Summer Poetry Contest: Finals Voting

Vote for your favorite poem.


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The Poets

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And here are the five finalists for the Literotica summer poetry contest: Under the Boardwalk. Poets were asked to write an erotic poem about summer. Poems are posted in the order in which they were received. Please use the poll to vote for your favorite poem.

This thread is for voting only. If you have questions or just want to talk about the poems do it in the contest thread, not here. And remember, no public divulging of who wrote what until we have a winner! The authors of the poems that made it to the finals will be listed in this thread (and, for semifinalists, in their respective threads) as soon as the polls close and the winner is announced, one week from today. Thanks again for your participation and votes and good luck to the finalists!


And here are links to all the semifinals threads:

Semifinals Poems 1-4

Semifinals Poems 5-8

Semifinals poems 9-12

Semifinals Poems 13-16

Semifinals Poems 17-20
 
Poem 1

Retro
by bogusagain

the layered sediments of Filey Brig
grazed over by tourists, who at this distance
resemble the busy activity of termites
and beyond, Filey, its white hotels

white daubs on bleached canvas
the dull minimalist aesthetic mutating
into Victorian elegance as we near
the suppressed emotions of yesteryear

a gentleman would have brought his lover here
for discrete sex at the weekends
in his suitcase, a riding crop and leather straps
tucked neatly beneath his starched shirts

each evening as the sun hangs low
scattering a golden glow and long shadows
our hotel room becomes a mad cad’s theatre
where we act out these heady days of summer's excess

it was a simple act of consummation
a dropping to your knees, your lean torso
stretched forward, splitting into outstretched arms
your back, a moon path towards the horizon

the way into you, opening like a bay to the sea
if your body was an ocean, I have not the time to cross it
still, like a mad fool explorer, I launch into you
into your restless tides and through the night

until the sun rises, framed in the window
where the gulls loop and squawk, giving sound
to your swallowed feverish cries, caught
like your turmoil, in the fabric of this room

the light brushing along your lean and naked body
spread before me like flotsam, washed up
on the beaches of this dishevelled bed
my hoary hand, coveting your battered cunt
 
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Poem 2

Coney Island
by Greenmountaineer

Circa 1965

"What's so rare as a day in Junius?"
Sister Bea said when we last heard Latin
before all the St. Ignatius tassels
dangled with pomp and circumstance,
some of which Mary Lou blew
who got her license and Mustang from Daddy
because soon to be eighteen year old girls
more than ready for Coney Island
and Brooklyn College come September
needed their freedom from Mommy.

"Cuniculus is Latin," Sister Bea said,
"for rabbit and coney a derivative
the Brits called bunny rabbits
that overran the island in 1690."
which hung on my tongue one hot vernal night
as I thirsted for Mary Lou fresh squeeze
and the Fourth of Julius under the boardwalk
which maybe, just maybe would be heaven.
 
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Poem 3

Burst
by Desejo

Butter drizzled corn
molten streams amid nubs
round where steel pierces
exposed core, falling in
sweet rivulets on tanned thighs

Lips stung purple
in blackberry patch forages
thorn-scratched calves plunge
depths of icy gurgling creeks
raising nipples and screams

Everywhere, always
the hum of cicadas vibrates
the low, engorged frequency of summer

A rogue thunderstorm bursts through
in pollen-drunk grunts and gasps
giggling shelter of the old tree fort where
a cascade over thousands of bowing leaves
ends in drips through a knot-hole

Quick feels and gasps
delicious fear of spiders in the corners
salt and coppertone taste of hot skin
gentle sigh of the forest watching
Final drops caught on a lazy tongue

At nightfall we listen to frogs mate
And watch fireflies do battle with bats.
 
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Poem 4 Winner!!!

Behind the Girl in the Straw Hat
by butters

High-noon
and a slow, single bead
paints a copper line
over low stepping stones,
like the memory of water
in a dry river-bed
framed by a muscular valley.

Gravity has its way
pulls eyes
thoughts
to the peeking cleft,
the rolling hills,
where moisture slides
out of sight
to the dark and secret cave.
 
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Poem 5

5th & Atlantic
by Remec

The walk is in full tilt,
t-shops crammed with the
usual mix of tourists, fled
to the beach from Canada
or the Midwest, and local
daytrippers who have packed
their cars with everything
they thought would be of
use, but still find themselves
in the traps overspending for
snacks and bottled water,
film and suntan lotion,
knick-knacks they bought
at least once before,

I watch, not the way I did
growing up here, when we would
come down and sit on breaks
from Flipper's playing Robotron or
the first Star Wars arcade games,
sit and savor soft ice cream and
mustard-lined soft pretzels while
quizzing passing tourists as to
where they were from, collecting
bets from each other afterwards.

No, now my eyes gravitate more
towards just enjoying the view,
tight jean, tighter shorts, swimsuits
as risqué as any seen in the fashion
shoots (even if only visible beneath
purposely sheer outer garments),
and making eye contact, maybe
small talk, with passing beauties
more open to moving beyond
such opening gambits since they
know exactly what a summer fling
is all about.

I guess they're right, the living is
easy after all.
 
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