Contest Poems in Long River Run are listed on the bottom of the contest page at: Contests

Pages 42 to 59

 

Nancy Kerrigan, West Hartford

 

The Trumpet Guy

Hartford, Connecticut

 

In snow, sleet or sun this troubadour’s

the headliner who performs

outside the Bushnell Art Center.

His dark skin disappears into the night,

a black leather jacket donned instead of a tuxedo

for all of his performances. Before and after plays,

symphonies, musicals and the opera,

he leans into the weather and his music

and blows, an open trumpet case

his only companion.

 

For years I’ve whizzed by him

as if he were a train stop that isn’t mine.

Not this morning, as I pore over

his impressive resume in the newspaper.

A veteran musician and a real life veteran

who’s played for princes and presidents.

For one performance he’ll move inside;

the orchestra will accompany him.

 

I begin to believe this trumpet guy

and I take the same train, get off at the same station.

His music becomes steam in my engine.

We know how art gets under your skin,

forces you to stay up until 2 am, then

be at a real job the next morning.

 

The poet in me searches for the right rhythm,

tries to go to that other place with words,

jazz it up a bit, make unexpected connections.

I dream that I’ll give a reading under a starlit night,

the wind whips around the words.

The audience grips the edges of their seats,

arrives at a place they have never been

that also seems strangely familiar.

Joan Ellen Ketrys , Waterbury

 

Colors for Sylvia

 

Crimson words spilled

petals in a windstorm

flying sweeping swirling

through a hospital room. Walls

unyielding white. Her thoughts

gush onto the floor.

I cannot gather them fast

enough. Envy sucks me into

her pages, into her private world.

 

Her red tongue lashed at white

uniforms, stiff ignorant

of the treasure balanced on

the stretcher between

the hard covers of sanity.

Saving syllables, she hoarded phases

under her pillow. White crisp

lines lingered like late lilies

before frost weary of autumn

ready to grasp silence of snow.

 

She reached for flames of spring

eager to unravel her wits.

I wind her poems around me

whirl in the wonder of them.

Their frantic scarlet closed

on the white air of her last breath.

 

Stephanie Komkov, Willimantic

 

New Year

Something was spotted

on the canvas or blotter

of recent cataclysms;

 

Something like Carolingians

culling tattered fringes

of scattered imperiums;

 

Something like Merovingians

battling Carolingians

for fragments of satrapies;

 

Something like all of the above,

like jackals, like grackles,

picking at bones and little romes;

 

Something like scavenging bears

or scampering hares

in emirates’ meadows’ canopies;

 

Like a thousand and one Arabian nights,

or two thousand and one cancerous blights

on the leaves of lost caliphates;

 

Something like random meanderings

in Moorish meadows

of porphyritic gloom;

 

Like a house with a secret room,

or a caliph’s palace’s hidden tomb,

dark and apprehensive;

 

Or maybe something brilliant, festive,

maybe something nervous, restless,

as it shuffles, as was reported, towards Byzantium….

Alvin M Laster, Southbury

 

Skipping Stones

 

It has to be the right stone.
Flat is better... more surface against
the water, so it might belly into bounce.
It must be polished by the flow
of tide and time; balanced, and with trim
leading edges, so it might skip and fly.

This morning, rolling back my years,
I search the lacy border of sea and sand,
until I find a proper stone among the
tide’s debris of weeds and broken shells.
I fondle it, bounce it in my palm to feel
the heft of it. This one is good.

I crook my fingers around its edges.
I get the angle right, draw back my arm
and let it sail into my green years.
The stone arcs and levels, flashes in
the sunlight, before it dips to kiss
the sea, then lifts into flight again.

Even in my skip-stone childhood,
I sensed that my life would have
to be like that... like the right stone,
having a keen edge, a proper shape
and proper balance, if I were
to skip and fly and skip again
to clear the swelling tide
and reach that vague horizon,

Dolores Lawler, West Hartford

 

Reality Search

 

From fictitious

windows

of unscreened

buildings

and dark

glazed towers

vibrating vision

seeks

towering tides

in vistas

of dawn's

dilating dreams

hoping

to glimpse

endless

infinite images

in intellectual

pursuit

of eternal

entelechy.

 

Harmon Leete, West Hartford

 

Landscapes

 

Different painters

made Connecticut and Utah.

Connecticut’s was the Hudson River School

of rounded, tranquil green

and resting waters, countless leaves

and distant grazing horses all in tiny brush strokes

nurtured and complete.

Utah’s was a mile-high laughing Van Gogh

wielding his huge brush like an axe

that swept red, gray and yellow bands of rock

to dizzy heights

then smashed a brilliant blue

from overhead repeatedly into them,

splintering off shining, jagged fingers

among stone spires

and down cleft canyon walls,

leaving a land still raw and vital

spread for his return.

 

 

Michael F. Lepore, DDS, Glastonbury

 

The Garden

 

Between the chaotic restlessness of a path well worn

by daily pilgrims seeking refuge from the storm

and the constant stream of mindless movement

towards the elusive goal void of fulfillment

lies a piece of earth so cool and sweet

where life’s journey is played for all to see.

 

This theater of life has much to tell

to those pure hearts under its spell.

Rose, poppy and foxglove take the lead

as the chorus crescendos in concert.

Upon this stage a drama unfolds

the story of youth that in time becomes old.

 

From phlox to pinks the winged servant complies.

No stranger to this dance, he does it with pride,

follows a script written long time past

the future of the garden secure in his grasp.

The powder of life entrusted to his keep

this role played with honor before he sleeps.

 

The stage alive with activity and color

each proving to self better than the other.

The heat of the day begins to wane

and the cool north wind brings uncomfortable rain.

Those once young blooms begin to wear

their color fading, mortality in the air.

 

The royal mantles tinged with brown

their proud upright heads bent to the ground.

The Author critiques their performance to date

each line and verse were delivered with precision and taste.

A curtain of darkness descends upon all

with a sense of fulfillment, the final call.

 

And what of Man who thinks himself best

does arrogance keep him apart from the rest?

Has his time in the garden meant nothing at all,

reluctant to read a script with those destined to fall.

This drama well written, the ending foretold,

is it for Man to be the guest of honor or play the leading role.

 

 

 

Leonard L. Levy, West Haven

 

The Passage of Time

 

Look around you, look around you.

look beneath the bright veneer.

 

The world is filled with pain and sadness.

Clouds cover the sun’s brightness

and a child’s eyes begin to tear.

 

What happened to our dreams so golden?

How did those precious years go by?

We watched our life unfolding.

The shore sands washed away.

Time moves quickly.

 

Look ahead and not behind you.

 

Carpe Diem. Seize the day.

 

June Mandelkern, West Hartford

 

Winter Trees Are Leaving

 

winter trees are leaving

already in April

buds and leaflets blur

the clean outline of branches

silhouetted on the sky

fuzzing their blueprint clarity

coating their simplicity

with mist

 

I have loved them

through the long hard winter

heart open to their perfection

line and form accessible

available to me

 

they promised spring: now

loss saddens me

as shades of green envelop them

cloaking their powerful forms

in leafy panoply

 

soon they will be forgotten

in lush delight of spring

opulence of summer

 

until at last falling leaves

renew our faith and joy

in changing seasons

 

as faithful winter trees return

to lift our hearts

revive our hopes

and get us through the winter

once again

Kathleen McGowan, Danbury

The Mask

Thing of plastic and paper Mache

Molded by my own two hands

Kneaded and shaped out of clay

A whispering voice demands

Mirroring what is deep inside

In the recesses of me it resides

Something other than I am

 

Painting on my second face

A startling transformation has begun

Over my everyday countenance I place

Our two pairs of eyes becoming one

This life that is not my own

And yet, I have forever known

This mask reflecting me

 

I will be my other self awhile

This second skin that is mine

My alter ego laughs and smiles

As I wear her shape for a time

But, perhaps it is the real me

Looking back from the eyes I see

Looking back from the mask

 

Is that the real me deep inside

Peering back from the reflection

Behind a human mask does it hide?

Away from society and rejection

I’ve heard a mirror never lies

But then, who is it that I spy

Is it the mask or is it me?

 

Mark McGuire-Schwartz

 

One Hundred Million Poets

 

No one left to work the fields

or fix a car.

 

One hundred million stand up comics.

A rather funny situation, at that.

 

One hundred million singer-songwriters, and

one hundred million rappers, and another

hundred million rockers.   Nothing more

to be said about it.

 

One hundred million venues.

One hundred million chapbooks.

One hundred million open mikes.

One hundred million short poems.

Two hundred million slams.

Three people in the audience

who do not write.

 

One hundred billion words,

leaving little more to say.

 

One hundred million poets.

 

At the open mike, one brilliant flash

follows another.  The lyric, the personal,

the humorous, the indignant, the quiet, the loud.

One hundred million poets – reading, raving into the rattling night.

Crooning to the room.  Sighing, imploring, convincing,

Talking, speaking our language, speaking a special language

that they have invented, but which can be understood by all. 

High wire acts, fire-eaters, trombone players, organ grinders,

peanut vendors, realtors, entrepreneurs.  Words of prayer, illusionary words.  Impassioned laughter.  A deep hole. 

 

I crawl in

and am gone.

 

Nine hundred, ninety-nine thousand, nine hundred, and ninety-nine poets.

 

One hundred million poets,

minus one.

 

Ina Morris, Plainville

 

Kingman's Famous Daughter

 

Women of our town wore house dresses.

Aprons came off to go downtown.

Plain folk, stay at home moms, watching,

listening, talking over fences.

Small town gossip.

 

Words flew over laundry fences,

blew on idol summer breezes

Edna St. Vincent Millay, poet,

famous, Pulitzer Prize award.

Henry’s daughter.

 

I was on the edge of eleven,

Hemmed by small town living.

Impatience to be grown up peaked

when I met this classic women.

Older “worldly ways.”

 

Befriended by black French Poodles

I endeared myself to Edna

holding leash, connecting, bonding

with stylish clothes, fancy shoes, Irish hair.

Heralding my ancestry.

 

Folks still spoke of visit before fame.

Caring daughter, all the way from Camden.

Poor old Henry Millay, sick again.

Superintendent, Kingman’s First Selectman.

Kingman’s first class alcoholic.

 

Downtown , gossip on black fly wings.

I proudly walked dogs from store to store

Shopkeepers’ whispers, judgmental, envy

Serenity held the poet, outspoken with

Gentle warrior words.

Patricia Mottola, Cheshire

 

Leaving   I walked out on him again last week. Again he didn’t notice. Some would say I ran back, we all do it, return for that one forgotten photo, the milk we might have left on the counter, not wanting it to sour.   The time before, I left the windows open, forgot to lock the door. Some would say I’m prone to bad habits. But then I checked the fireplace, just in case the fire

might still be burning.

Sheila A. Murphy, Portland

 

Heron Rising, Jones River

Saltmarsh grasses, tide-washed and sunwarmed by summer,

cresting like waves and fading to autumn bronze, warm

the old dog bones of the Corgi lolling beside me. On tiptoe,

a child scans the shore for tips of lifting paddles that will mark

our turn to kayak. To fill our waiting, I tell her a story:

 

Yesterday, at low tide, we walked the marsh,

 

Angus and I, and stopped to play our game

of throw-and-fetch, throw-and-lose,

till all our sticks were gone.

 

My head was lowered, eyes blurring

in a sea of brittle stalks until, above me,

as you are now, something moved. A spreading

looming shadow darkened the golden grass,

 

chilled the air. White wings, spreading wide,

hemlock high, then higher, began to lift and

hover. I saw an arching neck, the thrust of legs,

then heard that cry:

a wild sound, back-throated, guttural, long

and then gone - sound and bird a speck

without an echo, bending with the river

toward harbor and bay.

“That would make a good poem. I already have two lines,” she calls, her sneakers dancing ever so close to the edge of a canal. “Do you want to hear them, Grammy?”

 

Just the other day I went down to the marsh

to throw sticks for Angus, your pesky dog.

 

Dark hair caught by a sea breeze, eyes still gazing toward the river, her voice lilts like a wave. “I’ve got more lines. Here’s what I have so far.”

when I saw a shadow upon the marsh grass

when I looked up to see a baby blue heron

getting ready to flee. It called to me twice

and it seemed to say ‘It wasn’t nice to throw sticks

for Angus and throw them at me.’

I couldn’t say ‘Sorry.’ The heron was gone.

 

Now we angle upriver with the tidal swell, our paddles rising and falling, the space between our kayaks lengthening as I call out: “Would you write out your poem for me when we get back?”

 

“Sure, she answers, her stroke as sure and easy as her lines.

 

Still I hear her sneakers tapping out a beat and feel

her fledgling wings begin to rise.

 

 

Ann Newton, Wilton

 

First Encounter Beach

 

No pounding waves against a shore

or foaming spray in air

instead a gentle rippling wet

with children everywhere

 

Digging holes to China

making castles of wet sand or

gathering up some hermit crabs

before the rising tide.

 

Grown-up children gather

on benches facing west

or slowly wade, awaiting

wondrous show of setting sun.

 

A soft, easy panorama

as summer day draws down,

for the moment all at peace

on First Encounter Beach.

 

Julia Paul, Manchester

 

Cauliflower Soup

 

They are the couple from

the Magasin du Chapeaux;

she, all cloche and shawl,

he, all fedora and tweed,

strolling in the cobblestone

street, arms linked.

They are soft and flabby

like the floral couch behind

their lace-curtained windows.

 

Yesterday, we tried on hats

in their shop, seduced

by the possibility of transformation.

In the end we left with just

our own heads. “I guess we’re not

hat people,” I apologized

as they escorted us to the door

and recommended this restaurant

where we sit at a window table

overlooking Rue Ste. Angelie.

 

I notice the textures

of passing couples - wools

and denims and silks.

The waiter is taking our order.

I imagine I hear you say

that you will have the soupe

crème de choux-fleure just because,

just because the words are beautiful.

I imagine velvet on my tongue.

 

Sherman Poultney, Wilton

In Her Kitchen

 

The aroma of cooking apples

and the voices of young children

fill her kitchen.

With one hand on the metal colander,

the other on the conical wooden pestle now stained red,

the children each take turns

pressing out the pink applesauce,

leaving only slick skins

to go later to the compost heap out back.

 

"Hey, open the door,

I've got the last of the green tomatoes."

She always adds just enough sugar

to make the sauce silky-smooth on the tongue.

"I'm not hey. Open it yourself."

She hands each child a hot bowlful.

The screen door of the porch slams shut

behind the father who keeps the produce flowing-in

to the wife who puts enough by for winter.

"And don't forget to wipe your feet

before you come into my kitchen."

 

Applesauce forgotten,

the children grow silent and watch.

The provident father leaves faint footprints

on his way to the sink to wash his dirty hands.

"Now look what you've done.

Come in through the cellar next time."

He fixes his jaw and continues.

The children pick up their spoons.

The warm sauce now cooled

tastes sour on their tongues.