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Contests : Tom Howard/John H. Reid Poetry Contest : Past Winners : 2006 : Second Prize
OLD HAWK
It had been easy once—
a dozen effortless strokes—just the right attitude of wings,
climbing the wind as a child climbs a wave,
floating upward, just catching the crest,
then turning downwind
for the easy glide.
Now,
circling,
conserving every measure of energy,
(a small movement below worth investigating)
Old Hawk turns back, once again, into the wind,
and struggles to gain altitude.
Worn tendons and weary muscles struggle.
Nothing is easy anymore.
Still,
instinct is intact,
eyesight is pretty good,
and he is hungry.
**
Field Mouse emerges, warily,
from the cool safety of his den
beneath an abandoned wall.
Life, of a different kind, has been here.
It is his inheritance now.
He switches his way a brief distance
into the fading afternoon,
whiskers twitching,
little ripples of skin moving up and down his back,
nose up,
all energy,
feinting here—darting there,
checking for any sign of danger.
It is a little early for him,
and he knows the grain is gone,
but maybe there is something,
and he is hungry.
**
The tiny movement keenly spotted,
(surprised by its audacity,
but fine-tuned to its possibility),
the old hawk
marshals aging resources.
Lately he has been settling
for defenseless bugs,
a small snake, perhaps,
but even they are dwindling.
The pickings are lean for an old hawk,
and the seven-year drought
is everyone's enemy.
**
A slow calculated turn—
Downwind glide now—
easy—
easy—
not too fast,
timing has to be perfect—
flare the wings a touch—
tail feathers down just so,
legs down—
just enough drag—
talons ready—
closer—
perfect angle—
glide path skimming over the old piled stones—
he hasn't sensed me yet—
six more feet—
NOW!
**
Field Mouse knows something is wrong.
He checks and re-checks
sniffing the air,
whiskers at full sensitivity,
trembling body attuned to every possible threat.
but ONE!
**
Generations of spontaneous reaction
whisk him four inches to the left.
CRASH!
Thud!
feathers and fur
a vortex of dust and tiny pebbles
Screams
Squeals
**
Each takes a moment to evaluate the scene.
One takes longer than the other.
Field Mouse zips back under the piled stones.
Old Hawk limps away a few yards
humiliated,
and hungry still—
flaps weary wings,
and ponders:
How many tomorrows will there be?
**
The Anasazi left sometime before,
when they still could.
This poem won second prize in the 2006 Tom
Howard/John H. Reid Poetry Contest sponsored by Tom Howard Books. Author Noble Collins received a $400 award. Winning Writers assists this contest. Copyright is reserved to the author.
CENTRAL PARK
Close by the window
of my second-story flat
runs the El.
Pigeons walk carelessly along the tracks
fluttering away just in time.
You can adjust
to violent noise,
room-shaking vibration,
rude interruptions.
Well, maybe not completely,
all the time,
but repetition dulls your senses.
The colors in my world are brown, gray, black,
red brick;
no green,
no blue.
I ride the Subway to Central Park
to see green and blue,
and to hear soft sounds,
warm, musical sounds,
human sounds.
I see and I hear,
neither seen nor heard.
Paper advertisements float gently to the curb—
flyers that do not fly:
Dritan Luca will sing Rigoletto at The Met.
Simon and Garfunkel are at Carnegie Hall.
I will wear earphones and listen to recordings,
as rail cars rattle by my window.
Life ebbs through me slowly,
like an IV drip.
Wednesdays are the worst, I think—
the doldrums.
Nothing begins or ends on a Wednesday—
a stagnant, oppressive land-fill for Time,
a way station
like my life.
Sundays are the best.
There are fewer trains.
One rainy Sunday I rode the Subway
to Saint Pat's.
My Parish was closed for vacation.
It was early summer,
and the tourists had not yet arrived in great number,
and I lit three candles.
(I could not think of giving Confession there)
I just want you to know that I lit three candles
in Saint Patrick's Cathedral.
I did that,
and I carried no umbrella.
And, secretly, one of the candles was for me.
So, tonight, I can smile just a little.
A candle once flickered for me
in Saint Patrick's Cathedral—
so peaceful,
so quiet.
There, among tiers of countless candles,
I was not alone.
This poem won a High Distinction award in the 2006 Tom Howard/John H. Reid Poetry Contest sponsored by Tom Howard Books. Winning Writers assists this contest. Copyright is reserved to the author.
About Noble Collins
I am finally fully retired, so I can devote some time to one of my true
loves—writing. We have had an enduring relationship, but unrequited until
recently. John Reid rescued us from the homeless anonymous ranks of Wannabe
poets, and I am abundantly grateful.
I began writing little verses and songs in Grammar School. I seemed to have
a small talent, and this was a way to be noticed. In High School, my English
teacher published a poem of mine in a local literary magazine, and I thought
this was my fifteen minutes. In college, I had a wonderful professor who
brought me back to earth, but was extremely encouraging.
I wrote a few things throughout an adulthood of varied experiences. It
tended to keep me sane, or at least somewhat comprehensible. I never sought
to have anything published.
I now live in the mountains of northern Arizona where I plan to stay until
forcibly removed. This is my first time being published. Thank You!
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