Winning Poems for September 2008
Judge Tony Barnestone

St. Louis Jim
by Henry Shifrin
Wild Poetry Forum

He picks his nose, index finger deep in the nostril,
face turned to the window. Passengers file by, stutter-step
to stare at the split-seam back of his gray suit jacket -- a camel's
back spreads its feather-duster hairs to wave
in the heavy breathing of the air conditioning.

His reflection a map in the glass. The creases in the cheek
highway east and west. Soot gives them a macadam glow;
maybe it's the settled ash of a cigarette. The rolling paper
in his chest pocket. The smell in the fibers of his jacket
and pants. On his bottom lip, a black spot
where the nicotine dies the way a dinosaur
drops off its carcass (a font the oil companies will

one day drill). His finger pops out -- it's a champagne-bottle
cork--no, it's a finger, dark from worming
in the space between seats. A momentary smile.
The sheen of a quarter. He licks off the bubblegum.
It's a fruity flavor. He sticks a hand in his back pocket. Compares
the taste to that of threads and Froot-Loop bits.

He tongues his fingertips. The sweetness. Then the salty taste.
The train stops, opens doors. He stands, re-buttons his jacket.
Curls his fingers for another view. Hitches up his beltless
pants, the waist a wrist too wide. Then leaps
through the closing doors. His pants fall
when he lands. The sight of half his butt,
the underwear torn to flap away from the right cheek.

His hands are two squirrels. They grip at the air.
Timidly jot down the trunk of his leg. Stammer for
a belt loop--or no, they want to survey the sidewalk.

Yes they pull up the pants. Up over the rear, a sidecar rounds
a hill, he swaggers the drumbeat of a sidewalk musician.


Saturday
by S. Thomas Summers
Wild Poetry Forum

Sunlight contents itself
with treetops. Stones shawl 
themselves with shade:

The boy across the street
has begun his chores: folding
night's remnants--draped 

over the porch light, the mailbox--
laying each on a bathroom shelf
above cotton sheets, lavender

towels. His baseball mitt
has been crucified, nailed
to a front yard elm that dangles 

a broken swing. His father
has hidden the evidence, buried
a hammer in the sandbox where  

ants have begun to carve their
tunnels. There's work to be done. 


Sheer
by Tom Watters
MoonTown Cafe

static.
that, and roller skates

a small voice that
runs in,
leaves a wake

the receiver
becomes a monitor
distracted by a sexy beauty mark
dancing above that lip

the one she tends to bite

I feel corners of my smirk
lift as grass to the light
syrup of Pet Sounds
with a twist of Gil Giberto

I trace small ovals
on the back of my hand
veiled to earlier weather,
storms of malcontent

I scuff an obscured itch

in wonder of
foolish electrons

and parts

love of tiny transducers
that bring her
cinematically


sink holes and illusions
by Dorothy D. Mienko
Salty Dreams

he opened me
to a different way of dying

beautiful as ghosts

I wore him on my skin
for days

in my breath
I stored his stories
and his poems

we were eclipses -- an event
strange magnetic forces differences and fierce
chapters and colors

coral oceanic bubbles
clown paint


Snake Song
by Laurie Byro
Desert Moon Review

I was never intended to be unique.
Dawn appears as a shapeless cloud opening up
the path and I believe in the world beyond
my vision. Every dreamer is different.

Some seek sunlight, some seek shade, others sleep
in a starless night. In the witch grass a mate
slipped me out of my coal-grey suit. She cleaved
a blanket of ghost-skins. She belonged to me
and not the earth, and we dissolved from flame

to ash. Her truth is as flexible as her spine.
In high summer thousands tangle with the wind.
We are the wild braids on a mother's head.
We whistle our death tunes through the bones
of fallen sparrows. We feast on the banquet
of morning as the sun strikes the day like flint.

I am not the lowest of creatures and yet
I haven't been blessed with wings. I will not
entreat the trees to rustle their goodbyes
and cover me in leaves. I won't beg shivering
stars into harvesting wishes on me. My blood thickens
and sets. I shrink again into the crimson ground.


Zambezi Storm
by Beverleigh Gail Annegarn
Mosaic Musings

Violet clouds roll
like dragon's breath
over earth's contours.
In their wake, sharp raindrops
spike expectant ground.

Lightning spears pierce
and lash chaotically
silhouetting baobabs
clinging to shuddering rock.

Rain licks my face,
trickles into my eyes,
traps my clothing
on my shivering flesh.

Water shards, beamed by
pyrotechnics, scurry down
hills and banks. Gullies
gouge and chisel toward
the engorged river.

A night --
when elements
scrape together:
energies connect like war drums
on heaven's stage.

Daylight reveals
a cleansing...
animals dance,
pudgy plants perk and peek.

Sunshine kisses the wounded.

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