Overall Winner- Robert J. Fisher Award

A Very Good Year

Political cartoonists, award winning directors, street corner saxophone aficionados-

Artists.

The distilleries through which the world is channeled, processed, and refined.

In whose minds trellis-clinging vines are stripped of their dusky indigo fruits-

Ripened clusters of reality-

And those fruits feverishly stomped into a pulpy flesh,

The resulting claret stowed away; left to ferment in the cool cellars of rumination

Where talent, reflection, and revelation age into a first-class barrel of Bordeaux

Transforming raw social injustice into cannily spiced, interpretive dance

And flat newspaper headlines into sparkling, off-Broadway productions.

Humanity- bottled stoppers, and labeled.

Put up for sale to the entertainment-hungry bourgeoisie, who demand creative expression-

Order it, as though artistic thought was a cloying, second-rate burgundy

And the artist a grungy, 24-hour liquor store.

Critics, Literati, Inebriates -

Drunk on librettos and overtures

Imported from centuries-old, Mediterranean vineyards -

Presuming they possess a finer palate and keener register than the winemakers themselves.

Connoisseurs – posh and presumptuous men in three-piece suits –

Who decide which vintage is worthy of a polished silver decanter and which a wax-lined box,

Who determine whether a watercolor is destined for the Hermitage or a refrigerator door.

Insensitive men who depart from a theatre, saunter away from a painting,

Clink gently down their half-emptied classes

And pronounce casually, cruelly, soberingly –

That they’d been right in not anticipating “a very good year.”

Sofia Ouhri11th GradeInternational Baccalaureate at Bartow HighSharon Smith

6th Grade

Weightless

 Effortlessly breaking through the veil That separates me from this world,Beneath the pounding wavesI become a stranger. I am an alien here,Floating constricted, yet somehow free. My breath rises, silvery orbs escaping in the endless blue Toward the slight glimmer of light,Leaving me alone, vulnerable, peaceful.Shadows slip beneath me,Dancing in the traces of cellophane light.For a moment I am Cortez, Armstrong, Cousteau.I am a seeker of knowledge and a finder of peace.But all too soon I must rise again, Letting my temporary freedom slip away,Returning to the world aboveLike an astronaut returning to Earth.And just like that, The weight of life returns to my shoulders.

Morgan SnyderLawton Chiles Middle AcademySusan Harwell and Luanne A. Hoch1st Place

7th Grade

The Holy River

A gentle breeze brushes my hair,As I wander among the joyful children frolicking carelessly.Maids hang clothes on the line already laden with damp white shirts, navy pants, and

plaid skirts.Nature completely envelops me.Peacocks and squirrels scavenge for food,Birds squeak and quarrel like greedy kings attempting to dominate the kingdom.Towering trees adorn the path before me, ancient and majestic.The pleasant, comforting smell of tandoori roti and matar paneer waft from a kitchen,

irritating my grumbling stomach.On the dusty street, I catch a glimpse of Varanasi outside the Rajghat Fort.Cars honk, street vendors wheedle customers, people loiter.I cross the street, pass the library with paintings created thoughtfully by students,To finally reach the beloved Ganges River, India’s most sacred body of water.The sunset reflects off the river, revealing fishermen down below.A flock of pious worshippers sing during the aarti, with a jumble of voices in religious

rhythm.A bridge to the right carries clustered automobiles, red-orange light casts over them.Malnourished strays doze on the edge of the cliff, about to tumble to their deaths.Without warning, a deafening blast resounds in my ears.Looking down, I’m stunned by people fleeing, police bellowing, and a distraught mother

sobbing over the limp body of her infant daughter.Further down the trail, the unbearable stench of sewage being poured into the river

pollutes the fragile beauty terribly,Threatening the peace and tranquility of the holy river.

Saher KidwaiUnion AcademyJulie K. Goldstein1st Place

8th grade

The Accordion Man

The long body of the instrument slinked back and forth,singing through the flexing of his slender arm,Controlling the atmosphere and filling it with his emotionsBeckoning the crowd to listen to the breathing instrument,He thrummed out a nostalgic melody,Letting his memories flow to his hands and into his music,The notes of the measures becoming words,As the small crowd deciphered his language.

He spoke of blissful images in his life,His young self zooming down the pastel street,Laughing and beaming as he raced to the ocean,The stone structure on the horizon mysterious,His secret fort on the urban island,The crumbling walls whispering their own secrets to him.

As his fingers hesitated above the keys he announced the times of sorrow,His mother ill, he labored in the sun,His family crumbling like the walls of the wasted fort,Dark alleys clouding his vision,And shame, most of all, for his failed attempts at pride.

Last he spoke of the lessons of his life,What difficult times had taught him of moral growth,How he had learned to give love and be loved,And how to share his life,As his instrumental speech had done.

Sarah StearnsUnion Academy Middle MagnetHeather Landreth1st Place

9th grade

Orchestra

The bow sliding acrossthe stings like a snakethrough sand.

The soothing soundsof the gods. Together, in harmony,rushing to strikewith a jerk of the bow.

rising action in a crescendo of harmonic hissesspeedy zips slice across the violinas a serpent strikes anddodges, sounds of venom spitting from the tongue if the offender

prey lie dead in a staccatocord, quickly, the musicregains tempo in a galloping glideto search for a new victim of the deadlyOrchestra

Joseph AdamsBartow High SchoolSherri Delk1st Place

10th grade

Bittersweet – An Ode to the Power of Coffee

In this serene coffee shop,Sitting, sipping this brown concoction of the Mate's creation – bittersweet.Peering out the window, a portal to the world outside,Buoyed by my inner self, I survey the oh -so- constant stream of traffic, A mirror of that ceaseless flow of my own thoughts --Small islands in this sea of perilous emotions, swirling angels and demons.This ichor slowly sipped does nothing to calm my mind,The mermaid in my hand is merely an empty heroine, Prufrock's non-singing prop.So my vessel continues its odyssey, the crew rowing, rowing, rowing, over dark dreams --Some new, some shattered flotsam and jetsam, and some . . . bittersweet. Great waves roar in from that horizon of my past, each coming closer to topple this boat, Each coming closer to send me plummeting—like Hokusai's bark under that great wave -Hurtled into recessive pools of compassion and hate, love and pain.My worst fears – the tsunami, the hurricane, crush my safe-haven ship.Eyes closed, I tread white water – churn fever bent. . . scan for rescue from this watery tomb,Hope lost, until—“Take my hand, my lad.” It is he, the lord of all odysseys, that mythic King of Ithaca.Strong arms grab my shoulders, lift me from that black sea beneath.His majesty’s grip loosens – ah, solid ground again.I drop to my knees, and rest my palms on the deck of –Wait—these are not the slimy, damp baseboards of a boat that I feel.No, these are…tiles! O reality, O swirl of last gulps in this, a mortal world. With a sigh, with a shake of my head, and I blink three times (that magic number)Just a coffeehouse. Bittersweet.

Keiffer ExumMulberry HighKatherine Langford1st Place

11th Grade

Perfunctory Production

Now in stock!Pay for the latest, defunct humans; they’re made to last.

Your abuser-friendly companion spans in several knavish, modern styles.

Buy one that has a wide-inch scream, and view 500 channels of their needs.Observe their on-demand moods that use surround-frown expressions.

Or purchase one with unlimited tempers and more broad-bland service,Comprising apps with uneasy excess from your I-Know-Everything.

Take zero-percent interest in their low mood mileage,Complete with an all-obtain drive and force-powered regime.

Upgrade your experience to the mega-frights of their hard-warred personalitiesThat may malfunction with sudden overloads and a wireless brain.

Or simply hear up to 10,000 songs of their daily drama,Using I’ll-Tune-Out earplugs and extended care-coverage.

Additional assembly may include an unstable grump-start or ink cart-rages,And discounts are limited— especially pre-groaned labels.

Remember: Spend wisely; There are no refunds for this pioneering technology,

And, oh—flattery not included.

Andrew StearnsLakeland High/Harrison School for the ArtsConni M. Shelnut1st Place

12th Grade

For Sylvia, Patron Saint

You, Phenomena, are life-worn, a sack, born and then depleted slowly. You are cut away at and away atBy the razor-sharp afternoons spreading peanut butter over white bread for your children.The marble flanks of David were formed as you were: once much bigger and then smaller and

smaller.(If the purpose of sculpting is to remove the excess to find the life,Poetry is a monument to that excess,A mountain, made to matter, of all of the things which do not.)For every fragile vein in your porcelain arms, you remove a cuff of white flesh,Building your words from your own tissue.

You were born in the dewy morning a young woman; you died as young. Poetry was your child and you nursed her on your own,Turning away the faces of your offspring to this alien at your bosom.A million times you yourself were reborn. Like a cat which always falls paws-down, your lapses were routine and forgettable. Yours was not to iron and wash and cook. Yours was to sleep with thirsty frogs out in the rain.

You let your passion float away from you on a Jersey beachIn the summer, when your words became motionless and salty fish with their eyes still open.Your own work was an insult to your vanity and soYou left each dripping verse to the sea, glowing like Ophelia beneath the gentle waves. Your phrases grew pallid with disuse,Even as your words scattered, seedy and fallow all over the New Yorker.That was the first time you let go. You let go again and again after.

And on the sunset of that one great, long day,You breathed deep and closed your eyes and lay down for the last time in your own home,

the proper place for a woman like you.

Rachel HarrisWinter Haven High SchoolWendi Wooddell1st Place