Vote: Poetry Challenge - Best of NaPo!

[Tom 10]

Greetings,


The voting will remain open though May 15, 2017.  Vote by then or feel the guilt forever.   

Read the poems, take your time, come back and vote - you can only vote once, but you have SEVEN VOTES each.

Have fun, these are some wonderful poemanations.

[Tom 10]

The NaPo poems - swim suit competition. 

Note to authors -- I was faithful to the best of my ability to your submissions - I did not intentionally change the formatting, capitalization, etc. and did not correct spelling except for the one poem I stole and included.  If I made mistakes in transferring your poem to this thread, let me know immediately and I will make the corrections.  Thank you all so much for participating - this is the second largest Poetry Contest in my five years on the site.

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#1

Clover

Before the four leaf clover withered
Luck was on my side
I plucked the clover from the field
And so the clover died


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#2

Shopping List

#  Cat food
#  Kitchen Towels
#  Tissues and streaked mascara. Rain-beaded, impossibly long, her lashes flay her cheeks.
#  Potatoes
#  Cauliflower
#  Wine reddened lips, stark against the afternoon, sharper than a scalpel cut. I cannot help
             but reach out and she bites my fingers with chiselled teeth.
#  Bleach
#  Mushrooms
#  Newspaper divided and ridiculous, tented above our heads against the worst of the weather.
             I measure her quick, deliberate steps against my own and count two for one. Up ahead,
             the waiting bus rumbles and shudders and rattles its windows—as impatient for her as
             I am.
#  Matches
#  Garlic Bread
#  Cigarettes hide in my pocket, forgotten. She tiptoes into me and I accept a kiss—delicate,
             ephemeral—like a snowflake settling on my palm, like rain on the savannah, and I
             wonder if it happened at all. The bus receives her; she waves and I raise my hand,
             but she’s just wiping the misted window.
#  Apricots


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#3

Tom says

Tom says I'd like birch trees,
and he's right.
Both his poem and the real trees.

Once we had three in the front garden
racing skywards in competition,
growing too fast.
Outstripping their resources,
even on this 'Greenfield Estate'
carved from woodland and meadows.

In the sixties the Council imposed their will,
leaving Nature to forage in the cracks
between tarmac, concrete foundations,
and miles of pipe and wires.

Sometimes a sewer pipe cracks,
or a water pipe leaks imperceptibly.
Accidentally performing a good deed,
underground and unseen,
for the original citizens.

But back to the birches.
A neighbour 'tapped' one of our trees,
drawing some of the sap to make 'birch wine'
It seemed a harmless idea,
just one measly gallon from all that life force,
all that hydraulic energy surging through the wood.

And although he plugged the hole neatly afterwards
the tree died within two years.
Which was when we discovered a secret.

One of our three trees was two trunks,
growing from the same root.
Chance dictated it was the doomed one.
Several years later the survivor succumbed,
but by then rowan and holly,
self-sown like all of my trees,
were staking their claim.

Out nature reserve was entirely natural
and we loved it that way.

In the back garden we had two birches,
one growing like a rocket,
with a sickly sister alongside,
always stunted, and twisted,
deprived of the nutrients
mercilessly guzzled by the taller one.
But with that mongrel toughness
often seen in the disadvantaged.

When we pruned the taller one it wept copiously,
dripping puddles of sticky sap
onto parked cars and uncovered heads.
It seemed it would never stop.,
and I felt like a murderer.
But next year it flourished again.

The sickly one grew leafless with time
and sounded wrong when I tapped it.
I cut a sample and it was dry throughout,
so I felled it.  Cautiously, in a narrow space,
guiding its descent with a taut rope.

Mum, in the absence of her timber horse,
Felix the massive shire,
pulled the rope herself with a certain relish.
And stepped aside with a casual elan
as the rope went slack and it fell alongside
a sixty year old lady reliving her teens
in the Women's Timber Corp.

"During the war we would have felled it earlier,
to make birch ply for Mosquito bombers."

The dried logs made excellent firewood.

The sole survivor grew broad as well as tall.
It began to brush against Mum's window.
At seventy she revelled in the sound of nature,
coming to say hello,
and the birds perched on the twigs.

If it reached inside through the open window,
when the wind blew from the west,
she'd reach and touch it,
even say "Hello."

"I'm just shaking hands with the Tree Spirit."

At eighty it frightened her sometimes,
so I leaned out and trimmed it back.
At eighty five she grew fretful,
too much so, thinking it might break the glass.
I had the offending bough cut off.

It now has a tree preservation order,
ordered by an anonymous council pen-pusher.
But birches rarely last more than fifty years.
Seventy max for a healthy specimen.

It's nearly ten years into 'borrowed time',
and when I move I doubt if a written order
will keep it safe.

But until then we are joined in defiance.

Yes, I like birch trees.


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#4

Physics

you called me a liar then fled:
left the door ajar, let cooler
air displace the hot.

Is this
the physics of relationships?

One man rolls back
on his heels and stutters,
his wife clatters down stairs
and temperatures change,
noise settles like dust until
one of us closes the door
or puts a kettle on for tea,
offers the solace of habit
and waits, time an invisible

bandage. The words creep back,
the fearful cat creeps back too,
I settle on my feet,
steady for a moment,
I did, yes, I did lie, tired
of saying the same old things,
I told you I loved another.


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#5

Water

Electrons jostled effortlessly
through miles of copper,
or flashed through fibre optics,
and today's water bill is paid
by the swipe of  card.

Sixty years ago it wasn't so easy.
Little muscles rolled a water drum
from a well or standpipe,
across the grass and a cinder path,
each yard longer than the one before.

Mum could have carried it easily,
but she stood by the caravan steps,
bursting with pride,
letting me learn to be a man.


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#6

Born in a Flash

Barrel chested beasts of saturn
Roar, like thunder rolls
Herds of saturn, saddle beasts
Flee like frightened foals

Flash of lightning, Flash of fang
Flash of stippled, bristled mane
Flash of flesh and slash to bone
Flash the seeds that nature's sown


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#8

American Despair

roads intersect in the outback of American despair
dusty memories of movies whose names
rolled long by with desert grass. I had dreams
in my small town Ireland, dreams of a woman
in a red dress on a terrace. She waits
for no one or thing, but me.
She wears a smile as enigmatic as Lisa
but her sad eyes promise so much more.
I would cut land for her, draw milk,
and fell trees, she would love me
on fresh sheets, blend ice tea.
In winter her thoughts would turn to murder.


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#9

Starting afresh

Tarmac, like velvet under his wheels,
crumbles to an end
where progress and nature hold border.                           
Warm rubber protests, and
flicks small stones against metal
as a reminder.

He's heading for the river.

Boulders, adrift and orphaned
slow the water's race,
whitened angry by the interruption.
Glacial blue where depth calms the surface,
but clouded by mountain memory.

Hypnotic
 
he must dive into that blue,
knows its freezing current
can also hold him

suspended.


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#10

Talking outside the box.

Into a private room in the ICU
he was wheeled,
he must have seen many enter there
and never return.

I wonder if he remembered
all the lies - half truths,
death was never spoken
and if he didn't suspect
was I wrong to send him ignorant,
with no time to prepare
before the nurse opened that
'abandon all hope' door.

Support disconnected
but still he, or his body, refused to die.
Minutes passed without breath,
ours nearly as long
as his final hours continued.

We pronounced him dead several times,
relieved.
Sharp intakes of breath
like 'Hey fuckers, I ain't gone yet!'
brought us all back.

It ended by mutual agreement, when
we were all done.


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#11

The Purple Frock

I was barely awake that evening,
ready to see my girls and my wife
for a while before my night shift.

Eve was sat in the living room,
bundled up in her coat
so I assumed she was feeling ill.
Certainly not her bouncy self.

"She needs your opinion on something,"
my wife said.  "She won't believe me.
But she'll trust your word."

"I bought a new frock."
It was almost a whisper.
Clearly a crisis of confidence.
"I love it, spent my packet on it,
but Gerry says it makes me look like a whore.
Says he won't take me to the party."

"Show me."

She slipped off her coat,
body slumped,
head hung low,
revealing her dress of shame.

My wife watched me like a hawk.

Deep purple, mid-thigh length,
thin spaghetti straps over bare shoulders,
following her contours without clinging.
Bold without being brash.
Perfect with her gypsy dark skin.

"Look at me."  Raising her reluctant chin
with a gentle finger.
Feeling her resistance fade.
Her skin tone doesn't blush easily,
but there was a glow.

"Gerry," I said quietly,
entranced by her beauty,
"Is a boy.  A silly young boy.
It takes a man to appreciate what I'm seeing.
And a real woman to wear it."

She smiled, abandoned her stoop,
and my wife, stood behind her, frowned.

"If I wasn't a happily married man,
I'd gladly take you to the party."

"Really?"

I nodded.  "And don't tug at the hem
like a nervous little virgin.
Let's see some Gypsy confidence, Mi Rackli."

My wife frowned again at the Rom endearment
but hustled us both into the kitchen
for a diplomatic cup of coffee.

When Eve left I saw her smile,
catching her reflection in the hall mirror.

"That was a kind thing you did, earlier,"
my wife's eyes were cautious
as she saw me off to work,
Eve's uncertainty transferred.
"It wasn't kindness, just truth."
Probably not the most prudent thing to say.


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#13

Fallow

It's a sombre day today.
Not sad, or melancholy,
or bitter, or even resigned.
Just sombre.

A day for serious thoughts
and reflections.
For weighing and balancing,
checking the load for equilibrium.
Considering options,
laying the groundwork for plans,
but not yet planning.

A limbo day,
between past and future,
a self-contained bubble of now
set aside from the flow of life.

Sometimes people,
just like a nutrient stripped field
which has grown too much,
too fast, need a break,
to allow recovery.
To lie fallow for a while.

This is such a day,
and to ignore the signs would be folly.


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#14

All This, I’d Do.

If I could touch your hand again
I’d buy you diamond rings,
a multitude of emeralds,
and other sparkly things.

I’d listen to you carefully—
I know it sounds absurd,
I’d try to understand this time,
the words between the words.

I’d fill your house with hollyhocks,
thyme and timothy
and make a garden of your lounge
to shame Gethsemane

I’d bargain with the Fallen One
And ask of him his price—
My heart or soul,
my worldly wealth,
I’d gladly sacrifice.

I’d call upon Jupiter,
Thor and Amon-Ra,
to turn the seas to sudden ice
and light the skies on fire

I’d tell the god of Abraham,
‘Take back your gentle son!
Come, walk the streets,
and stop the hearts
of each and everyone.’

All this, I’d do, and more besides,
if only time would deign
to let me wind the long years back,
and touch your hand again.


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#15

No Second Place

I gave my youngest a short bladed knife,
told her it was a tool, not a weapon.
I saw her smile, weigh it in her hand,
quietly pleased that I trusted her.
Then I said, "But..."

I gave her the quick lesson,
the hidden grip,
the best target,
the decisive step,
the short swing with no warning.
Followed by the tactical retreat
and the walk away.

She smiled, but her eyes were serious.
"I'll probably never need to do that."

"I hope not.  I truly hope not.
But it you ever do, it's not a game."

She's a sensible girl,
already knows how to avoid trouble,
to talk her way clear,
and how to break bones if necessary.
But I'd be failing my duty as a father
if I didn't prepare her for the chance,
for the once in a lifetime encounter
when charm, wisdom, and decency
have to meet the dark side head on.

When there's no second place.


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#16

Child’s Shoe on a Wall

child's shoe on a wall,
lost then found, left
to be refound. one child,
one foot with shoe, one
without.

a story as old as...

a walk along the cBlocked
towpath to an empty
yard where you can still see
black veins of dirt between grass
and empty cans, a bottle, broken mirror

once home I set about cleaning my shoes,
brush soil and dirt from around the heel,
wipe the toes and the leather upper,
dry it all with a soft cloth, apply
polish and elbow grease with a brush.

I gather the dirt in a newspaper,
shades of headlines and human detritus
someone lost their memory, a crash,
two drunks fighting in a carpark
and a soldier's mother collecting
his corpse from the airport

once dinner is over, dishes scraped clean,
washed, rinsed returned to their places
I settle in my armchair, in my corner,
in my circle of light, with my face
to the window, to twilight, night,
to my thoughts, to a slowing down

to all things lost and all things refound


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#17

The Last Post

A mournful tune played at military funerals
and commemorations for the many fallen
millions of soldiers dead, gone and forgotten.
Make way for the new war, a new generation
marches to the drum, eyes wrapped in flags
followed by the body-bags that taxes bought.
Animals for the slaughterhouse sense the end
but with heads bowed to digital narcissism
and nanny-state deception, economic webs
and government lies, we are conditioned
to feel overdue for the hellish Great Culling.


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#18

A God like me.

He's sitting in my place now
curled, with occasional stretches.
I don't mind
he covers the arse-created cushion hole,
the one I made,
a reminder of how life has changed.

Our lives have seesawed
our prospects have changed,
a glorious sun crowns his smarmy head
as I look up
wondering why gravity keeps me down.

I'm happy for him really
stone-yard feral, orphaned
he watched his siblings disappear
one by one
the last, his beautiful sister
under a forklift wheel.

I saved him, was minutes away from saving both.
I am his God...but I failed.

He's teaching me,
and I'm going to Disney his life.

I'd like to have a God like me.


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[Tom 10]

#19

March

A march hare idles, mid-field,
ears a-twitch and chewing,
while I tap my foot, in time
to a tune laying a carpet
of grass sounds. My mind
steps out of winter. The sun
obliges and we, hare and I,
quieter denizens, remain rooted
among early April breezes
that clear rusted debris
from branches, from hedgerows.
Then we go our ways as came them.


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#20

Stolen moment

All long dresses and veils,
Like dark brides they stroll in the park,
The younger ones in pair
Babbling and laughing,
Older ones walking in a line,
Silent.
Some of them stroll alone,
Talking softly into their telephone.

I imagine their luxurious hair,
Black and shiny,
Released
And floating in the April wind
Like a scented banner.


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#21

Machine Gunner's Eyes

It was a phrase Dad used,
and it made a kind of sense
but carried no emotional weight.

Then I met her on a course.
A pretty lass with a pleasing shape,
a bubbly personality,
a bouncy breath of fresh air
in a stuffy rule-bound office.

With the ugliest eyes I've ever seen.
Flat grey circles, no sparkle,
no life, no warmth,
no hint of her personality,
warm, cheerful, and cuddly..

Two shocking voids.

'Machine Gunner's Eyes.'


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#22

Sunflowers

Up close, green leaves dominated,
furrowed to attention, in line
flower heads faced me,
bug eyed, as if frightened.
The more I looked
the more I thought
it wasn't fear,
they were simply in awe of themselves,
of just being.

Not content with a few,
my greedy eyes
opened towards their horizon.
The field, vast,
gradually condensed them to solid yellow,
I can't remember how blue the sky was
or what trees separated them.

I do remember sensing them as I would a creature,
could feel their collective wonder,
their perception that time exists
and knowledge that
for them it would end

immersed in their bright sadness.


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#23

Shelter

A squall falls over the house
high winds and unseasonable cold,
bend shapes and dent the mood.

You are reading, content, always cosy
when the world swirls darkly
outside and your armchair
is warmed by the yellow-shaded lamp
bought in your father's antique store.

Loose strands of hair hang over the page
reminders of a youthful you, smiling
at me across a party, tempting me
to step into your world. I have lived
there a long time now and the roses
have flourished around the back door,
cats curl at your feet and the books
shape our walls and conversation, long
long into winter evenings or in summer
on the shaded terrace. I will always
be grateful you invited and I accepted.

I watch you within the still centred eye
my place in this encircling storm
to observe and shelter by being there.


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#24

Ticket to ride.

Time smacks greedy hands,
it's the bus tour guide you keep the right side of.
You know the one
mouthy, arrogant, needs frequent ego massages, oh
and he's always funny,
laugh
for fuck sake laugh, or else
you're fucked, well actually you are anyway.

He takes us to wonderful places, at least
he says they are...but it's up to us to appreciate them.
His bus struggles sometimes, limps up hills,
his microphone is a bit hit and miss
and don't talk to me about the toilet.

He yaps constantly, but I rarely listened when I was young,
couldn't really hear him from the back of the bus.

Closer to the exit door now
his words are crystal clear.


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#25
 
Time is a river

When you were finished
swallowing a thousand meals
of truth and speaking in placebo lies
from behind the opaque mirrors
of standardized eyes –
then every pore slammed shut
on the betrayal of love so artfully spread
and revealed on velvet valleys and peaks.
  Amidst your chattels and crumbs
measured in tired numbers
and stale dreams,
toxic lumps of blunt-razor hurt
mock from borrowed corners
in your twilight of shrouds.


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#26

Roast Chicken & Stuffing.

He'd always eat his food in sequence,
peas, carrots, potatoes, roast chicken and stuffing
in that order, every time,
save the best for last.
If there was work to be done it was done first thing,
leisure comes after.

Started his pension payments early,
his family too,
had it all planned out.
Not like young people now, getting married later
having babies in their 40's.

Looked after his health, peas and carrots now
roast chicken and stuffing will come later,
a little place in Spain for his last few decades,
after he'd done his time.

A regular checkup signalled otherwise
roast chicken was definitely
off the menu.


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#27

Weaponized

I kicked down for Cape Town this morning,
dropped the hammer hard on the highway
in something German and quick enough
to burn gaggles of straggling traffic
in single gulps of slick adrenaline.

A crumbling car-park in genteel Constantia
floated on drifted leaves guarded by trees.
I look around, hear the city's eternal hum,
the surging mountain dramatic as always.
 - moving now, ready for confrontation.


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#28

Tapestries

It's Saturday morning
I'm walking through crowds to the market
fruit and vegetables, perhaps sausage and beer too.
Sometimes my bones feel that patina of another decade added
in a half-step too low for the familiar curb. It doesn't worry me,
this exchange of life for time and the entropy of unwinding days.

My trudging feet are winter-pale, daring in old leather sandals
at the first hints of summer that unfolded in the city today.
The street scene is lively, for a moment I wonder about
the population of my neighbourhood, it seems more polyglot
than usual and my imagination rotates, hesitating between gears.
I shrug and keep moving, a burly fish patrolling the canyons of his reef.

At home, in my apartment, I have student books to review. Today,
I'll set out my work on the dining-room table, the light there is good
and the silent study can enjoy its weekend illusions. Later,
she'll come through the doorway, her presence familiar, welcome,
a home within a home. In between our companionable silences,
in the interaction of inconsequential things, we weave unconsciously
upon the fabric of marriage, friendship and yes, the love word too.   


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#29

A cup of tea.

Keep sending flowers
if you like,
they'll bridge a gap
sometimes.

But take time to notice,
that's what she wants
details.
 
My wife likes her tea just so.
Anyone can make it,
but just so is an acquired skill
a leap of faith.

Have you ever watched mating birds,
males apparently doing
the same dance, but
one wins
why?

The others, I think, pay more attention
to their performance,
while he noticed her subtle reactions
noted details.
Not giving in
just giving to receive.

Your world can revolve around
a cup of tea, if
it's made
just so.


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#30

Dark of the Moon

For we who follow the Silver Mistress
this is the lowest point,
when the link is at its furthest ebb.

A time when seeds lie dormant,
a moment of winter
whatever the season.

Tomorrow the balance tips
and rebirth begins.

But for now all is still.


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#31

Fade

He watched her fade
into the morning mist,
its low lying sulk on the lake
bled thinner across the road,
then soft focused the shadowed pines
freeze framed, until the day's virgin heat
prompted their gentle swaying.
 
Dawn, the time for last chances,
one more last chance.
No words required in a warm bed,
just an arm's reach across the divide,
a touch they both craved,
frozen in shadows
before the fade.


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#32

Brittle Leaf

Dance little, brittle leaf
Your end is far from near
The air is cold, and crisp, and clean
Enjoy your graceful fall from tree

Drifted years, now ground is near
Below the soil, crystal clear
It's you, your brethren, from the tree
To which you will return to feed


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#33

Marlboro moment

Fat Annie starts slinging hash browns @6am
forearms as lumpy as an apple pie sky.
Hot coffee's in the craw, work-boots sticky
on yesterday's floor. Blue-hazed voices buzz,
doorbell swings to the slam of a pick-up door.
Tumbleweed presses against Chevy glass
for a shotgun moment on the rack in back,
bounds away to a phantom circus lining
the filtered history of American horizons.
 
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#34

Hemp, Haiku & Social Lies

He toured Kansas, then Greenwich
where he lived as a postulant, later
described as the happiest time of
his life.  With a face reminiscent
of Kurt Vonnegut, or a pumpkin
going flat, he aged quickly along
with American innocence, if there
ever was such a thing.  The hippies
thought him a god-like blend of
hemp, haiku and hitchhiking, a
view he never admitted to being true.
Authorities long considered him 
a poet in times of war, a lector
at the City Lights Bookstore,
a soldado of North Beach, and
of that they could not abide.
He went to the camps, went to
shore, and finally went to ground.
His daughter, Mary, changed her
name to Mariana. His third wife
hanged herself. No record remains
of the man having lived or died, but
for what were his words, and now
this, and only after tea and peyote.
A pipe plays slow and long.  Low
thunder sloshes from the Rockies to
Brooklyn, Chicago to Frisco, where
streets on the hill tilt toward the sea.


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#35

The Fat King, Bilbo

The Fat King, Bilbo.

A plump, but humble man,

Forbade the dark mark magic, he said, “plagues my people’s land!”

“They cause the nightmare murders.” he said, “Warlock sleight of hand!”

“They dance and dive in Otherelm, but fear not here’s my plan…”

“We ban the reckless practice, here say, penalty? is death!”

And with that sentence, warlocks did, as warlocks do, “The Rest”.

“But what’s ‘The Rest’?” I hear you wonder, “Whatever could it mean?”

“The Rest” is when the warlock sleeps, to swim amongst the dreams...


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#36


Sculptures

Ousmane Sow :
your warriors on the edge of silence,
sad giants and cruel,
kings of eternity
parading their savage splendour
eyes raw, intense,
watching into emptiness forever
standing,
proud.


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[Vienna]

a long time to vote innit eh?

[Tom 10]

Maybe too long.  Lots of poems, though.  I am thinking of shortening it a week or two -- thoughts?

[kateD]

Maybe too long.  Lots of poems, though.  I am thinking of shortening it a week or two -- thoughts?

Long time. Those interested will do it (vote) lickety-split. Reminds me of a joke, but I won't go there.

[Tom 10]

I'm convinced.  Voting now closes on the 15th day of May, in the year of our Lord Two Thousand Seventeen.
Spread the word.

[Catherine F]

Wow, that was a difficult choice....

[Tom 10]

Wow, that was a difficult choice....

I thought so too - so many really wonderful pieces.

Thanks for voting - spread the word!

[Catherine F]

Thanks for voting - spread the word!

Do my best!

[Tom 10]

. . . . Voters?  We're getting close.  4 days left . . . . voters?

[Gyppo]

12 voters now.  It's better than eight, but it's still a pretty poor turnout.  If this was an election we'd end up with a minority government.

[Catherine F]

Yes but still, the majority of the minority gives it a legitimacy 

[Gyppo]

Fourteen voters now ;-)

[Gyppo]

Fifteen ;-)