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]

AUGUST SELECTIONS:


Sky Wars by Eira Needham


Conflicting forces brace for battle, dressed
in charcoal camouflage. Prepared to swarm
the sky, they mobilize and fly abreast
while nimbi squadrons activate the storm.

Descending bombs crescendo; roaring booms
provoke the sun to disengage his rays.
Grenades explode, their flashes herald doom
so startled creatures dart in disarray.

Machine guns fire, barraging foes in bursts;
torrential rains unleashed soon drench the land
to quench the dehydrated flora’s thirst.

New cirri squads arrive to take command,
belligerence retreating. Peace pervades
as sunrays rally; victory parades.




Bewitched by Sylvia Maclagan


Summer air quivers. A butterfly unfurls
its wings on my bare chest.
I hunger for you.
Picking blades of grass beside a river
where I come to rest,
desire arouses me to dazzling bliss.
I lick ripples from your breasts,
my body surfing unimagined heights
from our together nights.

Hummingbirds flirt with flowers.
I feel the radiance
of your kiss under silken bowers,
intoxicated with jasmines’ fragrance.

When night falls,
will I have forgotten your love call
among those whistling reeds,
vibrations of infinite chords?
I know moonlit willow-trees
will tempt me to tarry awhile.
I’ll succumb to sensual smiles
in that glade beyond,
where nymphs mirror their flesh
on surfaces of serene ponds.

Yet April fled.... Cool May moon!
I grow old. I might lose my way
among the sumptuous shapes of night.
The essence of my life may be a dream.
I’ll stoop like a cypress weighted with snow,
scorned by moonbeams on mountain peaks.

No! I’ll sip only from your fountain:
one day it will whirl me to the ocean.
I’ll make love to you with fevered heart,
engage the teasing motion
of your thighs, your impulsive lips.

Yet now, until Morning Star departs,
I’ll bask on the banks of alluring creeks.

Note: Seasons of Southern Hemisphere.



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

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