MM's Represented Poems for 2009, Best of luck! Options

[Cleo_Serapis]

JANUARY SELECTIONS:


SONNET 73 Paraphrased by Ronald Jones


The fall of autumn leaves, denuding trees,
Regales in crispy crackling song-like sound.
A crunching tune arising 'round my knees
From boughs where boist'rous birds of song were found...
The price I pay is youthful years now passed,
For like their way, I too, have served my time
And so accept the years I have amassed.
Those waning rays, now set, forswear my prime.
But still in me, you see a spark, a glow,
Though ashes stifle embers, I'm still warm!
So let me crunch and crackle, you must know
We all return from whence we came, in form.
Let love abide, despite my dimming light,
And then, as darkness comes, my midnight's bright.



Late Snow by Larry D. Jennings


Emerging from my chrysalis, I see
the face of Winter’s crystal tressed milieu
abiding still. Her breath confronting me;
instead of flower petals washed in dew.

Something’s awry, for Nature’s call was clear.
“Emerge and go into a springtime’s youth!”,
away from prison chambers, which adhere
to limbs, still barren; gnawed by icy tooth.

I sense no respite near. With these furled wings,
a flight to other climes is not a choice.
Rime covered now from chilling wind which sings
my dirge. Life’s verdict read without a voice.

Upon the silv’ry shroud from fate’s wry hand
lies death, a rainbow frozen in time’s sand.



December Streetwalkers by Eric Linden


December darkness nibbles bits of day
until there’s hardly any left, it seems,
at least not much. Ice covered ponds and streams
are Meccas for both young and old to play
a game of shinny. Children on their sleighs
go hurdling down embankments – mortal screams,
as off they spill into a drift. Two teams
in forts let snowballs fly each other’s way.

Electric lights in rainbow-colored hues
adorn the busy city streets and stores
where shoppers bustle back and forth, like bees.
And everywhere you look, each avenue
has yards and homes alit in bright decors;
wreaths hang on doors, garlands on leafless trees.

It’s almost solstice time. How woeful nights
appear to one misguided, tortured soul
who works nocturnal downtown streets where lights,
like bright electric stardrops, hang from pole
to pole, aglitter in December air.

A speaker somewhere overhead blares out
What Child is This, then Jingle Bells. “Who cares?”
she thinks, and moves away. “It’s all about
the mighty buck today, which I ain’t got
and by the looks of things, I’ll never get.”

Salvation Army bells. Their plastic pots
hold hope that expectations can be met
and no-one goes off hungry at this time.
Each contribution helps – five dollars or a dime.

[Cleo_Serapis]

JULY SELECTIONS:


At a Mall in Bangkok, based on Allen Ginsberg's A Supermarket in California by Marc-André Germain


What fancy I entertain of you tonight, Nan, for I rummaged through swarming sidewalks under rose and azure neons with a heartache, ever sentient, scanning the dim sum shops.
In my desolation, and shopping for memories, I investigated unfashionable malls, dreaming of your lamentations.
What mobile phones and what umbrellas! Clans of friends shopping at night! Boys between the skirt racks, misses in the arcade! -- and you, Mr. Director, what were you doing down by the pawn shop?
I saw you, Nan, alone, alluring crestfallen mistress, sauntering among the trinket vendors and eyeing the foreigners walking by.
I heard you address each one of them: Hey you! Where you go? Where you from? Do you speak Thai? Do you have girlfriend?
I carved my way through flashy stacks of bags and shoes stalking you, and stalked in turn in my imagination by an immigration officer.
We traipsed around the subway station together in our solitude and fancies tasting plum puddings, possessing a specimen of every accessible sweet, and never entering the station.

Where are we going, Nan? The station closes in half-an-hour. Which way do your glass shoes point tonight?
( I reach for your photo, the one you gave me not so long ago, and feel both guilty and liable…)
Will we ramble all night through noisy and noisome streets? Placards adding noise to noise, lights out in the shops and flats, we’ll both feel lonely.

Will we meander dreaming of a perfect love and a perfect future past the driveways of family duplexes?
You knew that I could never provide that for you, and catching my reflection in a scooter mirror, now I can own that too. Long after you will have moved into these quarters, I’ll be traipsing around the subway station, a ghost of you followed by a ghost of me.



Bereavement by Sylvia Maclagan


I’m used to loss itself;
it’s trivial things that smart, wear out my heart:
orphaned mug on kitchen shelf,
terrace table grown too long,
and by its side a wooden chair, vacant.
Without end, they caution strong,
shadowing me in endless pageant.

I disregard remorse for churlish word,
fixed angry looks... Oh misplaced books!
Or grief for tenderness demurred
through life’s uncertain lane.
It’s the scrutiny of minor things in winter
depths, an enduring bane
by which my heart grows fainter.