second place winner at the USC Professional Writing Award Contest
short pay and weeks to go
tuesday is always toil
counting scars and the elements
aches that rise until the eyes brown
limited to what you can write and scream
you make a poem
the first flurries of snow are weeks away
there will be men laid off
all the strong white elephants off schedule
there will be absences and silences all over the city
engines will rev and snort snow
all the poems will be shards of coal
abandoned by his people
leonard will surely come addicted and asking
you would curse out the windows
make the cold colder
or damn each train shaking in the city’s veins
machines everywhere where men used to gather
but here this week
gwendolyn is joy
an oasis blue and warm as summer
you finally understand her
the brevity
the whisps of intense thought
you read then listen
are applicable to each vowel
this rancid anthology you found in an alley
she speaks and stands erect
points an ebony finger accusingly
and you are glad to be guilty
in her spectacles
the lenses making her eyes distant and wise
the city passes
is distilled and held a moment to catalog
even leonard’s wire silhouette
each fraction of each hurrying lonely face
carefully cottoned in space
you smile at a stanza in her poem
an awakening in summer
a shirtless free moment in san louis obispo
at a small table
on the news paper cloth
in a one bedroom apartment
on the second floor
one window facing the alley
the other framing leonard and
several gambling negros below
your tea has gotten cold
gwendolyn’s sermon has blessed you
the room makes fragrant bread all around you
winter echoes in the streets three empty countries away
yet gwendolyn speaks in the small place between
your belly and heart
calls you to work in the sandstone mornings
places butterfly sonnets at each adolescent lisp
you would find her if you could
somewhere in the city
in some far up window watching you go
claiming you
hoping you make it to the trains on time
up there letting the pies brown
you know she has something to give you
maybe the meaning of life
a poem written machine sharp
or directions to a field of late lilies
2 comments:
I am impressed. This is usually a difficult feat. Most people who go around the internet claiming themselves to be poets, write poems I have labled "tears for fears."
IE: I had so many fears
I cried so many tears.
This kind of puke gives poetry a bad name.
But you sir, are most definetly a poet. I was stunned by several of your poems posted in this journal. I was pleased to lose myself in, and be humbled by your words.
I too would like to label myself a poet. Unfortunatly my lack of schooling shows in my grammer and my lack of experiences shows in my poetry. I am by no means a writer of your caliber but would be honored if you would like to stop by my journal as well.
SINS
http://journals.aol.com/octoberroots/Tidbits
Romus, if it made any sense at all to fall for a person because of his ability to write so beautifully, you'd be the love of my life. I simply love everything you write. But you know that already, don't you?
Kiwanda
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