Poems: The winners are listed below - congratulations
I Love Northern Blueberries - Garth Paul Ukrainetz click here for more info on this poet
Oh, I love northern blueberries Yes, I really really do They’re so juicy and so tasty Sure could eat a pail or two
Hey, my brothers and my sisters Off to Sudbury let’s go To a sweet blueberry party Up in north Ontario
See ya later ol’ Toronto Nickel City here we come Gonna eat a lot of berries Gonna have a lot of fun Nice ‘n plump and so delicious Northern blueberries taste great All the bears sure love to eat ‘em Right before they hibernate
Oh, I love northern blueberries Yes, I really really do Why not come along and join me Finding thrills on hills so blue
THE BLUEBERRY BUNNY - Carole Larrett
He hops through the bushes,
Eating as he goes.
Blueberries are good for you,
As everybody knows.
Nobody sees him,
As he's blue as blue can be.
But the Blueberry Bunny
Can see you and me.
He watches as we pick
Those precious blue gems.
And he knows we're going to make
Some tasty pies,wine and jams.
So don't take all the berries,
Leave some on the bush for him.
He likes them too,you see.
He's the BLUEBERRY BUNNY
Remembering Blueberry-Loving Mom - Darleen Melen
Footprints - Tom Leduc
On top of blueberry hill
I shovel a handful of berries
into my mouth and look out across
the city’s landscape.
Green leaves adrift on an ocean of rock
coloured shingles hidden in the swells
people thriving in the wake of industry.
It wasn’t always this way.
In the early seventies, astronauts trained here
came to see what we were geologically made of
and inadvertently left their footprints
on the backs of our miners.
Rumours grew like moss on stone
and the world likened us to the moon.
People said nothing could ever grow here
but I grew here and so did these berries
these tiny blue moons, these sweet tears of the sky.
I pick another one of these pale blue dots
place it in the universe of my hand
and consider all we have done.
I pop the world into my mouth
taste the history of our hard labour.
We’ve left our footprints
on the moon and beyond.
Old Metal Cup - Tom Leduc
Our knees the pattern of mossy rocks
the back of our necks burnt, red and raw,
sweat glistening on our skin like stars,
baskets brimming with blue barriers.
We stumbled towards the trail, arching
our backs, stretching the kinks from our muscles,
chugging cool water from a metal thermos,
quenching thirsts, long forgotten by the body.
My Memere carries two wooden baskets
bursting with berries in each hand.
I listen as she recounts stories of her youth
in her rugged trail language of French and English.
She gave me an old metal cup to fill.
What I didn’t eat while picking
was poured in a bowl with milk and sugar
and I’d always sneak another cube.
While I ate, she’d wash and clean the barriers
a handful at a time. Her small, soft hands
picking leaves and stems, inspecting
each berry as if she were reading my palm.
She’d separate the green ones from the blue ones,
bake muffins, paint jams, and compose
pies into refined masterpieces, never once
savouring a single berry for herself.
Haiku Poems - Oksana Kurliw
Blueberries twixt the rocks
Sheltered from the shimmering sun
Summer gems hiding
Dressed up in cobalt blue
Wild! Mother Nature’s gift
Prickling shrubs leaving their marks
Plucking the best
The Fairy Berries - Ella Curtis
Oh, special berries that are picked
for me and you.
From the rocks of Sudbury,
so juicy and blue.
Step lightly around these
and be sure not to
startle the fairies.
Blueberry Hill - Austin Kurtis
We walk for miles, it seems,
In the morning sun to avoid the afternoon heat.
Through a small path in the woods,
Made by cows before people, and used sparingly since the advent of grocery stores
With a hand radio blasting Blue Rodeo’s latest single, “Try”.
“It’s for the bears,” you say - which makes me nervous.
On a ridge, overlooking a crystal clear, sapphire lake, we stop.
“I used to drive the cows home from here,” you tell me for the 100th time.
“Ok, start picking”.
It isn’t a suggestion.
Although not yet 10, I know what to do:
Find the clumps, and pick with two hands.
I sneak mouthfuls of the still cold, fresh berries
Made plump and juicy by the relentless July sun.
“How full is your bucket?”
She knows the answer, but asks anyways;
I look up sheepishly.
We pick for hours, it seems,
Until the cold morning turns to a sweltering afternoon
And our former neapolitan ice cream buckets are full.
Only then, will we stop to admire our work
Over a lunch of cheese sandwiches,
Carefully wrapped with wax paper -
And maybe a Coca Cola, if I’m lucky.