Below is one of the contest entries.
Reading the Signs Past my window scuds another dense scribble of cloud, its tangled Arabic script of Atlantic sadness a depression heading East. Blotted in mist, a bright horizon justifies the heavy paragraph overhead that flounders in ambiguity and a glut of subordinate clauses. Here on the ledge sits a griffin, man-dragon, legs crossed, his fire quenched in a book. He is reading of war, the cooking of human flesh, how countless children choked on a diet of razors, of his part in it all. He was not there, of course, but he reads of responsibility, his history. He is calm, perusing the book of someone else’s mind, seeing in clouds, stars, shadows, eyes the truth of who we are, accepting it and learning why, long before conflict, in the beginning was the word.
— Harry Owen
All Poems Submitted to the Contest