Ah, thanks. Sorry, like I said, I am most comfortable with my notebook and pen. You'd think I would be up-to-date, but I can maneuver Word, and that's just about it. ;P

I'll be posting the new call for August shortly. You may submit your poem then.

Am I allowed to submit one of my own? If so, how and where? (I'm not very savvy with "this whole computer thing." Otherwise, I simply adored "Used Books." Brought back memories of my own. :)

Well, I would have voted for my poem: Leaning towards Maybe-----------'cuz I like it :)

That's my point. Those 22 votes could have gone anywhere. If the second-place poem won by more than 22 votes, it wouldn't matter, but the voting was so close among the rest of the poems.

Re-voting could result in a different winner. Most contests simply award the second place winner the "prize."
I've always wondered about the fairness of that though . . . how those who voted for the original winner have now "lost" their votes and how they might have recast them???

And, btw, it is a lovely poem. The subject is close to a book lover's heart!

Sarah, not your fault. Just thought we would have revoted.

Just wanted to say, as I mentioned on the voting page, I didn't know "Used Books" was a featured poem last year. I'd never entered it before. It was nice to learn that, and also a surprise. Sorry to have skewed the vote, but I was truly ignorant.

All the poems were delicious. (I'm still tonguing them in the mouth -- particularly the music in "Promise and a Prayer"). Today, if hard-pressed, I would choose between "On Cue" and "Vow". Something about the tone, the disconnect, in "On Cue" is appealing to me today.

Used Books, was already featured as Poem of the Month in the September 2008 newsletter.

Why didn't the poem with the most votes win (Used Books)?

Donna P., I loved the creativity in this one. For me, though, I wouldn't miss the dog part - took me out of the analogy. Keep up the great work!

Hello, Donna Rae! Good to meet you. :)

I will second that Ms Donna Marie u can call me Donna Rae or D.R. (when I was a teen I went by Donna Rae of Sunshine and some other names I won't mention here)

Obododimma wrote: "Goodread, Donna. I like it."

Getting a bit confused with two of us named Donna! I'm Donna Marie Merritt. If anyone has a comment, you can call me Donna Marie if you like. Thanks! :)

Hi Ariba
at the top of this page on the right hand side is a list of links and at the bottom of that list of links is polls click on that link it will take you to the voting page click on the title of the poem you liked best and you don't have to vote for mine just cause I helped you. I liked Used Books and After the surgery tugged on my heart strings and that little short one was great they make it hard Thats why I don't do slams

I swear! This was the most difficult selection from which to choose! I think I'm settling for "After the Surgery," but please note that I wish I had three votes to cast . . . because "Used Books" and "Vow" deserve votes, too.

We're all winners here--privileged to read these. This is why I love poetry--for what it can do to me: take me by surprise; take my breath; never give it back . . .

tlj

Umm...guys? How do we participate?
Can someone please help me?

Thanks Jeffrey I keep plugging away. Nice 2 hear from u!
Happy 4th!

well done donna!

your work is flourishing.

thats ok I am still your good reads friend
Welcome to Good Reads!

Everybody wins!

Goodread, Donna. I like it.

After Surgery has the vote.

"After Surgery" was something that I could cling to - something that engaged me like no other piece except "Vow" which - as short as it was - was like a breath of fresh air...

I am new to the group - so I hope to compete against works this well written in the future...

Donna, I love the way you had end-rhymes, plus the rhymes inside. I wish I could vote more than once! Keep writing poetry!

Ivy, thank you! You don't know how much good your note did my heart. Just coming back to poetry after a long absence.

Promise and a Prayer has my vote! A beautiful, well written poem!

No kidding, Trish. These are all fine poems. I can't decide amongst After the Surgery, on cue, and Vow. Gahhhhhhhhhh.

I swear this is tough, folks! (Good job, Amy!!!)

"After the Surgery," "Used Books," and "Vow"--tough choices. The others are also ripe for picking, but these three . . . call to me. I'll have to sleep on them.
Trish Lindsey Jaggers

VOTE IN THE POLL ON THE POETRY GROUP'S MAIN PAGE! (CLICK THIS LINK TO VOTE! --> JUST SELECT TITLE OF POEM YOU LIKE BEST!


After the Surgery

I brought you apples
sliced thin as wax paper
and Gruyere cheese
because that was all
I had grabbed out of the
refrigerator

The scar throbbed on your skin
between the ribs and hip bone
You showed it to me
asked if it could still
be hurting you, the organ
they removed

and it took all of my strength
not to kneel down with kisses
not because I thought it would
not ease the pain
but because we were already
standing too close

I comfort myself with apples
crisp green ones when the
night is hot and thirsty
I stand in my kitchen
naked slicing apples

communing with Mother Eve
in her skin of defiance
and greed because she wanted
all the Truth, not just what she

could know with her senses
but what she could buy
with her blood,
what she could
use to bargain her way
out of destiny

--Wendy Brown-Baez


~~~~


Promise and a Prayer

Winds weaving, grieving rain,
Ship swiftly moving,
Patience proving truth sails home
To return not men, but names.

Slipping silently into view,
Salt waves slapping, trapping sound.
Seven years, yet all recall
Voices, faces of the crew.

Smoothly does she glide to port…
We strain to hear the shout,
A laugh, the bell, a sailor’s song,
Story, glory to report.

Not so—upon this deck we stand,
Searching for a missing past,
Greedily as hungry foxes
Stealing from the hunters’ band.

Sailor’s note aboard the Promise
Tells us, “Hunger and disease
Arrived till nothing has survived
But bones and searing solace.

“Death is now a welcome force
And I, the last, must ask
That to New Haven Promise sail,
Dignity our final course.”

Empowered by a noble quest,
None to steer but time and tide,
Promise sailed upon a prayer,
Host to ghosts, its guests.

-- Donna Marie (Pitino) Merritt

~~~~

on cue
for Rachel


fireflies don’t waste themselves
on daylight. you move
from dapple to sun skein,
glow on hold. at dusk,
your snapshots trace
a dalliance of hurdles.
you reconstruct a zodiac,
spotlight actors
always in the wings.
nightfall kindles
someone else’s dreams.

--Daniel Zimmerman

~~~~

Used Books

I like them dog-eared and lawnsoft,
and savor the character of winestain
and thumbsmudge,

the tear-warp between pages,
scrawl lolling down margins,

x’s, question and check marks
scratched out as anchors.

They kindle affinity with readers
who’ve leafed through before, house

a kinship of signatures, conjuring towns
and streets in states I’ll never visit.

They preach the economy of timber
and purses, while scribbled dates

evoke evenings spent couch-lounging
through past springs and winters.

Though they come off the press crisp
and unsullied, I like them used

for the gust of tinder and sawdust,
the waft of feathers adrift in a hayloft.

I turn the yellow hem of the pages,
a hue half neon, half tubercular,

like the wallpaper of a motel
nicotine-thick with confessions

where with the fray, I find repose
under covers well plumbed
and sepulchral.

--Sarah Jane Sloat

~~~~

Vow

We will love like dogwood.
Kiss like cranes.
Die like moths.
I promise.

--Larissa Shmailo

~~~~


The Chaotic Pendulum

in this museum looks like a relationship
to me. One reaction, one abreaction. I think we
were more like the Tri-Zonal Space-Warper

responding to illusion, where something
looks like it’s moving when it’s not.
Like we need these 3-D glasses to see

that rocket shot up to Mars to show scientists
in Houston there really was water once
in the crenellations of these craters. That project

was christened "Endurance . . . " not unlike ours,
though we don’t proceed at 27 times the speed of sound,
but suffer beneath florescent lights

awaiting the Vast Awareness to pass through us.
Like when she says"Let’s take it to the next level"
and he says "Whaa . . . ?" Or she says

"We are so over!" And and he says"Whaa . . . ?"
And the Coriolas Effect bearing down on a plane
where wind and ocean currents curve

is like love, time and other miscellany
expanding or contracting depending
upon how close together our bodies are.

Sometimes there’s disconnected resonance
more serious than this Hyperbolic Paraboloid
when we bow like this rod to slip through

one another’s hang-ups . Or when we attempt
Virtual Volleyball as if we were on some reality show
where the stakes are fortune or death . . .

How we drive and ride one another’s
sensors-all lights and circuit-breakers,
dials and knobs, positrons, negatrons—

making our own human batteries.

--Deborah De Nicola

~~~~

The Rape of Lake Michigan
after Alice Notley

Lake Michigan curls groan when the sun nudges her as Dawn approaches. She said to herself, “Is it that time already” She stretches and the docks creak, aching under her pressure.

The Sky looks down upon her with lust, as the sun turns her body of water into a blushing pink. He sends a message with the Wind, tells her how lovely she looks in the A. M. light and then proceeds to tell the lake how much he wants to sock it to her.

The Lake is aghast at his boldness; she is jarred awake at his crudeness, raises a huge wave in defiance. It is like giving him the middle finger, she thinks.

The Sky hears her thoughts and blows tender kisses and caresses her waves, tells her “I just couldn’t help myself; your awesome beauty overwhelms me. The peaks and valleys of your waves tempt me, the froth of your waves entice me, and the constant changing marine blues, seaweed greens, and gunboat grays cause me to go out of my mind with hunger for you.

The Lake enjoys his praise of her so much, she raises one eye open and responds to him, “The Wind brings your sweet message, but there is no hope for us, we are two of different elements. I see no future for our union.”

The Sky does not take no for an answer. He whips up some cumulonimbus clouds and becomes dark and threatening, working into a super cell.

Lake Michigan remains mute.

This only angers Sky to the utmost, taking the clouds to new highs, he rails and then lets loose with a bombardment of golf ball size hail, frozen hard as nails. The Wind screams of Sky’s passion. The dark angry Sky proclaims, as the hail penetrates the quiet Lake, “Love hurts, don’t it baby?” while he gets his way with her.

I turn to my dog, Apache, and say, “Damn it, stop that, I want to sleep,” as he licks my face. He stops and sits on my head. “Alright—alright I will let you out. God I am soar all over,” I groan. “Did you beat me up last night while I slept? I feel like the girl in the dunking pond who got hit by a hundred baseballs before she got dunked.”

I let Apache back in (its cold outside, in the low teens and he is done quickly, not a stupid mutt,) and decide to nuzzle the covers a little longer, falling quickly back to nod land.

The Lake responds to this cold attack with a frozen face, with not a word to Sky. Lake thanks god it is winter as she turns to Ice. He melts for her. Healing her liquid heart.


--Donna Pecore