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Radio Mirrof'i Prize Poem
Mere happiness — I cannot wish you that — A slap-dash, carefree and unbroken joy — Not in such times as these. How trite, how flat. The very words — how weak the souls they cloy! A happy New Year — ^no; that not, these days — You are too stalwart to want such a thing. Knowing th^ world and its vinhappy ways — So let me wish that this New Year may bring Faith — not for moving mountains but to bear Dull, barren places where there ore no hills. Doubts, disillusionments that linger there. Faith and the hope that lessens present ills — These I would wish you, friend, in full increase — And love that spends itself to search for peace.
—Violet Alleyn Storey
Ttevefi ^ Sadi
Never go back to the hills you loved
When years were few.
Seeking to capture remembered hush
Of morning dew;
Thinking the berries will be as sweet
In hidden nook;
Waiting the leap and the flash of trout
In crystal brook.
Little will be as you saw it last
Long years ago.
Hills, can be leveled and once-wide brooks
No longer flow.
Never go back where your young feet ran
Fleet-winged and free.
Sigh, and return to it only in
Your memory.
— Madeleine Burch Cole
Momently I must decide must I, should I — why admit I'm thirty years old today? I don't look it, not a bit, I feel like seventeen inside, you cannot find a thread of gray — I plucked them all out yesterday. This decade has a magic fit, within its armor I defied age and time and kept youth mine. I think I'll just stay twenty-nine. — Mory Poole
She never heard of vitamins
Or calories ... or diet Meal planning sounded fine
But there was never time to try it. The books on child psychology
She hadn't time to read What with a hungry husband
And ten boys and girls to feed!
Despite these disadvantages
Her life was rich and bright She washed and cooked and ironed
Then sewed by candlelight! Yet ... to my great bewilderment
Time spreads its golden haze And she reviews those hardships
Fondly, as the "good old days!"
— Zoa Morin Sherburne
7^ TOaUuif TOaiU
When mother's whistling switch had stung our
legs We took our mortal grief into the barn Where we could splice our plight with "heck!"
and "darn!" And talk to Biddy on her warm brown eggs. In dusty semi-darkness we could bawl And snifHe our indignities and pain Into the silkiness of Prince's mane. Or kick our anger out against the stall. Face down in hay I often wept with Brother While baby swallows twittered in the loft; Once Rusty brought us kittens, warm and soft, And hinted, catwise, to forgive our mother — With grievances forgotten, eyes would dry. Just where do city kids go when they cry? — Cosette Middleton
Add only this: our wish for
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