February 2009
FIRST PLACE:
HAPPY HOUR MOTHs @Scupper boston
By Duncan Robertson Inches
there
longing long nose ladies
happy
houring moths & wing
hovering honey buns
warm & buttering
boston
popover gentlemen & flex
to whisker
there
through longer
winter window panes
cold lights laughing
dip in & flapping
to fan
one night
fling & fray with use
loose
their spring wing
powder
first brush
ten perhaps
twenty years ago
there
once happy
hour moths
& winging
late longing dip & flap
SECOND PLACE:
Death is
By Thomas J. Pangia
Death is
chocolate coated
with a bittersweet center
the heavy cream you left on your plate
silence after a snowfall
purple clouds as the sun sets
a whisper in the dark
the chance you didn't take
not staying for the last dance
a cry that's not heard
the lonely tear running down your cheek
a distorted image in the mirror
too busy to notice
an infant left on a curb
children fighting in war
never asking why
a paradox of mediocrities
obscurity
apathy
procrastination
never saying
I love you
HONORABLE MENTION:
Recipe For Citrus Salsa
by Riva Dunaief
Ingredients:
1 ...Five Blood Oranges
I stop reading, pen poised
over my shopping list.
Blood Oranges?
I picture the fruit
pierced, dripping,
a Passion of produce.
Blood Oranges. Are they
similar to blood money,
the fee for assassinations?
Are they a metaphor,
like blood from a stone?
Five Blood Oranges. First
ingredient in the recipe.
How bloody are they,
this ominously named fruit?
I picture a dish, lurid,
incarnadine, a relish
fit for Nosferatu.
I ignore the recipe
and buy ajar of pickles.
HONORABLE MENTION:
Blank Wall
by Norma Jagendorf
Too often my memoiy fails,
words are erased by passing years,
small bunches of lovely phrases
nouns both common and proper
slip away.
At times they surprise me, rise up,
only to disappear once more.
A melody, a taste, a scent
stirs the mind;
it aches to remember,
ultimately surrenders.
Will they soon pat me on the shoulder,
supply the words I cannot,
or will I give up like my mother,
remain silent, smiling sweetly.
SPECIAL CONTEST WINNER: VILLANELLE
For The Love Of Allah
by Victoria Maynard
The homeless man, holds out a cup for alms
from those , who's pockets might contain some gold.
yet passers- by. come up with empty palms.
A hidden flask of alcohol, embalms
his trembling body from the biting cold.
The homeless man, holds out a cup for alms
and begs, while other people might have qualms
about a human, forced to act so bold,
yet passers-by, come up with empty palms.
Another swig, the fiery liquid calms !
Since everything of value has been sold,
The homeless man holds out a cup for alms
recalling now, the sound of raining bombs,
a home destroyed, his miseries two-fold.
yet passers-by, come up with empty palms.
His chapped lips bleed, intoning David's Psalms
for prayers might help, or so he has been told.
The homeless man holds out a cup for alms
yet passers-by .come up with empty palms.