Where I'm From Poetry Contest Second Prize Winner

By Heath Johnston

The ideal beau look of a city

Beauty from the Outset visitor

Landmarks within each kilometer

Yet to the insider, grim and gritty

Who cares of skyscrapers tall

The new years Lightning ball

Who cares of the city of Dallas

When the citizens are filled inwardly malice

My friends and brothers, lovingly close

Left in coffins from the streetly ghost

Gangs, violence, drugs and alcohol

Vices from few, affecting the all

Not to mention the horrendous human sort of traffick

I do not intend to be mindlessly graphic

These are the results and the designs of my city

Do not lose the facts within the publicity

I’m thankful for the opportunities that came

But I cannot help feeling nothing but shame

For the city to whence I once called home

The brutality masked by panels of chrome

Where I came from, hardly means anything now

My friends here are more than the city could allow

From where I was, to where I go, to me they are both the same

I am not the old person from whence I once came

So one may ask me, where are you from?

I am from whom I will become

Nothing past, nothing present

Forgetful growing adolescent

I am here, I am now, here to stay, and here to grow

So much more than the city, time will show

Hopeful for the future where I set my roots

In hopes of reaping those wondrous fruits

I have sprung forth on a new adventure

Far better than I could possibly conjecture

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Where I'm From Poetry Contest Honorable Mention

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Where I'm From Poetry Contest Third Place Winner

Where I’m From – Sam Jordan The cobble-brick square, the limestone street, The uneven concrete pavement, crackling beneath my feet. The tearful rain and frost-clad meadows, The house sparrows’, song uplifts and echoes. Stamford is undeniably beautiful when fall begins, But nothing comes close to this pulchrous town in the spring. The persistent fog ‘n’ damp morning dew, At the foot of the hill, makes for quite a remarkable view. Specks of rain dampen the moist ‘n’ soggy grass, As I gaze out of the window at this miserable forecast. Alas, it is not all gloom in my pretty little town, For I love the rain, it’ll never make me frown. Church bells ring, calling at every hour, Mosaic stone-glass windows climb up the spiral church tower. A quiet smile on my face, and a shiver down my spine, My heart so full, that this little town is mine. The wet ‘n’ lonesome man, Sitting silently on the graveyard bench, The marketmen sell their fruits, Dry, under their widespread tents. A primordial ooz...

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