MM's Represented Poems for 2010, Best of luck! Options

[Cleo_Serapis]

We decided to SKIP over January all...


FEBRUARY SELECTIONS:


A Luring Legacy by Daniah Jamil Lababidi


I searched the depths of my convictions,
walked past rosy petals of perfection,
then faltered as unexpected weeds sprang forth
from this earth; my heart.

At garden's edge, I parted the canopy.
Discovering forbidden land,
I inhaled its lustful scents
then succumbed
to a well of wakened desires.

My only succession
lies in the lingering odor
of untilled soil and arid years,
tainting this decaying garden
... my life.



Winter by Daniel Culleton


On this settled grove, these rows of trees,
The light bright of the morning shows
To each here present now unquestionably
The fellow presence of each shuddering bough.

On this settled evening too,
Winter devises cruel clarity of sight.
False Spring this week had, demonic, doomed,
Scattered stark children among the starlings.

Shadow of child and bird soared
Until night froze them in a dream.
Always the year returns us without fail
To this ancient darkness and this cold:

Bare branches across a black sky,
Each branch hung with distant stars.

[Cleo_Serapis]

MARCH SELECTIONS:


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.



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…



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.

[Cleo_Serapis]

I am going to re-submit last months entries for the April competition for two reasons:
(1) We had no nominations in March
and
(2) There is a new judge for April, May and June.

Cheers,
~Cleo

[Cleo_Serapis]

MAY SELECTIONS:


Breathes Death by Larry D. Jennings


Ra’s bright device, while waning much too fast
to herald an approaching night, has passed
its zenith. Cloaking all the world in ice
while waning much too fast. Ra’s bright device
breathes death.

Catastrophe’s chill tongue… Flame dead beneath
its skin; a cancerous and blackened sheath,
is merely sign the fateful bells have rung.
Flame dead beneath catastrophe’s chill tongue,
breathes death

with stellar groan; proclaims an end to light.
As shadows dance through days once clear and bright,
the distant stars observe. What once had shone
proclaims an end to light with stellar groan;
breathes death.

No one replied as mournful prayers were said
imploring pity. Naught was overhead
but Stygian abyss; mouth gaping wide
as mournful prayers were said. No one replied!
Breathes Death,

“Hear now that solar sigh. Entropy’s rest
has stolen time!” No succor from the breast
which gave you life. All sightless stars must eye
entropy’s rest. “Hear now! That solar sigh
breathes death.”

Among the heaven’s height, a tiny branch
means nothing. A galactic avalanche
renews itself within black void each night.
A tiny branch among the heaven’s height
breathes death.

Hot air, wind from the stars, speeds heavenward.
Zeta-Reticuli, no Saint... Bernard
propels itself to meet Sol’s final prayer.
Wind from the stars speeds heavenward. Hot air
breathes death.

Ra’s bright device, like Isis’ faithful hound
emerging from its underworld, was found
to mark the solstice’s warmth. Shining like ice,
like Isis’ faithful hound, Ra’s bright device
breathes death.

Once molten star, Sol turned a sullen gray
and sightless orb toward a place where lay
its children’s frozen ashes. From afar,
Sol turned a sullen gray. Once molten star
breathes death.



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.



The Legacy by Walter Schwim


A Kiss,
stolen between the land and sea, with
spray - salty on your lips
and sand, slipping through our fingers,
building tiny stalagmites for laughing children.

Silken Hair,
restless as the wind and waves,
washing treasures to our tingling feet
and your eyes that
boldly rob the ocean of its fire
while Poseidon roars inside his cowry shell.

Sunshine,
warm on sanguine skin,
lungs filled
with virgin air - un-breathed,
in a green forest, resting within my soul.

Your Smile,
cascading naked over marbled pebbles,
claiming my heart as
the mountain murmurs blackly
beneath our unshod feet.

These, I'd take with me.

Soil,
steeped in blood, inherited with sweat;
a lifetime’s toil for
fledgling fiscal dreams and
prayers - ever unfulfilled.

Promises - made in faith,
broken in sickness and in fear
of foe and fate.
Curved sWords,
fired in anger at vulnerable emotions;
parried with semi-truths and deception,
finally manoeuvring into shadow.

These,
(and sorrow’s Tear as well)
I gladly bequeath to those –
who stay.

[Cleo_Serapis]

JUNE SELECTIONS:


Forest Queen by Larry D. Jennings

Within my forest glade, there stands a tree
so tall, the top applauds the clouds' parade
with massive arms that shade and comfort me.
There stands a tree, within my forest glade;
encircled… here her children dwell. She grows
as centuries descend into Time’s well.
Her progeny, a gift that she bestows.
She grows, encircled. Here her children dwell
to burgeon fair as none have done before.
A daughter of my womb, with loving care
I’ve nourished her and let her roots explore
as none have done before. To burgeon fair,

in greenest jade and golden brown. My crown!
My crown in greenest jade and golden brown.



Tidy Twigs by Eira Needham

New sunrays weave; I join the avian song
yet apprehension dawns; my chick has grown.
You fluttered restless wings, then squawked so long
abandoning our nest; my fledgling’s flown.
Bereft, I stare at every cranny filled
with dying leaves, once placed with expertise.
Time’s fingers seem to linger. I rebuild
my life, extend stiff wings, explore new trees.

Recall my chirruped warnings that you glide
above the stormy clouds. I’ll prune this nest
then tidy twigs, repress those fears I hide.
So preen your feathers, zoom the sky with zest.

I’ll cluck around my brood in reverie,
’til you swoop home, to roost awhile with me.

[Cleo_Serapis]

JULY SELECTIONS:


Seasons by Lucie Kavanagh

The long evenings helped
to make sense of it in daylight.
Flowers hurt; night-scented
remnants from another life.

Orange and black; candlelight.
The day you walked unaided to the garden gate.
Flowers curled back to ground; we retreated indoors.
Glowing air; hot drinks; camped
around your bed, we talked in firelight.

Harshest since 1963.
The hospital drive through snow, each day, to you.
Frozen trees; branches gnarled in ice and shadow.
That sunlit Monday you stopped traffic,
strangers held my hands at the gate.
Lowered heads, foggy streets and silence.

First snowdrops.
Shadows lengthen.
Pale, intangible sunlight.



Wreathed in Realization by Eira Needham

Vermilion roses rest in ivory
carnations, tenderly entwined with grief.
I place this meagre gift in memory
of you - my stalwart. Stunned with disbelief,
foundations fold. I struggle to compose
internal tremors, close outpouring eyes
and kneel on turf that blankets your repose.
Despair subsides because I realise
you’ve not abandoned me, but still uphold
collapsing structures like a cornerstone.
Your presence tarries, sturdy walls enfold
my emptiness. Although I came alone,
your solace wreathes me, while we walk away
together – leaving only this bouquet.

[Cleo_Serapis]

SEPTEMBER SELECTIONS:


Breathes Death by Larry D. Jennings


Ra’s bright device, while waning much too fast
to herald an approaching night, has passed
its zenith. Cloaking all the world in ice
while waning much too fast. Ra’s bright device
breathes death.

Catastrophe’s chill tongue… Flame dead beneath
its skin; a cancerous and blackened sheath,
is merely sign the fateful bells have rung.
Flame dead beneath catastrophe’s chill tongue,
breathes death

with stellar groan; proclaims an end to light.
As shadows dance through days once clear and bright,
the distant stars observe. What once had shone
proclaims an end to light with stellar groan;
breathes death.

No one replied as mournful prayers were said
imploring pity. Naught was overhead
but Stygian abyss; mouth gaping wide
as mournful prayers were said. No one replied!
Breathes Death,

“Hear now that solar sigh. Entropy’s rest
has stolen time!” No succor from the breast
which gave you life. All sightless stars must eye
entropy’s rest. “Hear now! That solar sigh
breathes death.”

Among the heaven’s height, a tiny branch
means nothing. A galactic avalanche
renews itself within black void each night.
A tiny branch among the heaven’s height
breathes death.

Hot air, wind from the stars, speeds heavenward.
Zeta-Reticuli, no Saint... Bernard
propels itself to meet Sol’s final prayer.
Wind from the stars speeds heavenward. Hot air
breathes death.

Ra’s bright device, like Isis’ faithful hound
emerging from its underworld, was found
to mark the solstice’s warmth. Shining like ice,
like Isis’ faithful hound, Ra’s bright device
breathes death.

Once molten star, Sol turned a sullen gray
and sightless orb toward a place where lay
its children’s frozen ashes. From afar,
Sol turned a sullen gray. Once molten star
breathes death.



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.

[Cleo_Serapis]

NOVEMBER SELECTIONS:


Dance of the Crinkled Veils by Eira Needham


Beneath a screen of stratus shade
she changes into citrus hues
as breezes fan and serenade
her; ballet pointes battements tendus.

Her rustling tutu riffles, swirls
chartreuse with russet layered hems;
soft flurries tousle chestnut curls
adorned with crimson clustered gems.

She sheds her veils in lento time
-- pianissimo they pirouette;
her vibrant beauty, still sublime,
enshrouds terrains a la georgette

Diminuendo: standing bare
she silhouettes the dreary skies.
Soon frost will crown bedraggled hair,
his spangled shawl around her thighs.

With lofty body proudly posed
her feet secured against each storm,
she wavers endless arms, exposed
‘til emerald ruffles dress her form.



Aging in Thought by Karen Kelsay


When cataracts form clouds across my eyes
like fog that settles on the coastal skies;
where creaky knees require a wooden cane
to navigate my walk across the lane,

please help me not relinquish vanity
to illnesses or pain. Just swaddle me
in classic silk pajamas, sleek and black,
with little velvet shoes—no flannel sack

to drape around my bones, or pink housecoat
with fuzzy slippers skimming like a boat
across the kitchen floor. A single chain
of gold, Ann Taylor slacks. Let me abstain

from wearing Mumus, curlers in the hair,
of anything that may alarm or scare
the neighbors. Pictures not lamentable,
just well preserved and deemed presentable.

This post has been edited by Cleo_Serapis: Oct 31 10, 18:15

Reason for edit: Revision update

[Cleo_Serapis]

DECEMBER SELECTION:


A-Listed by Jim Callaghan


Curvaceous as a writhing snake,
with Champs-Elysées legs,
she never makes her old mistake
of courting mankind’s dregs
but always picks a chaperone
to match the limelight’s latest tone.

Her hair is always perfect now,
her clothes are custom made;
tight make-up shows designers how
to master nature’s shades;
the tints and textures round her eyes
are meant to tempt and tantalise.

She hasn’t always looked this good
for not so long ago
a skinny kid with attitude
frequented fashion shows
in Oxfam shoes and backcombed hair:
she’s lucky that I found her there.