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InterBoard Poetry Competition
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Honorable Mentions, September 2007
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BRONX SWANS
      Bernard Henrie
      (The Writer’s Block)

I have forgotten nothing: A sack lunch
and dried bread for the aging swan;
the underside stained burlap the color
of a Bronx pond; the anonymous traffic
on Canal street, the concrete bench
and park attendant clearing trash.

A woman who visited the shell basin
of our meeting place; a monotone
in the summer afternoon of gaps and sighs;
the azure turn of sky; the park slowed
to the barely visible gesture of the swan;
the brackish waft of wings and khaki feathers;

glazed beak stamped into dower mud
and soured water. The swan left out all night
alone as a man who fears an illness,
a porch light left burning with no one to see.
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INDIAN GRASS
      Rich Stewart
      (The Town)

Night full of frog-song and stars.
Late summer moon slow to rise.
Indian grass whispers
like bamboo in the lonesome wind ...
The deep midnight wind has a bite,
but baby, I could walk all night,
Lost darlin’. I could walk all night.

Loose gravel by the road,
some creature’s little pointed jaw,
fallen dogwood petals
glitter in such light
I could read if I wanted to;
there’s nothing that I want to read
nothing that I want to hear
this night.

Just old humaway songs
of lonesome whistle blow
and trucks on a distant highway
and of how
you might have picked me.

Now it’s just
white moonlight, flat on this flexed gravel road
and this weight in the crook of my arm
and an empty bedroom a mile behind
waiting for me to return.

If I did it tonight
the old people over the hollow
might stir in their big sagging bed.
Might say, that there was a shotgun.
Might say, there’s one old coon gone.
Might roll back into dreams.

If I walked back
far enough into the hills
how long might I lie
left alone?
Not long enough, I guess,
for my bones to rise out clean
and bleach white with the possums and deer.
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ONCE UPON A TIME
      Eric Linden
      (Mosaic Musings)

A herd of cows with calves in tow
now graze this meadow, where,
not many years ago
the two of us wandered,
looking for elusive four-leafed clover
to bring us luck.

The golden balsamroot of early spring

had burst in bright abandon
like stardust
sprinkled by wee forest folk
who rule the mystic woodlands.

Then later on, roses, wildwood roses
graced our much loved hills
where we would stroll,
enjoying sunshine days
in nature’s freedom.

Aspen leaves turned gold,

grasses withered,
autumn winds brought frosty nights,
and rose hips blushed in scarlet.

Along their dusty trails

where once we sought
four-leafed clover,
cows now wander.

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About the InterBoard Poetry Competition
Archive of IBPC Winners
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