THE MORNING OF MY MADNESS WAKING
      Jim Zola
      (Melic RoundTable)

What's left? Maybe some trees on a hillside or the sudden tufts
of seedy grass where your wanting arms, your lost in the world feet

might be. I have forgotten the names of the trees. Broadleaf grin, burred
twig dance, maker of saplings. What's left? Some trees, a hillside.

No philosophizing, please. Vodka is given us to be drunk, sturgeon
to be eaten, women to be visited. Snow to be walked upon.

For one evening anyway, I want to forget you are the ring
in my ear, the morning's cough, the dense flour of deepest sleep.

I wake and call for you. You are the new crease in my right palm,
the itch below my knee, the world turned inside out, my reckless heart.

I pull on socks, shoes. Beneath each layer is another. Madness
wears the thinnest cloth. What's left? Dying and singing. Some trees.

HOSPICE
      Jim Bennett
      (PK Poetry List)

like Orwell’s crumbs
the disturbed dust moves from
one surface to another
marking time in textured
layers

it covers all the people here as well

the room is cleaned,
the smells masked,
but the dirt is organic
it moves away from dusters
and vacuum heads
escaping to hang
in bars of light
and rest on people.

perhaps this is new dust
perhaps there is more dust here
because skin is dryer
hair looser, more fragile,
in this made up place
than outside
where time still moves
in an understood way

I run my finger along
the dark oak mantelpiece
disturb a million lives
and learn to measure time
as the space between breaths

SOME THINGS ARE EASIER
      MaryEdna Salvi
      (Callahan's Saloon)

I walk around naked
these clothes don't hide
a thing
I'd rather show
tits and ass
than have you see
my feelings
and never give a damn

THE SPINNING WHEEL
      Steve Phillips
      (About Poetry Forum)

It revolves, and makes a soothing
sound that evokes the winds of autumn
grieving for the child whose path is twisted,
whose troubled silence speaks fear.

Gandhi listened for a time
and felt the colors of his faith
revolving too, entwining there
among threadbare longings, gaining
silence from the spinning whispers.

Patience is almost gentle in his heart
as the thread of time emerges
continuous, eternal,
graceful and serene.

And this thread is our connection
to the majestic light of stars
which still shine in Mahatma's eyes
while he sits, humming softly,
singing the wheel around.

HORSE TRADE
      Jennifer Jenkins
      (Blueline)

I.
I was one of those little girls that wanted a pony,
not because I became mesmerized by Liz Taylor
or needed a Flicka friend, but because ponies had long hair,
all down the neck and out the back. That's how they came
and went, with not a thought of stalling to tape their bangs.
They see through fringe to check for limits and find
no God in the eyes or Devil in the mouth.

II.
Have a pony, chilled gold to fit full inside my dainty grip.
The opening seemed to bridle my nibbling lips.
The guys fisted their Shlitz while we girls buried
our aperitif beers under our hair until the males malted
our way, then we'd whip our pony tails, rim our collarbones
and grin for auction.

III.
I'm full and past bolting. Reined and ridden and snorting still.
Don't brush against me, I command within steam.
I've nodded and neighed, nostrils
are full of foal that hooves for breath.
Broken, I stirrup and rear my spindly child,
her mane as wet as mine.

NEWTON'S LAW
      Snow White
      (Enter the Muse)

And he sang me to sleep...
A sweet warmth of words
comfortably embracing me.
Sleep like a Godsend,
Him my one-night idol.
Goldy Locks with
"parsley, sage, rosemary, and..."
Time slipping through my fingers
like the sun peering through the curtains.
I closed my eyes before
reality could pierce my mind.
His soft voice gently echoing
as I fell...
To quickly,
once again,
in love.
I fell off my bike.
Me, a twenty-one year old, hitting pavement
like a six year old just learning to ride.
A twenty-one year old trying to learn to ride again.
Because I used to be able to do this
without any hands,
any hurts,
any expectations,
I could fly.
But, instead I fell.
My angelic wings clipped
Newton's Law proven once again.
Gravity is twice as strong
when falling from Heaven.
But, he sang like Irish Angels.
And, he sang like my father once did.
And, he sang like he was alone in his car.
He sang like I was the only person who had ever heard.
And, he sang like I would if I were staring at the face of God.
And, he sang like I had always wanted
someone,
anyone,
to... me.
He sang and I fell.
My dominoes of requirements and desires
cascading like my hair across his chest.
My dominoes exhausted from standing
so goddamned long.
My dominoes, like our bodies laying against each other
finally able to touch something,
feel something.
He sang and I fell asleep.
As if sleep were real and
real a dream.
Sleep like a wake-up call from the hotel front desk.
Sleep like nap-time in a daycare.
A twenty-one year old fighting a early bedtime.
Because sleep isn't necessary when
you are old enough to drink coffee.
And, sleep is an ending,
And, I am searching for beginnings.
I am searching for new doors
in old hallways.
I am searching for my training wheels.
I am searching for a way to rejuvenate my wings.
I am searching for a new set of dominoes.
I am searching for a way to prove
Sir Fucking Isaac Newton wrong.
I am searching for someone
to sing me to sleep,
their soft voice gently echoing as I fall...
And, their arms to be there instead of
the pavement.

TRIOLETTE
      David Anthony
      (Pennine)

I think I'll write a triolette--
but does it rhyme with get or gay?
I'm ignorant I know, and yet
I think I'll write a triolette
that rhymes with gay--or else with get.
(Who gives a toss whichever way?)
I think I'll write a triolette--
but does it rhyme with get or gay?

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