October Creative Challenge: winning poetry
poetry #toadartchallenge
Welcome to our first post on the site in some time. If our website is the only spot you follow us… you probably have a better bet of staying current with us by following us on social media, at @joplintoad. But in the meantime… we’ll try to post on here more often too.
Enough of that. On to the creative challenge…
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After a purely visual theme in September with our ‘mobile photography’ challenge, the toad switched to the literary side of things in October with a simple challenge of poetry.
Narrowing down is always a tough thing, but after much deliberation, we chose 3 winners: Autumn Neuenschwander at #1, Gabby Heth at #2, & Alan Melot at #3.
A huge congrats to all 3 winners; their entries are below.
PS- a note from the toad team: You may recognize the last name of our winner, as it’s shared by toad-in-chief Mark N…. who may or may not be married to the winner of this contest. For full transparency; while toad council members are not eligible to compete in the challenges, the team decided that family members are still eligible. Mark was NOT one of the judges for this contest; the jurors are very trusted, and based their voting process on content & quality, not on any connections to the Toad team.
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“Couch on the Curb”
by Autumn Neuenschwander
Couch on the curb, do not disturb
Only supporting the shit of a bird.
Pulled apart and exposed,
Where family once dozed,
Now dirty and soggy and mold overgrows.
Your cushions upheaved,
For abuse they received,
Punished for upholding the ones that you loved.
You braced all their weights,
Accepting your fate,
To crumble and wither with each passing day.
Why don’t they recover, restore, or revamp
‘Stead of tossing you curbside to hitch like a tramp?
“I’m still good! I’m still good!” Your words won’t come out.
Restrictive upholstery, you foam at the mouth.
The trash man he comes, he’s whistlin’ a tune;
A melody dissonant, spelling out doom.
You steel up your frame, anticipate shame,
Getting used to the concept of being unmade.
You give up control in death as in life.
Rest comes for the resting place, arms open wide.
Unrealized dread, the truck comes into view.
“To Restore is Our Business. Recycle! Renew!”
The paint-chipping words seem so out of place,
For a truck stuffed with garbage, a hidden disgrace.
Coveralled figures spring forth from the rig,
But they don’t smell of rubbish, they’re dancing a jig!
You’re picked up with care and gingerly handled,
Hoisted onto the bed, lovingly dismantled.
Pulled apart from the core- the sound of unseaming.
The pain is exquisite, “But who will I be?!”
You think to yourself, “Which part contains ME?”
Components are sorted by substance and use.
Joyous uncreation; your stuffing unloosed.
The insides are outside, your outside is gone.
“Am I more than just parts- nailed, glued, stuffed, or sewn?”
Outsiders can see all the stuff you contained,
All that you once suppressed, your joy unrestrained.
Bent nails, splintered wood, and upholstery stains;
The proof of your love, all that remains.
The men still at work on productive destruction,
Your presence diminished by stature reduction.
Pain starts to transform during posture alignment,
A mirror would tell of your profile refinement.
“Perhaps I am more than just a stuffed perch?”
The progress continues, it no longer hurts.
Stripped of your glory- your cushions and tufts-
You’re just made of you, and that is enough.
Your Generational Wealth is My Generational Trauma
by Gabby Heth
American fallacious thought dictates:
Hard work provides future wealthy rewards.
Ask any wealthy man and he will say:
“I just worked really hard every damn day.”
It’s true to him, but partial truths are lies.
My purpose is to open up your eyes.
If you will take a peek beneath his shoes,
the dust and soil and skeletons reveal
generational trauma to be healed:
The bones of my ancestors cry aloud.
The bison skulls piled miles high off the ground,
the lands ripped from my ancestors bare hands,
the children stolen from their languages.
While you inherit homes and businesses,
my people inherit the ill effects
of dispossession, trauma, genocide.
When you in your new beach house do reside,
please keep in mind these facts that I confide.
Don’t pat yourselves on backs that don’t have scars.
Your wealth weighs heavy; to this day it mars!
I don’t blame you for your ancestor’s sins.
Don’t discard where your full success begins.
Your generational wealth just might be
my generational trauma, d’ya see?
Gifts of COVID
by Alan Melot
My breathing is labored
I awake
Inhaler is close, I take a hit
Count to 20
Breathe out
Another hit on the inhaler
Count to 20
breathe out
Breathe
Breathe
I can breathe again and remember
"The studies say that lung capacity is one of the best determinates of life expectancy!"
I don't have as long as I'd hoped
I must be about my Father's business