The Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest has been my passion since 2009, the year I became its coordinator. Although I am not one of the contest’s judges, I do read every one of the wonderful poems submitted from poets in my own community and around the world.

Many of you already have visited the contest “Rules and Entry Form” posting, dated June 4, 2020. And some of you have entered the contest. If you have, “Thank you.” For those who have not taken the opportunity to look at the posting, please do so. For all of you, I’d like to share . . .

 

A Brief History Of The Voices Of Lincoln Poetry Contest

The Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest began in 2005. The contest is now in its sixteenth year. It began as a regional contest, with poets entering from Lincoln, CA, and Placer County, CA, and, in later years, extended to the greater Sacramento, CA, area. In 2010, a poet from the state of Ohio entered the contest and in 2012, the contest became international, with a poet entering from Queensland, Australia.

The number of poets entering the contest grew over the years and in 2017 drew the most entrants in the history of the contest. One hundred eighty-two (182) poets submitted 454 poems. Ninety-six (96) young poets submitted 233 poems. Poets came from 43 California cities, seven (7) states outside California, and from five (5) countries—the US, England, India, the Philippines, and Singapore.

The theme of this year’s contest is “Seeing Is Believing Through Poetry.” There are five new categories to challenge the poets’ imagination and ignite their passion: “What Do I See When I Look In The Mirror?”   "I See You In My Dreams”   "You Should Have Seen What I Saw Today”   "I See A World With Many Opportunities”   "See If I Can Make You Laugh.” Poets may submit a maximum of three poems, no more than one in each of three of the five contest categories. “Young Poets,” 18-years of age or under, are encouraged to submit poems and will compete in a special “Young Poets” category. Everyone is encouraged to enter. The "Rules and Entry Form" can be downloaded here. The contest deadline is July 18, 2020.

First, second, and third place winners will be selected in each category, both for adult and young poets. Ties are allowed. Last year, three anonymous judges, who had no knowledge of which poets wrote which poems, selected 38 winning poems, submitted by 31 poets, including 13 “Young Poets,” ages 12 through 17. Winning poets came from 17 California cities, from Phoenix, AZ; Atlanta, Georgia; Plymouth, MA; Dayton, OH; and London, England.

This year, as in the past, winners will read their poems at the Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest Special Event. This wonderful day has had some very special moments, such as when a 94-year-old female, winning poet approached a nine-year old winning poet and told him, “Your poem was great. Never stop writing.” As their worlds meshed, the glow in their eyes was unforgettable. And two years ago, I asked an 11-year-old female poet, who was too small to read her poem from the podium, if she wanted me to hold it for her, so she could hold the hand mic, as she read in front of the podium. She gave me the weirdest look and stated, “I’ve got this under control. This is my audience.” And, yes, she was in control.

The event will take place on Sunday, October 11, 2020, from 3:00 to 5:30 p.m. at the Lincoln Public Library in Lincoln, CA. Winners who are unable to attend the event will have their poems read by a member of the Poets Club of Lincoln. All winners will receive a commemorative chapbook of the winning poems.

Alan Lowe, Contest Coordinator

June 2020

 

We look for the one person who will fulfill our dreams. We know they are out there—somewhere.

 

And then, out of nowhere, they appear. We wish for a future together, one in which this special individual will become an important part of our lives and add . . .

 

 

A Touch Of Class

 

Seeing you across the room made my heart skip a beat.

Your flowing red hair highlighted the glow upon your face.

I wanted to approach, but the thought of being rejected frightened me.

Then you moved, with elegance, in my direction.

 

I stared in awe, as you walked toward me,

And readied myself for the encounter I awaited.

Enthralled by the mere presence of your being,

I tried to find the right words with which to address you.

 

Anxiety welled up within—all my emotions soared.

I straightened my tie, stood erect, and . . .

Smiled, but you were not looking my way and did not see me.

You walked right by, as if I did not exist, and headed out of the room.

 

My eyes closed in frustration, and when they opened,

I wanted to follow you, but hesitated, and then it was too late.

You danced like an angel through the ballroom doors

And disappeared from my life, but not my mind.

 

My heart felt empty—a chance at love missed,

A desire unmet, a dream unfilled.

I pray our paths will cross once again

And hope for the courage to engage you.

 

Intrigued by your sophistication, the lost opportunity has not discouraged me,

For I believe in my heart, we are meant to be.

We will meet one night on our journey through life,

And ignited by the flames of love, you will add a touch of class to my world.

 

 

Copyright © 2017 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

How much control do we have over our own mind? Do we always know what’s going on?

 

Can we lose sight of what is fantasy and what is reality? And if we do, how does this impact our world. If you pay attention, you may find out . . .

 

 

In The Head Of The Class

 

     “I won’t come to your office to meet,” she screamed, and slammed the phone down so hard it made me shake all over.

     “What was that all about?” I muttered.

     Claudius stared at me from the wall in front of my desk. “Are you all right? You appear agitated.”

     “I have no clue. I’m the Dean, the Dean of Social Sciences, and I have the right to ask one of my direct reports to meet with me in my office. Don’t I?”

     “Why ask me? I just hang around and keep you company from time to time. I hope my presence brightens your dismal life.”

     “Dismal life? What the hell are you talking about?”

     “Well, Dr. Martin Sanger, your life is . . .  How can I say this politely? Oh, your life is boring.”

     “Boring, Claudius? Why do you say that? I’m a Ph.D. and a professor and dean at a prestigious university—Brandon State. I have it all. You hear me. I have it all. Everything I’ve always wanted. I’m blessed.”

     “Calm down, my dear professor. I didn’t mean to get your knickers in a twist.”

     “You’re just an English clown. What do you know anyway?”

     “Why, yes, the first part of your statement is accurate. I am, indeed, English. But I take offence with the second part. I’m much more than a clown. I’ve been around. Traveled across the ocean to make your acquaintance, I did. You’d be surprised how many important people I’ve hung around.”

     At that moment, I heard muttering coming from the wall behind me. Now what, I thought.

     “Can’t you guys keep your voices down? I can’t concentrate.”

     “Sorry, Joseph. But his life is boring. It moves along like a snail on a road of still not dry tar. He’s in a rut. Going nowhere,” Claudius stated.

     “You’ve got a point there, Claudius. I’ve looked over his shoulder a lot. There’s nothing happening. He’s just going through the motions—dreaming, but not living the dream.”

     “Oh, God! What am I going to do with the two of you?” Silence—no reaction. So I got up from my desk and moved toward the door.

     “Where are you off to?” Claudius asked.

     “You know, it’s none of your business. Stay here and keep each other company. You two jokers were meant for each other.”

     I stomped out of the office, slamming the door behind me, and shuffled down the corridor of Godfrey Hall. Where am I going? I mused. Maybe I’ll get a bite to eat.

     I left the building and headed toward the cafeteria. “I’ve got to clear my head. Those two have no idea what they’re talking about. They’re the ones stuck in neutral—hung up for life,” I moaned.

     “You talking to me?” a ravishing brunette inquired.

     “Huh. No, I didn’t know you were there. And I have no idea who you are.”

     “You’re cute. My name’s Tess. What’s yours?”

     “Martin. Martin Sanger.”

     “Well, Martin Sanger. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

     This took me by surprise. Pictures of Claudius and Joseph rushed like a river out of control through my mind.

     “Yes, Martin. You must go with her. This is right. It’s your chance to break out of the rut that’s dragging you down,” Claudius sputtered.

     “I’ve got to agree with Claudius, Martin. Do it, Martin. Do it!” Joseph urged.

     “But I don’t know. I don’t know,” I whispered.

     “Calling Martin Sanger. Are you there, Martin? Come in, Martin.”

     “Huh. Oh, you . . . I’m sorry. My mind drifted off. I’m terribly sorry.”

     “So, are we going for that coffee, or not?”

     “Yes. Okay. But I may not be the best company.”

     “I’ll take my chances. It’s only a cup of coffee.”

     We headed into the cafeteria. I motioned to Tess to follow me into the faculty lounge. I saw a nice table in the rear, next to a window overlooking a beautiful garden. I pulled out a chair and Tess sat down. “Cream or milk in your coffee?”

     “Cream please,” Tess responded.

     “Good, I’ll be back in a minute.”

     I ambled back to the service counter and ordered two cups of coffee, one black and one with cream. I placed them on a tray, paid the lady at the register, and made my way back to the table. As I approached, I noticed the table was empty. There was no sign of Tess. God, I thought, where could she be?

     I looked over at a middle-aged man sitting at the next table. “Sir.” He looked up at me. “Do you know where the woman went who was sitting here?” He gave me the funniest look.

     “Woman? What woman? You came in here alone a few minutes ago and then left. You seemed to be talking to yourself, but I couldn’t make out what you were saying. Nobody else has been in this section since I arrived a half hour ago.”

     “You don’t remember I came to this table with a woman?”

     “You must be confused. Look in one of the other sections—over there, behind that wall.”

     I didn’t respond. I just walked away.

     “You were with a woman, Martin,” Joseph blurted.

     “Well, thank you, Joseph. I thought I was going nuts. But where did she go?”

     In case she did move, probably because of the weird guy sitting at the other table, I made my way around the cafeteria. I scanned every booth, but didn’t find Tess. But Joseph saw her. So she must’ve been there, I reasoned. Maybe she got cold feet and took off. So I slurped my coffee, tossed the one for Tess in the garbage bin, and headed back to my office.

     As I walked, I mused, I am a professor. I am important. I must stand before my class with an air of confidence, for I am the head of the class. And I am the Dean of the department. So, head held high, I strutted with pride.

     I approached Godfrey Hall. A young man bolted out of the building’s large double glass doors and barreled into me, knocking me off the cement walkway onto the grass. I maintained my balance and screamed, “Young sir, you must watch where you are going. You could hurt someone or yourself.” He acted as if I wasn’t there, picked up his pace, and hurried off.          “That was very rude,” I grunted.

     “Yes, exceptionally so, my lord,” Claudius chanted.

     This confused me. Not only was Joseph with me, for he had confirmed I had been with a woman, Tess, but now so was Claudius. “Why are you two here?” I asked in a puzzled tone. “I told you to stay in the office.”

     “Well, someone has to take care of you,” Joseph emphasized.

     “We are your obedient servants, to a point, that is,” Claudius proclaimed.

     “But, as you know, I am very able to care for myself.”

     “Are you now?” Joseph asked in an impudent manner.

     A crowd gathered around, as the three of us taunted each other. They stood and eyeballed us as if they couldn’t believe what was happening. In some respect, I couldn’t blame them. For Joseph and Claudius certainly were out of line.

     “Who’s that guy talking to?” a tall blonde-haired, male student asked one of the other young men standing near him.

     “Don’t have a clue, Gary,” he replied.

     “I think he’s crazy, guys,” a young woman stated.

     “Should we call somebody to come get him?” the blonde-haired student asked.

     “I don’t want to hang around here waiting for someone to come. It’s not my responsibility,” Gary said.

     My world became quiet as I succeeded in getting Claudius and Joseph to stop running off at the mouth. But then, I heard more voices echoing around me. I turned and saw another group of students gawking at us. “What are you looking at?” I yelled.

     Nobody answered. The crowd dispersed, leaving me standing with my two silent friends. “Come on, let’s go inside. I don’t know what just occurred and I don’t care.” So the three of us entered Godfrey Hall and sauntered down the hallway toward my office.

     For reasons I couldn’t explain, I began to feel better. My head seemed clearer. As I approached the office, the office door across the hall opened. Charlene took one look at me and spun back in the direction of her office.

     “Charlene, our appointment is at 3:30 pm. I expect to see you in my office.”

     “You don’t listen, do you?” she screeched. “I hate clowns and won’t step foot in your office.”

     “Who are you calling a clown?”

     “Those pictures on your wall. They frighten me.”

     “Huh, pictures on the wall? What are you talking about?”

     “I think you gave them names. Something like Artemis and George,” Charlene said, trembling.

     “Pictures, no. You mean my colleagues, Claudius and Joseph. They work with me. Consult, so to speak.”

     “My God, do you realize what you’re saying? Have you lost your mind?”

     “My dear, calm down. I’ll see you in my office at 3:30. I’ll set my table for tea and crumpets for four, and we’ll talk.”

     Without a word, she turned and raced back into her office.

     “Moody woman,” Joseph exclaimed.

     “They are all like that at one time or another,” I declared, as the three of us entered my office and closed the door.

     About 3:30, I heard a knock on the door. Expecting Charlene, I opened it and stared at a man in a white coat.        

     “Please come with me, professor.”

     “But, why?” I asked.

     “You snuck out of the college’s hospital ‘Psych Ward’ this morning and disappeared. It’s time to take you back.” 

 

 

Copyright © 2019 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

They were the talk of the town, but never appeared together. Brothers, who looked so much alike, but dressed and acted so different.

 

Their strange behavior was of interest to many. But did anybody really understand . . .

 

The Two Sides Of The Coin

 

    They lived together in a peaceful union for over fifty years. They seldom argued with one another. And when they did, they resolved their disagreements in a way that made them both happy.

    Bright minds searching for life’s answers, they interacted as if each was in possession of one half of a complicated puzzle. If they didn’t work in tandem, the pieces remained scattered in a world that made no sense to either of them.

    Thomas and Timothy Coin moved to the upscale community of Whispering Willow Glenn in their mid-thirties. Now in their late-fifties, they remain a mystery to the town.

    They are a strange pair, who never appear in public together. When extended an invitation to a dinner party or town gathering, only one attends.

    Physically, they look very much alike—each six feet tall, with curly blond hair and similar facial features. But that is where the similarity ends. Thomas, the dapper one, dresses in a gray pinstriped suit or royal blue sport coat and shiny black leather shoes and prances through the town like a fine thoroughbred. Timothy, on the other hand, wears blue jeans, a V-neck sweater, and brown, rubber soled loafers and moves lazily through the streets, as if going nowhere.   

    The contrast can be seen in other behavior as well. Timothy spends money like water rushing out of a spout, while Thomas has the attitude of a rich miser. Ever the aristocrat, Thomas charms people with his perfect manners and speech. Downhome Timothy talks in a way that makes him one of the boys. He hangs with the easygoing crowd, but divulges little about himself.

    It is a sunny Monday morning in mid-April and a typical discussion takes place at the kitchen table. “I have to figure out what to do today to continue to fulfill my purpose in life,” Thomas states with flawless diction. Yet what his purpose is could not easily be detected by the town’s citizens.

    “Bro,” Timothy drawls. “I don’t have any idea what I’m gonna to do today. If you’re leavin’, I guess I’ll just hang out here at home. Maybe play some games on my iPad or strum my guitar.”

    “One has to do what one has to do,” Thomas replies. He gets up from the table, pulls his royal blue sport coat off the rack in the hall closet, and exits the house through the front door. About a third of the way down the driveway, he doubles back and locks the door. One cannot take chances, even in a fine town like Whispering Willow Glenn, he thinks.

    Living a little over a mile from the center of town, Thomas walks with precision and looks as if he is the star of an elegant parade. As he passes the splendid people of the town, he motions with his fingers and open palm of his hand from his forehead down toward the ground as if tipping a fine hat he isn’t wearing.

    Approaching City Hall, he notices the town’s mayor walking toward him. “Good morning, Mr. Mayor,” he states with conviction. “It is a beautiful day.”

    “Indeed it is,” the mayor replies and smiles, as he struts by him.

    Thomas continues his stroll, taking a moment to peruse the displays in each of the shop windows on Main Street. As he stares at camera equipment in the window of Domain Camera, the owner, Robert Richardson, appears in the doorway.

    “Thomas, can I help you? We have lots of new equipment that will enable you to take the finest pictures imaginable.”

    “I am just surveying the photographic paraphernalia you have in your window, Mr. Richardson. It is quite interesting, but I am not in the market for purchasing anything today. Thank you for asking.”

    “How is your brother, Timothy? I haven’t seen him in town for awhile.”

    At first, Thomas says nothing in response to the question. He seems confused. But then the words flow as if the dam holding them back has opened.

    “He is doing quite well. I will let him know you asked about him. I need to continue my walk. It has been good conversing with you. Have a nice day.”

    “You, too, Thomas. I hope to see you again soon.”

    Thomas motions with his fingers and open palm of his hand from his forehead down toward the ground and strides, with shoulders erect, down the street.

    The rest of the day is uneventful. Thomas engages in minimal conversation with the townsfolk he meets and decides to return to his abode. He marches, in perfect form, up the driveway, places the key in the lock of the front door, and enters.

    Standing in the hall, he removes his sport coat and hangs it in the closet and makes sure the door is closed. He appears lost as he stares straight ahead, looking, but not focusing on anything. Then he shakes his head and annunciates, “Well, hello, Timothy. How was your day?”

    “Not too eventful, bro. Spent most of it strummin’ my guitar and lookin’ out the window into the garden. The tulips are growin’ up fast. Think I might be goin’ to town this evenin’ to see what’s happenin’ there. Guess you won’t be commin’ with me.”

    “No, my place is here. I need to think about the day and how what I have learned has benefitted me in fulfilling my purpose on earth. You are free to go, while I enjoy my quiet time.”

    “Then I’ll just put on my goin’ to town duds and be off.” He returns from the bedroom, grabs his cowboy hat off the tall mahogany rack in the hallway, and exits through the front door. About a third of the way down the driveway, he doubles back and locks the door. One can’t take a chance leavin’ the door lock undone, even in a neighborly town like Whispering Willow Glenn, he ponders.

    He ambles down Avery Way and turns onto Main. As darkness falls upon the town, streetlights begin to come on producing a radiant glow. Timothy eyes his destination—Thurman’s Tavern. He picks up his pace and grabs the tavern door’s silver handle and yanks it open. He catches the attention of a big dude who yells, “Hey, Timothy boy, get your ass over here. Got some great new brew you need to try.”

    “I’m commin’ man. Just hold your horses.” He moseys up to the bar. “Now where’s this brew you’re talkin’ about.”

    “Just grab that bottle and chug it.”

    He hoists the bottle up to his mouth and lets the liquid flow. After two hours of drinking, he is totally wasted. His vision clouded, he looks at the guys around the bar. He thinks there are five, but who knows. He can’t see straight. “Gotta get out of here, boys. It’s gettin’ late and I’m soused.”

    He rolls off the bar stool and out the tavern door. He makes his way down Main Street and onto Avery Way. The next thing he remembers is waking up on the living room floor of his house. He has no idea how he got there. The clothes he has on are different than those he had on when he left the house for his evening on the town. His head hurts and he’s having trouble breathing. “I feel like I’m chokin’ to death. What was that stuff they gave me to drink?” he mutters. Darkness invades his world and then nothing.

    Three days pass and the absence of the Coin brothers on the streets of the town becomes obvious. For over twenty years, Thomas Coin made his daily trip to town to walk the streets, greet the people, and look in the various shop windows. His conversations were always brief and little was known about him, but he was a daily presence.

    In the evenings, Timothy Coin would appear on the scene, ready to carouse with the town’s good old boys. Downing drink after drink to the point he could hardly stand up, he would wobble out of the tavern and somehow make his way home.

    The absence of both brothers was cause for concern for they were embedded in the town’s culture—oddities to talk about over lunch by the town’s people. The mayor worried about the two, so he contacted the sheriff, who agreed to visit the Coin brothers’ home.

    When Sheriff Calloway arrived at their residence, he found the door unlocked. Using caution he entered the house. A peculiar odor permeated the place. As he walked into the living room, a man, one of the brothers, lay stretched out on the carpet. From the smell and look of the body, the man had been dead for days.

    As he scanned the corpse, he became unnerved, for he had no idea which Coin brother he was looking at. From the top of the body, clad in a dress shirt and tie and pinstriped suit jacket, the man appeared to be Thomas. But from the bottom up, the body, clothed in brown, rubber soled loafers and blue jeans seemed to be Timothy.

    Had one brother killed the other and set up the scene to confuse the authorities? They did look so much alike. They might have been identical twins, but nobody knew. However, if they were, fingerprints should distinguish one from the other and the medical examiner would check this out. For now, the sheriff embarked on a search of the house for a second body, but didn’t find one.

    The Crime Scene Investigation team arrived on the scene and collected evidence. Two weeks passed. With all tests completed, no conclusions could be drawn, for legal records showed identical fingerprints for both brothers. But this was impossible, even for identical twins. Were the records wrong? Had they been tampered with? Or, for over twenty years, had the town been acquainted with two brothers inhabiting the same body?

Copyright © 2016 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

How confident are you in your ability to face each day? Do you have the courage to speak your mind?

What must you do to succeed? In order to be prepared, you may need to engage in a  . . .

 

 Dress Rehearsal

The alarm clock buzzed, announcing a new day. You roll out of bed and prepare to face the challenges you will encounter on the job—a demanding workplace where you will engage an audience that has high expectations of how you should act.

You need to be ready—properly dressed and focused. And so you begin the day with a “Dress Rehearsal.” Since you need to perform your role on life’s stage with the expertise of an accomplished actor, you need to deliver your lines with precision to get your points across.

You position yourself in front of the mirror hanging on your bedroom wall. As an imaginary curtain rises, you stare at the audience you anticipate facing in just over an hour. With script in head, the dialogue of the character you are trying to be flows past your lips. Although you rehearse for what seems to be an eternity, a polished performance does not come to fruition.

So how can you face your real audience with confidence? And how do you prove to them the words you utter should be taken seriously? These thoughts rumble through your mind.

Sometimes the words spew forth as planned, while, at other times, the flow hits a mental dam, silencing your verbal presentation. Anxiety builds up inside of you when ideas are plentiful, but no matter how hard you try, you cannot find the words to express them. Disillusioned, you bow your head and hope for a second chance.

The alarm clock buzzed, announcing a new day and another dress rehearsal. And each subsequent day, history seems to repeat itself, as you rehearse the script embedded in your mind. Becoming more comfortable with your performance, you now are ready to excel on life’s stage.

 

Copyright © 2020 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

 

2020 VOICES OF LINCOLN POETRY CONTEST

Poets wanted. The 16th Annual Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest, “Seeing Is Believing Through Poetry,” began in April, National Poetry Month. Both adult and young poets are encouraged to enter.

Contest Rules and Entry Form can be downloaded here or requested from Alan Lowe, Contest Coordinator, at slolowe@icloud.com.