1st Monthly Literotica Poetry Contest Finals
After the three semi-final polls were closed, the following 6 poems top-voted poems were selected to the final:
~~~
poem #01
Old Girl Winter
It’s here too late again, the bride’s
lace veil. Gowned in milky roses, she
spreads her train of diamond doves
and primps. Unthinking,
busy being white.
Tonight she just appeared.
Curtain wide, we caught her cold
in her dressing room. Dusk
always finds a matron waiting
to be touched and taken, but
they only script sad ceremony
on chilly April nights. When
morning comes the boot-heeled
rain of everyman leaves her pure
dress in disarray, her maids’ tiaras
crying in the trees, so little left
of what was her.
Far from autumn’s altar, no one
but the sun willing to kiss her
in daylight, her name the same.
Young spring seduces
her groom green.
~~~
poem #06
drifting
captivatingly cruel
she draws my eye
frigid yet frail
sun-drenched distraction
oblivious to her
blinding beauty
perilously pristine
peppermint pane-cicles
drip drop from frozen lips
crystal blood
from an icy heart
on ivory eaves
so like my hope
melting in the winter
of passion's promise
~~~
poem #10
walk the path
winter bites my ass with
icicle point canines
-- a rabid beast that knocks me down
asphalt burned, gravity bruised
numb palms shy away from the thaw
that will bring throb and sting
along with the melted neurons
rapid fire requests for spring.
concrete torn gloves quick brush
powder from blood soaked knees
as I walk the down the icy path
towards more sensible shoes.
~~~
poem #11
Premiere
January passed
without postcard scenery.
No rosy cheeks on children
rolling growing orbs
down white hills
sparkling in northern wind's
clarity sunshine.
Only runny noses
and rainy gutters,
an eternal damp clinging
almost but only almost frozen
to ankles and ambitions.
Not tearing like
the sub Celsius bite
draws tears with every gust,
but sinking stealthily inside,
sucking mere will out of marrow.
But now,
tiny chandeliers fall
thousandfold, tumbling
through sodium arcs
penetrating the night.
They drift, dance,
stick to my window,
surrender their beauty
to the warmth of glass
in vertical puddles,
distorting the view
of still soaring brothers
outside.
Soon they will
roll in descent
or freeze solid.
Which it will be
is neither my choice,
nor theirs.
But one for the winter,
finally here,
to decide.
~~~
poem #17
The Drifts of Her
It was a chill wind that whispered her name
and I felt her, hiding there, somewhere
perhaps in the trees, strolling a distant path
sitting peacefully on a weathered bench
feeding squirrels from odd scraps found in pockets.
With a coaxing voice, the same voice
that inspired a grandchild’s first steps
or encouraged small acts of bravery from us all
she talked to the squirrels and soon
they ate from her swollen fingers.
She was a winter night, the warm hug
and mug of hot chocolate you came home to
the Christmas lights on a tree, shining in the dark
the gentle song that promised a Silent Night
and a kiss with the milk and cookies left for Santa.
In the morning she was the snow
not unexpected, but a wonderful surprise
the pure white drifting in otherwise gray skies
a sled dashing down a hillside, a snow angel,
the smile, as snowflakes melted on your tongue.
Now, as my breath freezes in wispy clouds
I can see her in each word I speak
and as I look to the north, I wish for those snows
the drifts of her at the tree line, remembering
her light in the darkness, the warmth of her home.
~~~
poem #20
Within
Winter is the naked season
when solitude falls
from smoky skies and coats
the world in frozen reflection.
Past the frosted panes,
a fruitless look for flesh rests
on wind- flayed bones
before it sinks into the snowy hush.
And still the gardens sleep.
I stare within the frame
until the life in me clouds
the vacant canvas stretched
before my eyes. I watch
newly opaque glass morph
into a mirror that refracts
vision and moves me outside
looking in, searching
my sides for man-made holes
and hidden sprouts of spring.
~~~
The final voting stage will be closed exclusively to the 22 participating poets, and done via PM to The Poets.
Please select only one of these six poems as your favourite. No self-votes will be admited, of course, and all the PMs will have to come in before midnight GMT on Monday, January 31th.
After the three semi-final polls were closed, the following 6 poems top-voted poems were selected to the final:
~~~
poem #01
Old Girl Winter
It’s here too late again, the bride’s
lace veil. Gowned in milky roses, she
spreads her train of diamond doves
and primps. Unthinking,
busy being white.
Tonight she just appeared.
Curtain wide, we caught her cold
in her dressing room. Dusk
always finds a matron waiting
to be touched and taken, but
they only script sad ceremony
on chilly April nights. When
morning comes the boot-heeled
rain of everyman leaves her pure
dress in disarray, her maids’ tiaras
crying in the trees, so little left
of what was her.
Far from autumn’s altar, no one
but the sun willing to kiss her
in daylight, her name the same.
Young spring seduces
her groom green.
~~~
poem #06
drifting
captivatingly cruel
she draws my eye
frigid yet frail
sun-drenched distraction
oblivious to her
blinding beauty
perilously pristine
peppermint pane-cicles
drip drop from frozen lips
crystal blood
from an icy heart
on ivory eaves
so like my hope
melting in the winter
of passion's promise
~~~
poem #10
walk the path
winter bites my ass with
icicle point canines
-- a rabid beast that knocks me down
asphalt burned, gravity bruised
numb palms shy away from the thaw
that will bring throb and sting
along with the melted neurons
rapid fire requests for spring.
concrete torn gloves quick brush
powder from blood soaked knees
as I walk the down the icy path
towards more sensible shoes.
~~~
poem #11
Premiere
January passed
without postcard scenery.
No rosy cheeks on children
rolling growing orbs
down white hills
sparkling in northern wind's
clarity sunshine.
Only runny noses
and rainy gutters,
an eternal damp clinging
almost but only almost frozen
to ankles and ambitions.
Not tearing like
the sub Celsius bite
draws tears with every gust,
but sinking stealthily inside,
sucking mere will out of marrow.
But now,
tiny chandeliers fall
thousandfold, tumbling
through sodium arcs
penetrating the night.
They drift, dance,
stick to my window,
surrender their beauty
to the warmth of glass
in vertical puddles,
distorting the view
of still soaring brothers
outside.
Soon they will
roll in descent
or freeze solid.
Which it will be
is neither my choice,
nor theirs.
But one for the winter,
finally here,
to decide.
~~~
poem #17
The Drifts of Her
It was a chill wind that whispered her name
and I felt her, hiding there, somewhere
perhaps in the trees, strolling a distant path
sitting peacefully on a weathered bench
feeding squirrels from odd scraps found in pockets.
With a coaxing voice, the same voice
that inspired a grandchild’s first steps
or encouraged small acts of bravery from us all
she talked to the squirrels and soon
they ate from her swollen fingers.
She was a winter night, the warm hug
and mug of hot chocolate you came home to
the Christmas lights on a tree, shining in the dark
the gentle song that promised a Silent Night
and a kiss with the milk and cookies left for Santa.
In the morning she was the snow
not unexpected, but a wonderful surprise
the pure white drifting in otherwise gray skies
a sled dashing down a hillside, a snow angel,
the smile, as snowflakes melted on your tongue.
Now, as my breath freezes in wispy clouds
I can see her in each word I speak
and as I look to the north, I wish for those snows
the drifts of her at the tree line, remembering
her light in the darkness, the warmth of her home.
~~~
poem #20
Within
Winter is the naked season
when solitude falls
from smoky skies and coats
the world in frozen reflection.
Past the frosted panes,
a fruitless look for flesh rests
on wind- flayed bones
before it sinks into the snowy hush.
And still the gardens sleep.
I stare within the frame
until the life in me clouds
the vacant canvas stretched
before my eyes. I watch
newly opaque glass morph
into a mirror that refracts
vision and moves me outside
looking in, searching
my sides for man-made holes
and hidden sprouts of spring.
~~~
The final voting stage will be closed exclusively to the 22 participating poets, and done via PM to The Poets.
Please select only one of these six poems as your favourite. No self-votes will be admited, of course, and all the PMs will have to come in before midnight GMT on Monday, January 31th.
