2022 VOICES OF LINCOLN POETRY CONTEST

 

 

Poets wanted. The 18th Annual Voices of Lincoln Poetry Contest begins in April, National Poetry Month. The contest theme is “People Are . . .  Everything.” 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.

 

 

 

The twists and turns of life are complicated. Sometimes things happen that are difficult to explain.

 

We search for answers. Finding them can be overwhelming, as you will see in . . .

 

 

Little Did I Know

 

     I’d been putting off cleaning up the garage for months. Well, maybe years. I stood eying the piles of accumulated “wealth,” wondering why we’d kept these treasures for so long. Some were mine, others were Carla’s, and then . . . there were the family mementos I couldn’t live without—the stuff I’d “inherited” after my parents moved to heaven. Well, it’s time. Just roll up your sleeves and get started, I thought.

     As I shuffled over to the first pile, the phone in the kitchen rang. Guess Carla will get it. But it kept ringing.

     So I turned and hustled into the house and grabbed it just as it was about to go to voicemail. “Hello,” I gasped, somewhat out of breath.

     “Hi, Marco. It’s Dad.”

     “Yeah, right. My dad died eight years ago, so you’re not him. Nice try.”

     “Marco, don’t hang up!” the voice screeched.

     I pushed the off button and stood there looking off into space. Then the back door opened. Carla stared at me with a weird expression on her face.

     “Marco, you look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

     “Well, maybe.”

     “What?”

     “Didn’t you hear the phone ring?”

     “No. I was working in the vegetable garden and had my earbuds in my ears listening to music. Who was on the phone?”

     “My father.”

     “That’s impossible. He’s dead.”

     “You think?”

     “Must’ve been one of those crank calls.”

     “Probably. I didn’t stay on long enough to find out. But what else could it be?”

     “Well, just forget it. What time do you want to eat dinner?”

     “Same time as always—around six.”

     I pulled myself together and headed back into the garage. I grabbed a box off the first pile that I stumbled upon. I removed the top and almost had a heart attack. Staring me in the face was a picture of my father taken at his eighty-fifth birthday party, a year before he died. I began to shake. This is crazy, I thought.

     Fearing the worst, if I opened another box, I decided to work on the cabinet holding our old garden tools, most of which hadn’t been touched in over ten years. I grabbed a small shovel and cried out, “No way!” Etched in its handle was the name, Antonio—my dad.

     The door from the house opened. “What are you yelling about?” Carla inquired.

     “You don’t want to know.”

     “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have asked. So, are you going to tell me?”

     “All right. When I opened the box on the top of that pile over by the workbench, my father’s eighty-fifth birthday picture was the first thing I saw.”

     “So, what’s the problem?”

     “You don’t think that’s a bit eerie, after the call I received.”

     “Coincidence, yes. Eerie, no.”

     “Then I picked up a shovel and my Dad’s name was etched in the handle.”

     “Now that’s eerie.”

     “What do I do?”

     “I don’t have a clue,” Carla said. “Let’s have dinner and try to forget any of this happened.”

     “I’ll try. But it won’t be easy.”

     When I entered the kitchen, the table was set and the smell coming from the food brought me back into the world I savored—the one that put the extra twenty pounds on my six-foot frame.

     Dinner was wonderful. I smiled and chanted, “Darling, you’re the greatest cook ever. I’m feeling better already.”

     “Help me clean up and we’ll find a movie to watch.”

     “Sounds like a plan I can handle.”

     Carla started putting the leftover food, which wasn’t much, in the refrigerator, and I loaded the dishwasher.

     She gazed at me and smiled. “I love you,” she said, glowing.

     “I love you, too.”

     “I’ll finish here. You go find us a movie to watch. And take the phone with you.”

     I left the kitchen and headed to the living room. I was about to pick up the remote, when the phone rang. “Hello.”

     “Marco, it’s Mom. Dad said you hung up on him, so I’m calling. We need to talk to you.”

     “This is ridiculous. He’s dead and your dead, too. I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’ve had it. Goodbye!”

     Carla came running into the room. “Why are you shouting? You’re white as a sheet. And who was that on the phone?”

     Trembling, I sputtered, “My mother.”

     “That couldn’t be,” Carla said, now very concerned. “She’s dead.”

     “Don’t you think I know that?”

     “Someone’s playing you.”

     “But who? And, what for?” I queried.

     “I don’t know. But there’s nothing we can do about it tonight. So let’s watch a movie and relax before going to sleep. Things will be better in the morning.”

     “How do you know?”

     She didn’t answer me. After the movie, we got ready for bed and I hoped for a better tomorrow.

     I slept peacefully—almost too peacefully. I felt trapped, entombed in my own bed.

     When I arose the next morning, I noticed a newspaper on the nightstand beside the bed. I had no idea where it came from.

     The light coming through the blinds of the window illuminated the first line of the article at the bottom of the page. It read, “Our community is in deep mourning over the loss of our beloved neighbors and friends, Carla and Marco Perez, who died in a horrific car crash, early yesterday morning, on Highway 65.”

     Stunned, I didn’t know what to do. Then the phone rang. I shook at the thought of who might be on the other end of the line. But I was dead. So why should I care? I reached over and picked it up. “Hello.”

     “Marco, now do you understand why your father and I contacted you?”

     “Yes, Mother,” I said, my voice quivering.

     I felt a hand on my shoulder and turned around, expecting to see Carla. To my surprise, Mom, with Dad standing next to her smiling, whispered,  “We’re here for you and Carla. We will help you find your way.”

     With tears in my eyes, I replied, “Thank you.”

 

 

Copyright © 2022 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Making fun of others, picking on them because they are different, is something that has plagued us for generations.

 

Not being part of the in-crowd can be heartbreaking. Having a crush on that special someone may lead to unforeseen consequences, as you will see in . . .

                                                                  

 

The Unexpected

 

“I like you,”

she said,

with a whimsical smile

on her face.

I had hoped

for this moment,

so long in coming.

 

She

had been the girl

of my dreams

the past three years—

since the fourth grade,

but I didn’t think

she knew

I was alive.

 

Was she

being sincere?

I didn’t know.

However,

she opened

the door

and I needed

to enter.

 

Her pretty nose,

perked up

high

in the air,

ignited

my soul.

 

She nodded,

and motioned

to me

to come

with her.

 

Was this

my chance

at love?

I had

to find out.

 

Moving

with trepidation,

I followed her,

as she

danced off.

 

She disappeared

around the corner

onto Garden Way.

My heart raced,

as I tried

to keep up

with her.

 

Out of breath,

I rounded

the corner

and . . .

my young world

turned

upside down.

 

I found myself

amid

a crowd of kids—

gawking, pointing,

and laughing

at me.

 

“Hey nerd,”

one bellowed.

“Smile—

you’re on

YouTube.”

 

Sweat poured

from every pore

in my body.

My face

reddened.

 

I buried

my head

in my hands.

Tears blurred

my vision.

 

My worst

nightmare

realized,

I spun around

and ran.

 

 

Copyright © 2022 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Attempting to take advantage of people has become a common practice in our world today. Scams permeate our lives.

 

The phone, at one time a trusted vehicle for conversation between friends and family, is now a tainted source of communication. This becomes evident in . . .

 

 

The Interruption

 

What a day I had—nothing went right.

The toaster blew up in the morning sending remnants of burnt bread flying.

Then some joker cut me off on the way to work.

I swerved to avoid him and muttered under my breath, “Idiot.”

And it got worse at the office, since I couldn’t access my email 

    and my phone rang off the hook.

 

Things seemed to change for the better, when I arrived home.

My wife, Janis, gave me a passionate kiss in the doorway.

The kids, Janie and Chris, hugged me, and Marnie, our cocker, washed      

    both my hands.

After a wonderful dinner, Janie and Chris excused themselves 

    and went to their rooms to do their homework.

Janis smiled at me and chanted, “You look bushed. I’ll clean up in here.”

 

I retreated to the family room.

Collapsing into the plush, brown leather sofa, I gave a sigh of relief.

Things couldn’t get any better.

The day’s events began to disappear from my mind.

Dreams of more pleasant times captured my heart.

 

The wood burned brightly in the fireplace.

Shadows danced across the floor like mischievous pixies.

Ashes frolicked playfully, chasing each other through the flames.

A crackling sound toyed with the silence of the moment.

I was at peace.

 

Then the phone rang, disturbing this relaxing setting.

Since Janis didn’t answer it, I reached over to the end table 

    and picked it up.

I mumbled, “Hello.” Silence. And then . . .

Music blared so loud, I thought it would destroy my eardrums.

The recorded announcement that followed rattled my brain.

 

It went on and on about the cash prize I’d won.

It instructed me to send the number of my savings account to a bank 

    in the Cayman Islands.

Doing this would allow my winnings to be deposited directly into the account.

“What the hell!” I screamed. “Why me? Do they think I’m crazy?”

My peace of mind interrupted, a fire ignited in my gut over this unwanted invasion 

    into my life.

 

 

Copyright © 2022 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

When you talk to someone and they don’t respond, what do you do?

 

Did they hear you? How do you know? Maybe you should visit . . .

 

 

Echo Island

 

     Sara stood in front of the kitchen sink glaring at Peter. Gazing out the window, he seemed oblivious to her presence.

     “Peter, I can’t take it any more.”

     “Huh?”

     “Aren’t you listening?”

     “What?”

     “I need to talk to you. It’s important.”

     “What time is our show on tonight?”

     “Didn’t you hear me? We have to talk.”

     “We are talking, Sara. I asked you about the show we watch tonight.”

     “But I need you to listen to me. Our show is not on until later this evening.”

     “Never mind. I’ll just Google it.”

     Without saying another word, Peter left the kitchen and headed to his home office. Sara stood staring off into space. Her mind raced. We’ve been married for over thirty-five years and nothing has changed. The conversation always is one-sided.

     What am I going to do? she thought. I’m fifty-five years old. We’re empty nesters. Our three kids have families of their own. At least I used to be able to talk to them. But now . . .

     Peter screamed down the hallway, “Sara, what time’s dinner?”

     Sara glanced at the clock on the microwave above the stove. “Oh, my! I’ve been standing here for almost an hour. This is crazy,” she muttered.

     “Let’s eat at six,” she yelled. Silence. “Okay?” No response. “Did you hear me?” Still, no answer. “Oh, well,” she murmured.

     Amazingly, Peter appeared in the kitchen at exactly 6 p.m. and plopped himself down at the table. “I’m ready for a great dinner,” he chanted.

     Frustrated with her “wonderful” mate, Sara kept her mouth shut during the meal, while Peter rambled on and on about the show. Then, without acknowledging her, he got up and left the kitchen. Sara wanted to scream. But what good would it do? she thought.

     She cleared the table, loaded the dishwasher, and wiped down the counter. Confused, she didn’t know what to think. And then . . .

     “Sara, are you coming? Our show is on.”

     Sara ambled into the living room and sat in the recliner, while Peter slouched on the couch staring at the TV. Throughout the game show, “Last Resort,” he yelled at the contestants on the show, telling them what to do, but didn’t pay any attention to her.

     At the end of the show, he got up, stretched and shouted, “Great show. Glad we both liked it. Good night.”

     Sara shook her head. “He never asked me what I thought of the show,” she mumbled. “He never listens to me—only to himself. Our marriage needs fixing. Something has to be done. We can’t go on this way. I need help.” 

     The man Sara believed she loved lived in world of his own, one in which she had become invisible. She was exhausted from the turmoil of the evening. Bed and a good night’s sleep was all she could think about—but not in the same bed with Peter. He won’t miss me, she thought, as she headed to the guest room for a night of peace and quiet.

     As she lay in bed, something weird happened. A stranger, in a flowing white gown, grasped her hand. Sara looked at her, confused. “Who are you? Why are you here?”

     The stranger murmured, “You said you needed help. I heard you, and I came. Trust me.”

     “Why should I?”

     “Look around you,” the woman said softly. “What do you see?”

     With her eyes closed, hoping to make this eerie person disappear, Sara responded, “I don’t have to. I’m in my guest room.”

     “Open your eyes and tell me what you see,” the woman reiterated.

     Sara shivered at the notion of what might be revealed. However, she was certain she was in the guest room bed in her home. She couldn’t be any place else. So, mustering up her courage, she opened her eyes.

     What she saw blew her away. She lay on a blanket on the grass in a beautiful garden. The smell of wonderful flowers enchanted her. She looked at the woman and asked, “Am I in paradise?”

     The woman smiled. “This is what you wanted—serenity. Now, your wish has been granted.”

     “This is a dream. Isn’t it?”

     “Maybe, but maybe not. It’s up to you to decide.”

     “All right, it’s real. Now tell me where I am.”

     “You’re on island that will help you get everything you’ve ever wanted in a marriage.”

     “What are you talking about? Are you saying I’ll meet the man of my dreams?”

     “Not exactly.”

     “Then what?”

     “You’ve already met him.”

     “I have? But where?”

     “At your eighteenth birthday party.”

     “But there was just one boy at the party who I wanted to get to know. And I . . .”

     “Go ahead, say it.”

     Sara shouted, “Married him.”

     “Married him, married him, married him, married . . .”

     “Why are you saying that over and over again?”

     “I’m not. You say it again and listen closely.”

     “All right. Married him . . .”

     “Married him, married him, married him, married . . .”

     “That’s my voice. Isn’t it?”

     “Yes, it is.”

     “But why?”

     “You don’t know?”

     “No.”

     “But you do.”

     “I do?”

     “I do, I do, I do, I . . .”

     “There it goes again—my voice repeating itself over and over again. But why?”

     “You tell me.”

     “Those were the words from my heart I said to the love of my life when I married him.”

     “And now, what does your heart say?”

     “That I still love him?”

     “Love him, love him, love him, love . . .”

     “Oh, my God! I do love him.”

     “Then let him hear those words,” the woman in white stated.

     “Yes, I will,” Sara murmured.

     “I must go now,” the woman said.

     “But you can’t. I don’t know where I am.”

     “You’re on a very special island—‘Echo Island’—where the ‘important words’ you utter will never ever leave you.”

     “How do I get home?”

     “Close your eyes.”

     “Okay.”

     “Now open them.”

     “Oh, my . . . Peter, I love you.”

     “I love you, too, Sara.”

 

 

Copyright © 2022 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

As we age, time can take its toll. Getting up in the morning is not as easy as it used to be.

 

Some of us travel life’s road better than others. And for that they gain our admiration, as becomes evident in the life of . . .

 

 

A Gracious Lady

 

Look around you.

What do you see?

One gracious lady—

admired is she.

 

Ever the optimist,

a lady of class,

half full,

not half empty,

always her glass.

 

Open to travel

and experiencing

new things,

her years

have been blessed,

with all life brings.

 

Never a frown,

always a smile,

a pleasure to be with,

hope she stays

for a while.

 

A lady worth knowing,

a spirit so great,

she treats

all with respect,

tis a marvelous trait.

 

Elegant in presence,

challenges she meets,

dancing through life,

friends she greets.

 

Never alone,

she always partakes,

in parties and gatherings,

if that’s what it takes.

 

Our blessings

we give

to this lady of grace,

as she travels

through life

at an exceptional pace.

 

Advancing in years

has not held her back.

Enthusiasm to keep going,

she does not lack.

 

She’s a woman

to appreciate

and greatly admire.

She’s one gracious lady—

all she does inspire.

 

 

Copyright © 2022 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.

Can we trust our country’s leadership? Do they have our best interests at heart?

 

If we look toward the future, what do we see? As our children grow, will they live in a world that cherishes them or one that controls them for the good of the privileged few? Focus on . . .

 

 

The Cowardly Lion

 

     I rolled over in bed in my dorm room, where I tried to take a nap before the start of afternoon classes. I didn’t have much success, however. So many thoughts ran through my mind, I couldn’t think straight. I stared up at the camera, embedded in the ceiling, which monitored my every move.

     My eyes shifted to the uncluttered desk to the left of the bed—no books, magazines, or newspapers in evidence. A wireless, three-inch mini-max computer, alone on the desk’s surface, projected a large screen image, suspended in mid-air. My name, Trey Olin, appeared at the top. The date, in huge, bold print—September 20, 2066—with the time flashing beneath it, jumped off the center of the screen.

     I propped myself up and peered out my second floor window. My view encompassed a major portion of this sprawling college facility. Quite impressive, I thought.

     Composed of four single-story classroom buildings, each with beautiful artwork embedded in the wall next to the front door; a small, but complete, all-electronic library; a huge combination gymnasium and field house, with retractable dome; a student union graced by a large platinum lion at the top of the steps of its magnificent glass-encased main entrance; three multi-level dormitories; and a rather massive theater, the campus mirrored the look of many of the mid-sized residential universities that existed in the United States up until 2056—the advent of the great revolution. At that time, drastic changes took place in our country and these campuses of the past disappeared from the academic landscape.

     Clarion College, completed two years before the nation’s rebellion, remained the only institution given the new government’s blessing and served as a physical symbol and reminder of the past—a past to which the country would not return.

     The sun’s rays illuminated the rolling hills surrounding this secluded campus, located less than forty miles from Washington, D.C. A new school year had begun—a time labeled by the academic leadership as “A Year of Glory and Ultimate Revelation.”   

     The college’s population paralleled that of most Ivy League schools of the mid-twentieth century, a time before women had been admitted to those hallowed halls of learning. Clarion’s enrollment consisted of two thousand young men of the highest intellectual, psychological, and physical caliber.   

     The ruling aristocracy boasted, “Only by God’s hand could such a special sanctuary of learning have been created.”

     No, I reflected. God’s hand had not touched this sacred campus, the home of a select body of privileged men. It was the work of . . .

     My concentration broke. My eyes flickered. A bright light coming from the direction of the student union took hold of me. I fixated on something I couldn’t make out. I could see it, yet I couldn’t see it. But how could that be? This thought confused and frightened me.

     The fall semester began three weeks ago. I was becoming acquainted with my professors, men who would open the doors of my mind to the wisdom and secrets necessary to become a future American leader. Yet I’d fallen into a deep sadness and couldn’t figure out why.

     As I struggled with the anxiety welling up within me, a piercing sound came through the mini-max’s speakers. It penetrated all the nerves in my body and delivered my complete attention to the voice that followed.

     “Young men of Clarion, please gather in the quad below, for afternoon classes are about to begin. Ready yourself to learn what no others before you have had the opportunity to experience. Prepare for the future, a future that holds extreme promise for you, for you are the chosen ones. You are the ‘Sons of Clarion.’”

     “What’s happening to me?” I screamed.

     “Be calm, my son. You are in my charge and I shall protect you,” the voice from the mini-max speakers again echoed through the room.

     “Oh my! I’m not alone. I’m never alone. What have I become?” I yelled.

     I’ve got to get a hold of myself. Had “They” heard my cries? But no response came from the mini-max, just silence—deafening silence.

     Then something took possession of both my mind and body. I couldn’t remember leaving the room. However, I soon found myself standing in the middle of the campus’s main quad, with the mini-max in the palm of my hand—one of 2,000 silent young men, all staring straight ahead. Controlled by a mysterious force, we would perform, as commanded.

     A shrill siren interrupted the tranquility. My head ached with a pain so intense I felt like I could vomit. But then, I felt happy, almost ecstatic.

     A voice came out of nowhere, “’Sons of Clarion’, go forth now and learn.”

     Stunned, I moved in robotic fashion with the others. We dispersed into four groups. Each marched in perfect precision across the rolling hills of the beautiful, well-manicured campus toward one of the four classroom buildings. As we advanced, I gazed at the institution’s pristine facilities. My eyes surveyed the massive gymnasium, a structure used for “training,” but not competition of any kind, for no opponents existed.

     Clarion College was different—exclusive. More than the only male college in the United States, it was the only college, of any kind, left in the country after the revolution.

     Although it stood as a reminder of the past, it also symbolized the future of a nation whose leadership refused to be burdened with teaching the young men and women who had stood toe-to-toe against the revolutionary forces. The very few chosen men—the brightest, strongest, most agile, most motivated—and, above all, those like me who maintained their silence during the overthrow of the government, would learn to become the country’s future leaders, those labeled “selectmen.”

     A brisk, cool wind slapped me across the face awakening the inner turmoil I should not have been experiencing in this “special” environment. From a distance, I saw the American Flag blowing in the breeze, free and unencumbered. I wished I felt free like the flag. I stopped for a moment and stared at it—something I shouldn’t have done.

     A raspy voice commanded, “Young man, please proceed with the group. Do not deviate from the path or your future might be at risk.”

     “What? Where are you? Who are you? What do you want from me?”

     “Please do as I say. Do not question my word.”

     So I did. I got back in step with the other “selectmen” and moved in the prescribed direction. 

     No fences surrounded this extraordinary compound—fences that might obscure the beauty of the grounds and lead outsiders to believe this institution of higher learning might not be what it appeared to be. Yes, no fences, but I couldn’t leave. I had no power, mental or physical, that would provide me with the ability to cross the invisible moat that separated the campus from the real world—the world beyond the nonexistent gates. I had to stay and serve.

     As “selectmen,” our training would allow us to lead from afar, safe from the bloody battles in which the nation engaged. Others, not so chosen, would be manipulated, like mechanical beings, by the likes of me, to do the country’s bidding. These “servants of the nation,” considered expendable, would be sacrificed for the good of the privileged aristocracy.

     I needed strength to face this world of privilege and segregation. Most of all, I needed the will to face myself, for I accepted my selection as one of the privileged—too arrogant to do otherwise. Tears welled up in my eyes.

     I would become a faceless controller, responsible for the deaths of millions. This overwhelmed me. Would my actions and those of my country go down in history as acts of strength or of weakness? Would I be considered a hero or a coward?

     Through my tears, I stared at the majestic monument standing at the top of the steps of the student union, right behind the flag now being whipped by the wind in an unmerciful fashion. The “Clarion Lion” exemplified strength, not just the strength of this prestigious campus, but also of our country. However, no matter how I rearranged the picture in my mind, I couldn’t help but feeling the once mighty king of the jungle had become nothing more then a “Cowardly Lion.”

 

 

Copyright © 2022 Alan Lowe. All rights reserved.