Slow Cellar Door Poetry Challenge--Poll 2

[The Poets]

Please vote for One of the following poems in this poll. This is an open poll, so readers will be able to see which poem you've selected. You have until

Sunday, July 3 at 8 pm EST

to cast your vote. There are three polls--you may vote for one poem in each poll.

 

[The Poets]

Poem 5

Cellar Door

Behind that door
And down those stairs
I crept when I was young

And there I hid
From evil’s touch
He would not find me there

Too young to know
There is no place
The devil cannot find

I left my dreams
My innocence
Behind the cellar door

~

 

[The Poets]

Poem 6

Cellar Door

Past shadows torment
and time twists in the dank darkness
of pelting winter rains.
Footsteps ascend stone stairs
and a yellowed candle glows stark
against wet slimy walls.

A stifled sob echoes
as irregular drips dangle
then splatter to the floor
and the candle flame flickers to fade
as with an eerie wail the cellar door closes.

Blackness envelops and sour musty scents
are swallowed as sobs intensify.
Cobwebs shudder in moonlight’s shadowed ray
while winter’s wind whistles
through the half broken grate
high in the west wall. Broken nails

scratch her sallow skin.
In a final attempt to escape the prison
she slips and tumbles
down the green stone stairs.

He came to her again that night
eagerness in every certain footstep.
When he saw her crumpled body
on the floor his heart lurched.
“No!” the roar reverberated.

He carried her up the stairs
out into the moonlight
her grey face lifted to the moon
and a last sigh settled in misted shadows

Anger exploded
and he raged as revenge
glittered in his steel eyes.
A rampaging ravaged wake
left barren his soul
dedicating all that might have been,
and all that never would be,
to his love.

The love he smothered, shut away
beauty, hidden
behind a dreary stone cellar door
hidden from other men’s eyes.

 

[The Poets]

Poem 7

Slow

In summers’ torrid heat, sinuous and slow,
reaching for uncertain future far below
the mountain cascade feeding gnawing need
is just a distant memory of greed
tranquility conceals the winter race
that tore at banks and washed without a trace
last summers detritus in chaotic chase.

but now at ease and lazy 'neath shading trees
the weeping willow boughs that dip and tease
catching boaters passing by them unawares
and pristine swans with wings that whisper prayers
I have let her hold me in her cool embrace
and teach me to live life at a slower pace
I’ve found her secrets and her hidden face

the summer river dawdles to the sea
reaching at last her constant destiny
a brackish welcome is her final prize
as swirling seagulls greet with raucous cries
she feels once more the parting salmons’ fins
while miles away a mountain spring begins
the race to lowlands no one ever wins

 

[The Poets]

Poem 8

Cellar Door

I wouldn’t close that if I were you,
look up and pull that string
by the cobweb, light one bulb
to barely shine past eleven
rickety stairs. That next to last
one creaks something awful.

There’s no one down here,
perhaps a mouse or two.
The mice could be imaginary
like the rest of this place,
but I’ve been here
and so have you.

I’ll show you where
coal poured into the bin.
If you stand right there,
you can see the coalman
up on the other side of glass.
He’s filthy and you’re not
supposed to speak to him
though he always smiles
and says hello, honey.

You can wave and listen
for the tumble of coal, see the black avalanche
of stones, the dust that rises from them. Stand
here by the worktable, look at the baby food jars
of oily nails or face the washer, look up
at the yard, but don’t close the door
because it’s dark here, I don’t always like
coming here alone.