Talking About My Generation...
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Authors of the Flathead holds an annual, all-community writing contest. I entered three poem in the Poetry Contest 2026 and won an award for second place. Here are the poems, all in the theme of: Talking About My Generation.
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The Missing Generation
I am defined not by the age of my piers, not the years that I grew up; not by the looming cold war or struggling Vietnam vets
I am defined not by the age of the rise of computers
nor the evenings playing in creek beds until mothers called us home
mine is the generation of silence, the one that spoke and speaks no more; the one that smiles through the pain
mine is the missing generation
the generation of shattered dreams, unreached potential. the isolated generation, living from bed, alone in a quiet room, throw-rugs on the floor
mine is the generation that missed our lives, chasing down cures for illnesses that didn't exist, wheelchairs are our most prominent accessory, sometimes walkers, we hold the arms of our loved ones, who are not of our generation, though they share an age
we were stars in high school, sure to succeed, till one day we went to bed and never got up,
and the world passed us by
a decade gone and we were still trying to sit up without falling to the side, trying to do the shopping without collapsing on the floor
we rest. we wait
for our life to begin. for our chance to shine, for all the potential that ferments inside us
to finally come out and reach for the stars.
but it never does
for we are the generation of sleepers, living in our mother's house
I am defined not by the age of my piers, not the years that I grew up; not by the looming cold war or struggling Vietnam vets
I am defined not by the age of the rise of computers
nor the evenings playing in creek beds until mothers called us home
mine is the generation of silence, the one that spoke and speaks no more; the one that smiles through the pain
mine is the missing generation
the generation of shattered dreams, unreached potential. the isolated generation, living from bed, alone in a quiet room, throw-rugs on the floor
mine is the generation that missed our lives, chasing down cures for illnesses that didn't exist, wheelchairs are our most prominent accessory, sometimes walkers, we hold the arms of our loved ones, who are not of our generation, though they share an age
we were stars in high school, sure to succeed, till one day we went to bed and never got up,
and the world passed us by
a decade gone and we were still trying to sit up without falling to the side, trying to do the shopping without collapsing on the floor
we rest. we wait
for our life to begin. for our chance to shine, for all the potential that ferments inside us
to finally come out and reach for the stars.
but it never does
for we are the generation of sleepers, living in our mother's house
Loved
once, someone loved me so well
that I am filled with it still
like peace
it saturates the air I breath
lingers like perfume
when I leave the room
it leaves me soaked
this love
it overflows
drips down my face
leaves soggy footprints where I tread
I could water a desert with this love
and still wring it
dripping
from my hair
flick it off my fingertips
and so I offer it to you
hold out your hands
take all that you can
I’ll pour it recklessly
letting drops splatter where they will
I have enough to share
once, someone loved me so well
that I am filled with it still
like peace
it saturates the air I breath
lingers like perfume
when I leave the room
it leaves me soaked
this love
it overflows
drips down my face
leaves soggy footprints where I tread
I could water a desert with this love
and still wring it
dripping
from my hair
flick it off my fingertips
and so I offer it to you
hold out your hands
take all that you can
I’ll pour it recklessly
letting drops splatter where they will
I have enough to share
Childhood
Music from a record player fills the living room
Its Oklahoma or The Pirates of Penzance
My Fair Lady or The King and I
mother’s voice knows all the words
as I lay on the carpet
toys arrayed like troops across the Serengeti
horses, mice and elephants
lions, tigers, bears, oh my
my little hands move each character about
mumbling the story that plays in my head
Music from a record player fills the living room
Its Oklahoma or The Pirates of Penzance
My Fair Lady or The King and I
mother’s voice knows all the words
as I lay on the carpet
toys arrayed like troops across the Serengeti
horses, mice and elephants
lions, tigers, bears, oh my
my little hands move each character about
mumbling the story that plays in my head