Contest Poems in Long River Run are listed on the bottom of the contest page at: Contests
Pages 7 to 21
Carol Leavitt Altieri, Madison
Gold Nuggets
Outdoors today in Indian Summer
kneeling down to plant my butterfly bush,
with the Northwest wind sweeping down
a congregation of songbirds.
I hear a volume
of a high, clear whistle
joyful, full-throated
echoing of infectious bubbling
from the tops of sycamore trees.
Singing and calling flows out from
ruby and golden-crowned kinglets.
Diminutive royalty joins
titmice, chickadees, nuthatches
and juncoes tucking into seeds
twitching at hibernating beetles.
All together rapt in flute-like whistles.
In the conifers,
they flit in sudden motion circlingunder branches fluttering wings
twirling under crimson, russet,
and golden leaves.
Then tossing up and down
like shuttlecocks in hallowed sun light,
I’m a little girl again in New Hampshire
woodlands seeking nests of warbling
thrushes.
The ruby and golden-crowned kingletsno bigger than child’s hands;
still perpetually energetic as I am.
They lift me upward on their flights
to new realms of ecstasy.
R Gavin S Anderson, Westport
Toward A Better World
Life, as we understand it here today,
is precious, sacred, blessed in its way.
Yet, however good and beautiful this may be,
it’s only safe, pure but as far as we can see…….
Perfection, the grail of every generation past,
is as rich a prize as deserves to last.
All peoples strive to create their elysian field,
with ideals that better the community weald.
History chronicles victory and defeat,
of advance, success, or endeavor incomplete.
Yet, there’s always a course of hope in our veins,
that never dwindles, never dies, so sturdy it remains.
As long as mankind can raise a collective will,
steadily climb and crest the steps of each hill,
then hope can be realized, dreams can come true,
life’s breath will be refreshed, and skies shine blue.
This globe, our planet, is all and everything we own
that, with nature’s power and beauty, we share alone.
So in each of us there needs dwell a common desire,
to make our world a better place. To that, we must aspire.
Sophie Barnes, Westport
Fireflies
Life and death, define your terms
apart from suffocating norms which
do not heed my need to choose
to be unborn or born to lose.
I'd like to ask what kind of doom
awaits inside a fated womb.
The world outside is full of strife,
I mourn and ask "what kind of life...?"
The fireflies must stay their light
taking back the darkened night
when predatory boys give chase
with puncture lidded jars agape.
The kind of game they’re lusting after
glorifies the sport, the capture
decrees a life devoid of rapture.
Who’d dare cast a wounding stone
were we to choose not to be born
and just for now remain unknown
until a safer world is home
E. J. Bartek
An Object
An object is a thing,
a material thing like stone,
a thing that is not flesh,
nor does it have a soul,
nor a mind and beating heart.
To give it any feeling.
It makes me ask
in philosophical quest,
if gold and silver
are material objects,
that express no being feeling,
to make one feel in love,
why seek for these cold objects
over warm and loving beings?
Christine Beck, West Hartford
Café du Monde
bustles in the afternoon, its green awnings striped
in pristine white. Creole waiters in paper caps
and aprons flash big-toothed smiles in the open-air café,
as palm fronds dance for tourists in the breeze.
Photos on the wall flaunt New Orleans’ signature –
homes in pure pastels – pink, pale yellow, ochre--
balconies hovering over narrow streets, sprouting like
butterflies on long-stemmed blouzy blooms.
I order café au lait and trois beignets,
small squares of deep fried dough,
buried beneath a drift of powdered sugar.
Inside, a soft center laced with holes,
as if the dough had gasped as it was thrown
into an oily bath, leaving mouthfuls of surprise,
trapped within its crisp, brown skin.
Café du monde -- a patois of sugar
and steely resolve, amidst the feathered masks,
harlequins in satin hats with tiny bells,
ancient symbols of a city in disguise.
Just beyond the café wall flows
the Mississippi, calm and coffee brown.
Its placid surface hides an underworld of dread,
of swirling silt, shards of glass, family photographs--
where arms embrace the missing, the forgotten and the dead.
Sherri Bedingfield, West Hartford
Who Are You Anyway?
At six you walked an east coast beach with your
father. Remember you wanted to travel with the wind,
imagined she had a face and long hair that blew for
miles behind her even though you knew this was not true.
A fairy tale. Later you could invent the windmill, bring down
the cost of fuel. Or you could be full of wind, maybe that was it.
You lived in two cities, married two nurses at almost the same time.
Willowy women. You got away with it. Had five children,
wanted to be a hero, make the world look your way. You studied
to finish medical school. Searched again for your missing parts.
Watched to see how your friends did it, and turned your face to the
window. You breathed cool control. You always liked the rain,
a knot in the clouds twists the sky wide open. Rain cascading,
a wet dim shelter, another place to hide.
One of your wives would take you in on Friday if you gave her
the money. Money would always get you in. it would be a perfect
night for ice cream. Remember, for a moment, you, a boy of six.
Start again at the waters’ edge. You, with your father here, remember,
standing on the rickety dock, people fishing. A fat nest of perch deep
under the pilings. People reeled them in, and the wind was there
with her wild hair. The boy still in you gazes into the water and sees
himself. He is part of you forever.
You could have been a senator, or the chemist who made the drug to save
the world. You could have worked for the CIA.
Sally Belenardo, Branford
Crystal Necklace
In old age’s drought,
allow a crystal necklace
to adorn a plain
housecoat, so mirrors
will reflect something pretty
as light strikes faceted ice,
drops of dew, or rain S
gems that Nature likes to wear
on slender limbs and in her hair –
worn around a withered throat
on a silver chain.
Ellen Blum, Stamford
Black Friday
Creating things for every need,
a massive mouth that has to feed,
the land is churned; the forests fall,
fodder for its hungry maul.
A feeding frenzy to behold,
stifling care, a fool's gold.
"New", we say, "we want more",
running to the Mammoth store.
"Eat, my child," the Mammoth grins,
not to? This… is the one who sins.
The Earth will cringe; we overdo.
Flooded by consumer stew.
"Buy", we say. "It's what we need."
Other voices call it greed.
The empty earth will feel the pain,
Now our loss, once our gain.
An unending quest to fill our bowl
leads us to a weaker soul.
Homes engorge. Attention dims.
Watery soup floods the rims.
Peace, contentment, washed away,
longing left, deigns to stay,
a single thought, then a pause,
serenity … forsaken cause?
David Boston, Huntington
Commuting
Blind Men take the train,
they trust their instincts,
hoping they won’t fall
through the gap.
Blind men ascend
the subway stairs,
feeling each step
with their cane.
We don’t watch
where we’re going,
and little notice
the sound of voices,
trains, or sirens.
We are oblivious to
the Sunshine,
blue skies, and the
laughter of children
playing on the sidewalk.
But the blind man
coming up out of the
subway, at Times Square,
can see the world.
Polly Brody, Southbury
Envoy
She is withering.
Sunken cheeks clearly reveal
the orbital rims' concave bows,
and her dear eyes, still Mother,
are encased in wrinkled skin.
She is puckering
like sun-dried fruit.
Her flavor intensifies
like sun-dried fruit.
I duck my head to kiss
a cheek once level with mine.
Each night I think of her
laid out in her single bed,
arthritic hip grumbling
its unceasing discomfort.
Mother will hoist that painful hip
up the side door's inconvenient stairs
lest she disturb the phoebe
nesting by her kitchen entrance.
My mother, even now,
will stop to lift a turtle from the road.
Today she telephones, to tell me
how a small, black doe has come
each morning, to browse windfall apples:
how she has softly gone outside
sweet-talking, tossing quartered apples--
easier to mouth than slippery round ones--
and how today, the small black deer
with smooth-skinned cheeks
and long-lashed, liquid eyes,
has come step by step
upon its dainty, pronged hooves,
to stretch its supple neck
and take the apples from her hand.
Mario R. Cavallo, Meriden
The Asparagus Patch
My father worked the land
with love in his hands
tilling the soil and sowing seeds
in neatly turned rows
after a day’s work and early supper
until darkness dragged him into the house.
No one disturbed his domain
for fear of sparking his ire
because he knew every inch of ground
with life poking through each mound.
An impatient man patient with earth’s birthing,
loyal to the soil and to its claims,
he waited for the yield
and proudly shared his gains.
Nancee Cheffet
So Soft
A soft hug,
and the door shut
behind you.
You were soft in my arms.
I'm alone now,
but your aura remains.
The essence of hugs,
too many to count.
Leaving tender feelings
flitting about---
light and airy,
like the white fluff
from cottony trees.
Tender man,
nestle down into
a gentle sleep,
be rested for the big day
on the morrow.
I,too, with leaden limbs,
eye-lids drooping,
prepare to re-enter
the slumber begun,
minutes ago,
during our favorite
late night re-run.
Pamela Smyk Cleary, Southington
Lavender and Lace
Lavender and lace
Packed lovingly in tissue
In another’s time and place
Recalls glad tears
On a smiling face;
Remembers a waltz, a lifetime ago,
With rose bouquet and satin pumps.
Partnered today by only the dust motes
Dancing in the attic.
But, perhaps, purloined – for an afternoon –
Will dance again amid sunbeams and dreams.
Shuttered sunlight skimming over silk skirt,
Sliding along a satin shoulder (decorated by rose tattoo),
And skipping over black high-top sneakers,
Weaves together yesterday, today, and tomorrow,
Amid dust and dreams,
In the hopes of dancing for yet another wedding day,
In another time and place.
Joshua Conklin, Oxford
Night Walking
A couple practices
tennis strokes in their living room.
Imaginary balls slam
against a sliding glass door.
Forehand foreplay.
I catch the corner
of a cell-phone conversation
with an overbearing mother.
A dog yelps from a balcony.
The crescent moon hooks a cloud
but it wiggles free to swim the sky again.
Dried and crusted on concrete,
a night-crawler’s five hearts could not beat
the afternoon rays.
The remnants of a cookout,
charcoal and singed meat,
linger.
Thunder bellows in the distance.
A tree falls miles away
punching out power.
For a moment
night clings all of us close.
Even the boldest,
afraid of suffocating in the black,
grope for a flashlight.
Ginny Lowe Connors, West Hartford
Dream Horse
a triolet
Something dazzles from the forests of her youth.
The dream horse feels it, turns and takes her there.
The waterfall, each emerald leaf and shining fruit—
Something dazzles from the forests of her youth.
She enters turquoise waters and is mute
as dragonflies return, land like petals in her hair.
Something dazzles from the forests of her youth.
The dream horse feels it, and will linger there.