| InterBoard Poetry Competition | |
Didi Menendez J.K. Bradford Jr. Julian Scutts SeligHEMINGWAY HAS ANOTHER DRINK
Half drawn,
the Venetians shoot zebras
across the terrazzo,
key lime stings my paper cut finger,
the spray falls over the mahogany desk,
stumbles into the rum,
a sprig of mint is crushed under the rocks.
As my index finger runs over the rim,
the crystal plays little violin sounds,
Cajun aroma purrs through the upholstery,
my six toe cat settles by the rocker.
Princess understands,
sunsets are for morsels
from my plate.
She licks her paws,
harmonizes the sounds from my glass,
with her soprano meows, approaches me:
shadows across the floor become her coat,
and I am in Africa again.
I hunt for the letters
hiding behind my typewriter ribbon,
the click click from the keys,
become clacking ghost heel marks,
the recollection of the woman that left,
clouds my rum again.
Another shot of key lime, more rum,
forget the ice and the mint, and
unlike my cat's extra toe,
loneliness cannot be amputated.
SEVEN-UP
Surfing the waves of disdain
with
a judgemental youthful
urban crew
of armchair professionals
self impressional
modern day
liberal although
tyrannical
90's kind of historical
Hannibal
I dare today to say
In overpriced loafers
and
fashion's discontent
The race they
run is
nonetheless
a narrow minded quest
A mental hazing
of sorts
A poltergeistic
sport
where the one who wins is
far from
the athletic best
in the hashing
quarters
or on the millennium's
court
Khakis and
authentic Birkenstocks
Hypocritic
hippies
with introverted cocks
and invisible
navels
Impressed by pretentious
sweat house made
labels
Believing'''''''''
Believing that beauty is greater
the closer one is
to
the
cradle
High profile
position
on the 17th floor
and once more
in a
modernistic
narcissistic
pseudo altruistic tower of babel
Where the secretaries
have
flat nippled
ripple free
plastic orgasms
and the wives crosstown
are
a fucking bore
while she
of her own accord
8-5 playing an ambitious
a-line
skirted whore
to her triple chinned
payroll tyrant
who
makes a dutiful habit of sniffing
around every
infinitesimal
higher educational
quintessential
XX fire-hydrant that settles for another
rung
on his corporate ladder
after four........pm
Trade off
for a lecherous score
never
giving thought
to the
forgotten
“For richer or poorer”
I see them every day
racing
along the $2.25 highway
Bobbing
and swallowing
the world's
pungent cum
for another
15 cents and a hearty Fuck You
piece of the
pie
and yet
another rung.....
We run the race
I run
without any souls on my shoes
Convincing myself
that this is
the life
that I wanted
to have or to choose
But
inside I still feel discontent
and
the cinder blocks of
disgrace
in complicated bluish hues
FURUHI, A LAMENT
(Based on a poem by a Japanese poet of the seventh century, Yamanoe Okura)
What in all the world is most desired?
The precious ores, the seven precious stones?
Yet what are these to one
whom Heaven gave its fairest pearl,
that gem love brought forth to day,
our son Furuhi, our little son?
O why did Heaven lend to us
its fairest jewel?
When the star of evening shone,
he wakened us, laughing, jumping,
and when the star of evening shone,
he lay between us, there to be
a lily cupped by two green leaves.
But like that short-lived flower,
his freshness faded, wilted, paled,
as he grew weak and sick upon his bed
until like bird of night death came
to snatch its prey.
O Lord of sky and earth, tell why
you, possessor of both realms,
took from this scant store our gem,
our most loved only flower.
And Lord of dark shades of night,
to whose realm of nothing falls
all the realms of being owned,
why did you seize with such unseemly haste
what in full time was yours with better grace?
What cause had you to deny
a little season's bliss?
O Lord of dreams and visions, why
did you, as though consoling, promise
to return to us our pearl
and let us see him smile again,
and let us hear his laughter as before,
at our waking, till cold reason
with vial of gall poisoned the cup of dawn
that we felt his death not once,
but again with each returning day?
O Lord whose name we do not know,
lead him gently and with parent's care,
or call us soon that as before
our shoulders bear him home.
DANCE ME ON
Dance me on your table tops
Spin me through your wisdom
I have never been the type to shine
But I could be your prism
I could be your raft at sea
When cloth and robes are torn
Just strap your sails across me
And turn me to the storm
And I could be your fisher woman
waiting on the shore
Your beacon burnin’ keening one
That you would come back for
I could be your guiding star
Your Venus ever clear
No darkness could ever dull
The light that brings you here
I could be the solid beam
You balance yourself on
When life is sliding you away
I'll keep your grounding strong
And I could be your spinning moon
Close but never crowd you
And anywhere that I may go
I'll always go around you
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