight miles each way,
    to a restaurant down the trail in Glen Rock.
    Wallets and water properly placed,
    we check tires and seats, don helmets and gloves.
    Past gardens, lawn chairs, swing sets, slides
    and wheelbarrows once hidden from view,
    we propel our bikes with stirruped feet.

    There’s the winery and the Valley Tavern,
    signs showing farmland preserved,
    hayfields, corn, horses and cows.
    We pass novel sculpture, Hanover Junction,
    waving clotheslines, fishers in the creek.
    High in our saddles we ride in the sun
    past hills of trees with broccoli tops.

    The landscape soon changes to busier roads,
    closer-set houses, small businesses—
    and click-click of a gear could be clip-clop.

    We ride slower into town at a cycling-trot,
    stop with the neigh of a squeaky brake pad,
    wheel steeds to post, tie with a chain.
    Helmet off and under an arm,
    we swagger inside and sit down.

  4. Pingback: Versify | Poets who write with a strong sense of place: Suggested reading

  5. Elizabeth Mercurio says:

    Bird Hollow

    In translucent waters
    under the old wooden bridge

    Transparent hearts of silver minnows
    fight unseen currents

    Sacred trees tower over fallen brothers
    while branches applaud sun and sky

    Light filters through leaves creating iridescent
    patterns on moss, a green mother’s cheek

    A purple butterfly circles like a
    violet that has escaped its stem

    The children pound rocks
    mixing powder with creek water to form clay

    They dry their invented pots and dishes in sunlight
    a happy assembly line

    This place enfolds us, I hear it in the creek’s
    streaming refrain, tenderness.

    Bird Hollow, Elizabeth Mercurio, Springfield Township, York, PA

    (Bird Hollow is a beautiful nature trail at Nixon Park)

  6. Amy Kern Triantafyllou says:

    Home Is Anywhere

    Home is where I hang my heart
    On a hook anywhere
    On any given day.

    Home is by the hearth or
    In the barn,
    By the horses munching hay.

    Home is on the road or
    On the trail by the pines or
    By the lake..

    Home is anywhere my mind will take
    As a child, a teen..an adult.
    There’s a piece of heart left in grandpa’s old barn
    On the beam by the watering trough.

    Another hangs in the alleyway
    Where Chestnut and Broad Street converge.
    Where grandmother lived and sat on her porch
    Watching me playing under the birch.

    There’s a heart hanging still
    Over on Dead Man’s Hill
    Where I would sled on a cold winter’s day
    And to the creek below there’s a piece of one there.
    I stole a kiss,
    I still remember it today.

    There’s a heart by the lake
    Where the wild rose grows.
    My mind takes me there on a happier day.
    I hear laughter and the sound of galloping hooves

    But
    I remember the fall,
    When I lost it all
    I recall feeling the pain of heart break..

    So there’s a piece of it here
    And a piece of it there
    On a hook, on a tree,
    In the barn, and on my sleeve.

    There’s a piece on the street
    And one by Dry Creek.
    There’s a heart on the hearth
    Beside a box of memories…
    There’s heart on a photograph
    Of smiles from my latter days and
    There’s a piece on a dried bouquet…

    You see…
    Home is wherever I hang my heart
    Anywhere at any given time
    Where I’m warm and safe
    To where contentment resides
    Within my body
    My soul
    Or my mind.

    Amy Kern Triantafyllou
    North Codorus Twp.

  7. Paul D Simmons says:

    Paul from Manchester Borough

    First Friday

    I am a transplant
    Show me what I should see
    As I am new to your ways
    I will learn of your past
    Your stories and secrets
    The part they played
    But tonight I accept
    the invitation to roam
    and be part of First Friday

    Wandering, window shopping
    Where all the shops
    Seem to compete
    Come step through my door
    Look at this
    Isn’t this neat
    I have it, each one says
    Just what you are looking for
    See, this is unique

    A greeting, a smile
    And at every turn
    A chance to see
    Something different,
    Something new.
    Faces, places, friends to be
    Chat, sit, glad you stopped in
    So nice to meet you
    Come again please

    And something to eat
    while you are here
    Of course you do
    What’s on offer,
    What do you want.
    On Beaver Street choices aplenty on view
    Or through the green doors
    Into Central market where there are
    a wonder of flavours all for you

  8. I really wanted to write a new poem for this, but ran out of time with all the Poem-A-Day stuff from the month. If it’s acceptable to submit an old one, here’s one I wrote a couple years ago:

    Susquehanna Alchemy

    Fragments of mist
    roll down the ridge above the River,
    peeling the veil
    from Pisgah’s grey shoulders.

    Pockets of fog
    cloak the farms
    in the folds of the valley.

    Susquehanna meanders,
    a twisting ribbon of lead
    in the dawn.

    Above, a blue heron
    plies a patient path
    through cold currents
    on its way to fishing.

    Wren, sparrow and finch
    send threads of brilliance
    into the bowl of sky:
    “Here. Here. Here. I am here.”
    Their voices spiral upward.

    A chilly breeze disturbs
    the fleecy tail of a squirrel
    who has paused
    halfway
    down a grey-brown
    trunk of oak.

    The wintry skeletons of maples
    wear the green auras of early spring.
    Sun touches the branches,
    tempers them with silver
    in the first light.

    One day you will remember look
    and the fresh nests of birds
    will be hidden
    amid a riot of green.

    You turn off the spine of the mountain.
    You slide from the ridge of Mt. Pisgah,
    winding your way along a streamlet
    which hastens toward the river’s embrace.

    A stone schoolhouse with boarded windows
    sits amid a scholarship
    of dried ivy vines
    and last fall’s nettle stalks.

    Among the wrinkled hollows and hills
    you curve away from the river and back again.
    Now you turn onto the river road.

    Birdsong has lost the insistent shrill of dawn.
    The last mist of morning
    dissipates before you.
    The sun slides a glance
    off the surface of grey water,
    and sparkles of gold appear.

    Gold grows on the water,
    transforming lead,
    and in a moment
    you will avert your eyes
    from its blinding dazzle.

    Elizabeth Weaver-Kreider

  9. Pingback: Versify | April Poem of the Month contest winner!

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