April 2018 IBPC poll ~ redo


Dear Babiluians,

This is a redo of the poll posted last night. By altering the text to accommodate a suddenly revised poem, 3 of our 7 poems got truncated by the forum software, everything after the revised poem. Thus all overnight voting did not include those poems, nor did any readers vote for them. So let's restart for fairness, and remember that from now on, the forum software cannot handle revisions with a poll gadget. All modifications to poems will need to be placed in the discussion following the poems and poll gadget, which is how the poet did it, by the way.

Our shortlist of 7 poems follows this message, each poem nominated by a reader, each vying for one of the 3 openings we have for the April 2018 IBPC competition, C. Wade Bentley our esteemed judge as I write.

Our poll gadget follows the poems. Vote for one poem only.

The poll will close Thursday, April 5 at 10pm. 

The 3 top vote-getting poems will represent Babilu. 

Voting is open to you, who is reading this, to all and anyone who would like to read the poems and vote. If you are not now signed in, please click the link in the upper right hand corner of this page. If you have not registered yet, click that same link.


Purple fullness on ablate green,
beach plums rolled in hand,
tasting of salt from the sea and you.

Slowly squeezed, pits slipped
from amber pulp, finger memory
of your juiciness bedded in my mind.

Elixir put to pot, cooked down
to ruby red. Finger tip taste,
dusky and sweetly acerbic.

Jelled, your essence. Tongue
memories jarred for winter.


In our infinite universe
coetaneous rituals of life and death 
transpire by unique congregation- 
you celebrated birth and I was destined to die,
within a flicker sliced from cosmic spheres,
caprice of a callous god.

August dayspring between earth and sky 

Our date… shielded by seven keys
(concealing treasures, perhaps an enigma)
like the days Pope Gregory
dashed into nothingness with his quill,
veiling valiant deeds or vanities
way back in 17th Century.

I dream golden seconds when my fugitive spirit
stroked your hand, hand of your incarnate soul.

Without love, without goodbyes, 
sidereal space steeped in riddles.
Were there tears? A smile?
Or was it a mere crossing of debris through ether,
an elliptic movement near solar flare-ups?
There’s no echo of our transit in the breeze,
neither greetings nor pause.

I’ll await you in regions of light
where movement and rest are identical,
a fusion without date nor number
in calendars of conscious lives.

Joyful my soul which one day you’ll escort
at the conclusion of your darkest night.


A tendril mist spiralled 
above Ullswater’s perpetual ripples,
napping the moonglare with ribbons. 
We followed the lake path
through a pine grove 
to find our old blue tent 
snuggled neatly 
in a newly set row.

A short gallon of ale
entered my head as a fog 
of poetic thought about mallards, 
songbirds and love, where soaring
crags and silent dells welcomed 
spring’s whimsical passion.

I sang “Every time we say goodbye 
I cry a little, and when you don’t 
come back I smile a lot”.

Diane elbowed my ribs 
and a robin aimed droppings 
at my dizzy head. He chittered 
in the upper boughs,
and through a haze of uncertainty 
I heard two mute swans tut.

We kissed and unzipped the tent
then watched the swans glide away.


Tallulah, Louisiana,
endless fields
with baby-
tobacco leaves,
hanging shreds
of cotton
and tangerines.

I knock
on a paint-peeled door;
shuffling, rustlings
inside the shotgun shack.
A white-haired man,
pipe, dark glasses,
cracks open the door.

Sorry to bother you,
they tol’ me
further down
you’re a guitar player
tol’ me
you make the box talk.
I got one here,
you wanna 
give it a workout?

What you drinkin?

What’s your pleasure?

I won’t say no to gin.

I’ll be right back

Lucille’s laying out 
on the rumpled bed,
in a thin flower-print,
blue and white dress,
face down, still.
Blind Son 
holds my Martin,
tunes to open,
takes a Prince Albert can
off a shelf,
slides it up and down
the strings.
They whine and cry.

Shor do lahk this gitah.

He speaks gently 
to Lucille, wakes her
from half-sleep,
asks her to sing
“one ‘a the ol’ ones.” 
She rolls over 
on her back
and in barely audible voice
born in honky-tonks 
and roadhouses, 
she sets time dancing 
in booze delirium .

Soft tones,
jazzed into spaces 
between pain 
and wonder,
joy and betrayal, 
floating memories
of dance halls 
and protective, 

Lying there, 
she introduces me
to a blues-land cyclone
people carry all week,
released every Saturday night
from dusk to daylight;
doin’ tha Cakewalk, 
tha Shimmy, Swingout, 
tha Buzzard Lope.
Slingin’ barbecue, 
gamblers’ cards 
on the table,
whiskey an’ homebrew 

She sings time 
into enduring, 
generous strokes
of celebration,
joy borne out of
brutal history.
Her ancestors move 
ghostly limbs 
in languorous gestures 
of survival.

I’m quiet
as she turns back over.
I’ve lost words
for what I’ve heard.

I summon up:

Lucille, I hope
you’re feelin’ better

“Better awready, son”

I leave the guitar behind.


The big male dog 
who shares the house 
along with two female graduate students,
a female professorial city planner and me,
is an energetic person. He licks his
plastic bone, decides he liks it, snuffles with his wet tongue, 
spreads himself on the carpet,
ignores the four
male cats who glide around him.
Then he rises lumpily and
gladly, cloppers to his
dish of meat kibbles.
I can hear his tongue
and the crunch of his large teeth.


That woman with you, for instance...Suzanne Lummis

 I bought a Soviet Chervontzy banknote
with the traditional portrait of Lenin
adorning its reddish tinted surface.
He looks rather good and presidential
in 1937, thirteen years after his death.
The overall bloody  tint on the note

makes him look more sanguine
than he really ever was.
The more I look at the banknote the more
I think how far egotism propels one
into the limelight. Stalin is on my mind.
Mao Zedong never washed his genitals 

except in virgin pussies. We also know
historically that every American president
with maybe one or two exceptions
were skirt chasers or like they call
themselves nowadays, pussy grabbers.
Some of the most obvious were nearly 

brought down because of their attraction
to the female Euclidian triangle.
Other's paid for one night of lust
gratification the salary some others
make in one year.
I wonder how many Chervontsi 

were spent on concubines.
Did any of them think that a dick in a
paramour's belly was worth adultery
or bringing their country down?
Look, this soliloquy is strictly about
narcissism in the style of a noir poem

 as performed by Suzanne Lummis.
I'm listening to her on my monitor and
think this is the way to acquire notoriety.
Just the way I do by associating myself
with the unwitting collaboration of artists
made famous for olden reasons 

by the self professed art literati
that had strong enough voices
to drown the competition
as they weighted silent artworks by silent
artists who really had no art philosophical
ideas as they were doing art for the sake of 

art they figured they'll give importance
and gain the same through them.
And so it is that the famous and infamous
gained their place in the sun.
I walk Hollywood Boulevard stepping on
the stars and realize that my day may come 

long after I pass the celestial maps
identifying the sidewalks.


They have nothing to do
No list, no hobbies.
In my day we built 
crystal and ham radios
castles and spaceships
from tinker toys. You
can’t build an iPhone
it takes special machines
only corporations can afford.
You might learn to program
them, but that takes years
& dedication that they
don’t seem to have. C’est
la vie. I’ll soon be gone
and won’t have to worry
anyway it’s nature’s way
Spirit told me that in the 70’s 
it’s one of the Twelve Dreams.


April 2018 IBPC poll ~ redo
  1. Vote for 1 poem10 votes
    1. Ball Jar Blues
    2. A Day in August
    3. Do Birds Tut?
    4. Lucille, Blind Son, and the Prince Albert Can
    5. Nine AM
    6. Pussy Grabbing Synchroidiocies
    7. They Do
Thanked by 1Gracy


  • Posts: 672
    Congratulations to Richard & Jim. Their poems Lucille, Blind Son, and the Prince Albert Can, and Ball Jar Blues got the most votes in the poll, so will represent Babilu this month.

    We have a 4-way tie for the 3rd poem to go for judging:

    Gracy's A Day in August
    JJ's Do Birds Tut?
    Don's NineAM
    Kenny's They Do

    I'll put the 4 into a randomizer. The one it selects will be our 3rd poem, the result in the next post.
    IBPC Babilu Poll 1804.jpg
    702 x 422 - 35K
  • Posts: 672
    The random chooser has chosen Kenny's poem They Do.

    Our 3 poems this month are:

    Ball Jar Blues, by Jim
    Lucille, Blind Son, and the Prince Albert Can, by Richard
    They Do, by Kenny

    Super selections, congratulations!

    IBPC Babilu Poll Tie Breaker 1804.jpg
    691 x 315 - 39K
  • Posts: 0
    Good luck to all! May you all Win, Place & Show! 
  • Posts: 0
    Best wishes to all you great poets. I haven't been working much on my poetry, so even the randomizer does justice for us all. Hope to post soon, see ya!!  ^:)^ :-h 

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