. .
[with poems by winners of the NC Poetry Society Adult Contests]
. .
The Atheist
. .
Her playground shoes
teem with sand and mulch.
She kicks them against
the passenger seat,
floorboards anointed
by the debris of recess.
. .
From the altar of a booster seat
she asks who I love more
her or Daddy,
as she wraps a clutch of gold hair
around a hooked finger –
. .
its end a wet fireless wick.
I tell her I love them both
more than anything.
She is fast
with first grade
scripture –
. .
how Haley says you
must love God more
than anyone.
I reach for her knee,
that sprig of branch.
Through
. .
tears
she says she loves
me more, too.
. .
Claudine Moreau
First Place, Carol Bessent Hayman Poetry of Love Award of the NC Poetry Society
. .
. .
❦ ❦ ❦
. .
Rodanthe
. .
You watched the cottage
pitch and yaw on its stilts
. .
writhing in video frames
until it slides sideways
. .
into the surf, you said
Why do people build there?
. .
A fair question given
a rising sea. Next day’s sun
comes bathed in lavender,
dolphins chase each other
across the living room’s picture
window, terns dive feeding fish,
. .
tiny sea-turtles wriggle
from warm sand behind
. .
the garage. You can only dream
this life, this view, this broad ocean
. .
of where you’ve come,
screaming that fiery
. .
breath, beckoning you
home, stepping through the glass-
. .
door to ride down
this swaying deck, down,
. .
down to the licking crests,
slipping beneath
. .
the darkest water.
. .
Michael Loderstedt
First Place, Bruce Lader poetry of Witness Award of the NC Poetry Society
read at Awards Day at Weymouth Center by Joan Barasovska
. .
. .
❦ ❦ ❦
Life is a swaying deck. What will save us? Better to hold tight and imagine it is not going to burst beneath us, or to leap, eyes closed or eyes open, into the void? Some mornings the drone of mowers from the next block is a comfort that summer is coming and all is as it should be; other mornings their incessance is another bitter reminder that for some people life still follows its benevolent routine. Swaying, we are swaying and gravity and balance elude us.
. .
I sit on the porch with the book closed before me. An hour passes. Why would I want to read these poems that some judge somewhere has deemed are worth sharing with the world? Why would I want to share any more of the world’s troubles or its implied triumphs? Well, I don’t want to, but finally I open the book anyway. Page after page. The faces of these poets as they read at Awards Day appear to me, or my mind conjures a face and a voice for the ones I don’t know. And, well, at times I have to smile.
Fleeting but with at least a moment’s healing. And where the swaying may take writer and reader down, down into the darkest water, I see that the world wants to share with me, no matter what it is I may want. At last, after the final poem, I remember Rule #2: I will cry with you.
. .
❦ ❦ ❦
. .
Front Hallway
. .
Nine births
eight named
if only
for a day
six
children living
laughing bickering squealing
muddying up the house
on the table there
between the bible’s leaves
a whisper
of hair
a sunny towhead
the memory
too
fragile
for a name
. .
Laura Alderson
Second Place, Carol Bessent Hayman Poetry of Love Award of the NC Poetry Society
..
. .
❦ ❦ ❦
. .
Madame Butterfly
. .
“Mom looks great,” my brother proclaimed
on a quick visit after she had endured
pneumonia and sepsis.
. .
Maternal astronaut orbiting
the son, she ignored her tubed tether,
the hiss and click of oxygen concentrator
at apartment’s center, and served
weak tea and sweet biscuits
before alighting on a chair,
delighting in his quips.
. .
A monarch-embroidered kimono,
porcelain foundation and blood-red lipstick
masked her sallow visage, haggard physique.
. .
When we were little, she fluttered
through the house each evening,
tidying rooms, readying her face,
donning heels, before our father’s headlights.
shot through the shutters like lightning,
and thundering, he flung
open the door.
. .
Jennifer Weiss
Honorable Mention, Jean Williams Poetry of Disability, Disease, and Healing Award of the NC Poetry Society
. .
. .
❦ ❦ ❦
. .
The Adult Contests of the North Carolina Poetry Society are open each year from December through January. Details and Guidelines, as well as a list of all the 2025 winners, are available HERE:
. .
Poet Laureate Award: Judged by the North Carolina State poet Laureate and sponsored by Kevin Watson (Press 53)
. .
Robert Golden Award: Endowed by Nexus Poets and Linda Golden
. .
Charles Edward Eaton Award for sonnet or traditional form: Endowed by an anonymous donor
. .
Mary Ruffin Poole Heritage Award: Endowed by Pepper Worthington
. .
Bloodroot Haiku Award: Sponsored annually by Bill Griffin
. .
Poetry of Courage Award: Endowed by Ann Campanella
. .
Carol Bessent Hayman Poetry of Love Award: Sponsor initially by David Manning and annually by Susan Carol Hayman
. .
Bruce Lader Poetry of Witness Award: Sponsored annually by Doug Stuber
. .
Katherine Kennedy McIntyre Light Verse Award: Sponsored annually by Diana Pinckney
. .
Alice Osborn Poetry for Children Award: Sponsored annually by Alice Osborn
. .
Jean Williams Poetry of Disability, Disease, and Healing Award: Endowed by Priscilla Webster-Williams
. .
Besides annual contests for individual poems by students and adults, North Carolina Poetry Society also sponsors: Brockman-Campbell Prize for best book of poetry published by a North Carolina author; Lena Shull Award for a poetry manuscript, including publication by NCPS; Susan Laughter Meyers Fellowship, including a one week residency at Weymouth Center for the Arts and Humanities in Southern Pines, NC.
. .
Sam Ragan; NC Literary Hall of Fame
. .
❦ ❦ ❦
. .
Green River
. .
Those summers we spent the afternoons rolling
down the levee by the mud brown river. We blew
dandelion seeds and helped my grandmother pick
rhubarb from the small patch of garden she kept
behind her shack. We fill in love with what rural poor
people have: sunlight and sky, the work of their hands.
My grandmother taught me how to live with mice,
their unsuspecting necks snapped while bacon fried
in her pan. She was not sentimental of mice
or men. She told me it was as easy to love a rich man
as a poor man. She told me that the Kentucky rain
poured over her garden, over the ugly river because she missed
her daddy’s farm. She braided my hair while we listened
to Judy Garland sing and skip her glittery heels down
the yellow-brick road. I never felt richer than when
I was in her lap, her calloused fingers rubbing my ears, practicing
my spelling bee words. C-h-r-y-s-a-n-t-h-e-m-u-m, rolling
over my tongue like a tiny thimble. Honey, you’re going to leave
this place one day. Her needle and thread nearby. The tired
Singer machine propped on the kitchen table.
. .
Brooke Lehmann
First Place, Robert Golden Award of the NC Poetry Society
. .
. .
❦ ❦ ❦
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…
…
V E R S E and I M A G E 
You are planting wonderful seeds. ---B