April 2018 IBPC entries


The follow 3 poems will be representing Babilu in the April 2018 IBPC Competition

Congratulations to poets Jim, Richard, & Kenny

B-) ;) =D>


by Jim 

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.


by Richard 

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.


by Kenny 

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.



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