1205 Main - Hays, Kansas 67601

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Children's Dept - (785) 625-5916

What to Expect

April is National Poetry Month, and the HPL celebrates by holding a Poetry Contest (nearly) every year. Participants bring an original work, read it before the crowd, and the entries are judged by FHSU faculty and other such learnéd folk before prizes are awarded. Following the contest portion of the evening, open mic poetry readings are encouraged for anyone who wishes to share their favorite works.

Poetry Contest Winners:

2010 – Janet Hays
2009 – Dani Dinkel
2008 – Marie Beesley
2007 – Scott Lee
2005 – Damien Leeson
2004 – Karen Madorin
2003 – Aaron Paul
2002 – Aaron Rupp
2001 – Jeff Fouquet
2000 – Eric Norris

2010 Poetry Contest Winners

1st Place

The Name Game
with inspiration from the Hays, KS 2007 Telephone Directory

The phone book is fun, without a doubt,
I’ve found APEL, BERRY, CORN, & TROUT
And also there are folks named BEAN
Then come BROWN, BLACK, WHITE, & GREEN.
 
There are FOXES & BAIRS & BIRDS & BEES.
We have a WOLFE, then, if you please,
There’s a BARBER, a BISHOP, a BALL, & a BOOR,
There is even BATMAN – wanta hear more??
 
We’ve a BUTCHER, a BAKER, a BELL, & a CARR
A FORD and a BRAKE – so there you are.
We have COUSINS & CASTLES, a COBB, & a CHEW
And I must tell you – we even have PUGH!
 
And then there’s a HOUSE and also a KEY
Plus there is a KITCHEN and, so you see,
You can have a BURGER – but there’s no Roast
And we have BACONRIND, but not any Toast.
 
We have HILL & DALE, ELDER & YOUNG
A REED & a HARP for a song to be sung,
You’ll even find a PRINCE and a KING
And some more folks whose name is WING.
 
O, there’s LOOK & HOOK & STONE & WOOD,
Yes, I would stop this if only I could,
But it’s time to pause and then to PRAY
That we all find JOY at the end of the DAY!
- Janet Hays

2nd Place

The Atheist's Fear of Death

In darkness, I imagine I believe in heaven.
I pretend to feel confidence in my ultimate fate.
Temper the thought of losing my children,
with faith that I will see them in an afterlife.
 
I’ve never been much of an actress to an audience of myself.
And the skeptic that dwells – no – barricades herself, in my psyche,
laughs, not a bit cruelly, at my exercise.
 
But I have to believe in something – I have to or I’ll go crazy –
unless I am already there.
Don’t think I haven’t entertained that notion.
 
So what shall it be if I can’t believe in heaven?
I shall believe in love. I will.
The strongest kind of love, however, only returns me to despair,
because I don’t want my children to die, and return to the earth.
 
I wish there were a heaven,
So my little boy and girl could go there someday.
 
If I could create a paradise by believing in it,
Oh, I would. I would.
 
If I could create a paradise by willingly giving up my own place in it
for my children . . .
 
                              Oh I would. I would.
- Valerie Brown

2009 Poetry Contest Winners

1st Place

Dressed up in Poetry

Shower me in stunning imagery
to wash away the harsh reality.
Lace the rhythm on my feet,
so I can dance to the beat of words.
Paint my lips in rhyming rouge
and hear me sing the song of birds.
Hold a weeping heart to my hand,
so I can feel the pulse of passion.
Wrap meters like a scarf around my neck,
and strangle me with beautiful poetry.
 
- Dani Dinkel

2nd Place

quite simply

i tried to write a poem,
but it would not let me.
 
i called forth great, inspiring words
of which meanings i was unsure,
and each line i wrote ended with scratchings,
and silly doodles off to the side.
 
ideas kept falling out of place, and
i grew quite disheartened.
how hard this is, when verses in books
that inspire me flow so easily!
 
the clock ticks on. finally i gather the
crumpled paper. i decide i don’t want
to write a poem anyway…
it’s stupid.
 
i breathe deep, and spend a time
with the felines.
they spring into action with the
noisy, rounded clumps.
 
and when i put aside the pages blank,
and turn out the lights,
a verse sprang to life and whispered
quite simply
 
(you have to let me write myself)
 
- Lori Gottschalk

2008 Poetry Contest Winners

1st Place

My Peaceful Valley

When will I ever find my Peaceful Valley
And how shall I know that it is mine?
Is it a wraith of my imagination:
A phantom dream that flits and flirts with time?
 
Or is it just that every mind that’s active
Needs such a place to stop in time of stress?
Needs such an image blotting out the tensions.
A refuge where the mind can pause to rest.
 
I see my Peaceful Valley backed by mountains,
Tranquil in a sun that is never still.
Or shrouded in the misty black of night time,
And broken by the call of whippoorwill.
 
I see my Peaceful Valley bathed in moonbeams,
Each seeking for the glow of noonday sun.
My mother mares are nickering a warning;
But starlight colts are frisking while they’re young.
 
And tall, straight fences march around my acres
Like soldiers ordered out for combat drill.
They climb and turn and stop where I command them.
Their fate is mine because they have no will.
 
The buildings, painted white, are built for duty ~
Each shed and barn. And each unlike the other
To store alfalfa from the lower pasture
Or house a newborn foal and anxious mother.
 
The house alone holds no great fascination.
It must not tie me to it day by day.
Complete repose with nature’s great creation
Is what I’m seeking as I pass this way.
 
How shall I know I’ve found my Peaceful Valley?
Will I look up and see it some glad day?
Or must I search for it each living moment
And take it, bit by bit, along life’s way?
 
- Marie Beesley

2nd Place

Invitation

Daydream with me for a
Moment
 
As I sit on the bridge
In the
 
Sunshine, water tickling
My toes
 
With our dreams we can quilt
A poem,
 
We can fall into love,
We can
 
Accept the way we dream
We can
 
Live a happy moment,
Hearing
 
The sound of our thinking
Rushing
 
Like the water around
Our feet
 
Let us start in today,
Begin
 
On shaping forever,
Close our
 
Eyes, and dreams of young love,
Dancing
 
With angels all gracefully
Vibrant
 
Finding something to love
With all
 
Our hearts let life exude
From us,
 
Touch and catch fire in
Others
 
- Jodi Swihart

2007 Poetry Contest Winners

1st Place

Here, This Kind
(My Aunt)

In my mind there are pictures of the many years
I have known a calming over time
And the love here, this kind
I see eyes alive; the darkness moves on giving way for light

We tried not to miss the days and occasions
Was it you with your big heart that kept the fire glowing?
The daddy that you loved so, people never knowing
-You poured another class on this rare night, I’m told

You gave away emotions to open like presents
Letting go the past resentments
I could feel a transcending love– a window
The warmth coming in

How could you understand and know?
What inspired it in you?
Compassion, empathy
A human soul caring to listen intently

Your own universe in time
Somehow it was mine to know
But also, you gave to all of us
We would come to understand more

You said that you cried
About the start of the war
And I new that you had
I could place a picture of it in my mind.

You can see what it all means
Your hears flow with love in them
They are quiet; a soft rain of sadness came
In you we are all redeemed

2nd Place

Companion

He lived in the country. It was meant to be.
The place of no end to being free.
He knew the thrill of the hunt.
He knew the rush of the run.
It’s not so much to catch the game.
It’s in the chase that’s the fun.
Run until the tongue is draggin’.
Smiling as the tail is waggin’.
Water found most anywhere.
Was his to drink without care.
Sometimes it’s grand to not understand.
His favorite place was by my side.
Most of his live was filled with pride.
They say that everything has its day.
My friend had many in his play.
His work was his play.
Why can’t we all be that way?
He taught me more than I ever taught him.
And only a fool would say that he was "just" a dog.
We all see though different eyes.
All eyes have a destiny of a voyage through eternity.
How I miss him is more than any adverb can describe.
As a meandering lost creek with no river to find
In a valley with no echo.
He is not here but I won’t cry
Because I know he’s out there somewhere runnin’.

- Monte Jakabosky

2005 Poetry Contest Winners

1st Place

Shards

Mid-winter, I hike
through Coconino National Forest,
rubbing palms in thirsty-
veined dirt. Trying to bathe in the unkempt,
slough off saturnine.
Boots layer with Iron Oxide.
 
Beneath prickly pear cactus,
shards of fallen boulders mound
like a skirt for the Christ child’s tree.
Pieces of perfection, weathered
on the ground, waiting for the gods’
return to take them home, rapture them up
into wholeness.
 
Behind my knees, a cactus
spikes denim; thirsty,
it sucks the sap of skin.
With this drink, I remember you
sipping an Americano
in the café, Mexico City:
our first day-
 
I, wearing yesterday’s clothes
out of necessity, and you, wearing them
to defy what is common.
Rumpled and sleepless,
we savor black caffeine,
talking over breath-stained cups.
 
This desert distraction fails.
 
I want to rise up on transient wings
with the shards,
and fly to the fiery chamber
where you have all of me.
 
- Damien Leeson

2nd Place

Aggrieved

She undresses at 3:30, midday,
posing by the kitchen window, shades
sprung wide.
 
First the cashmere cardigan,
last year’s olive hue.
 Next the skirt,
 flouncing from the waist,
 hem skimming knees.
  Then the camisole,
  feather-thin fabric, ivory with lace
  eyelets brimming the exquisite
  straps of slip.
&bnsp; Undraped, except scarlet
panties and bra: the uniform
for lamentations.
She cannot be reborn
distracted by the garments of success,
nor by those that offend
or reject. Unless nakedness
becomes habitual,
 
wallowing is essential.
Without grief’s bruising, the spirit
succumbs-lays down the body,
color of woman oozing from wrist,
suffusing a stain
on the weaves of wool carpet.
 
- Jennifer Meckenstock

2004 Poetry Contest Winners

1st Place

Santa Ana Skate Ranch - 1968

Thirteen in ‘68’
we lied and claimed 16
held hands and circled aimlessly
with newly shorn farm boys
recently called to war.
 
Days away from Danang
each smiled too hard, too friendly.
Naive, we laughed at stolen kisses
escaped too strong embraces,
our innocence guarded by a stern-eyed manager
until protective parents
carried us home in Fords and Chevys
to dream about our boys.
 
Within days silver bellied Boeings
spewed those boys
onto steaming jungle tarmacs.
Ignorant of their fate, we lied again,
escaped new arms, new lips.
 
Today
Black vinyl body bags circle endlessly
through middle-age dreams.
 
- Karen Madorin

2nd Place

untitled

we rise from the womb
above our mother over years
 
the roots are vaster than branches spread dense
 
 
sounding deeper through the dark
than any stretch
any attempt toward
the open sky
the wind finds
weakness above the ground
simple location
but it takes a flood to expose
to excavate history of place

a simple combination of words to explain
life is so hard to fill
to verb
to adverb
find a word of only so many words
a section of library shelf
to fill a life
a word like zero
a zero concept
a hole
through which our birth pushes us
or through which our life pulls us bloody & loud in the light
for the first time forever
as empty at the start as
the womb we leave behind
zero
 
& in the light we grow
our strength tested in the wind daily
& in the dirt we take hold
through years
(another word through life)
& as belief ferments into faith
we fear
the possible flood
 
- Eric Norris

2003 Poetry Contest Winners

1st Place

untitled

it was the
last night before
the end of the world
 
she and i
didn’t know
and walked
from her car
to her house
 
line-long rain
fell heavy, cutting up
the dull streetlight
and beating the roof
of her house like
tight fists
 
she led me
down a solid black
stairwell, steep and
smelling like dolls
my hand in hers
 
opium-den recline on couch
she says, “guys only seem
to use me. . .” and smiles
 
she gets closer
makes a horrible hot whisper
about cowboys and the way
i should be, what it is
to be a man
 
i feel her breath
more than her words
she smiles
 
what it is
to be a man
 
on top of me
holding me with her
woodland eyes she runs
her hands over me
and finds a piece of paper
 
“what is it,” she asks.
“a poem,” I say.
 
she sweeps her
licorice-red lips
sweetly and seductively
and gently with her
soft tongue
“read it to me,” she says.
 
read and it goes:
“old poets and
charming men and beautiful women
gathered around a large fire.
the rising heat warped their faces.
 
smoke rose towards the sky and
blocked the view of
the moon and stars that
sat at an untouchable distance away.
 
the group pulled
tear stained poems and
worn love letters from their pockets and
read them silently to themselves.
 
they dropped their memories
into the hungry fire
it pushed out and consumed them.
their dreams turned black
and collapsed back
into the heat
the fire burned
brightly and infinitely.”
 
“i don’t get it, what do you think?”
she says
 
what do I think. . .
my mouth tastes of an urgent pain
loitering for just
too long
 
what it is to be a man
 
what do i think. . .
 
i think when
the sky twists
and tears apart
from itself
 
i'll see god smiling
a face of crooked teeth
saying, “i’m more
alone than you.”
 
and i will say
“make the last moments
faster than all the rest”
 
- Aaron Paul

2nd Place

untitled

some metals tarnish
 
we took for granted solid brass handles
would be made forever, brass rings
would always be on the merry-go-round.
we were taught the permanence of solid things,
encouraged to dream of tomorrow.
 
brass could always be polished
with salt and vinegar, lacquered
to stay bright, resembled gold.
 
in 1941 Saturday cinema newsreels,
flashed round mouths of babies
screaming in bombed ruins.
our fathers were taken away.
our mothers dressed like men,
wore heavy helmets, drove trucks,
riveted ships.
 
we were fingerprinted, given i.d. tags,
taught to crouch in corners during bombings,
practiced silence in blackouts,
learned the words “closed for the duration.”
 
in windows blue stars turned gold,
our mothers wept at night.
someone boarded up the merry-go-round.
pennies were made of lead.
the bottoms of the bullets were brass.
 
- E. Jean Lanyon

2002 Poetry Contest Winners

1st Place

dog show amanda

dear baby breath,
i peeked at your tears
under your emaciated frame
rising like jacuzzi steam
from a pool of primates.
 
primal insecurities and
abandonment issues push
at your tiny little head, blond and fake,
just like you.
 
parade those tender little legs
around the dirty mirrors for
the dog show wannabes full
of the same pipedream initiatives as those populating your
shrinking, starving head.
 
how can you stand?
how can you stand?
how can you stand?
 
your ankles erode and the bones
crumble inside your shown-off temple.
 
ask me another question!
i'll be your chump until you
find another.
 
tell me about your Romeo,
how you swallow his image
just like the way everyone watches you.
 
ask me one more time about food and nourishment,
ask me what it takes to stay alive.
i won’t answer
because you’ve abandoned sources of life
by selling your stomach to the orange tint
of ultraviolet light
so the dog show would welcome you
and hold their veiny hands out in expectation
that you might matter.
 
do that little laugh,
do that little chuckle,
do that little dance,
do whatever it takes to show me
you aren’t suffering.
 
how can you stand?
 
just say that you are kidding,
just say it.
because that’s the only way
you can say what you feel.
 
- Aaron Rupp

2nd Place

Willy

Blue silk upon a wagon wheel is where this legend starts
it has broken many men in spirit, body, and heart.
They say the fever took her man, her family and kids
she was never quite right after that quiet in all she did.
She burned the house and her dress, climbed upon ol’ paint
drew a cold frosty breath and became someone she ain’t.
Roamed a few years, toughened up, and learned a few rope tricks
just enough to get her on in a good cattle outfit.
Cookie didn’t like her ‘cause his biscuits were just too flat.
The foreman just ignored her never once tipped his hat.
Ol’ Hank he was different, took a shine to Willy you see
one night she put him in his place, amid mixed company.
She’d always kept her hat brim low, blue silk about her neck
the foreman liked her bright green eyes, yet held his tongue
a happenstance regret.
They never really saw her cry, and if she hurt they never knew
not even during a headshot she got changing out a shoe.
She just rode the fence, did her job while the others carried on
until that day late one May when an hombre came along.
He had caught Willy’s eye, a hateful spark stirred her soul
dark brown eyes, lightening smile his eyes all aglow.
Foreman said he’s take him on for half of Willy’s pay
she stared down the stranger, “Don’t get in my way.”
He carried on a few more weeks, shying up to her
he tried to kiss her late one night, she raked him with her spur.
“Don’t do that again” she gasped hot breath between her teeth.
He mounted up, left the camp, she sighed with relief.
In the shadows Ol’ Hank had seen all that had occurred.
Willy stared him down in darkness, she never spoke a word.
The foreman looked her over, “I bet you ain’t so mean”
She ripped the scarf from her neck, he recoiled at the scene.
Around her tender neck she bear the sight of a noose’s burn,
“if you’re such a big man go ahead take your turn.”
The foreman simply bowed his head, his hat held in his hands
“yea it’s just like I thought you’re a coward not a man.”
She approached the foreman, boot to boot and thigh to thigh
he couldn’t hide the shamefulness welling in his eyes.
Surprisingly she kissed him, “perhaps it’s just as well”
upon the dawning morning she was gone, her scarf tied to the wheel.
He’d thought about the pain he’d caused, how rude and crude he’d been.
Why he lived his life alone amongst the company of men.
They say he died of heartache late on that fall.
If she’d never kissed him, he’d never known love at all.
Ol’ Hank he tried to find her, but she disappeared without a trace,
no one knew a lady with blue silk about her face.
Let this be a lesson to those who chase the ride
everyone you meet could be hurting deep inside.
As far as manners are concerned I’ve just one thought on that,
when you pass a lady in blue mister, you’d better tip your hat.
 
- Laura Bruce

2001 Poetry Contest Winners

1st Place

Breathe

Beauty imbedded in a sea of soil
taking hold with serpentine claws that twist and turn through histories
permeating all that has been, blooming, unhindered, into what shall be
born of a seed sorted next to nothing
yet it lives, in multitude, to hold the heavens close
sitting in such sacred silence through the ages
supporting, sheltering – immoveable to those whom it loves
yet who loves it? Its palette of leaves and crystalline January splendor
seems to touch not the orbs of existence closest
aged wisdom recognized not in its beauty, but in commodity
and when the last pebble passes through the hourglass
it, and all of the strength and magnificence that it sustains, topple, uprooted, lifeless to the ground
 
- Jeff Fouqute

2nd Place

On the Threshold of Spring

The road is vanishing somewhere . . . .
So are the early travelers,
Befogged amidst the beckoning remoteness,
In front --- a hearty youngster, fresh as spring crop,
Behind the lad his meditative father . . .
 
Around them, stealing, looking backward,
Then pausing, the reluctantly,
The foremost of explorers ---
Forerunner of the spring.
The stripes of paths half-frozen, shadowy,
the morning, vapor-webbed, with shiver haunted,
Yet lofty melodies of heavenly musicians
Resound already and awaken nature. . . .
The languid beam would pass along the murky ether,
Enliven suddenly, erect in radiancy,
And, brilliantly transfigured,
Emerge as life-engulfed, eternal all-embracing warmth,
That puts on loving touch wherever it appears. . . .
In consequence, out of the snowy ocean
Turn up, amid the billows, vibrant islands in creative
effort.
 
In rage the deadly desert is retreating,
By winning banner, ever green of vigor, overtaken ---
Hence valiant invasion of rebirth recaptures ground.
The sun-bathed arrow acts as a sorcerer:
The soggy routes change into foamy streams.
Surrounding clearings into groundless mire,
The valleys into palpitating lakes.
Whole torrents flow, propitious offspring splashing,
And fragrantly exhales the saturated soil,
Well rested, jubilant, inevitable bountiful. . . .
<<Oh, whither do you rush, my rivulet?>>
The early spring time travelers here stop---
<<Oh, rivulet, why do you strive?>>
Thus pondering on tiny maple foot-bridge
The man’s brow clouds with dim anxiety,
And meanwhile sparkling creek assaults,
The pebbles hasten in perpetuated cadence,
 
The loosened ice floe menacingly charges. . . .
Like water elements,
So rise the winged thoughts
In search for home beyond the far horizons ---
Into the reams immeasurable, spheres unattainable,
planets inconceivable. . .
The firmaments seems moving, soaked
foundations throbbing
 
Lagoons of waterways keep roaming,
In currents breeze and whirlwind onward dashing,
The gaily rushing waterfront is nearing,
Whatever growth, join liquid ways of nature,
Majestically sunlit sweeps the high plateau along.
 
Here alleys soar, there byways climb and caverns swell,
High waters mounting ever more,
The tides are racing, hovers mere deluge,
And flooded soul at last invades the universe;
The bursting breast delivers forcefully its song of triumph.
<<What is it?>> Father’s call perceiving,
Inquires his son,
In single effort bound to solve all secrets of the world
<<What is it?>> and <<What is it?>> Now as once upon a
time. . . .
 
The boy’s inquisitiveness thus recalls
His own unquenchable thirst for knowledge,
And from the past his <<whats>> and <<why>> re-echo
Demanding answers from his father.
It likewise came to pass that glorious spring evoke,
Snows were just melting, skylarks chanting Hallelujah,
In bosom germinated psalm which then exploded in
hosanna,
The time was ripe, the nature eager to conceive new life,
While father’s earnest eyes but gazed at his successor,
Unnamed adversities foreseeing . . .
<< O say, what is it? >> Now again the son commands his
father,
As though unable to distinguish
Good tidings, clearest sounds of nature:
Here is the vanquisher of winter,
The spring of yesterday, this day and morrow!
 
- Roman V. Kuchar

2000 Poetry Contest Winners

1st Place

untitled

if i could write a poem
like kansas flat in the
middle of a map i would
make it rise up through
the blank of the page a
snow field austere dead
to the eyes & sound too
sharp in the quiet wind
a poem silhouetted like
bare limbs of a tree in
that whiteness singular
sinuous & black defined
by its surroundings the
white running to a pale
empty western horizon a
line complicated in its
relationship of what is
here & there evanescent
but complete amid limbs
between the solid black
body stretching skyward
if i could write a poem
that passes through the
rite of kansas flatness
right into the state of
being kansas & discover
of myself my birthplace
w/out doubt of the four
seasons nor the sun nor
windweather raindrought
that brings life to the
thresher wheel & forces
importance into corners
once overlooked & lowly
a poem that gives place
to myself in poetry and
poetry in kansas all on
the plain page the same
map & space then kansas
would not need poetry &
i would not need poetry
if i could write a poem

 
- Eric Norris