Hiding here inside my closet, I feel safe in the dark
knowing on a pile of sheets lies my very psyche;
it's only a thought, yet I am unhurt among drawers…
so I curl and stare blank, imbibing bits of gentle
murmurings that whisper on hangers as they
sway with the lint...I strain to listen
but prickly voices rush out of reach
from the sleeves of a night
like a conversation behind closed doors…
I hear yet can't quite grasp
what my heart wants to say in low dips ;
like a tremolo carrying mould of twilight...
it chants all sermons of a Sunday church bell
speaking in tongues I knew once...long ago.
The moon slices the folds around me in black suds
washing a laundry of venting desire, only to find myself
trapped in pins…I feel a stab, a grating chill: perhaps,
I have no language when no one wants to listen.
Favorite Poem You've Ever WrittenContest
Sponsor: Carol Eastman
by nette onclaud
Not with my arms but with a heart
that blesses your reveries, may peace reside
within your chest... is it possible to love you
less? Perhaps allow the sun to brush your hair
in the luminescence of dawn?
Even autumn envies you as white light
moves with your scent and possesses
your laughter never to be mine again in times
of harvest or falling rain…
and from stars above, may your eyes
remember our blades of grass
while I half-close the damp field of memorials
creaking on the burial of a resting place
that finds me kneeling, wailing, asking how time
can drown our adventures much too soon...
as I stumble upon this cruel, bruised night.
Fluted hands angle on knees as glimpses
sort the knitted threads of a late afternoon
where gathering of blooms abide.
Almost friendless, a man inhabits his space
ready to inhale the waft of new dusk,
of how a world in his inner terrain mirrors
the ceremonials of a mindful passage
upon grasses and half-lit windows
outside the self.
And through a prayerful instance,
he connects with a god hushing the tempo
of sighs mixed with incense blowing, as if
to twirl in an air of breaths cleansing
the scabs of trespasses. Miles of babel words
turn into a different language: quite unknown
and understood only by him who finds
contentment in being unbound ,of gliding
above a haloed sky that reflects the movement
inside his awakened essence.
For the atonement of all misgivings,
he releases his pride in layers
of deep confession to pay for his karmic debt;
that in a warm communion with humility
he makes amends for life's consequences
as stillness becomes his friend.
Anthony Slausen's Karma
I count my walks through herbs and shells
never knowing how old bones can be fleshed
from a heart bound on scrolls of endings,
and here I am among rows of an orchard…
feet like dust sanded by twelve months
of famine and feast ; somehow the maple boughs
wither from the laundry of evenings’ regret.
Often times, like the gypsy rose,
I climb into the lattice of my family tree
smelling its tar and citrus that knit arms
glossed by twilight’s love,
then raked by froths of autumn’s debris.
Closing a fence as another year shuts off,
I am between silence and scream…
eyes groaning with the music
of an anonymous breeze sheltering
a collected beauty of tragedy and the comedy
of drama: trials pinned by veiled nights
when kinship endures the flood of weather's hands.
It is so, I mean, the certainty of taming
the last ride before new seeds from a new year
twirl upon unborn fruits…
I disrobe the old bones to greet the unknown.
"“In times of test, family is best.” – Burmese Proverb
Carol Eastman's Enter The Best of 2014 Contest
by nette onclaud
Passing through framed windows like ours,
I recall your tales of reckless war and lost friends
that burned your innocence at 21... and though
you claimed flashes of courage, moist eyes
poured vulnerability looking calm, undaunted.
We both searched deeply into our souls
as a father is to his young daughter, that I wanted
to let you know, it was alright;
but that mound of shoulders turned away.
Down the years as officer and gentleman,
Time stole long weeks, absent from your dining chair,
leaving me resentful and bitter on hardened sills
until you arrive under crawling dock of stars.
But in free moments, how you cherished
me so; waking my cheeks at 3 am to race the winds,
to fly with a shooting neon, laughing with a blue moon.
You spoke of faith and honor if life dared a shame, oh
mild scent of your arms cuddling my girlish dreams...
until off you rode suddenly on heaven’s wheel.
I see you through all framed windows like ours,
that even if my iced breaths needed you more
as small flowers thirsted for rain, my anger was a cry
for love’s company... “ I have adored you
in moments of distance and nearness, if not
always, then for all eternity.”
Have I forgotten to open this, my soft, broken sigh?
Dad, everything is all right.
The Confessional Contest
A gypsy dance enthralls the stars
into a twirl of rustling hems
as women tap bare feet, guitars
lift twiddling notes of lore’s anthems
along a woodland’s lively fest,
where beaded hair glides in thrilled zest
to charm night’s hours...to romp away
till wagon drifts when morning strays.
My destiny number is 7, though I chose
my path number 8--- jan 8
rispetto form in 8 lines
Andrea Dietrich's Tell Me Your Number Contest
lately, i have been in this female mood
for some kind of abandon, that
which exhales the tigress fire
out of my lungs digging the veins
from a week's' routine movements
pruned to the barest of a payroll’s droll…
antiseptic cubicles dictate the rags of
chlorine-infected lunch where rooms
i strut around have nothing except
robotic people, same rye snacks, basins
of expired coffee and files of schizoid
just outside, the sky coughs
of gas masks rendering a paper bag
of humanity to suffocate on clanking bones
along claustrophobic subways: such a
hemorrhaging day waiting for 5pm
to hiss, halt ,and heave…
i need to dance with the arms of a
jazzy moon fondling my back and
whistling the tunes of recklesness
when all but the spirit lusts for is just a slice
of raw breaths spiraling into tangy
punches of rockstar blues... spare me the cranky
claws of a friday so sore; i alight like
a feline dressed in black lace with cabaret wings,
feathers splattered on glitzy cobblestones...
voluptuous legs hot and wild sniffing sultry
lavender scent of friday night’s parade;
and the band notes howl, free like me.
Favorite Poem Of Yours Contest of Giorgio V
by nette onclaud
early dawn cracks the wispy air
open , wandering around viscous spaces
like fairy shadows caressing the edge
of sleep… and the days stretch longer,
taller than maple trees delicately rustling
the garnet of late Indian summer when
birds, orbits and urchins listen to
a single searching sun… when all else
is sprawled quiet, there comes this
certain fired imagination straying on
mouths of gentleness far beyond
nuptials of effervescent realms…
someone said morning becomes Electra,
that learning how to hear a pear or
grain unravel the very skin from
which it was born is allowing time to
unfurl its leaves far beyond unknowing a
heart’s need to be: the juice spills streams
waking new faces of time, bending the width
of life's rhyme through endless mystery...
a thousand times before and after, daybreak
and night twine... that in tints of all hues,
passing through fables of any season
is poetry's way of coming back to itself.
Justin Bordner's How Poetry Began Contest
by nette onclaud
This is too complex; i mean the throbbing wound
grating my belly on a dappled day, a day
breathing of tender winds and violins. Perhaps,
the strains of notes shuttle me back
to my grandfather’s library sitting on books
and archaic telescopes. Here, we would
empty the shoulders from a rough sail;
he scattering fiddle songs on painted walls…
the mellow notes tasted like hints
of vanilla scent warmed by cadences
of burning musical passion as his eyes ,
half-closed ,melted the noise
of an anxious world, of teary wrongs.
‘Bathe in the splendor of the night,’ he mused,
submitting to a trance smitten by some refrains
of Moonlight Serenade… and my rubber spine
would bend with the flesh of his vibrating hands;
violin strings weeping till we drowned in holy streams.
Now, I feel this undefined nostalgia… the phantom
of light exhumed his lust for old charm;
and my eyes fall on the alley of roaming vagueness.
I could have loved him more than heaven
plucking his strings so soon, uninvited.
Regina Riddle's A Special Memory
The steep waning of duskfall held by one
Cuddled by a wheeze , the dim air’s pale light,
Nestling upon boughs of memoirs undone
As scenes rise mildly with an ached delight.
Although fall plunges into my own depth,
Giving way to chills of winter ,prolonged
So must spring blossom with a fragrant breath
For roam I must through peaks of Augusts’ song.
And musings dip upon the faltering wings
A blazed remembrance of seasons’ refrains;
Snuffed by love’s risk, hardened from cold warning
Oh time withers, breaks ...still I call your name.
Hearts evade pleas, sweet moments gone astray
That now I rest on a crib of old stars
But such is life allowing what is the way;
To gather new treasures...near or afar.
Judy Konos' C'est La Vie