The following 8 poems received the highest scores in their respective semifinalist polls, and thus have made it into this final round of the contest.
Voting on these poems will be open until 8 pm est on April 14th, after which the winner will be announced. You vote by pming your choice to The Poets. Only the authors of these poems may vote in this final round. Vote for the one poem you think is best, but remember: you can not vote for your own poem (if you think your own poem is the best, then vote for the second best lol). In the event of a tie, the moderators will choose the winner from among those tied.
Good luck to everyone and congratulations to all who participated in the contest. The poems you submitted are all wonderful--and the fact that everyone seemed to have such a hard time choosing a favorite is a testament to that.
And thank you smithpeter for being ever a friend and ever an inspiration.
*************************************************
Poem 1
an orchid in forest
by jthserra
distant color
and you are there a moment
catteyela in shadow
a whisper in dew
cool wet lips
join the silence
an imperceptible sway
we embrace
the pieces whole again
an almost you
almost
suddenly gone
the memory of mirror
your face reflected
an orchid in forest
the words of a poem
Inspired by bare flame in orchid forest
*************************************************
Poem 2
the taste of apples underground
by PatCarrington
in winter, they fashion paradise
in fancy wool. multitudes make vows,
horse-and-buggied in leather pews
through the Eden of Central Park.
wait for evening white, innocent ones.
meet it there—where they look to liars,
the blankets and their love, for warmth,
for something to believe.
the setting sun will show you
truths they deny, how oaths
are really taken in big cold cities.
to know the frozen lowdown
of this church
you must
descend,
to prophets propped on corners, numb
eyes upward with a distant grief.
to apostles snoring in doorways,
drooling penance, confessing
weakness in white bursts.
to women who men worship
beneath the cross of their thighs.
legs are spread,
hands are spread,
knees are bruised,
clouds of prayers
dissipate in subway steam.
wait for night—and follow stained
steps down to the echoes
of dead faithful turning
in their sleep.
descend,
until you hear the scattered rattles
of fallen angels, until you see souls
scurry into tunnels chasing
the sins of whispering snakes.
have they bled enough
to forget the suffering,
to long for it once more?
nothing captures religion better
than temptation—it’s like the garden.
there is a lure, a red offering,
reminders you have teeth.
and then a bite, a promise that
even hell is temperate and green.
Inspired by prayer
*************************************************
Poem 3
Through His Glass
by Middleagepoet
____________“certain type of unusual”
___________________2rivers from
___________________misanthrope
It’s more than echoes, distant voices,
street sounds or just the wind passing
a paint chipped sash, smeared lights,
it’s the counter weight – perfectly balanced,
the knifed caulk, carefully cut, the points,
tiny tringulars, pinching the glass, etching
the surface tension, ever so slowly
piercing the liquid like a whisper.
Would this window respond like so many:
a rattle in a breeze, the creaking movement,
tight, forced moans as leaded layers tear
or even the sudden slam of release?
The only noise in silence – the faint hush
of precisely tended wood sliding on wood
and the firm metallic click of the latch
locking the cold and darkness outside.
Inspired by misanthrope
*************************************************
Poem 4
beside the red barn door
by Seattle Rain
The boot print
you left in the snow
grows outward as it melts.
Someone like me might believe
a giant walked this endless field
over the spring-snow grass
that leaks its green
into the landscape.
*************************************************
Poem 5
you don't need a weather man
by annaswirls
pass the butter,
save the salt for superficial wounds we groom
like so many primates before us.
slap tack and
tickle the blue from your sky
don't ask me how I do it
baby don’t ask me why.
mother was a war funk silent skirt,
let's re-invent her, amplified
with girly legs all pink
and satin packed
into this hard edged suit case
with marimba mallets and flame resistant
brassiere. She drives me
away.
you know how to find me there,
stepping out the answer
how do you do what you do
when you do that thing to me?
it lies
between
hardwood tree rings--
count in by seventeens
there!
you got your poem
sure enough by yourself--
you do not need my needle point
direction or
wind farm rooster,
just a skyward index finger
and bingo!
you know when Mary will be back
tapping out the roof top weather report,
spit dry evaporation cooled,
westerly.
I know you have seen me walk away before
with my svelte side step
tip of hat.
Adieu
adieu.
Inspired by smithpeter’s jazz poems, the ones about weather and wind mill farms, and of course, sveltwalker, that slut; title by Bob Dylan
*************************************************
Poem 6
La Cuenta
by *Catbabe*
Her bouquet of sun-baked
dandelions sparked two smiles
that stemmed from separate roots
of pride and pleasure. A thank-you
kiss sent her off, searching for more
treasures among the monarch
fairies in our field. She flew
with them, arms spread in a silent
request for wings to ride the wind.
Her gift of melted blossoms
reminded me of another flower
girl who had never played
pretend with butterflies and bees.
Flowers, Senorita?
Her voice was almost smothered
by shouts and screeching brakes
that made me flinch, but she seemed
immune to the night, cocooned
in her need to survive. She was so still,
pinned by fate in a cement chrysalis
filled with worms, waiting in vain
for beauty and the freedom of flight.
She sat alone atop a cobblestone,
surrounded by garbage bags
and stray dogs, selling flowers
when little girls should sleeping.
We never spoke of pesos that night,
but I knew her flowers were never free.
Inspired by Malaysia
*************************************************
Poem 7
It's not the angels
by Angantyr
It's not the angels dancing on the
head of a pin
but the devils who chase them
like me
and the insatiable spector
holding the world in place
by pointing fingers
*************************************************
Poem 8
2 Windows
by Kaishaku
and water, a current trickling
between the pains, each pane
sweating from cold air,
his frigid absence resonating
in the sound of tools, suddenly at rest.
Only windows heard the splash,
the swirl of the leaves as he left.
I watched my fingers stain glass
as emptiness slowly became more –
a still pool, the surface mirrored
with a face I’ve never seen, a voice
that once spoke of ________2 rivers.
Inspired by misanthrope
Voting on these poems will be open until 8 pm est on April 14th, after which the winner will be announced. You vote by pming your choice to The Poets. Only the authors of these poems may vote in this final round. Vote for the one poem you think is best, but remember: you can not vote for your own poem (if you think your own poem is the best, then vote for the second best lol). In the event of a tie, the moderators will choose the winner from among those tied.
Good luck to everyone and congratulations to all who participated in the contest. The poems you submitted are all wonderful--and the fact that everyone seemed to have such a hard time choosing a favorite is a testament to that.
And thank you smithpeter for being ever a friend and ever an inspiration.
*************************************************
Poem 1
an orchid in forest
by jthserra
distant color
and you are there a moment
catteyela in shadow
a whisper in dew
cool wet lips
join the silence
an imperceptible sway
we embrace
the pieces whole again
an almost you
almost
suddenly gone
the memory of mirror
your face reflected
an orchid in forest
the words of a poem
Inspired by bare flame in orchid forest
*************************************************
Poem 2
the taste of apples underground
by PatCarrington
in winter, they fashion paradise
in fancy wool. multitudes make vows,
horse-and-buggied in leather pews
through the Eden of Central Park.
wait for evening white, innocent ones.
meet it there—where they look to liars,
the blankets and their love, for warmth,
for something to believe.
the setting sun will show you
truths they deny, how oaths
are really taken in big cold cities.
to know the frozen lowdown
of this church
you must
descend,
to prophets propped on corners, numb
eyes upward with a distant grief.
to apostles snoring in doorways,
drooling penance, confessing
weakness in white bursts.
to women who men worship
beneath the cross of their thighs.
legs are spread,
hands are spread,
knees are bruised,
clouds of prayers
dissipate in subway steam.
wait for night—and follow stained
steps down to the echoes
of dead faithful turning
in their sleep.
descend,
until you hear the scattered rattles
of fallen angels, until you see souls
scurry into tunnels chasing
the sins of whispering snakes.
have they bled enough
to forget the suffering,
to long for it once more?
nothing captures religion better
than temptation—it’s like the garden.
there is a lure, a red offering,
reminders you have teeth.
and then a bite, a promise that
even hell is temperate and green.
Inspired by prayer
*************************************************
Poem 3
Through His Glass
by Middleagepoet
____________“certain type of unusual”
___________________2rivers from
___________________misanthrope
It’s more than echoes, distant voices,
street sounds or just the wind passing
a paint chipped sash, smeared lights,
it’s the counter weight – perfectly balanced,
the knifed caulk, carefully cut, the points,
tiny tringulars, pinching the glass, etching
the surface tension, ever so slowly
piercing the liquid like a whisper.
Would this window respond like so many:
a rattle in a breeze, the creaking movement,
tight, forced moans as leaded layers tear
or even the sudden slam of release?
The only noise in silence – the faint hush
of precisely tended wood sliding on wood
and the firm metallic click of the latch
locking the cold and darkness outside.
Inspired by misanthrope
*************************************************
Poem 4
beside the red barn door
by Seattle Rain
The boot print
you left in the snow
grows outward as it melts.
Someone like me might believe
a giant walked this endless field
over the spring-snow grass
that leaks its green
into the landscape.
*************************************************
Poem 5
you don't need a weather man
by annaswirls
pass the butter,
save the salt for superficial wounds we groom
like so many primates before us.
slap tack and
tickle the blue from your sky
don't ask me how I do it
baby don’t ask me why.
mother was a war funk silent skirt,
let's re-invent her, amplified
with girly legs all pink
and satin packed
into this hard edged suit case
with marimba mallets and flame resistant
brassiere. She drives me
away.
you know how to find me there,
stepping out the answer
how do you do what you do
when you do that thing to me?
it lies
between
hardwood tree rings--
count in by seventeens
there!
you got your poem
sure enough by yourself--
you do not need my needle point
direction or
wind farm rooster,
just a skyward index finger
and bingo!
you know when Mary will be back
tapping out the roof top weather report,
spit dry evaporation cooled,
westerly.
I know you have seen me walk away before
with my svelte side step
tip of hat.
Adieu
adieu.
Inspired by smithpeter’s jazz poems, the ones about weather and wind mill farms, and of course, sveltwalker, that slut; title by Bob Dylan
*************************************************
Poem 6
La Cuenta
by *Catbabe*
Her bouquet of sun-baked
dandelions sparked two smiles
that stemmed from separate roots
of pride and pleasure. A thank-you
kiss sent her off, searching for more
treasures among the monarch
fairies in our field. She flew
with them, arms spread in a silent
request for wings to ride the wind.
Her gift of melted blossoms
reminded me of another flower
girl who had never played
pretend with butterflies and bees.
Flowers, Senorita?
Her voice was almost smothered
by shouts and screeching brakes
that made me flinch, but she seemed
immune to the night, cocooned
in her need to survive. She was so still,
pinned by fate in a cement chrysalis
filled with worms, waiting in vain
for beauty and the freedom of flight.
She sat alone atop a cobblestone,
surrounded by garbage bags
and stray dogs, selling flowers
when little girls should sleeping.
We never spoke of pesos that night,
but I knew her flowers were never free.
Inspired by Malaysia
*************************************************
Poem 7
It's not the angels
by Angantyr
It's not the angels dancing on the
head of a pin
but the devils who chase them
like me
and the insatiable spector
holding the world in place
by pointing fingers
*************************************************
Poem 8
2 Windows
by Kaishaku
and water, a current trickling
between the pains, each pane
sweating from cold air,
his frigid absence resonating
in the sound of tools, suddenly at rest.
Only windows heard the splash,
the swirl of the leaves as he left.
I watched my fingers stain glass
as emptiness slowly became more –
a still pool, the surface mirrored
with a face I’ve never seen, a voice
that once spoke of ________2 rivers.
Inspired by misanthrope
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