Honorable Mentions, June 2009 InterBoard Poetry Competition

Poetry

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Poetry

InterBoard Poetry Competition

Honorable Mentions, June 2009

THE BIG EASY *Bernard Hamel* (About Poetry Forum) I want easy afternoons, lazy love and white sleep… slipping possible words in liquid sheets and the four corners of the death dance… and dry… dryness everywhere… I want the walls to rain and the floor too hot for my feet… the laughter of smoke rings and pillows for breakfast… vertical smiles upon purple hours… as the blindman of time winds the clock like a compass… I want a tongue that bites! like a razor of the first shave… simplicity like the b i n d i n g of a book. chances cloudy… mean sky: knit brows & puffy cheeks… I think I’ll wait for sudden nights and open sidewalks… until… the sun hustles the moon .and people walk backwardS


THE SWEAT LODGE, AS I KNOW IT *Steve Meador* (FreeWrights Peer Review) My tub is aligned east-west, this is vital to my health. When the world turns to shit my bones quiver, try to shoot through braided muscle and skin; my synapses won’t pop and snap and my mind needs a meeting of its minds. I draw the hottest water a human can survive, without turning edible, and step into the tub from the east. I sprinkle salts on my shoulders, inhale steam that carries the dream of sweetgrass, chant meaningless sounds. I build a scarecrow inside myself, ravens and sparrows flee my body. Circling buzzards disappear. Hawks pluck snakes from my ears. I push out sweat until emptiness fills my pores, then exit from the west side of the tub. In the mirror fog there is a man the color of red clay, a warrior, my grandmother mentioned him; he was her grandfather.


ANGLING *Allen M. Weber* (FreeWrights Peer Review) Blessed with ordinary sight, I don’t need an embellished explanation of sky. I can see there are clouds, or there are none. True, some firmament—bottomless-blue, cerulean—defies description; so humbled I’ll lower my gaze, and notice how surfaces mimic: Iridescent dragons loop around my 1 lb line—pulled taut through watery cumuli. I float my ordinary oars away, obliged to drift more muted hues, and wait for something deeper to strike.