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• Annual Literary Reviews • available at all events |
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All rights revert to the individuals published. These works may not be reproduced without permission of the author. These pages may not be reproduced without the express written permission of Performance Poets Association, and may not be stored in any electronic data retrieval system. |
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Winners |
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Weekend Plans
I’ll burrow through the mud outside his window arc through the air inside his room shudder in the folds of his bed that warmest womb (or tomb)
I’ll explode, unceasing stick fast to the wall scatter like dust spray like aerosol
I’ll blend him through my body take him in and out and in make him my ambassador my paramour my twin
I’ll liquefy, A puddle Shining blue and long Unroll at the sound Of a drum-driven song I’ll eat last night’s dreams For breakfast And a fantasy at noon I won’t need much for dinner (I’ll be full as the waxen moon.)
Adriana DiGennaro Two books published, many publishing credits, included in four anthologies |
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GREEN ONIONS
On a slow, sunlit leaf-burning day in October at the annual Danbury Fair, I hear the electronic beat and slip away from my parents, past poultry cages, stalls of sleepy cows and sheep, long table of squash, beans, cauliflower.
Through the dust and smoke of the merry-go-round, the Caterpillar, the bumper cars, I see three fourtyish blondes on a wooden platform in silver sequin bathing suits grinding to the sizzling guitar of Booker T’s “Green Onions.”
The woman in the middle has dark flabs of flesh hanging under her arms. Below the stomach pouches of the others, stray pubic hairs jut out like black beetle legs. “Step right up and get a gander of the Strip Tease Queens of the East,”
Two pimply men, smelling of whiskey, fumble in their pockets, follow the barker into the tent. Sixteen, I put my head down and hurry out of there, guitar licks lashing me like a cat-o’-nine-tails.
Gil Fagiani Translator, essayist and short story writer. Two chapbooks published, Social Worker by profession. |
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Last Watch
The moon moves over the hill like an upland hunter its light infiltrates the hedgerow and the bunker. It comes to a point tremoring at the scent of game. Below a huddle of men helmeted and steeled press hard into the earth silently cursing the light.
Further up the hill the husk of a man abruptly shucked by a sniper’s shot belies the stillness of the Mid-Eastern night. Quick no more his tongue his touch his tread are recollections now. A pencil line red oh ! an inch above the eye bears witness to his sudden faith in startled death.
Peter C. Leverich Many publishing credits, graduate of Colgate University and the University of Missouri, founder of a L.I.-based software company |
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My Dad
I, your yearned-for firstborn the perfect fit for your cupped hand and your nurturing heart My happy little legs running up the driveway to greet your outstretched arms wrapping me safely with love Your silly rhymes, games, stories and gentle intelligence blended giggles with wisdom You ran alongside and then in back teaching me to keep my balance over the bumps of life’s cycles Your only extravagance my exceptional schooling generous pathmaker for others, too in need of sustenance You held your head up high knowing it was our final goodbye the ravages of your illness had run their course I witnessed the pride and the pain I stole your heart in my cradle days You broke mine the day you died.
Ursula Nouza Taproot writing workshop member, foreign language teacher, book in progress |
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Burpee Big Boys
The words didn’t really matter then. Well, maybe just a little. You were always there for me, like my allowance, folded on the edge of my dresser every Friday. Even after I got my first job, it was always there, your solid unspoken covenant to another time, another place in our lives when two dollars was too much to give. Lately, even after all these years, the words have begun to matter. I know you can never say them; chunks of stale bread, they would get stuck in your throat. The last time I felt brave and hugged you too long, you blushed. My God, Daddy, eighty, and you still blush! So I don’t do it anymore and I’m learning to find the words in the least likely places, if not on the tip of your tongue. Like last week when you arrived at the house, your eyes shining with pride as you offered the brown paper bag of home grown tomatoes. Burpee Big Boys was all you said. But the words were there, sweet and ripe, and I paraphrased the spaces of your silence.
Joan Vullo Obergh Short story writer and contest winner, many publishing credits, L.I. Writers Guild member, novel in progress |
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Reflections on a Swamp Maple in Early October
Could it be I never noticed how her early blush is rose shot through with ochre, then flames of tangerine, vermillion, scarlet and how each serrated leaf trembles before the winds of September how that tight August connection suddenly slackens letting go in a flurry of color?
Is it possible that I never sat at this window gazing across porch and lawn, ferns and ivy to observe the twist and spin, the float and flutter of each leaf setting sail into the blue sky?
Did I never pray at this altar where summer’s curtains close where autumn’s slant light pleats inwards as if folding a fan?
Now I wonder if our every move toward darkness is as if for the first time driven by the need to blaze, to burn; each motion quick and fleeting as any gesture made by desire.
Ginger Williams Poetry teacher, member of many poetry groups, poetry conference participant, two chapbooks published |
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