InterBoard Poetry Competition

FREQUENTLY UNASKED QUESTIONS
      Chris Ziesler
      (WDS Writer's Block)

I.
What color is a peal of bells?

Can a thunder-roll smell of cinnamon?

How warm is a suit made from a tissue of lies?

Should it be worn with a buttonhole?

II.
How far can a dog bring a snowflake on its nose?

Why doesn't the sea taste of shipwrecks?

How soft is a single heartbeat?

Does death dance deftly?

III.
Is a cat's claw too quick?

What became of last summer's moonbeams?

Will walls always be so wide?

Is love's last question hiding behind the first lie?

IV.
Why should carriage clocks care about glaciers?

If a red shoe is lost, will its partner be blue?

Is a spoon deep enough to carry a wish to the mountain?

Will rubbing a lantern raise its luster?

V.
Do birds sing in straight lines?

When will a poem lose its voice?

Should brand-new answers be trusted?

Why don't rainbows hunt in packs?

SPLATTER
      Ani Gjika
      (Blueline)

When you sit
over my legs
tickling my belly,
you’re a crazy old man
worshiping my Chi
with hands, eyes
and chants in a language
I’ve never heard
but understand.
Then, when you lock
your hands with mine
coming down
to seize my lips,
you’re the cataract of vim;
your lips splash
on my peripherals
overtake all my portals
no longer traveling
the outskirts,
you're in.

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CARNIVORE
      Mitchell Metz
      (Melic Review Roundtable)

I.

Mornings I harrow, afternoons harvest
heirloom tomatoes. Nights I eat the seeds,
spit the flesh. Staked to square trellises
and clipped stem-tight, they never fail to thrive

for me. Plump Burbanks, pinkskinned Brandywines
people the vines like fairytale children
in a small town warlock's kitchen garden.
One hour too long in the sun and they burst.

The skinny lady in the floppy hat
and matching floral gloves stops by again.
"Looking good," she says, inserting her chin
between the pickets. "You are kind," I say.

II.

By day I watch him from the third floor study,
sweating in his perfect patch. The sun sinks
into his broad back with fangs I imagine
my own. While I chew bacon in the sandwich
my wife makes, she walks the fence to him,
returns soon -- flushed and gratified. God!

She beds early, never sees him naked,
rabid, rolling in nettles by the shed,
shreds of neighborhood witches in his teeth.

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SIEGE
      Colleen Shin
      (iVillage)

We lay twins
under cool sheets in black night.
Our singular heat
an island in a cold sea.
His hands ask the question
he no longer voices.
Hands that move gently, tentatively
the length of me
to span and cup;
the tender belly--
a temple of pain
where hurt was born
and grew strong.
Surgical signatures
map repeated invasions
wars waged
by sterile troops wielding
Doctorates
and sharp knives.
Too late they shook their heads
placed on a silver scale
my hope
my terror
my despair.

My womb blasted, diseased
weighed ninety grams.
Pain escaped before the siege.
Virgin territory
Dark interiors
Prowling,
indulging grim amusements,
climbing into our bed.
We huddle like twins
an island.
My husband, my refuge
I thrill to him,
need the music
of his slow kiss--
the holy communion
of lips and eyes.

Narcotics
two white tablets
500 MG
a toxic currency
to buy back time.
My lover, flowing
lays his forehead on mine
rubs his cheek to its mate
knows soon relief will come.
He will feel it move away.

Curtains, spring damp
blow fragrant
cool sheets, tropic island.
He sleeps,
no longer twin.

Tangled, a celtic rune
I erase the language of our love.
Ease away from the weight and angles
of our satisfaction.
I sit cross legged, smoking
communing with Jesus on the wall
forever dying on polished rosewood.
I will pray to other gods.
To the wind,
Venus in a dark sky.

The clock glows electric hours.
Soon it begins, I will not sleep.
Pain waits patiently
to renew the siege.

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UNCOMFORTABLE REMEMBRANCE
      Patricia Gomes
      (iVillage)

I took down an old book today,
blew off the dust and settled in
to read some poems from the sixties.
They were long and moldy, filled with
tales of carnage and blood and gasses and
medals of honor, death rewarded with
a Purple Heart; the long-awaited flight home made
in a zippered bag.
The bad guys still wore black.
Bleeding children as naked as the trees.
Did the trees also scream and writhe in ignorance.
Or were they simply silent, dead witnesses.

I turn the pages, silent hope
for reprieve, but none came.
Academicians igniting flags that fan the flames
of their indignation, using social and racial
injustices for kindling.
Fighting here, stead of jungle soil.
Memories not my own,
and lead weight in my stomach forces me to turn the page.
And read more of the same.

Of assassination, of convoluted theorem.
Conceptual images of our future dashed
again and again and again.
Until my head hung down under
the weight of the National Guard, the CIA, and a decade of shame.

What of the pretty lyrics I still recall,
sugar-plumbed sounds filling the air.
Promised me love that grows, safe harbor
under your umbrella.
Peace and love but a fantasy to be sure, else
a dream, albeit an appealing one.
Where have all the young girls gone,
flowers in their hair, flowers everywhere.
Smiley faces, bright as moons sewn on
denim, frayed and belled heralding a rebirth.
If one came, it was muted.
Aquarius never dawned.
I didn't read of it in the papers,
nor was it announced on the evening news.

But, Jupiter did align with Mars and,
united, we took that one small step for man.
A giant leap for mankind. Words that did not reach
the ears of Charlie, squatting in the hills
of Spahn Ranch.
Helter skelter marked the end
with crosses carved in skin.
Day-dream believer still, I close the book
wondering if the colors of Peter Max were ever real

---

BAKING THE TART
      Lynette Hall
      (WDS Writer's Block)

remember how the girl smiled
with trance on her face
in the second row in ms. stuarts'
english class. you knew she'd done
the nasty
not because billy bragged
but because the smile meant
that he had kissed her big as a movie screen. she ran the tip
of her finger
over her lips, so lost
that they puckered in a slo-mo
replay for the boys.

you had to respect love like that.

so you trashed her in fifth period gym
slappin b-ball and elbows and insults
at billy, making him sorry he ever did her
what a slut, who hasn't the bitch opened
her legs for, no matter he's been hitting on her
since they first started dating 6 months ago.

i think it's significant that boys hit on girls.

cos it's like a slap into reality
when all the bitches
from the pep squad gather in the corner
and heather
whispers loud about the usual taboos,
and how billy was hittin on her just a week before, and her green eyes
slither sideways like fangs
to their mark who jerks her finger
from her lips, the bruise
just beginning to rise.

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About the InterBoard Poetry Competition
Archive of IBPC Winners
First Place Winner, April 2001

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