Vita Brevis recently hosted a poetry competition. It was a lot of fun, it was very well attended, and there was an abundance of great submissions. I am honoured to have been selected as the winner.
Brian Geiger, the founder and Editor has published my submission on his online magazine. You can read it here.
Thanks to Vita Brevis and to everyone who stopped by to read and comment on all the entries. Every submission there was deserving of the win. I feel extremely lucky today and plan on buying a Lottery ticket.
Now, I’m just playing – written for OLWG#55
“Jeeze, Timmy! You showed up without your team?”
“They comin’… just late, that’s all!”
This weeks prompts:
- limpid pools
- look at these scars
- when the boys arrive
written for OLWG#54
The time was now. He had to go. He gathered up his few meager possessions paid his few debts and divided his land equally amongst his children. On the way, he stopped beneath the old tree to say a final goodbye to his wife, Lenore, gone these many years. He lingered to bid farewell to friends who remained and he paused to make peace with his adversaries.
With his affairs in order he turned his face to the sun and set off. In his heart he knew he would never come back.
Failure is not allowed,
they anticipate your return and,
your word is your bond.
It has been years since you were there,
it matters not; if they’ve gone.
The gentle hum of bees fills the air. I sing to them as I slog along the fence guarding Farmer Morton’s trees. I listen, and watch them work. They are tireless. Blossoms perfume the air and each day is a little warmer, a little more fragrant than the day before. Singing is the secret. My mother never sang out here and although her honey was sweet; mine always seems sweeter. I sing with my daughter in anticipation. Where my voice is gruff and low, hers carries the timbre of a violinist; sul tasto: ephemeral, light, airy, delicate and fleeting. Her voice will blend in harmony with the sounds of the workers.
The hives are abuzz
it’s almost time to harvest.
Three frames from a hive
produces about ten pounds
that tastes, as sweet as it looks.
This piece was selected and published by Vita Brevis – Check out this on-line literary magazine for yourself here!
The smell of petroleum product permeates the cool clear air. Fluids drain from the overturned automobile to the worn surface of the track on which it lies. The driver is unnaturally silent and still. Wildlife gives a wide berth to the scene. Tonight the rains will come to scour the road; clearing the way for scavengers to do their part in the morning.
Dawn watches and crows
begin feasting as vultures
and coyote wait.
There is a new literary magazine represented here on WordPress. They call themselves Vita Brevis. I am taking the liberty of lifting their description of themselves (abbreviated) and pasting it below.
“Ars longa, vita brevis” (art is long, life is short). This maxim so moved us that it seemed only right to title our literary magazine after it. It may seem curious that we chose Vita Brevis (life is short) as our title instead of Ars Longa (art is long). But this choice was more than appropriate; after all, the aim of our magazine is to publish work that shows a keen awareness of not only art’s beauty and immortality but life’s toils and finiteness. We want to revive and nourish the rich existential literature that forms when art and the human endeavor collide.
They have been kind enough to select one of my pieces for publication and it showed up this morning. The title is “Herbst” and the link to it is above. Take a look at what the Vita Brevis team is up to. Show ’em some love.
Written for OLWG #27
The dark coffee swirls in the bottom of the cup – the steam
wafts, I breathe deep and savour the aroma, replace the carafe
Beneath the colonial chair, piled high – covered in books, magazines, and sewing notions
an orange stripey Mama cat crouches
A knotted piece of thread lies still and quiet on the cool wooden floor
it’s already dead, I killed it last night, thinking it was a spider
Blitzkrieg! Mama Kitty pounces with homicide in her eye
her sharp fangs and claws flashing makes short work of murder
She roughs him up some, purely for show, then presents
me with the corpse – a gift, an offering of some sort
Breathing a sigh of relief I sip from my cup – Mama’s guilty;
everyone saw, I’ll get away with it.
This week’s prompts are
- get away with it
- Here kitty, kitty, kitty
- You shouldn’t ask me that
Whiling away some time
Lyrics linger in the wake of her passing, and the memory of her scent. The floral arôme that falls lazily to the pavement and lingers.
Oh, to hear the poem shouted by the fog creeping silently up the quiet streets of this decaying seaside town.
The wet smell of the swamp arrives ripe with rhyme and emotion.
Verses flutter earthward from the limbs of the Ginko where they wait to be collected by groundskeepers and hidden from our sight: forever.
Song lives in the words of the poet and the lingering drops of a summer shower.
This Vet group has prompted me to think.
The summer sky at Trinity is bigger than in New York.
Still today, some can sense the past; peeking out from the edges of the clouds.
In the hush of the auditorium, I hear my words reverberate around the room.
Passing the open door by the stage, I see the poet who’s reading my poems. He is not me.
Open your eyes, look into the light, hush and wait for the glare to fade. See how gently
her robe falls open; wait for it all to shatter; wait for the vision to begin again.
The glacier calves again and again; each bergy bit set free; to roam the seas,
to evanesce, run aground, and scour the seabed. To finally disappear, forgotten and lost.
No, it’s not about you. It’s not about how you look or what you think –
it’s about her – how she haunts my dreams; ephemeral, fugitive, making me long for sleep.
I just submitted this ghazal to the poetry contest being hosted by Kayla Ann on her site – read more about the contest here:
I was going to write for the second set of prompts. It got away from me and this somehow appeared on the page. I guess I ignored those prompts
Written for OLWG #21
I met her in the dance hall where she worked
‘Dime a dance’
I introduced myself, “Sam,” said I, extending my hand
“Joy,” she said in kind as she stands.
She’s not like the other girls who have drawn my attention
she’s taller than I; red corkscrews frame her face.
She has milky white skin, heavy breasts and hips.
A dusting of freckles decorates her nose and cheek bones.
“What brings you to The Five Boroughs?” she asks;
light accent lending music to her words.
“Sailor on shore leave,” I explain,
“I live here,” she says.
She leans in close and we dance.
At ten cents per, I buy her entire card for a song.
We spend the evening together.
She won’t let me steal a kiss when the ball room closes,
but she gives me her address and permission to write.
I write, I write daily.
She writes back.
This week there are two sets of prompts. I ignored both for this post:
- I’m gonna be late for work
- Wait till your father gets home
- They had one greedy son
- King of clubs
- I do