You’ll be unlucky to catch her first of all She’s in a dark mood Nights of mischief will surely follow
Best to avoid her next Caught between waxing and waning, unstable mimicking faces of both sweetness and malice
You’ve caught her reflection, and it’s hard not to gaze A whirlwind of temptation Gravitational
Love aside, dusk approaches And her need for revenge, is a bitter resentful warrior Her scorn, unyielding pain
Waning, she begins to simmer down Embracing the purity of a simple life She bears children Her shining stars.
BIO: “I discovered poetry after realising I didn’t have the patience for writing stories. I’ve been writing for about five months now, and have never looked back…”
2nd Place ‘Sewing the Sea’ by Neil Slevin
Fishing for water,
sewing the sea,
you sit on your wood
by water swept and beaten quay,
passing no heed
to ticking time nor tide,
nor in the distance, me.
on the water
is your joy;
the sunlight’s speckle
bobbing your face,
settling like stardust
in your golden hair’s embrace.
in this moment –
not that you seem to notice,
and not that you seem to care;
for you are at labour,
lost within your working world,
just another day’s laissez-faire:
your legs swaying
to the freedom
of the water’s flow and flair,
its splashes freckling
the day’s outlook,
your life (at least right now)
all moderate to fair.
Because for now
you are free to stitch
your own ties,
ones that will exert
their own force,
but – not now –
later, in due course.
not having moved,
you return to your post,
sewing the sea,
fishing for water, almost.
BIO:Neil is an M.A. in Writing student at the National University of Ireland, Galway, who writes for The Sin (N.U.I.G’s student newspaper), and reports for ILAS (a campus centre providing community-based initiatives for the local area). He is sixwordmemoir.com‘s Memoirist of the Month for October 2015.
1st Place ‘Where the Floors Should Have Been’ by Lauren Raheja
One push down, push to the right
and pull out a chalky blue diamond.
Put it in your mouth.
The way I’m looking at the sidewalk
isn’t novel, but it’s 12:17
and I’ve already realized I’m in love with you.
After a funeral procession on a sunny day
you said “what they are to each other
we are to each other,”
so bed peace
had to become obsolete;
was suitable when one image
possessed the voodoo of gravity enough
to shock, terrorize and mobilize;
a photograph of a human man
whose brain was seconds away
from losing coherence and form
was an aberration
instead of the fabric
from which each day’s news is sewn.
Bed peace had to be replaced
with purslane growing
in the cracks of the sidewalk peace,
on the floorboards peace,
with denim stained
with bubble solution and beer peace,
with trees too tough to climb peace.
It’s been either forty-six months
or two days
since we found fainting couch peace
in a filthy house with broken furniture
and moss where the floors should have been,
washed over our other selves
like the tide over shells,
cozy in their imprints
in the sand.
Nearly 2,000 miles away,
our grieving hands just barely touched.
BIO:Lauren Raheja writes, paints, and waits tables in St. Paul, MN. Her poetry has been published in Leveler and Keep This Bag Away From Children and her articles in City Limits, Grist, Brooklyn The Borough, Feministing, Whistling Shade, and The Star Tribune.
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