2nd Annual Poetry Contest

Congratulations to the winners of the 

2nd Annual MGC Poetry Contest!

Special thanks to our sponsors below who contributed prizes to our winners.  Check out the award winning poems below.

Judges

Dr. Ophelia Hostetter, Tammy Paolino and Mary Beth Kosich

Donated Prizes

Haddon Culinary

The Refill Market

Wegmans

Target

Revolution Coffee

Cynplicity Artisan Soap Co.

Sculptures by Sister Marianne Hieb

Artwork by Lou Pesci

Tee Shirts from Meditation Gardens

 Grand Prize Winner – with 2 Poems

in full bloom

by Alayna Henry

If I let every wilting petal

break me,

I would be a hopeless thing;

a fragile flower

whose skin is tissue-thin,

translucent & disintegrating

in between the fingers of

lovers who can only give

picky sunlight,

half-hearted rain,

taking me from the soil

for a moment

only to wither;

but I will detach

every wilting petal,

pick myself

do I love me?

do I love me not?

grow a love like mine,

create space to become

budding & brave;

cradling myself

in between my own fingers,

demanding

full-sunlight,

shameless rain;

I am a blooming thing,

and I know what I deserve-

joy.

So we mustn’t stay put

where we were planted,

if we do not wish to do so.

Some flowers will find happiness

blooming in the backyard garden

where they were birthed,

and others will use

the bee

the wind

the sea

to find 

their home

(their heart).

thoughts while sitting cross-legged in the meditation garden

by Alayna Henry

i. Truth be told, I don't know where to find God; or at least a God that feels familiar to me; possibly in pale pink petals falling as the sun does beyond the horizon; maybe in June blue lightning, in hello and goodbye, in mountains, in peppermint tea with honey and sugar, in hole puncher skies, in eclipse, in fingertips, or in holding each other like umbrellas during a downpour. Why else are we here if not to hold on tightly? Keep me dry, keep me dry- I don't know what to believe when the world is flooded by weeping weary clouds; maybe heaven is above them, maybe heaven is beneath, and maybe I’ll love you better in the next life. I don’t know what to believe, but there has to be some truth in the world stopping for a moment like a hitch in the breath, like a clock stuck at three twenty-three, millions of souls staring up at the light and shadows in the middle-of-the-ocean-at-dusk-blue sky, slowly and all at once as the sun takes shelter behind the moon- there has to be some truth in that somewhere. maybe we search too hard for answers, maybe we search too hard for truth; maybe we should just be- accept the sky as it is; accept that the universe may not be all marionette and mechanical; may not be all chaos and chance, may not be all light and all shadow, may not be all nothingness and all everythingness, but it just is, it just is what we make of it all. What is the truth? What you make of it all.

ii. Things that I now know to be true: pale pink petals falling like the sun does beyond the horizon (they know when to let go), June blue lightning (there is light in the dark, you are here for only an instant), hello and goodbye (there is truth in words, there is truth in endings), the mountains (they are my church), peppermint tea with honey and sugar (find sweetness in this life), hole-puncher skies (truths exist that are bigger than ourselves), eclipses (it will all align in time), fingertips (tree trunk fingerprints show we are the earth and the earth is us and we are the earth and the earth is us and) holding each other like umbrellas during a downpour (there is truth in rain, there is truth in loving, there can be joy after pain, there can be joy in loving); I now know to hold on tighter; to surrender and to fight; because if the heavens flood us with weeping weary tears, dance dance; if the sun takes shelter behind the moon, look up up; if the world slows for a moment, breathe breathe; and if time stops,     pause         pause      there is truth in living another day.

Second Place Winner

Silent in the Garden with You

by Sarah Fertsch

Air rushes through your nostrils.

Cicadas croak and the dog catches its breath.

Your stomach growls and I sense your mind

Attempt to erase its own thoughts.

They call it silence but can there ever be such a thing?

Can a heart beat without a thump?

Your precious hiccups are a chorus in worship

Of the living.

I will always burp, and you will always chuckle.

And when we die and become astral stars,

Our silence will be interrupted by

Planetary language and cosmic bursts.

The Buddhists say peace is found through

Silence, yet, for the two of us,

intimacy is created through involuntary sound.

So you and I attempt silence in this garden,

And that glorious effort makes me smile.

Honorable Mentions

Good Dirt

by Shamus Burke

Orange ooze gathers, bulged where the stick pierces

his jack-o-lantern’s cheek. 

Jack winks his melty eye back at him. Sun warm,

still cool, crisp Valentine’s Day. “Can I smash him?”

I half breathe a chuckle, “Only with your bat!” is only

half way out my mouth, and Nolan is digging

in the Rubbermaid for backyard toys

and before I could get my 

cell out to take a pic . . .

splat!

We laugh . . . loudly!

Just another inside joke.

Later . . . “Hey! Look.” . . . the shovel pierces deep.

I lift the compost, bulk and steam,

steam curls into the air. “Why is it smoking?”

“Steam,” I correct. “Steam,” he says. I turn the orange

back into black and steam. I grab and squeeze a clump

of soil. “Good dirt,” I say. “Good dirt?” he asks.

Heft, turn, heft, turn, I mark the plot. “Nolan!”

“Yeah?” he turns from the soccer ball

at the other end of the yard.

“Fill this bucket with compost.”

“Okay, Dad!”

 . . . .

“Dump them here . . . spread it with this flat rake . . .

use the back of it . . . perfect . . . go grab

those seeds in that box in my nightstand.” 

 . . . .

As gentle as eight-year-old boy fingers can carry,

Nolan rests the envelope next to the newly turned plot.

“Take a seed . . . push it one knuckle deep . . .

now another a few inches over . . . and another . . .

take a few steps down the line . . . do it again . . .

they need some room to run.” “Run?” “You’ll see.”

Compost and soil bury under his nails.

He squeezes a clump . . . good dirt.

Our sign from the Craft Fair, “Pumpkin Patch,” tilts

at the irony . . .

50 feet of plumage and 1 good pumpkin. 

How many laughs did we laugh at that!

Only one good pumpkin after so many starts!

Only one good pumpkin beneath the sunflowers and 

how many feet from the compost mixed

with turned soil and seed one knuckle deep.

Nolan wades through thick vines and leaves.

He reaches deep. “Pumpkin?” I ask.

“No,” he chuckles a breath,

“good dirt.”

Start the Music

by Bruce W. Niedt

Be in a place where words come,

like a night hill above all the wash of lights
where you can lie on your back and make
your own constellations, where it’s so quiet
you can hear the sky turning on its axis,

or the middle of a Bach Brandenburg Concerto,
where you imagine yourself the cello,
and arpeggios resonate in your chest
and counterpoint embroiders the air,

or an early morning walk, when your steps
set the rhythm and a symphony of birds
set the melody, and only you and they know
what secrets the sun kept all night,

or a Coltrane sax solo growling in your ear buds,
a new animal birthed from the bell of his instrument
that carries you away on harmonics like a wisp
of smoke in that club where he used to play,

or your spring garden, where you sit under
your wisteria that’s overripe with purple
clustered flowers, and the bees buzz
above you like some divine machinery.

Wherever it may be, it can only be your place,
and only your words can know how to get there.

Founders Favorite: Peace and Joy

by Sylvie Nolan

Note from Founder of Meditation Gardens, Wendy Clouser: “I knew that Sylvie is 11, but the judges did not.  She rated very high by them and she wrote about her time volunteering with Mom, Sarah, and brother Simon – putting in the meditation garden at Newton Lake Park.”

A garden is just one piece of our earth.

In the garden, you sit

And feel the calm breeze on your back.

Looking up at the horizon ahead

You watch the tree branches sway.

You ask the flowers below,

“How did this all come to be?”
The flower petals move slowly in the breeze.

The silence brings peace and you close your eyes.

You imagine that you are walking through a park.

Joy surrounds you as you walk through the area

Crowded with people you know

Planting trees and shrubs.

You spot your neighbor

Struggling with some soil,

And you head over to help out.

You all join in helping one another

Every step of the way.

It’s been a little bit now, and

You’re still feeling happiness inside.

You stand up and look at the garden you are in.

A soft smile stretches across your face.

You love your garden.