This decision was the hardest one we’ve had to make so far at Cultured Vultures for Poem of the Week. Each position was argued more as different voices tried to bring the favourite out on top but there could only be one winner. After a lot of consternation and debate, we managed to choose the poem that stood out above the rest.
3rd Place Kevin D LeMaster – ‘Ward 1940’
He would shoot half moon shadows from the ceiling with his cap pistol, making the sounds a gun makes then staring at my legs as If they grew monkey hair
every day they would wheel another crazy into my midst but since my legs could never walk, I was constant as spring and half as love drunk, for spring brought a measure of hope
the sap was full in the swollen maple then and I longed to sit underneath and feel cottony moisture spray my body with a briefness that made me forget that you are beside me
2nd Place Trish Hopkinson – ‘Christ of the Abyss’
They found a clay mold of you, but your arms had gone missing. You too had lost a hand, knocked off by a boat’s anchor. They pulled you up out of the bay to repair the bronze stump,
severed where the wrist and hand once stretched to the surface. You stare blankly, beyond the mirrored blue, your arms reaching out as if you’re letting something go, as if it’s gotten away from you.
Your colorless eyes reflect the emptiness, the longing for heaven. Your feet permanently affixed to a plate, mounted to concrete. Divers find their way to you, for love of the sea, for love of your story
1st Place Ed Butterfield –‘Coffee House’
It is a cold, crisp December morning. The coffee house is busy, as ever. Without a thought, we gravitate towards table six in the window.
You take the armchair by the antique gramophone that passes a silent vigil in the corner. It doesn’t play. Instead, King Cole’s voice rasps gently over the new stereo.
I like it here. I like the vintage feel. The vintage blackboard with chalk written prices. You prefer things to be a little more modern.
I decide – large cappuccino and full breakfast. You decide – regular latte and breakfast bagel. No butter.
I am trying to explain. To make our coffee, there must first be the grinding of the bean. To make our breakfast, there must first be the cracking of the eggs.
You won’t listen. When sustenance arrives, I eat hungrily. You sit in silence, only pushing at your food.
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