Photograph by George Stein
The winning poem this week was the originally untitled poem 1 (now to be called The Sign). This was submitted by Martin John who tells me this is is first ever competition entry. Congratulations Martin.
Poem 1
The Sign
She came in so lost
But as the crystal mists cleared
She found her way out
Martin John
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Poem 2
View from the back end of life.
The dark portal invites me
to step inside, to know my future.
Already handsome strangers
pass by without a glance.
My fortune comes weekly from
the Department of Work and Pensions.
Any water I cross will take me
to the Isle of Wight.
So what can the soothsayers tell me
when my future is statistically short?
Where? How? How long?
I do not need these answers.
I will know all when I arrive
at that other dark portal.
Diane Jackman
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Poem 3
Undecided
Should I go in?
I shuffle and fidget
Procrastinate a little
Picturing her cards lay out on the table
Will she sense my unease?
My aura could betray me
And confirm that I’m beyond blue
Possessing a soul so twisted and cold
Could she really delve deep inside?
She may disarm me with her sweet smile
Unravelling my many layers of defence
With her clever, knowing mind
What future will she predict?
My deserved destiny may be unveiled
Perhaps there is salvation from my solitude
Or perhaps my lonely journey will continue
Is it wise to open her door?
I could accept and believe in her revelations
Or maybe I should walk away
And leave it to fate
Emma Power
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Poem 4
I See Clearly
The room is shoddy
predictable,
crystal on the table,
lights low,
josticks burn
quiet music bubbles in the background.
When her palm touches
there is a truth
she feels the spirit, divined
pulling through.
Links and pathways
foggy, unclear
voice calls
snap shots of rememberance.
Boy in the booth
taken aback
his mother, he knows it is
that was her voice.
She feels the pain
smells the smells
baking,
warm cakes from a white oven
pastry placed on a steel tray.
A young boy reaches out a hand
flour covered tiny.
A flash, connection broken
back to grime, confusion
and ten cent playing cards.
Andy Scotson
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Poem 5
Unvarnished Truth
He hovers over my palm
as over a long-buried fossil,
freshly unearthed,
or a goblet retrieved from the Titanic
His mauve lips quiver
like snapdragons in the breeze
as he reads the winding paths
of my head and heart lines
He says he can’t read my nails;
they are too full of silver stars,
but I can’t help noticing HIS –
they’re long and not too clean,
and right there, bang in my face,
like a carbuncle on the nose
of a crystal ball reader;
impossible to miss,
as he turns and twists my hand
like a handkerchief
he plans to pull through one ear
and out the other.
We’re doing a swop, his palm reading
for my mermaid card guidance,
and I think that when I read his cards,
I will close my eyes and say:
“Wait, I do believe I see a mermaid,
swimming towards you with a tiny gift;
could it possibly be
something from under the sea?
Oh my stars, it’s a pair of nail clippers
What in Neptune’s name does this mean?”
And a voice from the deep will drone:
Only one thing, dearie … cut your nails!
And voila, I shall vanish
in a shimmer of silvery nail polish,
having most valiantly unveiled
the unvarnished truth
Clarissa McFairy
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Poem 6
Calling from the stars
Is it human
that we search for signs,
messages in the sand,
from our loved ones no longer here?
Is it human
to love so much
to try to find a way to say I miss you,
I love you more than words can say?
The fallen feather,
the lapping waves,
the silly criss-cross of your birth chart
sent to us and kept
beside the name we chose.
Is it me or is it you,
the voices in my head
calling from the stars?
Angie Butler
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Poem 7
Arcana
Though I don’t believe what’s here
Curiosity’s strong;
That someone might know –
A card or palm could show –
A way to end the fear,
To know the right from the wrong
Way to go, what to say, plans to make,
Makes me enter, leave doubt at the door.
The mirrored glass
Hides then reveals, as
Every regret, unmeant mistake
Burns like a virus. What’s it for,
This wish to know what awaits?
The cards fall, the open palm
Tells mysteries in skin.
The Hanged Man is in
The played hand. My fate’s
Decided, then? Can this harm
Not be undone? I’ll always know;
What was revealed feels
Like it can’t be unlearned,
Like I’ve been burned.
Would have been better to go
Playing on an unknown way, like The Fool,
The real world snapping at my heels.
Michael Docker
