Award Winning Poem from 1951 Temple Alum

I received the message below from Dorothy Bridges Ille, 1951 Temple Alumni. Congratulations Dorothy and thanks for sharing this. --Harold Powell

Harold, in one of the last issues of the Temple Tribune, I saw an ad for a poetry contest, held by the 2008 Oklahoma Conference on Aging. A short autobiography, and as many as three poems could be submitted. The contest was called "Aging Out Loud."

While in Oklahoma City in June, 2008, I saw the same ad in the paper there, and decided once at home I would enter. I sent in 2 poems, and the required story of my life, as related to Oklahoma, such as place of birth, and schools attended. Then I waited.

In late November, the book of poetry arrived, heavy as lead, since so many citizens entered the contest. It is a beautiful paper-backed volume, with every single poem intact. but I noticed that the Women's Division had not been judged, which was a disappointment.

So I waited, feeling that a person would be notified, if a winner, by mail. No word came, so I was resigned to not winning. Two weeks ago, a large package came from Oklahoma City. Enclosed was my trophy, made of acrylics, and in the form of the state of Oklahoma....declaring that I was the third-place winner, for my poem entitled "Recollections" in the Women's Division of "Aging Out Loud."

I was, and am still thrilled. In the Women's Division, there are about 230 poems, and mine was judged 3rd. place. Below is my poem:

RECOLLECTIONS

Crickets, an orchestra, strumming in the dell,
The ringing, chiming of a distant bell,
The song of the yellow meadowlark,
Long evenings, strolling in a park.
The call of a mating mockingbird,
Prettiest song you've ever heard.

The sweet smell of the May Day flower,
Sitting, sunning, in a secluded bower.
Running in the bottom of a dry creek bed,
Red knit stocking cap upon my head.
Gooseberries, watermelon, and hot apple pie,
Fresh green pastures of wheat, maize and rye.

On a Halloween night, a big harvest moon,
Sleeping in 'till half past noon.
Skipping, with a June bug on a string,
Catching tiny fireflies on the wing.
Crawdading in the mud and pouring rain.
A barefooted wanderer, feeling no pain.

Walking home from church with a trusted friend,
Scorching hot, or bitter cold wind.
Spin the bottle, awkward teen of gait, look,
Pasting US Savings Stamps in a book.
That last generation before the bomb and the box,
The slap-happy kid in white bobby sox.

That was me,
Dottie B.