Showing posts with label Poetry Society of Texas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Poetry Society of Texas. Show all posts

Sunday, December 8, 2024

2024 A Book of the Year


    Sometimes the Victim
 
I saw Lady Liberty tossed
into a cage, like a child, curled
into a corner, battered and in tears.
I did not see Justice. She
 
has been kidnapped and sold
to the deep pockets and the
corporate-jet party people.
I heard the good-old-boy network
 
laughing in the background
on speaker phone. The ransom
has been paid by the highest
bidder, with strings attached.
 
Equity has gone AWOL,
and we point our sticky fingers
at anyone other than ourselves.
Sometimes the victim
 
carries the unprovoked,
unearned guilt with them—
the raised  torch, the blindfold,
the mini-skirt and high heels,
 
the glass ceiling, “sweetheart,”
middle-aged, white, male privilege,
the bacon (for bringing home and
frying), the pan itself. Of course,
 
the Ozzie-and-Harriet family;
the traditional, society-sanctioned,
overly commercial, utterly soulless,
artificial archetype of a man.



"Sometimes the Victim" was the winner of contest #32,  the "Courage Award," in the 2023 Annual Contests held by the Poetry Society of Texas.  

-
 
    Contrarian
 
He is and, from now on,
will always be a Midwesterner,
as he may have always been
in spirit.
 
Reverse migration.
 
        For all his life
the Bible was belted firmly
around his neck.
 
His blood remains abundantly spicy,
like East Texas venison chili
or Cajun gumbo.
 
        But now,
he dons his newly acquired,
iron-oxide suspenders.
 
He has migrated backward in time
to the heart
of a region where history
was built
 
with bare hands,
 
where the foundation for global expansion
and all forward progress
was fatefully laid. He is now
a loyal Midwesterner.
 
        Go east,
young man. Go east.


"Contrarian" was the winner of contest #53, the "Anthony Dickson Memorial Award," in the 2023 Annual Contests held by the Poetry Society of Texas.  

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    A Day in a Life
 
Before I even speak to the mirror, I need
coffee and lots of it. Only then can I wet and
dry my hair in our old-fashion wash basin.
Every morning, I pour the preheated water
from an ornate porcelain pitcher with
 
Grecian scenery etched upon it to rinse my
hair of lather, in search of body and shine.
I wipe foam from my freshly shaved face
just in time to stumble my way into the
kitchen to make breakfast for all four dogs,
 
leash them up, and walk around the block.
Morning is over too quickly, as always, and
noon rushes in, heralding a hectic routine.
On to a dozen afternoon chores, without a
pause in my schedule for a sit-down meal.
 
Quickly, I swallow a cheeseburger, then I am
ready for my next meeting, which is only
seven streets away with traffic and begins in
ten minutes. I will need to make it there in
under nine, so I have time to integrate the
 
video equipment. Recalculating my route
while waiting at another red light, I arrive
x-actly on time. At the close of a crazy day,
your smile still brings me calm and fills my
zzzzzzs with pleasant dreams, till morning.
 

"A Day in a Life" was the winner of contest #90, the "It's All Alphabetical" award for abecedarians, in the 2023 Annual Contests held by the Poetry Society of Texas.  

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These three award-winning poems are included in the 2024 A Book of the Year, published by the Poetry Society of Texas. Thank you to the sponsors and judges.

Eric

Thursday, November 9, 2023

Two Stepping In Texas

    Snowflakes

The fallacy of snowflakes
is that no two are alike, 
because . . . chances are,
given the hundreds of millions  
of billions that fall, maybe two 
are identical, 

just as there are
doppelgangers for all of us, 
and just like, odds are,
given dozens of dice rolls, sometimes craps
is a winner. 

Perhaps planets grow life forms
just like snowflakes 
duplicate themselves, 
casually, as if almost undetectable. 

But,
as has been proclaimed 
by countless philosophers
and in “the Good Book” (at Ecclesiastes 1:9),
there is nothing new under the sun 
or above, or beyond it. 

And, even if the universe implodes,
it will recycle itself,
again and again,
with a bang.


-


    Romeo

O Romeo, Romeo, 
you are my David,

my fair-skinned masterpiece—
my beautiful love-boy.

Romeo, you are 
what is left of my heart, my

misguided youth, faded 
(and fading) memories,

my once-golden rainbow,
my final hope.

O yesterday! My Romeo,
you are my raison d'ĂȘtre,

my last requiem,
my grand opus. 

My faux pas. Romeo, 
you are my greatest loss,

all my hopes and dreams
save dying Juliet,

an adolescent sigh.
My best, Wm. 


-


"Snowflakes" and "Romeo" were winners of their respective contests in the Poetry Society of Texas's 2022 Annual Contests and were published in the 2023 A Book of the Year.

Eric

Saturday, June 18, 2022

Texas Trio


    Banging Cabinets

I had almost forgotten 
how quickly change can happen. 

The day may appear almost
calm in the morning. But then, 

without warning,
a cabinet door in the kitchen

bangs shut,
just one, at first . . . just one.

Fight, flight, freeze.
Wait for the inevitable echo

to reach the den. 
Another door bangs shut. Then, 

in rapid succession,
three or four more

pop like popcorn,
a burst of gunfire.

Maybe, one last bang for luck. 
Morning songbirds 

turn to a murder of crows, 
an unkindness of raven, in a flip 

of a switch, without warning.
It might be too late.


-


    Naming My Friends 

when I die,
you will recognize me by my tattoo.
—Zeina Hashem Beck

I am listening to Pentatonix
and Walk Off the Earth on YouTube 
when a video of your
recitation of “Naming Things”
queues up next. And that poem

carries me like a refugee on its back, 
packed in a duffel bag, rucksack, kit bag
with all its worldly belongings.
We are on the lam,
running from our past.

I carry my home with me,
or it might be carelessly dragged
in the dirt behind me.
I have been naming my friends—
loneliness, darkness, regret.

And I fear I will never return 
to the city where I was born. The walls
have crumbled like Jenga,
and we are suddenly nomads again.
I have named myself “goodbye.”

And the bombs have fallen,
strafing our memories, our recollections,
our nostalgia. I survive because 
I carry my whole life with me
in this rucksack on my back. 


-


    Dear Poet

I want to ask you about technique
and your reasons for doing one thing one way
as opposed to some other. Should I 
do it that way too? Is there a method?

Could I borrow your mindset
or, maybe, some madness?

Where should one line break?
Should I combine multiple lines to make one very long line? Should I
chop them
into tiny phrases
or drop them 
one
word
for
each
line
on the page?

It is important to know these things:
technique and reason. 
But which 
is more important?

When should I indent?
Or should I?

Or should I
repeat the last line?


-

"Banging Cabinets," "Naming My Friends," and "Dear Poet" each won 1st place in their respective contest categories in the Poetry Society of Texas's 2021 Contests and are published in the Society's 2022 A Book of the Year.

Eric