|SPD's AWP BAD POEM CONTEST|
|1st Prize Winner: Martin Nakell|
|Category: Worst Workshop Poem|
Spring A Fall the Sun the Moon
It was time for the sun to rise.
So, it being Spring, and dawn
the sun rose on time
making me think of death.
I looked out the window
and what did I see?
The sun rising!
But I also saw my son’s wagon
in the backyard. It wasn’t
the same wagon I had as a child
in my boyhood. But it was like
the wagon of my memory. Both
being red, I thought of my wagon,
and my boyhood, and how
it was gone and how the sun
keeps rising so inexorably
on my son as he sleeps in his boyhood bed
his passing years carrying him quickly
to manhood. I screamed at the sun:
I smashed my hand trough
the window glass as transparent as time,
waking up my son, who came down
the stairs, teddy in arms, to say
to me, Dad, not again, Dad.
He does not learn from my age
but, perhaps I can learn
from his youth, to play in
the sunshine of this day
given to us, so that we may know
tonight how the moon will take it away.