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THE WANTING
Isn’t this what we want? Stop me if I’m wrong. Poem like a car accident. Poem written on a sheet over a body by the car accident.
Then we’d notice the lines, the way the words hang over the face, and sit on the nose, and rest in the eye sockets. (See it quickly, the policeman is waving us away.)
Stop me. Go ahead and stop me if I’m wrong. Isn’t this what we want? Poem like tripping to your knees on a brick walk, knowing in an instant you will hurt for a week, knowing in an instant you will think for a week.
Stop me anytime. Why listen to words at all? Music is enough to pull the heart into the open air.
But, my God, the human voice, everyone’s unmapped treasure, a piece of metal drawn in a long fine wire and each of us are seen fit to be the forgers of the signature coil of human resonance!
We design our walls and our echoes. We command and we retreat. We give the infant place and habitation. We bid the aged gentle sleep.
Stop me anytime. Stop me anytime. Just say the word.
Jay Johnson as The Poet John Kicker Performance poet, stand-up comic, DVD and documentary available |
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THIS IS A PRAYER
for the quiet ones who cannot speak the weary ones who cannot sleep the angry ones who cannot rage the melancholy ones who cannot weep
for the chained ones who need wings for the ones who swing from their own rope for the ones who slip the wafer of fear under their tongues for all living things that ache and bleed and eat of bitter herbs
let their wounds be healed let their soul mates seek them across mountain and sea let their sorrows be soothed by the soft glove of loving and let every man find his god or his god find him
Gloria g. Murray First place winner of PPA’s second contest, many awards won, many publishing credits, three chapbooks published |
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WADING THE TIDAL POOLS
He has climbed to his feet, startled from the narrow bench where he sat all morning, watching. He shades the sun from his eyes with hands cupped around his mouth, my father calls my name and gestures that I should come.
Beyond his shuddering and over the black rocks I scurry, making my way back to him. Above the horizon the sun pours crimson; my hair and face are on fire, a child’s tee shirt covers my newly formed breasts.
Morning has given way to his cry and I leave behind tidal pools filled with blameless creatures I have baptized, giving them names, smoothing their perfect bodies with my fingers, watching sadly as they escape from the imperfect prison of my cupped hands.
Men have begun to walk slowly down the hill towards their boats and have stopped to admire what has emerged at the waters edge. My father measures their closeness to me by the lines of the falling tide but nothing will stop its flowing.
Gladys Henderson Poetry workshop leader, three first place prizes won, working to establish a Poets House on Long Island |
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Winners |
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Upon Reading The Life After by Mario Susko, a survivor of the war in Bosnia.
Beast
i read your words and wish i could send up sweet snow to fall on those bruised gray lines
the horror of an ancient snorting beast loose, insane inside the breakable green forest
human vowels cry from the closed mouth of survival where one counts each footstep to avoid the sky too blue to bear love curls up and hibernates in some dark cave lets pass the black shiny boots of war
i think they must pass still, strangely silent in the cavern of your midnight sleep
i light a candle with this poem a prayer for cool pure snow to fall gently on your eyes until you see only white
and then emerging in small, kind degrees a bright, blue-sky dream to carry you through the night
Victoria Twomey Frequent local and radio poetry feature with several publishing credits |
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My Father’s Hand for my father gone blind at 91
My father reaches across the kitchen table his hand like some snuffling searching animal perhaps a mole or a possum. No, more like the fluttering of a wounded swallow.
His hand caresses the salt shaker moves on to circle plate fumble past spoon, fork, over napkin to settle on the fluted glass of sherry.
Satisfied my father smacks his lips returns the half-full glass to the exact same spot struggles to quiet those gasping almost howling breaths sends out his hand again.
His hand ropy and spotted his hand newly trained his hand shaky his hand.
Ginger Williams Poetry teacher, member of many poetry groups, poetry conference participant, two chapbooks published
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AT YOUR BEDSIDE (For Matt Connors)
You slowly sip water from a trembling cup ask for pillows for your knees, pen and paper for your poems.
You fade in and out of this room, whisper your dreams so that I may take them where you cannot go.
We talk of grey vistas, barren oak and melting snow, I yearn for Blueberry Lake and landscapes. You mumble Margaretville, mention your last, missed ski trip, . . . will go this weekend for sure.
The sky, the chimes, the feeder at your window will remain fill with wind-voices, seed and song. And you shall ski to where I cannot go.
Yolanda Coulaz Poetry workshop leader, event coordinator, book published (Spirits and Oxygen) |
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