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Skipping into the Dark

The tide’s slipping out tonight. In the west,
Venus romances the grail moon.

My nine-year-old son stands silhouetted,
skipping stones.

Their skittering makes the lights across the bay
squiggle in the water.

An hour ago, between bites of mashed potatoes,
we hooted at his younger sister,

who has learned how to hang a spoon from her nose.
Without looking up, he announced

in a flat-water voice, I am going to die.

Only his sister could speak: That’s dumb, Ben.
You’re too little to die.

After each toss he cocks his head, listens
for a satisfying succession of skips.

I can’t see his expression any more
than I can see the future,

cannot know what he bears within his fluid frame.

I can only watch him stoop at the water’s edge,
his fingers feeling for rightness,

choose a glazed stone and hurl it as far as he can
into the veiled night.

--David Sloan

~~~~~

The Death of the Poet Li Po


Some say it was the wine. Some say it was love,
the moon smiling up at him from the river.
He was drunk. The boat was tipsy. He stood,
aching to embrace such loveliness forever.

The stars looked on. The lapping waves
were dancing. Leaning out over the gunwale,
he toasted his image which lay now beside
the moon’s face and drank again. The sails

billowed and the little craft rocked him forward.
He could not deny himself. He reached and reached
until the river opened its mouth and drank him.
The boat was lost in the blackness. The beach

was miles away. This was Li Po’s last line.
Some say it was love. Some say it was the wine.

--Jane Ellen Glasser

~~~~~

Alien

Two horses graze in the pasture’s
deepest pocket. I imagine their
concerns are few: last night’s
rain has softened the world,
flies are humming new songs –
but the hills beyond the barbed
fence have begun their stories:
how Eden’s wolf discovered
its sorrow, why stone abandoned
its heart – but my steps have already
disturbed the hour. My pulse
is tolerated – never welcome.

--S. Thomas Summers

~~~~~

Kol Nidre

My cantor cousin has a leaky valve
like one of those grand old cars
that cruise my neighborhood –
an old 1967 Ford Galaxie, say,
or a 1956 Thunderbird. He started to cough
black exhaust when he wanted to sing.

Show us the scrolls, the sound a sob.
The cantor creates no vault, no dome,
but desert where God hears sorrow surpassed.
Plainsong’s ancestor launches toward heaven
to pull God down, hits the world’s topography,
ricochets back, echo-locating each Jew’s heart
that hollers “Why?” The only answer: absolution.

My cantor cousin told me the brothel
across the back alley from his grandfather’s
(my great grandfather’s) bar
had a Negro owner, but no Negroes
were allowed as clients.
The Polish whores wouldn’t sleep with them.

Show us the scrolls, let black smoke roll.
I feel my cousin’s voice in my chest.
The cantor’s opera-singing mother
(dead these many years) nods her approval.

--Jan Steckel

~~~~~

Fictive Losses

Aunt Jennifer and
her tigers
had nothing over me
and you.

Orchestrating lives
out of sheaves of paper--
talk of Fitzgerald,
what we meant
to do
in the never to come days.

Golden Boy,
eye to the future--
you put Jay to shame
in your search for
a place.

And I
lived through
page 271
a cracked plate,
though i would
not know
for years to come.

what manners of life
fool us to the exigencies
of words
unreliable
ready for the taking

but still
i'll wait with Li Po
by the river
watching the flowers
floating down

Murmuring lines
of hearts like fists
shriveled prunes
air crackling
and other lies
of the poet.


--Jennifer Orozco

~~~~~

Toddle

Storm-light’s grey clarity & you
bluster. Syllables batter against the rear-view, cling
to the meat of my earlobes
still half-a-city from home.

Rainclouds unroll over rush-hour, their ticking
stale from storage. Mouth open, I blare My Bonny
shoulder-checking headlights
& grit twisters at the curb.

In evening’s rush-light & traffic’s flare
your face goes china, goes bone
before you drop off, leaving a body to bob
over swells of asphalt & tar
a body for me to bundle inside.

--Ariel Gordon

~~~~~

HONORABLE MENTIONS

-- "A marriage" by Rose Mary Boehm

-- "Dickinson Library Damaged Pantoum" by Janet

-- "Baconstein!" by Nimrod Fartelchease

Hi...I just received this message and am thrilled to be in the running, but I noticed that the second segment to Fictive Losses is missing.

Well, those are all wonderful.
Jenny, yours was so well done. I haven't read it with the second segment, but think it worked great this way, too.
It's nice to see two poems (Jenny's and Jane Ellen's) that are homages to other writers.
And the deep pockets of "Alien," and the resonance of "Kol Nidre."
"Toddle," too, show a good ear alongside that fat earlobe.
And the delicate "Slipping" makes no misstep.

very hard to decide...

I vote for Skipping in the Dark by David Sloan

Jenny wrote: "Hi...I just received this message and am thrilled to be in the running, but I noticed that the second segment to Fictive Losses is missing."

Send a Goodreads message to Amy, Jenny.

Skipping in the Dark by David Sloan

Jan Steckel's poem gets my vote. Her clever and intelligent use of words weave together some of the vital fundamentals of life. Once again she has chosen the hearth and the home to illustrate some fairly powerful, universal themes; those of life and death, of history and belief. Really like Skipping Into the Dark too, so much love.

Delighted to deserve an honorary mention. I say 'deserve' - well, I hope so. In any case, I'm chuffed.

Jenny wrote: "Hi...I just received this message and am thrilled to be in the running, but I noticed that the second segment to Fictive Losses is missing."

So sorry, Jenny! I will send an update to members, but I can't at the moment (am only permitted to send one per 24 hours). I've amended it here though!

All excellent, in very different ways. My vote goes to "Skipping into the Dark."

Yes, I agree. I had a hard time deciding and was very much drawn to "Skipping into the Dark". But then "Kol Nidre" won by a hair's breadth. It has so many wonderful phrases and twists of thought.

Congrats to all the winners and honorable mentions!

"Toddle" by Ariel Gordon gets my vote. This poem perfectly evokes a single moment in time, in which the reader also becomes a passenger. The line, "your face goes china, goes bone" is one I wish I'd written.

Can't vote this month. And I usually have trouble picking only one to vote for. (For which to vote)

I Vote for"The Death of the Poet Li Po" by Jane Ellen.

Voting for Jan Steckel's poem.

Love the line in "Skipping Into the Dark":


Their skittering makes the lights across the bay
squiggle in the water.

I'm so pleased my poem will be featured in the newsletter. This contest attracts excellent poetry;
I'm honored to have won. Thanks those of you who voted for Li Po. Now, Keiron, what do I have to do to hire you as my PR person?

://vintagepoetrypublishing.blogspot.com/

CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS!

vintagepoetrypublishing.blogspot.com


CALL FOR SUBMISSIONS!

Fictive Losses

Skipping into the Dark

my vote goes for this poem "The Death of the Poet Li Po" by Jane Ellen Glasser