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]

OCTOBER SELECTIONS:


Forbidden Lullaby by Walter Schwim


Let my thoughts tonight caress you
as the moon does to the sea
with a rhythm slow and ancient
in a flowing liquid glee.

May the cycles of the cosmos
herald rising of a tide
that will float us off together
on an everlasting ride.

Hold me tightly as we venture
on our voyage though the skies
so my warmth will still surround you
when tomorrow you arise.

For by daybreak I must leave you
to atone a life of sin
until turning of the heavens
drops a key to let you in.



The Laughter of Children by Alan McAlpine Douglas


When life gets you down, you’ve gone grey-green round the gills;
every future is cancelled, you simply can’t cope,
hear the laughter of children, a cure for all ills.

Essentials have run out, never mind simple frills,
you’ve reached rude rock bottom of that slippery slope,
when life's got you down, and you’re grey-green round the gills.

In such deep depression you head for the Black Hills,
you’re completely, it seems, out of best hempen rope,
hear the laughter of children, a cure for all ills.

If, by far, cheeriest sound is massed dentists’ drills
you have scope for a tope. So is there any ? Nope!
When life's got you down, you’ve gone grey-green round the gills.

Gone are your dreams, des res built in Beverley Hills,
there’s pain, bruised your shin, and then slipped on that damn soap;
now, the laughter of children is a cure for all ills?

Ground exceeding small, by Blake’s satanic massed mills,
and boon there is none, no intercession by Pope;
when life gets you down, you’re quite grey-green round the gills,
hear the laughter of children, my cure for all ills!