Hi all,

I'd like to nominate Larry's poem, Disaster's Triage for the March IBPC competition. It is a profound poem. And for those who may not know the inside scoop, it was penned to a Robert Frost challenge to use the same format and end line words of Frost's poem, "The Road Not Taken" over in Karnak Crossing. FANTABULOUS!

Good luck Larry!
~Cleo


Diaster's Triage by Larry D. Jennings


Tin shacks and cardboard huts propped up with wood
are gone. Uncaring Earth erased them. Both
entombed in brick and stucco that once stood
beside them. Raining down on those who could
not seek a haven in the undergrowth.

No judge to rule on what was right or fair,
to hear the anguished pleas of those who claim
they had no food or clothing they could wear.
Those were interred with friends and neighbors there
among the piles of rubble, and the same

was true of fractured families who lay
beneath the shattered buildings. All was black
and dusty clouds blocked out the light of day.
Some few, exhumed by those who found a way
to rescue broken bodies, bring them back;

are granted respite from that final sigh.
Not so for many others taken hence
to lie in rest with strangers. Would that I
were able to assist and help them by
grief’s river flowing through indifference.

Hello,

I hereby nominate Sylvia's poem, Three Years into Limbo for the March IBPC. It is a poignant telling of dementia personified in a very clever way. A must read!!!!

Best of luck!
~Cleo


Three Years into Limbo by Sylvia Maclagan


I was wrong.
Time is gentle with you.
Your mind sheds muddled memories.
Each day, you’re born again.
Conformist drill, primary needs,
hallucinations, mirth.

A broad smile greets me.
You hug me - I'm your bride!
-What’s in t'bag?
-Cookies.
… comfort, gobbling goodies.

-'Tis m'fiancée, Bertha.
-Oh… I say.
Bertha stares vacuously.
You wave your angular arms:
-M'wife lives 'nudder h..h..hotel!
Bertha articulates:
-Do come soon.
-Mmmm… I mumble.

Outside, pungent evening air
is a mocking lifesaver.
It’s Sunday. Families
stroll by with pushcarts,
cyclists whizz between lazy traffic,
the odd sparrow picks at garbage.

I feel lonely among the dog poop,
bicycles, sparrows.
Families irk me.
An ochre sky compresses my shoulders.
I hear kitty meowing as I
fiddle with keys in the lock.
She twines herself around my legs,
tripping me as I search for a cool
drink and our dinners.

My wits are awash in chaos:
my dreams dream you
on bygone illumined isles.

Limbo has dance-stepped over to my side
with sidling grotesquerie.

Poetry and plans are on hold…

Sylvia Evelyn, Buenos Aires, Argentina, 2010.

Congratulations Syl!

A very worthy nom indeed!

Good luck at the IPBC

Hugz,

Wally

Thank you very much, Wally and Lori!

(Though very surprised indeed....)

Hugz, Syl***

Re-submission request PM'd Wally just now:
We are allowed to resubmit prior entries as long as they (1) haven't won before (2) follow the standing IBPC rules and (3) are submitted in a different quarter (obviously). I really enjoyed this poem, Sickle Hand.


Sickle Hand by Walter Schwim


Shifting hopes like windblown sands
form ordered rows of crescent moons,
on which a scything wind expands
her heart from un-touched drifting dunes.

When twilight slowly stills the land,
the angry wind abates its blast.
I gently take her wanting hand
and hold her warm and safe at last.

Before the cautious morning beams
paint red her perfect desert sky
my briefest kiss intrudes her dreams
to be repulsed with scant goodbye.

Relentless wind blows through my mind
and sweeps up every tender thought.
My fading footprints left behind
are fast eroded, leaving naught.

I curse those fickle pseudo moons
that hold my empty arms at bay
and curse the wind and crescent dunes
that whisked my whispered kiss away.

Her favor shifts like fickle sand
to cover perfect lips un-kissed,
extends for love her sickle hand,
that with the dawn will be dismissed.

Whippee!

Got a "YAY" response from Wally, so I'll be submitting this one as well for the March comp.

Best of luck!
~Cleo

Please note the revised version is as follows. Larry kindly pointed out that I had nay done the corrections previously discussed. I hope it is not too late.
(Rev 2 1 March 2010)
Sickle Hand

Shifting hopes like windblown sands
form ordered rows of crescent moons,
on which a scything wind expands
her heart from un-touched drifting dunes.

When twilight slowly stills the land,
the angry wind abates its blast.
I gently take her wanting hand
and hold her warm and safe at last.

Before the cautious morning beams
paint red her perfect desert sky
my briefest kiss intrudes her dreams
to be repulsed with scant goodbye.

Relentless wind blows through my mind
and sweeps up every tender thought.
My fading footprints left behind
are fast eroded, leaving naught.

I curse those fickle pseudo moons
that hold my empty arms at bay
and curse the wind and crescent dunes
that whisked my whispered kiss away.

Her favor shifts like fickle sand
to cover perfect lips un-kissed,
extends for love her sickle hand,
that with the dawn will be dismissed.

Wally!

I'll make the edit now and will be sending in the poems this evening.

Best of luck!
~Cleo