by Mary Boren
Joan Kemple immediately recognized the inherent beauty in this scene behind our church’s maintenance shed on her way to the Nature Sanctuary. She sent me the photo, thinking I might be inspired to write a poem about it. My muse has gone on an extended (and unexcused) walkabout, but I passed the challenge along as a contest prompt on a poetry site I frequent. The winning entries, though completely different in style, each capture the metaphor’s significance in a unique way. They are republished here with permission of the authors.
Among Abandoned Things
by Mark Vincent
Have you observed our Maker lift His brush in springtime, painting primrose on the plain; and how, come fall, He fills His brush again to burnish forests with a russet blush? Oh, have you seen Him when the sky is flush at eventide; oft draped with silken skeins of pinks and purples as the summer wanes, occasioned by the singing of the thrush? If so, you may have seen His brushstrokes spread where least expected, strewn to lift one’s gloom; surprisingly, they’re never out of view. Just yesterday I found behind the shed, among abandoned things your favorite bloom; a testament His brush paints just for you!
Chair With Impeccable Charm and Amazing Karma
by Robert Richard
I'm sure you would have enjoyed explaining this scene. How entropy requires no effort no need to maintain polish or preen. From here you told us not that objects in the mirror are closer than they appear but why. About light years about war. Moon landings, kindness and just things. Like that the best time to fish is when it's raining and when it ain't. Or you had a dollar for anyone who could lick their elbow. Time, taking Ozymandias and you to dust. You acquiesced peacefully your patina perfectly wrinkled eyes and mind- still brilliant. So I stopped by to say- If there is another life after this one, I hope to come across your soul again. And that I think of you especially when it's raining and when it ain't.
by Doug Curry
a haggard stray dog following a lost man playing blues rhythms on a washboard a lonely old man listening things discarded find in each other use not envisioned before what is left was left to rust and fray tumble about in the cast-off wastes of a junkyard a rusted barrel becomes support under a chair's torn seat the chair its anchor each making use of the other's need creating anew one new thing of two