Photograph by George Stein
The winning poem for week 9 is Prelude to a Day by Maureen Weldon. Read them all below.
Photograph by George Stein.
Poem 1
Sat-Nav Amiss
The road is eerie we’ve been driving all day
the town sprouts spires, clouded murky shapes
it sleeps. Above us the sky blooms pink clouds
reflection of the departing sun.
An ancient tree hoists figured sable spires
into the blue and pink horizon
guarding the sleepers who wait in innocence
we stop in wonder, pull up by the brown kerb.
There is no one to greet or guide us
to explain what has or will happen,
no way to drive into the shrouded town
What had happened here? It was all arranged
we were coming to help, free them from
what had arisen, what will be their future.
Only a yellow sign black banded beneath
this aged sentry gives us a clue
it bears a command – ROAD CLOSED.
We drive on into the darkness looking
for another road, alternative way
into the town to find the answer.
Carolyn O’Connell
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Poem 2
Road Closed & Other Anagrams
How many ways to read a tree, a closed road,
an urban sky, an open sign. Scar-doodle
love hearts, trace them silently by finger tip,
so we can sense the practice of the carver,
carving love scenes right across the bark.
And how the dusty sky line embraces
without fuss, spreading out its light-pink fringe
against the neon flags. The pylon flicks
its switch, leaving cataracts of cloud.
The strain of oracles-odd against an eye,
that fights to see how many ways to read a tree.
Scar-doodle, love hearts, buried under leaves.
Chaucer Cameron
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Poem 3
Road Closed
A tall evergreen messenger
holds the sign. Behind him
a Spring army has mushroomed.
Silently roots were sent on recon
in the dark under the tarmac.
Advance parties of stems
weaved their way through
cracks in the road surface.
The infantry in their ghillie suits
took up their positions
with the patience of snipers
waited the signal for ambush.
Nature has made an in-road.
The creepers strengthen their reserves
and eye up the electricity pylons:
this won’t be just a hollow victory.
Emma Lee
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Poem 4
Blue Road
A hard hat thinker, one well versed
in the philosophy of roads,
has dragged the closed sign to one side
beneath the silhouette of a tree
and ushered us through.
The road is clear, we’re free to go,
but the road to your door is the one I want to be on.
Evening is settling on the town as I pick up speed.
My thoughts are of blue skies, slow motion rain
brightening a meadow, and time enough with you
for a blazing log fire to settle to white ash.
We contrive to be together as often as we can,
to share the food of no earthly use.
I am driving on a blue road
through rolling green hills to see you again.
David Mark Williams
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Poem 5
Prelude to a Day
What is there beyond the sleeping houses,
beyond that dark cypress tree?
Road Closed,
a sign says.
I have been told, sea
is not too far away,
I can taste
its salty freshness.
While light climbs the mountain,
climbs to rose-tipped clouds.
I must turn around
find another road,
find another way.
Maureen Weldon
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Poem 6
Road Closed
The something that stands in the way
When the road ahead of us closes
May be cruel at night, beautiful by day
To our tired minds. It discloses,
Though, whichever form it may take,
Always, possibilities. Keeping awake
We drive towards it, glad of the bright
Bands of white and yellow. Sureties
Such fluorescence brings to our sight
Requires faith. Surely the authorities
Will have provided a way that frees
From the beautiful cruelty of trees.
Michael Docker
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Poem 7
Not yet
Not yet,
perhaps in a little while the way will be open
for you to pass through to the light
…Beyond
The fingers of darkness pinch
and poke their way into you
Making you yearn to go through
…Beyond
The place you are
is despair, doom, destruction,
a hell on earth, a prison.
…I know
You can’t escape, we can’t escape,
the way is closed, for now,
but soon, soon, believe me
…I know
Angie Butler
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Poem 8
Finding you gone
I walk a paper path
to your door
no bell to ring, no brass
or wood to knock
branches that tap
their breezy morse code of love
no longer bend
to interpret our words
strangers stare
my face a frozen waste
as a wrinkle of sky
blinks out a wilted tear
hunched, torn, I turn
from my departure point.
Eileen Carney Hulme
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Poem 9
Closed Road
The closed sign buzzed against the woodland
where we would not play today.
Or tomorrow. Or for a generation.
We watched women huddle, gathered material
sewn together in shock. The air sticky thick tar,
but still the mothers wrapped their babies tight.
That night they sat us down, spoke soft of darkness,
tried to dull the edges of truth that sliced our childhood open
and laid it like a corpse on dirty ground.
Stephanie Aroska
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Poem 10
Off Limits
The way ahead is blocked.
It’s out of bounds; and yet
it beckons still with pastel
shades that lead the eye
beyond the starkness
of a tree in silhouette.
The way ahead spells train,
when train means home
and warmth. But not tonight
when no one wants
to be confronted
by this tree in silhouette.
The way ahead grows dim
as fronds of shadow fall
and dazzling strips repel.
It’s time to turn around,
branch out and find
another tree in silhouette.
Caroline Gill
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