- These are more recent winners. For more winning poems see "Selected Poems" -
Plaza Hotel Florida Where We Met, 1969
Fifteen, we sang harmony
by the elevator on the lower level where
the acoustics made us sound gothic, flutish,
sound like road trips, microphones
and Stratocasters. We were peasant shirts,
tie-dyed, sandaled, about to smoke
cigarettes and meet guys in the park,
reek of dime bags, and fringed
jackets. We were patchouli oil,
Dead Heads, moody,
blue, and sex. We were choices
about to be made. Afraid
from all the wanting, we sang
of freedom we craved, feared, already had;
of roads miles away, and someone to miss us.
What did we know of craving freedom?
We sang like the Haights and Ashburys,
like something was about to burst
open in us, spread like pollen
among flowers applauding in parks,
our long hair parted in the middle,
earth style, earth in our shoes,
reaching up in us. Nothing yet polluted.
We sang like wind sweetened
with cannabis and chance, the train whistle's
harmony, deep and throaty,
sang the way park-dogs worked
on Frisbees, leaping, grabbing, offering,
offering, we sat on the floor near the elevator
pulling the sea-soaked air into our lungs,
pretending, preaching, singing,
singing about surviving something
we hadn't yet hazarded, neither homeless
nor forsaken, just five hundred miles from home.
Five hundred miles. Five hundred miles.
Honorable Mention - 2010 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Awards
The Market in Akko, Israel – a Wedding
Cold stone walls.
So many arguments.
Everything is kept out. Or is it in?
I have arguments with the Hijab
perhaps more than I should
disturbed to see women covered -
Sometimes, it’s hard to be American
full of independence - giddy with liberty.
I heard someone say
You Americans have no idea
what it’s like to constantly feel threatened.
And I think of how
The Melting Pot separates
as easily as water sifts silt.
I want to go to the man selling mangos,
ask if he hurled rocks during the
latest uprising, or worse,
planned the strapping of explosives
to the bodies of young women.
Then I think of the hard news from home:
Dr. Tiller killed in his church in Kansas.
From what do we gain our pride?
I turn to my nephews,
already Israeli soldiers, ask if the army
teaches them to hate. They both say no.
And I am more confused than ever.
I hear the movement of wings from a bird,
look in the dark windows for her.
Suddenly singing, rhythmic clapping rings
through this narrow hope,
around the rough walls.
Men in sneakers and jeans dance,
a celebration, a precession - then a groom
dressed in red and gold - on horseback.
Such happiness is universal.
The women follow –
I have forgotten their head cover.
As they pass me, me with my silly camera,
one waves to me – she gestures to come,
come join them. Join them.
Honorable Mention - 2010 Jane's Stories
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