MM's Represented Poems for 2007 Options

[Cleo_Serapis]

JANUARY SELECTIONS:


The Ravin’ by JustDaniel

Oft I dream, my body shakin’; worried wife cannot awaken.
Though I’m safe abed, she’s anxious; twice I’ve fallen on the floor.
Once she woke me from my slumber… seems I swore… a nasty number!
3 AM today, while tremblin’, something nearly soiled my drawers.
What’s that high-pitched screeching, screeching? She’s awake now and beseeching,
“Dear, what is that awful shrieking? Peek inside the closet door!
Only this, and nothing more!”

“Why don’t you? You are awake now… and of course you have the know-how;
must be Ollie trapped inside there; crazy cat’s behind the door.”
“No, it’s something else,” she worried; still she wished that I had scurried.
“Hurry up; get up, you crazy, lazy lump… but watch the floor!”
Still, I nearly fell… then righted, while she watched, now more affrighted
as I stumbled, bleary-sighted toward the stupid closet door…
now expecting blood and gore.

Tripping over clothes not laundered, step-by-step, in dark I wandered,
squandered time as I moved nearer, nearer to the closet door.
What’s behind it…? Now I’m fearing… and the fear’s not disappearing!
What could be there crying, crying? What’s behind that closet door?
Inch-by-inch… then hesitating. Why is she so obligating?
She could look herself inside it… I’m a man who’s scared… best hide it!
“Don’t you worry!” I implore.

Then I feel my body quiver… kidneys, bladder, even liver…
it’s gut-wrenching, teeth now clenching; I hear something like a snore.
Looking back… my wife is screaming, and behind, a light is beaming,
beaming till my eyes are burning… burning fire I can’t ignore.
“Turn the light off; I can’t stand it!” I yell back… yes, I demand it!
“Wake up, Daniel; stop that screaming!” It was I that I heard snore.
‘Twas a dream, and nothing more.

© Daniel Ricketts 30 Oct 2006

Sing to Me by Eisa

Cradle me, Mammy --
in your warm arms I’ll inhale
the fragrance of your skin;
playing ‘butterflies’,
eyelashes flutter
against each other’s cheeks.

Sing to me, Mammy,
lift me with your spirit
in rousing hymns;
soothe me with lullabies,
swaying ‘til I rest.

I’m growing old, Mammy,
yet that little girl lingers --
longing for the solace
of your embrace.
When sleeplessly tired
I ache for the lilting
timbre of your voice
to wrap me in peace.


© Eira Needham December 2006


Mammy – Welsh dialect

The Phantom by Merlin

I

When dawn arises, spreading dulcet rays
across her vast expanse of peaks and draws,
nocturnal creatures tread on silken paws
back to their lairs ahead of morning’s haze.
A herd of horses in one treed retreat
begins to stir and move to grazing grounds;
spry, frisky foals carouse in leaps and rounds
as docile mares choose grasses fresh and sweet.

A cabin, nestled near a forest crook,
takes life with golden lamplight glow; its smoke
ascends in blue-gray plumes to disappear.
When Josh awakes, he takes a yearning look
to where his hills turn sable-cobalt-oak
and Hogback Ridge keeps chanting in his ear.


II

To local folks, The Phantom is a myth
like many kept alive across the plain
by cowpokes long in tooth and tough in grain
who claim they’ve felt this stallion’s fiery breath.
Those tales relate how he’s a patriarch
that keeps his harem free from spur and bit,
though loudmouth punchers brag how they’d outwit
The Phantom, but each effort missed its mark.

Josh rode his grula through an open green,
exploring Hogback Ridge’s weaving streams
and chanced upon a fresh, but well-worn trail.
He rode uphill to check what could be seen
and watched as wonderment change into dream –
light wind caressed The Phantom’s mane and tail.


III

Where mountaintops are capped with ice and snow
and stillness fills each valley to its brink,
a youngster stops to give his horse a drink,
dismounting while cool, placid waters flow.
Josh hears a whiney as The Phantom throws
his head around, now sensing something wrong
and starts to move his trusting herd along
the bottomland. A soothing zephyr blows.

Josh checks his cinch, remounts, and heads for home
since noon has passed them by some time ago;
his grula breaks into an easy trot.
With mind awhirl, Josh wishes he could roam
wild as The Phantom, free as west winds blow,
his restless spirit never to be caught.

[Cleo_Serapis]

FEBRUARY SELECTIONS:

Wait… Listen in Silence by JustDaniel


Waiting

so we might see

what his clenched fingers cry

through flared nostrils… pain-shaded eyes

whispering with shoulder-shrugs… her bowed head

daring hope with a hopeless glance.

Patient—we must sit… still

to feel what's been

weighting.


Listen

for heaven's sake—

hearing's more than data

we chug in through our fax machine;

as we transfer, processing, we translate

codes shrouded in sinew and veins;

pathos pours forth, bristling

when we truly

listen.


Silent

eyes breathe warm trust

through tight-shuttered windows

shattered from storms still a mem'ry,

duct-taped over with bloodied gauze curtains;

they'll give Light when the power's off,

warmth to a brick-cold hearth,

Love that won't stay

silent.

© MLee Dickens'son 04 Jan 2007
[ Daniel J Ricketts ]

Midnight Odyssey by Cathy

White dragon flies black velvet skies on silver star-kissed wing,
hop-scotching cotton clouds so soft to spark a twilight fling.
While soaring 'cross the heavens high he drifts near Luna Moon;
he'll serenade her with a sigh... sweet lullaby to croon.

The fairie queen stands regally on wispy cirrus white,
her layered skirts a-shimmering with lunar lucent light.
Caress of cheek from silken hair afloat on warmest breeze,
obscures the smile upon her face... she glances shy to tease.

Her ivory carriage glides up near, a twinkle in his eye,
and offers her a pleasured flight across the starry sky.
With graceful ease she climbs his wing to perch atop his back,
delighting in fantasial sights through spheres of dapple-black.

Free-flying on those gentle winds, bestirring mists bordeaux,
astride her gem-toned dragon's neck with smiling face aglow,
they're seeking thrills with Nanna star who reigns supreme above ...
then richly blend their voice as one to sing of Ladylove.

Their glistening playground turns to rose as night draws to its end.
Aurora's winking in the dawn, soon darkness she will rend.
Thus seeking out soft-pillowed clouds, a place to rest the day,
repose their heads 'til dusk descends, 'twill then resume their play.

Cathy Bollhoefer~
copyright Jan2005


Perhaps by Merlin

Full moon
and starlight glow,
you reappear once more
like ghosts from long ago. A smile;
we touch, caress, I stroke your hair. We love.
When morning sprinkles lavender
across this purple plain,
you disappear,
full moon.

Perhaps
it's not a dream.
Your perfume lingers while
one naughty star stays put to wink
at me; it's like some harlequin up high
whose escapade on heaven's stair
lets stardust flakes cascade.
Sweet melodies,
perhaps.

Red haze
disguises fields
and fabled hills as dawn
awakes. She brings veracity
in crystal drops of primal rainbow dew,
reciting bead by bead from one
enchanted, endless string.
Then sunrise fades
red haze.

[Cleo_Serapis]

MARCH SELECTIONS:


On the Wire by AMETHYST

I appear a threadbare crack
against an ashen sky,
unnoticed,
if not for the winds
that sway me.

Society confabulates
a chaotic void
through my cylindrical sphere;
easily dismissing
my existence,
until God's breath
breaks me.

Steadfast, I endure,
second by second, uniting
family to distant family,
closing the miles
into a hair's-breadth,
connecting conversations,
creating friends from strangers.

I'm privy to their private notions,
entrusted to carry off dirty confessions;
dark and sate of passion, sacred
truths, and unholy lies.

It is lonely listening to chatter,
in all their apathy--they hunger
for consolation; I bring solace
in a single ring.

I am a conduit of universal need,
funneling energy of an over extended perseity-
a conducer of their lives --

and yet, it is the birds, perched
along my fibers that contemplate me.
As sparrows rest and blue jays sing,

"Tek, Tek" an ebon crow calls,
inviting human-kind
to pay homage to my silent prominence.


Transcendence in Alice's House by azurepoetry


"...the Arts transcend limited social boundaries like class, race, and nationality."
– Turiyasangitananda (a.k.a. Alice Coltrane, in memorandum)


Tuned to the burning stars within our cosmos,
she touched the harp, releasing
souvenirs plucked like musical notes
from collections of journeys beyond her inner ear.

How can I chart the depth of dripping candles,
that measure the spiral shadows of a staircase
or calculate the dimensions of a black hole
that fills the space between ivory keys?

She drew a line from her legacy
to the cluster of Pleaides--seven sisters
intertwined in her delicate hands,
yet independent like the sturdy legs
under her grand piano, when she played

bop that transfigured the teardrops of Shiva
into falling grains of sand.
Encircled in fire, He also beat the celestial drum
for her lover, who rose through divinity
around the cleansing scirocco of tenor saxophone,

into the mythology of jazz.


Juxtapositions by Gregory



Earth Envy

Deep, deep is that purple distrust
that hangs over the moon’s eyes,
an inviting veil in some exotic dance.

She looks out on space
alone
in her craggy emptiness,
rocky barrenness,
at that supple, wet, glorious
green and blue blossoming beauty,
so favoured in colour
by that same fearsome sun
who burns one half
and leaves the other
for the frozen wastes of space.

Moon Envy

She is beautiful tonight,
in her mottled, gilded, lace,
sewn with precision
never faltering, arc by arc
into orbit.

Serenity pares her eye
then lends it light
unfalteringly.

From bliss, what could she yearn?
This mess of extinction arbitrarily
emerging from fertile soil?

This bewildering organism?
To be locked in the ever-returning,
what bliss!

[Cleo_Serapis]

APRIL SELECTIONS:



Masked Artwork by AMETHYST ~ Honorable Mention

With artist's palette, brush and hues in hand
she decorates the drabness of the day-
thin dabs of sanguine on an ashen land,
soft strokes conceal what she will not betray.

The doctors canvassed charts, discussing test
results; a darkish blot had showed when scanned,
a teardrop shape-and still she paints her best
with artist palette, brush and hues in hand.

She hides discolorations of her life
by touching up the downs, a bit of spray,
then casting shadows with a shaping knife.
She decorates the drabness of the day

to filter out the fading tints of sin
in youthful days. A woman in command,
when strength and courage were immersed within-
thin dabs of sanguine on an ashen land.

Her gallery is now a storage shed
of artwork which will never be displayed-
each dappled bloom now lives among the dead;
soft strokes conceal what she will not betray.


Drought by JaxMyth ~ Honorable Mention


I

We sink the corner posts first, as each defines a neighbour.
It is here where the bottom six inches are the most important.
It is here where the strength is muscled into the fence.

The heart of a fence lies in its foot.
I tamp until the bar sings of possession,
the bar bounces and writhes.

We snug the stays and tighten the wire,
each barbed note is tensioned into voice
the division sings a warning.


II

The fence cannot hold back the drought.
The sky aches blue and the sun eats green;
the earth coughs dust as rich as blood.

My bones hunker down beside the rock.
Eagles hang; wings wound into the wire,
heads nailed down by the sun.

Ribs rack a heaving fleece.
I watch my image fade
from the eye of a lamb.


Shadow's Lands by Cleo_Serapis


She slinks along through Shadow’s lands,
aware of mortals’ mighty claw
where skilled disciples deal their hands
of destiny; she’ll not withdraw.

Tall torches raze a tepid night,
emblazoned mark of high command
consumes the chaos they invite;
she slinks along through Shadow’s lands.

A camouflage of earthen tones
incites a Vulture’s lynching law.
They eat raw flesh; discard the bones
aware of mortals’ mighty claw.

Adjudication comes to pass
unlike combatants; she withstands
content to bathe in fodder’s grass…
where skilled disciples deal their hands.

Her world is changed, no more the prey
as kindred Shadows rise in awe
to venerate her life’s bouquet
of destiny; she’ll not withdraw.

[Cleo_Serapis]

MAY SELECTIONS:



Ambidextrous by AMETHYST


I write with my right hand;
articulate and methodical
chirography.
Ink weaves itself, like silk threads
against a virgin leaf.

What's right feels wrong.
Neatly drawn words
fence in honesty,
confining truth, like stallions
in orderly corrals.

Secrets unleashed,
sowed in the unconscious,
as infertile seeds that release

prosaic verse, lacking passion,
like desert sun-tinged sands
are dry and useless.

I use my left hand these days,
speaking aloud, truths
that never dared to dance from my lips.

Prowling promises, secrets
emerge, purge my past
of decadent pleasures, and sordid schemes
that seep through crevices,
as unseen touches that haunt
in restless sleep.

Poetry surges
across vacant pages -- animated.
Unfortunately the words
are much too sloppy to decipher.

Seashell's Whisper by Cathy


Sweet bluebells blue and cockleshells,
white puffy clouds and playful swells
bedeck the gently rolling dunes
that harbour ancient mystic runes

and fairies whisp'ring tales that tell
of bluebells blue and cockleshells.
Soft floral crowns, pink-posied rings,
whose wafting scents on breezes sing

as sun-warmed sighs touch ivory beach
while searching far outside their reach
for bluebells blue and cockleshells,
to wind up haunting distant dells.

Young mermaids poise on sultry sands,
imaginary wave of hands
bewitches sea-foam tint pastels
from bluebells blue and cockleshells.



Mam's Best Broach by Eisa


Dragonfly – your topaz dazzles
like a yellow winged darter
hovering over reminiscence.
Camouflaged in amethyst
you settle on her plum jacket,
wings recalling fairies from
her bed-time tales; they frolic
amongst lavender and marigolds,
dancing in my dreams.

[Cleo_Serapis]

JUNE SELECTIONS:



Jackie by Kathy ~ Third Placement ~ AWESOME!



That little fellow, Jack, can hardly wait.
He'll soon be five; we'll walk with him to school
because we pass his house. "See ya!" he says
and waves, he lifts his brows and tilts his head
in Polynesian style. He's just so sweet!

Jackie little Jackie-down-the-street.

The men are in the river side by side,
their bodies bright with sparkles as they wade
a long slow march, the ripples dance and shine,
and no-one speaks... I watch the shadows grow
until they reach like fingers that would hide

down inside the river by the pipe.

There's an awful cry, the postman stoops
and snatches, boiling up the water where
a child comes swinging out in fountain gouts
that stream in rivers down his little arms
spread out like Jesus' arms upon the cross.

Jackie, little Jackie-down-the-street.

Then suddenly the air is full of sound;
the women on the bridge let out a wail
that's crying on and on and I can see
the shape of it go spreading like a stain,
I see it beating like a wounded gull

flying up the river past the pipe.

Now Jackie's on the claypan by the bank.
His father sucks his mouth and spits a flood.
We stand and watch him press on Jackie's chest
and darkness grows around. We breathe the cold
but Jackie doesn't breathe; he doesn't move.

Jackie little Jackie-down-the-street.

Doc Tommo's car spins arcing in a skid;
he runs and kneels, he fingers Jackie's throat
and looks into his eyes. "It's way too late,"
the Doctor says. "Give up. It's over, Sid.
Give up I said! He's dead! He's bloody dead!"

Jackie little Jackie-down-the-street.

His father picks him up in his big arms
and holds him close against him wordlessly.
We watch him trudging slowly up the hill
and Jackie's mother follows heavily,
and everything is still now as I sit

down above the river on the pipe

where Jackie fell and hit his head. He sank.
But no-one said a thing. They ran away
because they got a fright. Oh how I wish
we never took him with us after school
to fish, and play the way he did today

half across the river on the pipe.



A Sharecropper's Prayer by Nada Lott



[quote]"Every summer was so hot. I can remember heat waves dancing across the fields. I also remember my daddy praying for rain one night. He was sitting in the porch swing by himself. Farming was hard. One time my daddy and brothers poisoned cotton all day. Late in the afternoon a heavy cloudburst came and washed all the poison off the cotton. They did it again the next day." -Memories of the Depression, from my Aunt Alice


I ain't askin' fer much, Lord, jes' thankin'
for the woman and six healthy sprouts
that ain't starvin' like some in the cities.
Bless the po'r out o' work down 'n' outs.

Lord, I know folks is keepin' ya busy
day 'n' night with their aches 'n' complains.
I ain't meanin' to whine, but I'll tell ya,
we'll be mighty obliged when it rains.

Maybe, Lord, if it's comin' tomorrow
an' it ain't too much trouble to swap,
you could turn it on loose in the mornin'
so we'll know not to poison the crop?



The Graduation Photo by Merlin


It's all that's left - your graduation photo -
since everything got tossed as time rolled by,
except, of course, my sack of recollections
which ought to keep until I, too, shall die.

This tangible's more precious than a diamond,
my talisman through sunshine, wind and rain,
which shadowed me up trails and tribulations,
along paved paths or bumpy local lanes.

My picture's on that shelf as well, beside you;
we both are young, with flowing chestnut hair,
exempt from age and rhythmic passing seasons.
Regrettably, we had so few to share.

[Cleo_Serapis]

JULY SELECTIONS:



The Flag by Judi

The air is still, as though the earth has held its breath;
the tears that flow are triggered by the sound of guns.
Two soldiers fold a flag, for war has claimed a life,
which like a budding tree had barely just begun.

As parents hear the bugler play his final note,
the mother sighs, a grieving father holds her hand.
Nothing soothes the pain his loved ones still must reap,
a shiny medal in a box, his last command.

Friends shake their hands, not knowing what do or say,
The parents nod their heads and shake each hand in turn,
So difficult to leave him there, an only son,
who chose this life, and knew that he might not return.

Tomorrow, they will fold another flag up tight;
salute with guns that echo with staccato sound.
The Taps will play for one who'll walk the earth no more.
When will they see no victories are found in war?



Hollowed Ground by Nada Lott


Along an eon-charted course
the river flows relentlessly
to carve a way through massive rock.
Its steady passage humbles me.

From rim to rim, these depths are but
a speck beneath the firmament
and I, beside them, apperceive
my smallness to its full extent.

For no appraiser stands prepared
to grasp the fathomless. Time wrought
a canyon; its Creator's mind
encompasses perfected thought.

I search my vocal repertoire,
superlatives exhausted. Now,
from parted lips that drip with awe
escapes a feeble, whispered, "Wow."



Jeoffry by Cleo_Serapis


He is sleek unto himself,
blending onyx and brilliance.

Seven - that magic number -
seven times he wreaths
his agile frame to the East,
ascends on haunch hopes;
no more, no less.

Toward latent stars he arcs
in complementary prayer,
and sheaths his domain with
spindrifts of nature’s musk.

Friends frolic in the grassy knoll
to mark their place in society
then yield to his presence: exercising
their position in his kingdom.

He crouches low and slowly
advances amongst his
camouflaged backdrop;
a transient salutation
that shadows pranks of the day…

then quietly sneaks back
to the comfort of a cushy couch
and moons himself to sleep.

A god made unto himself,
he blends onyx and brilliance.

[Cleo_Serapis]

AUGUST SELECTIONS:

All the Wile by Michelle


By day they masquerade in saccharine smiles
while feigning pleasantries. With practiced guile
they plant their schemes and brazenly parade
in saccharine smiles. By day, they masquerade.

When sunlight rests, those imps and fiends convene
unmasked, to dance a dervish round their Queen
Malevolence. They act on her behest,
those imps-- and fiends convene when sunlight rests.

With spouting sparks they sharpen trident spears
to prod when whispers fail to hold an ear.
Licentious prater permeates the dark.
They sharpen trident spears with spouting sparks.

Before I knew the sun, I romped at night
by firelight. Then, privy to their rites,
my shriveled heart was black yet weighed a ton;
I romped at night before I knew the sun.

Beware of covert brotherhoods and pacts,
of accusations made without the facts.
The average person dozes unaware
of covert brotherhoods and pacts. Beware!



Tricolor Pride by Cathy


She flies for freedom; off'ring choice
to listen to the homeland voice
in proof through... night... our flag's still there...*
with strength and glory all can share.

Although she's slightly battle-worn
from bullet holes and cutlass scorn,
word-whipped until her hem-edge curls
by mean-mouthed, uncouth, sadist churls;

she's softened by a mother's tears
and strengthened by a father's fears...
in solace for the ones who've cried
to honor loved ones who have died.

Still she survives, beliefs opined.
Historical events enshrined
she waves her stars and stripes in hope
that others draw within her scope.

Her stitches, sewn by loving hands,
withstand the rigor of demands
to bind our nation's future fast
against a terroristic caste.

We soldiers, armed with loyalty
and hearts that yearn to be kept free,
together charge the battlefield
to fight with might; we'll never yield.

We'll carry her with fervent vows
and tend her wounds when time allows.
Her cause may often be denied,
yet faith unfurled... she flies with pride.

*A line from The Star Spangled Banner



Nocturne by Merlin


He sits and watches clouds as they perform
their evening romp in rouge and twilight masks;
these casts of thespians accomplish tasks,
dispensing scenes a cut above the norm.
In phantom blue, a hazy castle looms,
a shadow figment filled with youthful dreams
like Ludwig's Schwanstein, built from welkin schemes,
while breakers' ebbing surf dispels his gloom.
His thoughts find wings and drift off on their own
to Jennifer, the love he left behind
in Winnipeg; she still torments his mind
despite untallied seasons. Time has flown.

A nightbird's call disrupts his reverie
but cannot grant his wish to set him free.

[AMETHYST]

September Selections:

Lovers Meet Again
Two Views by heartsong7

Hers:

I watched you wrapping life in fantasy
until you lost yourself in make-believe.
Appearances took precedence and we
soon parted. I still wonder—did you grieve
to wake and find me gone? No way I'd leave
the man you used to be. Today I know
too much has come between, we won't retrieve
the newness of a love we both let go.
It's time to travel on with memories in tow.


His:

It’s true, I’d hide behind a fantasy,
imagining some day you would believe
a prince had won your heart but, sadly, we
were far too far apart; it’s that I grieve.
The maybes topped with what-ifs made you leave
and left me lost in all I didn’t know.
If fate allows one chance, we could retrieve
the remnants of our love. Don't let it go
to perish, pulled apart by pride’s strong undertow.




The Ghost in the Machine by Michelle


A drop of water neither begs to stay
afloat and travel leisurely for miles
nor opts to fall upon a south sea isle
and moisten threaded flowers on a lei.

A mountain cannot try to elevate
its snowy peak nor lose its massive girth
as thawing summits carry motes of earth
to line the depths beneath a sound or strait.

As moons revolve, their parent planets trace
a path around a star. A billion stars
are like galactic cogs in spiral bars
and countless galaxies dot boundless space.

The universe keeps pace. The cosmos whirls;
no constellation questions movement‘s means.
No rift of jealousy occurs between
a moon and star; gears mesh as nature twirls.

Inside its nuts and bolts, our form conceals
the consciousness within a human mind.
We note the patterns coded in design
and learn the laws which turn celestial wheels.

Man sees this grand machine and stands erect
above its hum. He logs activity
with scientific objectivity
yet doubts his archetype, The Architect.




Once Upon a Time by Merlin


A herd of cows with calves in tow
now graze this meadow, where,
not many years ago
the two of us wandered,
looking for elusive four-leafed clover
to bring us luck.

The golden balsamroot of early spring
had burst in bright abandon
like stardust
sprinkled by wee forest folk
who rule the mystic woodlands.

Then later on, roses, wildwood roses
graced our much loved hills
where we would stroll,
enjoying sunshine days
in nature’s freedom.

Aspen leaves turned gold,
grasses withered,
autumn winds brought frosty nights,
and rose hips blushed in scarlet.

Along their dusty trails
where once we sought
four-leafed clover,
cows now wander.

[Cleo_Serapis]

October Selections:


Chime of Life by Cleo_Serapis


A response to "The Old Clock on the Stairs" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.


From rays of dawn to blackest night
the chime of life is always bright
upon the face of charity.
It simmers like a potpourri
of potent scents attracting those
whose wisdom-laden words compose --
Forever - together!
Together - forever!

Through lifelong feats of honesty
we're moved by those whose quality
ideals will tend to make us flock
collectively, reset our clock.
Intent on keeping these alive,
we operate with utmost pride --
Forever - together!
Together - forever!

As if timepieces on the wall
they churn their gears as muses scrawl;
we wind them up with practiced skill
then shine their case with cultured will.
As charismatic acts tick on
in wonderment, we’re always drawn --
Forever - together!
Together - forever!



Realities by heartsong7

He traveled through a tunnel to the light;
enveloped by it, sensing no alarm,
enraptured and without a will to fight
for earthly life, he drifted safe and warm.
A silhouette appeared against the glow,
an apparition reaching out to wave
and beckon “Follow me, it's time to go.”

He turned and saw the children mark his grave;
saw little Billy sobbing uncontrolled;
saw Michael, standing stoic-faced and strong,
support their keening mom who, unconsoled,
despaired at how they'd ever get along
without the man whom all adored. He knew
they would and whispered, "Love will see you through."



The Last Bus Home by Judi

Each day at two, I read to her, she sits
there with her thinning hair in wisps around
a wrinkled face. Old age has trapped her in
this place; she cries at night and thinks no one
can hear. A picture taken long ago
is on her stand, I wonder if it's wise
to focus on the ravages of age.
I see her gaze at it, then look away.

At three I bring her tea and Lorna Doones,
She drinks, then pats my hand and says "I love
you nurse, now get my coat and purse for I
must go --the last bus home is leaving soon
and there's no time to stay here in this room!"

[Cleo_Serapis]

November Selections:


So Long Summer by Eric Linden (Merlin)

So, long summer days have headed west
again, and in their wake, cool winds expressed
their firm desire to rule the autumn air
by chasing sunshine down its southern stair
and pushing rain clouds off a mountain crest.

A polka dot delight, Oktoberfest
ignites the sky at night, a sequined vest
of starlit, sparkle-spangled silver ware;
so long, summer days.

Not many weeks before another guest
arrives, who’ll send Boreas on his quest
across our landscape, laying down with care
his ermine mantle, spotless outerwear
that he arranges at his own behest.
So long, summer days.


Going Home by Susan Eckenrode (heartsong7)

He sits in silence
beneath a moss-draped tree,
its branches spreading
nearly to the ground
like arms that reach
and bid him
to come home.

With ripples smoothed
behind a
dying west wind,
the lake reflects
lush lawns
and stately trees
that line its shore.

This spot has been
his refuge
but no more.

Now it’s pain
that holds him in its grasp.
It’s all he knows–
it’s all he feels.
He can’t conceive
of anything more real.

As warming fluid flows
into his frail veins,
his eyes behold the
wondrous scene
one last time
before he’s
free to go
home.


Peace by Larry D. Jennings (Larry)

Dawn’s light spears through a morning mist
from mirrored mountain lake, wind kissed.
Blurs crests of white, sky -- opal blue.
A morning mist, dawn’s light spears through.

Near shrouded shore, two herons wade
within the pine and aspen’s shade.
Search for repast on glacier’s floor;
two herons wade near shrouded shore.

Awakening, I watch the day.
Afraid to speak; I only pray
my thanks, as heart and soul take wing.
I watch the day awakening.

Sweet song I hear from unseen birds.
A symphony without mere words
intruding here, where none belong.
I hear, from unseen birds, sweet song.

I see her face. Her name is Peace.
Her beauty shared, brings care’s release.
Serene, she lives within this place.
Her name is Peace. I see her face.

[Cleo_Serapis]

December Selections:


Northland Solstice by Eric Linden (Merlin)


Snow lay deep that cold December
on my Dawson City home,
shrouding mountains, lakes and rivers
far and wide, including Nome.

Not much moved; our world was frozen
from Old Crow to Watson Lake.
Even ravens had forsaken
this harsh land, for pity’s sake.

Darkness dwelled; it stopped and dallied,
swallowed up the midnight sun.
How I cursed this devil northland
and its grip I couldn’t shun.

Came the day I went out walking;
all was quiet, skies pale blue;
in the woods, those white-clad pine trees
sparkled like old Manitou.

Could it be that I heard carols
coming from those soundless hills?
Solstice in this frigid northland
spells more, brighter winter chills.




Time Gone Cold by Linda Balboni (Aphrodite)


The time has gone, my heart’s grown cold,
I miss your love and stories told,
your smiling face, like golden dawn,
my heart’s grown cold, the time has gone.

Our talks at night, your gentle voice
to spill my soul, your ears, my choice,
dear dad, your laughter made things right,
your gentle voice, our talks at night.

How deep the ache through tearful eyes,
to know you’ve left, can’t share our ties,
a plan from God, your soul to take,
through tearful eyes, how deep the ache..

For all my life, I will believe
your presence guides me, yet I grieve
for you to be here; end my strife,
I will believe, for all my life.

[Cleo_Serapis]

Please disregard the previous announcement about the November entries. Based on feedback we received from some of the boards, we're going to go ahead and send them on to the current judge (whose term is about to expire) for judging as a single group. This make-up competition will run concurrent with the regular January competition, which will be judged by Fleda Brown. Depending on turnaround time we may be able to announce the November results first (hopefully).

Thanks,
David Ayers

PLEASE DISREGARD POSTED INFO BELOW:

OK - here's some interesting news: I'd been wondering why we hadn't received word of any winners from the NOVEMBER competition - I just received the following email from David Ayers at the IBPC:

Please note that there will be no "official" winners for the month of
November. We only received a handful of entries for the month. Because
of this and because the competition was already behind schedule due to
delays in the October judging, we decided to hold off sending new
entries for judging until we received the next group of poems (for the
December competition) which were then handled per our normal process.

This gets us back on schedule with the judging. Unfortunately, it
resulted in a gap in the monthly winners, and a small group of poems
that were never forwarded on for judging, but we felt that this was
really the best way to resolve the situation given the time constraints.

For those boards that DID submit entries for the November competition,
we apologize for the inconvenience. Perhaps those entries can be worked
back into the next few batches that you send for judging. We might even
be able to allow an extra 'make-up' poem for each of the next few
months--in other words, a fourth entry which would come from that
November group which got skipped. You would need to coordinate this with
Gina but I think it could be done without creating too much extra work
on her end or on the judge's end. As I mentioned, we really didn't
receive a lot of Nov. entries to begin with.


Best,
David Ayers
IBPC

Given this information, coupled with the ony ONE nomination for MM for the January comp, I'd like to go ahead and re-submit the three entried from Nov which are: So Long Summer by Merlin, Going Home by heartsong7 and Peace by Larry along with the official Jan Nom: Time Piece by Frances Kennedy. I understand that Sue has requested not to include her works for the IBPC going forward, so I'll send all the poets a PM now and repost this into a new thread as well.

Cheers
~Cleo