Bed of Roses POETRY Contest

"To Write a Sonnet" by Barbara Seddon of Jersey City, NJ

To write a sonnet you must first desire
to trap some vast unwieldy incident
of lovesickness within a form intent
on counting syllables. Are you inspired?
The theory is that discipline will tire
the endless energy of want, that pent
up in pentameter, lust will relent,
as you add rhymes, not fuel, to the fire.
It doesn't work, of course, as you will know
who've tried. From prisons float the loudest screams,
from locked rooms fires that blacken half the sky.
Put love inside a sonnet; it will grow.
Already I can feel it split the seams;
how soon before it seeks the fifteenth line?

"Old farmer walking home at dusk" by Carol Roede of Rochester, MN

Old farmer walking home at dusk can't think
How many times he's seen the new-cut hay
Bleed silver light and wait to trap the dew
That falls like old men's tears at close of day,
When heaven's golden doors are fastly closed
And old men's minds turn over fields of sighs,
When Night alights to ask us what we love,
And from his porch, one stony soul replies,
Why cut the hay to watch it fill with damp?
Why love the wife who turns to silent clay?
Why feed the beast that's never satisfied?
Why love the child who takes her love away?
Why not admit this fallow heart's worked through
With love for you, sweet summer night, for you?

"For my mother, a farmer, at 80" by Heidi Annexstad, Golden Valley, MN

She is my mother. I love her nonetheless,
With the terse, ungrateful love of a child
Who sees only the flaws she gave me
And none of the virtues she kept for herself.
The five-gallon buckets she carried to the calves,
The bales she lifted, the numberless loaves she kneaded-
Any one of these chores would break me.
There is no weakness in her.
There is only my father, dormant in a chair.
She wakes him up to ask if he's asleep.
I know just what she means by this: Don't die.
I have seen her in tall grass, dropped down on her knees
To feel the April crocus brush her cheek.
The greening prairie rises, sufficient, and bears her.

"Valentine" by Carey Larsen of Brooklyn, NY

She arrives today
In make shift envelopes
Attached to fall
I shuffle around this apartment
In shirts she used for sleeping
Sunset hangs in window frames
Lonely saints designed this day
For love
You bring me
Fantasy of airport phone calls
Raining in New York
Now's our chance for that kiss
Like all these buildings it'll be here
Waiting for you.

"Double Love" by Christina Moore of Arlington, VA

Now that we've spent thirty years of our life,
Lying together, side by side, in the night.
An imperfect couple, a husband and wife.
We laugh, we ignore, we rejoice, and we fight.

Our children have grown up, each taken a mate.
The school friends are gone, the dogs have all died.
We've had to get used to each other, of late.
Our imperfections can no longer hide.

But along with the warts, I also can find,
That wonderful boy I loved from the start.
His self-contained nature, his organized mind,
That kindred spirit, that generous heart.

Maybe our love has stayed out of trouble
Because of our mattress. It's only a double.

"Something Good" by Mary Meriam of Eagle Rock, MO

I waltz with Julie Andrews in her blue
desire dress one summer night, and we
are floating from the castle garden through
the edelweiss and falling dreamily
in love in the gazebo. "Nothing comes
from nothing. Nothing ever will," she sings
to me alone, while silky darkness hums
along in harmony with lovely things.
For here you are, you're standing there, in truth
you're loving me and touching me with your
soft womanhood. So somewhere in my youth
inside of Julie's sound of music, pure
confusion slowly melts, and any doubt
dissolves as Julie guides my coming out.

"Rhode Island"
(for my mother)
by Amy Miller of Ashland, OR

That summer in Misquamicut, when boys
as ripe as roadside corn shot pool in darkened
18-over bars, I found the joy
they buried deep in denim straight-front pockets-

pipe screens, joints, and all the damp and salty
wounded want my navigating hands
could plunder. Home and sunburned, bedroom walls
my gulag-no diary, no dolls-digging sand

and ashes from the trenches of my shoes,
I heard her laughing-late, in bed with Dad,
no malice in her voice, in love-a girl whose
moody boy came home for her with mad

martinis, seven jokes to sleep on, sleep
itself a garland he laid at her feet.

"That's All I Do" by Sindy Pink of Cary, NC

I'm sitting here thinking of you.
It seems lately that's all I do.
I'll be reading a book
And I see your face;
Then I think back
To your loving embrace.
I'll be all alone
And it's you I miss;
Wanting you near
To share in a kiss.
This feeling so sweet,
This love so new.
I've been thinking of you,
That's all I do.

"If I could write a sonnet for you, dear" by Evan Watson of Acampo, CA

If I could write a sonnet for you, dear,
And weave in words the feelings you inspire,
I'd whisper florid prose into your ear,
Sweet somethings of the beauty I admire,
Or pass it in a note to you in class,
In hopes that you would linger after school,
But such anachronisms seem, alas,
Passé, and you would think I was a fool,
With Shakespeare's verses swimming in my brain,
My pen could spin iambs of tenderness,
Compare your hair to stalks of golden grain,
And touch with words that which I would caress,
But darling, we both know the way things are;
You'd rather have a boyfriend with a car.

"To My Wife" by Donald Kentop of Seattle, WA

I wondered once, who loved the other more?
Until I caught you lingering on my face,
And there, in yours, I saw and opened door
That framed the sky. I held you close to brace
myself, to keep from falling. Then a part
Of me, some desiccated rind, shrank back
While on the brink. But in your spacious heart
I saw you as you are; my shameful lack
Forgiven; the joy my smallest virtue brings;
Space to swing my arms around with room
To spare; to play a fool. I heard what sings
in me from you. No more do I presume
By wondering as I had done before;
If I could love like you — I'd love you more.

"Thornery" by Norman Ball of Leesburg, VA

The thorn is instrumental to the rose.
Not mere impediment, but element.
For surely we would sate or overdose
or blooms would mantle without incident
into a barbless clutch of pricked desire.
Since hankering for beauty fans its flame
and having is the act through which we tire,
we reach and ouch and reach and ouch again.
Despite rebuffs, undaunted we persist.
The unpossessed, nine-tenths of beauty's law,
enjoys the game and, playing, does resist
by sprouting parapets of raking claws.
The beckon borne of blossom blunts the pain
of tiny teeth attending purple veins.

"Where are the days, I can't recall" by Linda Shepard of Richmond, VA

Where are the days, I can't recall,
When we were young and dreams were clear?
Before the kids and jobs and all
The world was yours and mine, my dear.
Then fewer dreams, not fully molded,
Embracing the future just the same.
Together we laughed as life unfolded
And cried some too when sorrows came.
With deadlines and dates and appointments to keep,
Struggles with time for everyone's needs;
Schedules unending with too little sleep,
Years passed by at lightning speed.
Renew the bloom that first we held, reclaim our youthful view!
For now you see, despite it all, 'twas love that pulled us through.

"Before there was color photography" by Tiel Aisha Ansari of Portland, OR

Before there was color photography
it was sepia sorrow and black-and-white laughs
that filled up our grayscale memory
with old-fashioned love caught in old photographs.
We kissed under rainbows in monochrome,
the girls in white dresses, the boys in black ties,
recorded both travel and coming home
in silver emulsions unsullied by dyes.
We flatter ourselves on development
of accurate, full-color vision that sets
our lives down in vivid emotion palettes.
We claim that it's truer to represent
the brilliance of love with a gaudy bouquet—
but love was as strong back when roses were gray.

"Consider this a toast my daughter dear" by Charlie Anderson of Stockholm, ME

(This sonnet is for my daughter, my only child, who will be married this summer. Her name, Cassie Anderson, is spelled out in the first letters of each line.)

Consider this a toast my daughter dear,
A toast, and more, a prayer for wedded bliss.
So soon the day arrives — oh, my, it's near:
So soon you'll drop a name to take on his.

I've watched your eyes watch him: the die is cast.
Endearment fills your heart — my blessing's won;
And his concern for you is bound to last.
No doubt this father's doubts are gone and done.

Dive straight into the flowing stream of years.
Explore life's roads with him, both high and low.
Resolve to share the fears, the smiles, the tears.
Stay strong in bonded love, come joy or woe.

Oh, yes, I bless your choice, my daughter dear.
Now toast and pray with me, the day draws near.

"Sometimes when I run at night" by Scottie Bahler of Santa Rosa Valley, CA

Sometimes when I run at night,
Not usually, but tonight especially,
In between the breaths,
The smog, the headlights, streetlights, sirens, helicopters,
And all these stupid stucco houses
In every empty, endless, excruciatingly dry direction…

...Not usually, but tonight especially,
In between the breaths

I smell home.

5:30, October, late for dinner, on a school night,
The cool air, the cold arms, T-shirt waving like a flag,
And I peddle home—

Not usually, but tonight especially,
In between the breaths

"To My Best Friend" by Margaret Cook of Middlebury, IN

I wish you weren't so far away,
I love you more than words can say.
We met when we were in first grade.
Hopscotch, jump rope and tag we played.
At recess time we traded lunch,
Walked home in winter's snowy crunch.
Each other's secrets we did keep,
The trust we had was true and deep.
The boys we loved became young men,
Down wedding aisles we followed them.
Beside your grave I stand today
And hope that you can hear me say
If I could do it all again,
I'd still choose you for my best friend.

"We met; it was an autumn day" by Janet Bradle of Windsor, MA

We met; it was an autumn day
the leaves were golden like they knew
that somehow love had found its way
to give to me this gift of you.

I ran my best, it was a race.
There was no thought of who I'd meet;
and when you introduced yourself
my only thought was what to eat.

But then you called me for a date!
Thank God I had the sense to go.
For that small choice did seal our fate,
and from that point our love could grow.

The scary thing about one's life is that so much comes down to chance...
Don't hesitate, Don't try to plan, with eyes wide open seize romance!

"My cells with giddy recall reel and spin" by Jo Podvin of Oakland, CA

My cells with giddy recall reel and spin
Ancestral trick of photosynthesis
Dendrites have turned to fuzzy buds within
My interstitial spaces sing of this
What is not green of shoots is blue of sky
The scent of bee seduction fills the air
There is no where, no what, no who, no why
There is no past, and certainly no care
This drunken blossoming expands and grows
This blooming fills up all possible space
Here there is only yes, no room for nos
Intoxicating sweetness, hazy grace
Expanding yes, as birdsong from above
Love, then, is yes, and yes, oh yes, is love

"Igneous Love" by Kim Holland of Flagstaff, AZ

Bedrock of fire, once a red-black molten desire
You were my igneous love. We were volcanic, new—
born, ignoring obstacles blocking our way, two
merging as one incandescent orange light. Then gyre

of steam and swirling sea, our shallow tidal slips
harbored new life and we discovered a finer soil.
Small imprints scored sandstone flesh with color
as we pressed together our metamorphic lips.

Shale hearts beneath glacial breasts wonder, how do
eons sketch so completely and so soon?
Rivers purge our depths, the firmament hollows.
Canyons glazed in vermilion shadows and moon—

light etch compositions, whisper secrets on our shores,
as we echo this and more. We were this and so much more.

"What's not to love? For love's a many-splintered thing" by Mark Bromberg of Atlanta, GA
(Read more about Mark)

What's not to love? For love's a many-splintered thing,
a multi-tasking chore. Who has the time
or energy to make the single-minded climb
to heights of ecstasy anymore? Better to cling
to thoughts of shared accounts and benefit packages,
length of commutes and 401(k) amounts. Easier, much,
to consider these than the strain of love's ravages
that lead exhausted to romantic swoons and such.

Still, when all is said and done, true love persists:
we all fall in or out of love as often as we can.
It makes no difference the difficulties or the risks,
the dizziness of thought, or the lack of any plan.
Love keeps its own counsel, impediments and all:
My e-mail is down. Give my cell a call.

"Never Let Love Be All" by Leonard Gibbs of Panton, VT
(Read more about Leonard)

Never let love be all, all dreams fulfilled;
a life of constant joy will tire itself.
Moments of loving, heights of ecstasy
are islands in the ocean's gentle swell.

Love's no museum, filled with endless art,
the ancient masters that must not be touched.
The perfect picture, frozen in its frame
will fade, perfection will become a bore.

Only a fool will see his love as all,
all tender touches, never failing smiles,
all lust unending, lovely agony;
there must be rest between; a love must heal.

Then let the times for loving not be all,
but pray the times between the times be small.

"Love Song to a Husband and a Marriage" by Margaret Harless of East Springfield, PA
(Read more about Margaret)

Who knew, my darling, when we began,
How long, how well, we'd last and love?
My mother said a heart attack would take you,
and leave me alone, (with lots of kids).
But we raised them all, cared for orphaned
siblings, my aged grandmother, our dear Susie:
the transplant, cancer, death; so sick, so long.
Your goodness, strength and wisdom brought us through.
Who has not done a mean or an unkind thing?
I think only you, straight as an arrow.
Now, with white hair, bad knees, bad backs, our reward
is peace, gardening together and Paris!
Fifty four years, not just love, but friendship,
and still the 'sweetness of familiar flesh'.

"Last Night at the Farm, Spring 2005" by Lilly Marsh of West Lafayette, IN
(Read more about Lilly)

Last night, I hadn't known how cold the house was
Until I was already downstairs.
Coming back up that long series on dark treads,
Ascending towards the dark rectangle at the top,
The dog nosed the door ajar.
I saw the light from the bedside candle spill forth,
Across all the angles and shadows of the door frame.
Our old farmhouse is so full of angles and shadows.
The narrow stairwell hall was dark and colorless,
An abstract study of gray and black,
Repeated patterns stark and stern.
But the candlelight fell golden across all the shadows, and,
I ascended, drawn back into the warmth,
Called back to bed by you.

"Love as a Space-age Polymer" by Randall Martoccia of Greenville, NC
(Read more about Randall)

Girl, we've got a non-biodegradable kind of love.
One day the icebergs will melt, the gulls squawk no more,
but you'll find me as loyal as a latex glove
slapping forever against your Jersey shore.

The buffalo will corrode to bone
on the withered grass of the sun-bleached plain,
but you'll find me stubborn as Styrofoam,
defying the poison air and acid rain.

The earth will someday burn and crack
and the sun will vaporize the last of our race,
but like the last two cans in a six-pack
we'll rattle through space in a plastic embrace.

So crack me open and let our love disperse
and contaminate the whole damned universe.

"Lava Lamp" by James McBride of Santa Monica, CA
(Read more about James)

I sit and watch a lava lamp, the prize
My fourth grade son received for reading books:
The Readathon at Roosevelt. He eyes
Me as I gaze, with a puzzled look.

"What are you doing?" "Thinking about you
And lava lamps and all the stuff we would
Have missed if we had not had you."
He nods and leaves, as if he understood.

Indifferent, the viscous spheres rubbing and
Sliding and bumping couple and divide.
Our coupling, neither quiet nor cool, began
Again the chain of life that bides.

The fruit of passion, play, and love and joy—
From love, new love-our dear, dear boy.

"Hey babe, you ought to write that sonnet and..." by Abraham Piper of Minneapolis, MN
(Read more about Abraham)

"Hey babe, you ought to write that sonnet and
win us a bed," she said, "Oh, and it's got
to be about your love for me." "Demand-
ing, don't you think?" I asked. She said, "It's not."
"My love," I pled, "good sonnets have a twist
around line twelve and that takes wit." "Oh, give
it up!" she said. "A twist? Who cares! I've missed
your lame old doggerel for years. Now live
up to the gushiness I know is in
your heart. No need to put a twist in it.
Just write a sappy poem for me." "You win,"
I said, "I'll write a poem and gush a bit,
but it'll have to be a different one,
since this one's almost finished. There. It's done.

"Les Vieux Amants" by Kit Rohrbach of Rochester, MN
(Read more about Kit)

Tonight as my arthritic ankle nestles
Into the sunken small of your bad back,
My crooked finger runs along the slack
Line of your gray jaw. Sclerotic vessels
Slow blood to muscles cramped like pretzels.
Beneath my head I hear the creak and crack
Of your sore shoulder; my sacroiliac
Complains as joy and comfort wrestle.

It does not matter. Others might eulogize
Romeo and Juliet but Shakespeare
Never gave them time to realize
The length and depth of secrets we hold dear.
You kiss the crow's feet etched around my eyes;
I whisper words of love in your deaf ear.

"Love is the glue that makes us stick" by Marydel Rosenfield of Deer Isle, ME
(Read more about Marydel)

Love is the glue that makes us stick
That holds us together through thin and thick

Love is the yeast that makes us rise
To the occasion and fills with surprise

Love is the power that helps us stay
The course when we enter the fray

Love is the force that keeps us on track
That sends us on missions and brings us back

Love is intangible and also invisible
And sometimes positively risible

Being in love is a human emotion
Entraps like a mud flat, engulfs like the ocean

As fish love the water and birds love the air
Love tugs at our heartstrings and makes us a pair.

"Pink Shirt" by Nancy Shaver of Portland, ME
(Read more about Nancy)

He wore a pink shirt without a collar
When he sailed into view
Up the steps of the summer cottage.
I didn't remember the color of his eyes
Even after seeing him for weeks.
His first words made me smile
But I don't recall what he said exactly.
We moved in together the next month.

Forty one years later I see the pink shirt
Although his hospital gown is blue
He sleeps and shivers sometimes.
I know the color of his eyes now
And the pattern of his breathing
Even after it stops.

"It was spring of 1980" by Selden Smith of State College, PA
(Read more about Selden)

It was spring of 1980 when we planted
That tree beside the church where we were wed.
We stood before those gathered and we said
We'd give each other all the years we're granted.
It was a honey locust, just a stick.
We sank the root ball in the ground and posed
Before the camera in our wedding clothes,
Just happy kids. It sure as hell grew quick.
We set out on our own to make a life.
Most years had honey and locusts too.
But oh my honey, our love only grew,
And by good luck or fate you're still my wife.
Come stand again beside our wedding tree
And spread your branches to the sky with me.

"Bibliophiles" by Donna Vincenti of Moscow, ID
(Read more about Donna)

Traveling far and wide between book covers,
we never need to leave our easy chairs.
From prefaces to epilogues, we lovers
escape the daily drudge of dull affairs.

Patrick O'Brien takes you out to sea,
Jane Austen dresses me for a country ball;
you study Kant's abstruse philosophy,
I watch Frost and his neighbor mending wall.

Your baseball books fill up a shelf or two,
I collect the journals of Thomas Merton.
We'll need a bigger house before we're through,
but different tastes aside, one thing is certain:

Braced by bookish hours we're jointly spending,
our love is bound to have a happy ending.

Continue reading more submissions here

"Cartography" by Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer of Placerville, CO
(Read more about Rosemerry)

I want to know your body as I know
these sandstone cliffs behind our house-take treks
for weeks along your spine, traverse your neck
with slow, exploratory eyes and go
for long excursions on your limbs with no
set plan for how I might get home, except
to know that you will lead me there. I'll step
so lightly, leave no evidence. And oh,
the maps I'll make, my love, will not be made
of paper but of tune. No rise of you
will be unknown to me, no inch unsung.
I know topographies change by the day—
that wind and water have their way. So true.
A good mapmaker's work is never done.