Nominations for Poems Posted in February 2018

Nominations for Poems Posted in February 2018

Joined: 21 Aug 2017, 14:33

03 Feb 2018, 17:24 #1

Inspiration by Toni

The mother of invention is always
within calling distance, the father
gone missing, maybe fishing,
maybe philandering. We let him go
but go on dreaming his return.

The mother of illumination shines
full and lustrous, her heavenly body
shimmering with generosity. The father
pleads with her, wasting his time
under a gibbous moon.

The mother of possibility offers
us one option after another
no matter how many times
we turn away, searching
for the absent father.

Joined: 05 May 2006, 22:47

04 Feb 2018, 13:48 #2

Torso in the Museum
        For man friends who died too young

The marble head
    is gone—a cavity
        down to the heart—all that's 
            left by the stroke
        that severed it. 

Never had limbs—
    a figure for a niche in its heroon—
        temple to Herakles or
            Zeus. But why do you
come to mind
    as I stand
        in the too-bright lights
    of this    gallery hall? 

The torso shines
    from the olive oil someone rubbed 
             into the yellowed marble
   to make a plaster cast
                            for more. 

Such is our age—
    not enough to have just 
              of a beautiful thing. I do
understand this. 
    Something in the heart 
        wants the body
            of the beautiful 

And I begin to understand why
        you have gathered 
            with me
before this chiseled thing, 
            from its place 
in the world and on display 
        to be     passed by 
                         on the way
       from Antiquities 
                     to Textiles. 

Just another of the 
    ten-thousand things
        that crowd 
the ache
      you left
             when you left.

Joined: 07 Jun 2015, 22:45

10 Feb 2018, 17:48 #3


Final Fill-up of the Day

My car is limping, Dolores Haze,
And the last long lap is the hardest,
And I shall be dumped where the weed decays,
And the rest is rust and stardust.
      Vladimir Nabokov, Lolita

It's darling how he dotes
on that fragile, frail, fairy-like child of his,
and she's obviously quite secure
of  her father's love, his
longing to meet her every little desire.

a cold bottle of Coca Cola, candy,
comic books, gum.  I didn't forget
to check the air in his aging tires,
wipe insects from the grille.  they'll not
get to the next motel till twilight.

after Edward Hopper's Gas, 1940
Photo here.

Joined: 05 May 2006, 22:47

10 Feb 2018, 18:14 #4

Judy Kaber's, from the Beach, nominated by Alison

Forgive this season

which leans against windows
brow furrowed white
willing itself in

bringer of wanton boots,
of war, of thick washes of gray

mayhem its middle name
it cannot help the flame
now blown from lamp

deadened current, now wrapped
among fallen trees hidden
under waste of snow

strips of light elude your fingers
as you sit in the waiting room

for the howl’s kiss
for the lovers lost embrace
for the worm gear to make its turn

Joined: 05 May 2006, 22:47

11 Feb 2018, 14:03 #5

Anna Perenna Recalls The Way She Hoodwinked Mars
by JudyK, 77 Sunset Beach

To impress him I become snake, owl,
the final rib of man holding tight to lungs 

in their pulsing case, yet he swallows
the hiss of my black shape on sand, 

turns his back on gliding wings, calls me bone,
a skeletal piece of no regard. Yet he comes to me 

for help, Minerva having spurned his armored loins.
I promise aid in this, but I would have this god as mine,

sip wine from his cupped hand. He will drench himself
in the current of my days, lap about my feet, 

this bringer of war, protector, defender, wolf whose tongue
protrudes through gleaming teeth. In the thick arbour 

he sees only youth beneath my veil, presses his lips
to mine and I laugh, leaves greening at his foolishness.

Joined: 07 Jun 2015, 22:45

11 Feb 2018, 19:29 #6

Bob's Ode to Dogs

10 Feb 2018 01:05 #1
Ode to Dogs

I read Keats’ biography.  Roy naps.
Both of us are “old dogs”,
nagged with illnesses.

Yet there's never a question
of whether we're happy:
if only these moments would last.

A gaggle of geese honk
as if they’re leaving. A taxi
waiting at the curb joins in.

Roy barks, caught up
in their holiday excitement,
runs out, but the geese
stand their ground.

Goslings tucked in behind,
one hisses like a split air hose.
Roy is puzzled, can't understand
why he’s not allowed in.

He runs back to me,
already forgetting
his disappointment, the sofa
calling to him

as the 5:20 express train
clatters past our window,
trundling past Gilroy
by the time I finish

the next chapter—Keats
dying in Severn’s arms, whispering
“Thank god it has come...”

—and Roy settles again into a nap,
the taxi having dispatched
like a final breath.