Winning Poems

Dwarf Form

Winner, Dwarf Form

Whirlpool

by Colleen Anderson

I contemplate event horizons
cold center of the galaxy
my ship a foreign object
slows to infinity
time stretched, a moment
compressing me
unnoticed
cosmic
speck

Judge’s comments:
I immediately fell in love with the opening line: "I contemplate event horizons." This idea of being obsessed and entranced by a black hole and following that allure with a meditation on the brief moment of our mortality was humbling and beautifully done. I also appreciated the poet's attention to line and how they played with form to show a dwindling effect with the disappearance of words, light...and life.

Colleen Anderson lives in Vancouver, BC and has a BFA in writing. Her works have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Aurora, Rhysling and Dwarf Stars Awards in poetry, and longlisted for the Stoker Award in fiction. She has edited three anthologies and guest edited Eye to the Telescope.She has served on both Stoker Award and British Fantasy Award juries, and received BC Arts Council and Canada Council grants for her writing. Her works have seen print in numerous venues, including Polu Texni, HWA Poetry Showcases, Shadow Atlas and Heroic Fantasy Quarterly. Her poetry collection I Dreamed a World is being published by LVP Publications..

Second Place, Dwarf Form

She Reveals Herself

by Tabor Skreslet

In space-time’s womanly curves
all-consuming desire
of singularities
long gestations
violent births of stars
she paints the nursery
with fire and darkness
plucks a lullaby
on quantum strings

Judge’s comments:
I appreciated the contrast of violence and beauty in creation and how they showed motherhood can be monstrous but nurturing. My favorite lines were "long gestations/ violent births of stars/ she paints the nursery." This read as a piece detailing comfort and hope. It said that even though there may be pain, something beautiful can be on the other side. It's a reminder to keep going, even when it feels like we can't.

Tabor Skreslet is a physician, scientist, teacher, and writer. She grew up in Egypt and now lives in Charlottesville, Virginia. Her poetry has appeared in Cordella, Oracle, and Intima.

Third Place, Dwarf Form

Perpetual Care

by Christopher Ripley Newell

If two graveyards listen
for each other across the lake and hear
nothing
they send gifts of apple
blossoms, longer days, autumn
rain, murders of crows when frost asks
life to walk slower
alongside death.

Judge’s comments:
As I celebrate the Autumn solstice, this piece gives me everything I honor and find peace regarding the relationship between magic and death. The idea of graveyards listening and sending gifts to one another fills me with an otherworldly peace, and the way the poet handled seasonal imagery and solitude was wonderfully done.

Short Form

Winner, Short Form

i watch shelley duvall’s faerie tale theatre when i am afraid of what’s to come

by Kailey Tedesco

bustled in frog prince & love-tunnel eyeliner, a godmother
glosses my mouth-cuts. her gold-leaf makes

my voice halo & it hennins over my fear
of the neighbor who flips & folds his eyelids. i grow by repetition,

my body an imp supping its own happily. a homily
is how ever-afters are a matter of hair & makeup. i’m 1/3 once-upon-a-time

on my father’s side. my mother warns me to never suffer
accidentally. i can smell lolly-thickets in the viral video of

the star who repeats the word hello over 25 times. i can almost
lick the cookie rooms, taste the taffy hatchet.

i have the same varicose veins as her acetate
tiara. at confession, i am a spinner of sin.

the truth is i feel guilty having not been born in time
for the evening program, or its reruns. i mimic a dress

rehearsal, pull the cord on the booth-curtain & let every hole
of caning inspire a new episode.

Judge’s comments:
The way nostalgia was used as armor against anxiety, all woven through the fantastical experience of watching a show, resonated deeply with me. From a craft standpoint, though, I appreciated the intense imagery, the lack of capitalization (to enforce whimsy and the resonance of childhood), and the diction was unique in a masterful way. My favorite lines are: "I'm 1/3 once upon a time/ on my father's side. my mother warns me to never suffer/accidently.

Second Place, Short Form

Inter-dimensional Bodice Ripper (Paperback, $1.98 + tax)”

by Kailey Tedesco

You caught me plugging my axe
into the wall—escape
is immanent, not permanent.

You, the brute, and me
the double-misfit.
all pinch & wallow in front; all paper-
doll behind me.

I get moody with the radium
weaponry. The staircase I slip
down overlays the staircase
your shoes thundered,

waking us rudely. We wallflower
& charge the attic.
I’m in love with four
& twenty blackbirds

baked into another yesterday’s pie.
You were alive when I ate it,
dead by the time I was buried
in the crust. I’m one

of the birds, eating
the eating. You love
a feast & I love its faux-feathers
on me like static.

Take my clothes off. Take off
my sinew & keep my veins
intact for threading. In another life,
I’m a rapture-

outfit left to fondle
what’s left of the dirt. Six lives
ago we’ll find each other nude
& taken. Wait a little longer

& my lipstick will come coded
in a color i’ve never
predicted. I’ll use it to kiss
the blade that kisses

your forehead
once and for all.

Judge’s comments:
Conceptually, this piece had a little bit of everything for me, and I adored that it was sold as a bodice ripper; including the format and price in the title was a nice touch, and one that made me feel like I was shopping for poetry at an intergalactic grocery store where I just so happened to stumble upon this while waiting in line. When I read the following lines, though, in the spirit of the tone of this piece, I swooned: "I’m in love with four/& twenty blackbirds/baked into another yesterday’s pie./You were alive when I ate it,/dead by the time I was buried/in the crust. I’m one/of the birds, eating/the eating. It's fairy tale, it's science fiction, it's erotica. It's a win.

Third Place, Short Form

Reading Arthur C. Clarke, Sipping Hot Cocoa

by Jonathan Pessant

I remember you crying
at Christmas, unwrapping

Rendezvous with Rama
in your Saturn V pajamas.

The paperback copy still smelled
of grandfather’s cherry pipe tobacco,

each cloud warm in the infrared,
heavy enough to turn tears to snow.

*

You write to me each night
while you work dawn to dawn

on the James Webb Sunshield.
Each word is like the ’98 snowstorm

we got found in. All hope like ’08.
It’s night here in ’20. Good

she says, I’m looking forward;
stars need total dark to be seen.

Judge’s comments:
This piece is so strong in its sense of memory and human connection. I could smell the cherry pipe tobacco and hot cocoa while reading it. I can distinctly remember my first time reading Arthur C. Clarke, and that final line in the poem celebrates everything I love about science fiction: "stars need total dark to be seen."

Long Form

Winner, Long Form

A Maiden's Grimoire

by Fija Callaghan

Tᴏ ʙᴇᴄᴏᴍᴇ ʙᴇᴀᴜᴛɪғᴜʟ

At the first blush of sunrise,
on the first light of Maye,
gather dewdrops from the roses
that greet the morning sun.
(The better if these roses be
grown and tended by your hands.)
Then you may baythe your face,
throat, rosebud lips, eyes
that yet have seen no hardship.
And for a full turn of the year
you will glow with the radiance
of stars.

Tᴏ sᴇᴇ ᴀ ғᴜᴛᴜʀᴇ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀ
On the eve of Midsummers,
when the sun dips away
into those rocky highlands
of the night, one may gather
rose hips and rowan berries,
Saint John’s flower, bind them
with scarlet thread and linen
stained in maiden blood.
Seal this parcel with a kiss,
seal it with words of longing
to call forth dreams of passion
on this Midsummers’ night.

Tᴏ ᴅɪssᴜᴀᴅᴇ ᴀ ʀᴏᴍᴀɴᴛɪᴄ ʀɪᴠᴀʟ
Contrive to catch a pocketful
of linen, silk, or lace
that adorns the milken shape
who haunts his dreams at night.
Soak this swatch in sea-brine
for a full turn of the moon
(this to cool and cure
those insolent desires).
And, should the ocean’s chill
summon some small maladie
into her skin and bones,
or the sea salt strip away
the softness of her skin,
know these be the perils
of the maelstrom of love.

Tᴏ ɪɴᴄɪᴛᴇ ᴅᴇsɪʀᴇ ɪɴ ᴀɴᴏᴛʜᴇʀ
To catch his eye, one need only
carry Maye blooms in one’s purse
and wear a thread of scarlet silk
woven in one’s hair.
To catch his lips, lay down thorns
within the crevice of his steps,
and until sunrise all his paths
will lead only to you.
To catch his heart
is a different sort of game;
for this you’ll need to offer
a fresh heart in return.
Into this go nine small pins.
Let its blood mingle
with your own; understand that love
is sacrifice.


Tᴏ ᴅɪsᴘᴇʟ ᴍᴀʟɪᴄɪᴏᴜs ɢᴏssɪᴘ
At times, when one’s contentment glows
brighter than the moonlight glows,
whispers may follow;
mistruths, accusations.
To quiet these defoulments,
take something that they have shed:
hair, teeth, blood upon a snuffrag;
wrap in candle wax and shape
into a woman, or a man.
Bind its eyes with ribbon black
so that they may no longer see
what does not concern them.
Bind its mouth in silence.

Tᴏ ᴄᴀsᴛ ᴀɴ ᴜɴᴡᴀɴᴛᴇᴅ ʙᴀʙᴇ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴛʜᴇ ᴡᴏᴍʙ
To dismiss an uninvited guest
given root by your desire,
drink a tea of pennyroyal,
nettle leaf and bramble fruit
brewed atop a midnight flame.
Sit unclothed beneath the moon.
Let its light caress the body
you so freely gave.
Take those pins stained rust
in heartblood, bury them
within the earth,
where, in the end,
all things must return.

Tᴏ ᴘᴜɴɪsʜ ᴀ ʟᴏᴠᴇʀ ᴡʜᴏ ʜᴀs sᴛʀᴀʏᴇᴅ
If you find his love should wane
as the fullness of your belly wanes,
and his eyes turn to flowers
yet unravaged by the storms of life,
take thorns from the blackthorn tree,
mandrake’s root and spiders’ legs,
soil from a crossroads
where an honest man was hanged;
grind them to a powder
which he may drink, unknowing,
for seven days and seven nights.
From the seventh slumber
he will not wake, he will not stir,
but spend his years in stillness
and dream only of you.

Tᴏ ᴇɴsᴜʀᴇ sᴀғᴇᴛʏ ᴡʜɪʟsᴛ ᴛʀᴀᴠᴇʟʟɪɴɢ
A time may come, my darling,
when poppets and silk ribbons
will no longer be enough
to staunch the tide of fear,
when they come for you
with rope and iron and flame.
Take to the deer roads,
the rabbit roads, the serpent roads,
through fen and brae and brier.
Shed the clothes they gave you,
and the name.
Wrap your arms in willow,
carry bloodstone in your purse.
Walk the streams and rivers
’till the current brings you home.

Tᴏ ᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛ ᴏɴᴇ’s ʜᴏᴍᴇ ғʀᴏᴍ ᴇɴᴇᴍɪᴇs
Whatever shape your haven be:
a tower filled with mirrors, or
a cottage in the wild wood
scented with gingerbread
and spun-sugar glass;
keep it safe from prying eyes.
Hang holly in the doorway,
yarrow in the window eaves.
Spread hearth-ash in the entrance.
Beset the path with nails
to betide those who would harm.
Befriend the wolves that wander,
and the crows.
Rest. Heal.

Tᴏ ᴍᴇɴᴅ ᴀ ʙʀᴏᴋᴇɴ ʜᴇᴀʀᴛ
In the solace of the darkness,
light a fire of alder wood;
for, like lovers, tarnished mothers,
alders understand
what it is to bleed.
Listen to the wolves’ song,
drink the sweet scent of the wood.
Scribe your story on a sheet
of paper, parchment, wax.
Then, consign it to the flame.
It will not burn your pain away,
but it might make you feel better
for a while.
Think not of the love you held
and lost, nor the babe
you cast away,
nor the maiden you once were.
Leave that road behind.
There is so much world to explore.

Judge’s comments:
This piece transported me to a small cottage in the woods, where I found a spell book deep beneath a creaky floorboard. I loved how the poet formatted the poem to resemble a grimoire while continuing to weave a narrative about love, loss, and betrayal. This was positively enchanting, and their dedication to imagery played a significant role in that, as did their knowledge of occult botany.

Second Place, Long Form

Stasis in Hyperdrive

by Clarabelle Miray Fields

she is dreaming again
lost in the lifeblood of a cold
cryochamber’s womb
dreaming
of a world she knew long ago,
where roads curving
in darkness could
actually lead her home

she passes the
light-years in silence
stars breaking down,
slowly born anew

and in their muted reflections
are the beckoning
of old city lights,
promises held in the neon
of forgotten skylines

familiar names
flashing
across her neural
pathways like fire
like moths
trapped in the heart
of artificial flame

memories
she chases
through now-endless night
remembering a time
when her smaller self
would gaze up at
the bellies of stars
breathing air into
her own naked lungs
and she would dream

dream of running
beyond the dark
dream of worlds
she had yet to name
the light-years long
and cold
and deep

but here
she knows no names
there are only unfamiliar asterisms and
a blackness beyond
all dark

blind
and deaf
she does not even breathe
her hardwired umbilicus
feeding fluid into a dormant
heart
dry tongue undulating
with the echoes
of atrophying speech

she is dead
but still she dreams

dreams of earth
her mother’s heat
a womb lulling her
into welcome sleep
rocking her warmly
in beating tides

Judge’s comments:
This piece was so profoundly sad. I kept thinking of the times when, as a child, I'd look up at the sky and have these big, existential discussions with myself about space. There's something nostalgic here, and I think it exists in the moments when we first start to contemplate our mortality and recognize how fragile we are as humans. The poet writes: "she is dead/but she still dreams." That line is everything I love about looking at the stars.

Clarabelle Miray Fields is a writer, editor, and web developer native to Boulder, Colorado. She currently holds over 100 publications, with her work having recently appeared in the 2021 Rhysling Anthology, Corvid Queen, Circe's Cauldron, and elsewhere. She earned a BA in classical languages in 2018, summa cum laude, and studied abroad in the U.K. as a Fulbright Summer Institute participant. When not writing or coding, she enjoys exploring the great outdoors and getting lost under starry skies. You can find her online at clarabellefields.com.

Third Place, Long Form

Panopticon

by F. J. Bergmann

They were burning something—
or someone—in the exercise yard
again. Pink light glowed through
the metaquartz walls, and flames
licked the sky above them as if
it were a divine nourishment,
and clouds the immaculate
breasts of angels.

Structures had been sterilized
for tens of kilometers beyond
a spiked perimeter. Supplies were
transferred in via heavy drones;
inmates dropped, not always
safely, from helicopters; guards
bred to serve on the premises,
mined with implants.

Rumors of revolution swept
through like a voiceless wind
whenever flashes lit the horizon
or buzzing filled the tainted air,
and those remaining humans
saw new oozing weals form
on their skins, plastic manacles
rotting to dust.

Foodpaste deliveries for men
and beasts alike began to arrive
pre-spoiled; security cameras
recorded random executions,
guns firing bursts of brilliance
from the central observatory
maybe meant only as spotlights.
Skeletons burnt black.

The prison chaplains began to
proselytize more aggressively,
menacing any prisoners who failed
to conceal their skepticism,
telling them their end was near,
pointing to the spiraling starfield,
urging them to repent before
it was too late.

It was always too late. No one
could give those wretched beings
back their wasted lives or repair
the past. Even the dreaded priests
of the Time Goddess said no man
would be given a second chance.
They spoke of eternal atonement,
but we did our best to dare to hope
for a different future.

We—prisoners together—agreed
between us to rename every evil
in our lives as if it were something
wonderful and good; the central
tower became fairycastle, glowing
walls now lightglass, the hideous
slop they fed us spicecake. Then
we began telling stories to which
even the guards listened.

Judge’s comments:
A couple of years ago, I visited the Eastern State Penitentiary, which was built in the panopticon style. This idea of weaponized architecture, coupled with a violent dystopian world, is a terrifying image. I appreciated how the poet discussed the physical and psychological torture happening within this setting and thought the disassociation ending that brought in dreams of beauty was a clever transitory act/image to end on.

F.J. Bergmann is the poetry editor of Mobius: The Journal of Social Change, past editor of Star*Line, managing editor of MadHat Press, poetry editor for Weird House Press, and freelances as a copy editor and book designer. She lives in Wisconsin with a husband, intermittent daughters, cats and a horse, and imagines tragedies on or near exoplanets.

Her writing awards include SFPA Rhysling Awards for both long and short poems and SFPA Elgin Awards for two chapbooks: Out of the Black Forest (Centennial Press, 2012), a collection of conflated fairy tales, and A Catalogue of the Further Suns, first-contact reports from interstellar expeditions, winner of the 2017 Gold Line Press manuscript competition. She was a Writers of the Future winner. Venues where her poems have appeared include Abyss & Apex, Analog, Asimov’s SF, and elsewhere in the alphabet. She has competed at National Poetry Slam with the Madison Urban Spoken Word slam team. While lacking academic literary qualifications, she is kind to those so encumbered. She thinks imagination can compensate for anything.

Honorable Mentions

Dwarf Form

Desert Skies Motor Hotel by Mark C Childs

Haiku 6 by Tom Rogers

dragon child by Felicia Martínez

Short Form

Last Minute of Reentry, by Brian Richards

Wine tasting on the planet Ufahamu*, by Miguel O. Mitchell

when i die, by Corey Niles

Long Form

The Moons of TOI-1231 b, by Deborah L. Davitt

The Hologram La Divina Considers What It Is to Be a Monument on the Moon, by T.D. Walker

Dust Storm Montage (International Women’s Bioresearch Outpost, Gorgonum Chaos, Mars), by Kate Boyes