I presume Robert Lee Brewer of Poetic Asides will once again ask participants in his PAD challenge to submit up to five of the best poems they wrote in April, so he can announce his picks for the best of the year. (Once again, I regret having so little time to read other poets' work, but there was some really good poetry to be found in connection with both blogs, so maybe i can spend more time now to discover it.) Last year I made his top 21, and I would love to be a finalist again this year.
So to help you out a little, so you don't have to slog through 30 days of blog posts, here are what I consider my best five poems of this April:
Easter Egg Hunt in a Church Graveyard
The irony of this is lost on three-
and four-year olds, who see this is a yard
with big stones in it. Basket-bearing, free,
they run for multicolored eggs. It's hard
for them, so parents help. Around the stones
they pluck their prizes, scampering above
the long departed, all the dust and bones
of those like Mary Wellington, beloved
pneumonia, or some similar disease.
One wonders if she was a person who
had grandkids, and if so, she might be pleased
a little girl named Bella won the race
to find an egg above her resting place.
A study cubby back behind the stacks
is where we first locked lips. The shelves between
the main desk and our tryst were filled, the racks
from Poetry to Fiction (811-813)
would camouflage shenanigans, while patrons turning pages
had no idea librarians could be their lusty selves,
by bumping up against the books instead of earning wages,
pulling orders, organizing shelves.
And when we exited that private nook,
returning to the world of Mr. Dewey,
we might exchange a sideways smile or swap a furtive look,
but always being business-like, no sentimental hooey.
Then after work, like any learned lovers,
we'd read a book and get between the covers.
Now what the hell?
What is that smell?
We know it well.
It’s really vile
and gross as bile,
and lasts a while
and spreads a mile.
You stripy ghost,
who reeks the most,
you lift your trunk
and spray your junk
at any punk
who gives you bunk,
then we must dunk
ourselves and sluice
head to caboose,
to try and loose
the stink that’s in
our hair and skin.
child of the night,
we will not fight
lest we lose sight
of your foul might,
and your alacrity
Pepé Le Pew,
we don’t hate you,
but for now, adieu.
You do have spunk –
don’t be in a funk,
or we’ll be sunk
and get a chunk
of eau de skunk.
A Metric Poem
We sometimes run kilometers
(5K is popular here).
We drink our Coke in liters,
and water, but not beer.
We briefly employed Celsius
(also known as Centigrade)
to tell just how hot we were,
but that trend began to fade.
We are a land of miles and feet,
and we're mostly metric-free.
If you're looking for a meter,
you'll still find it in poetry.
And yet, that's not quite true of Frost,
who talked of promises kept,
but not kilometers he must go
before he finally slept.