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Ieuan, I like this version very much.

“…thou hadst small Latin and less Greek.” —Ben Jonson about William Shakespeare Will Anne sailed into my summer like a ship loaded with spices, and me a merchant hast been waiting years for her to arrive. Her blonde hair an ode to sunlight, her breasts as boldly pushed out ahead of her as a vessel’s...

Ken, I think your version is more accurate.

Thanks, Michael, for the bravo.

Thanks, Ken. My father complained that the government promised to reimburse citizens for the expense of building their bomb shelters, but never did.

Filling in the Bomb Shelter(the Cuban Missile Crisis Over) Dad lit up his Havana cigar that he had been saving for the occasion. On TV a flotilla of Russian warships were leaving Cuba. For weeks Dad stood in our driveway watching our neighbor Liam heave shovelfuls of dirt into the earth, patching th...

Thanks, Ieuan

Good poem! I enjoyed the interweaving of personal observations with the political ones. This self defacing humor really draws me to the character. I like the N a lot.

Thanks, Billy. Appreciate it.

Will Shakespeare. The Road to London When did sex become a lecture? Anne would interrupt our delight —to criticize or offer “advice”. For Christ’s love, Will, can thou not spend more time with the twins when I cook? Hast thou promised not to leave your hose strung on nails? No wonder they are torn. ...

I am surprised by the options at the close.

I really like this imagery:

The quiet won't let go.
It's not a storm that runs through streets

like a boy who won't ever come back.
The moment drips until nothing's left,

The opening paradisal image is so striking, and visually beautiful. Then the acknowledgement of death and disease(and new growth), but surprisingly seen like scenery on a stage. Perhaps that is the way most of us see it...not really believing in our own deaths but as something else, literature, myth...

Michael, I’m not available. Thanks though

Thanks. Happy New Year, Michael!

Thanks, Michael. I wii employ some of your ideas.

I second both nominations.

Living in East Germany, 1963      The landlord watches from a slightly opened door  as I slip into my apartment, a book hidden in my coat.  There is a clattering of footsteps up the stairs  that stops just outside my door.  The light under the door turns to shadow.  There are whispers in the hallway...

Some interesting imagery. Somehow for such dark images I don't feel the despair as much as I would expect. The uniqueness of images like those found in the first and last stanzas makes me want to rate this highly. I wonder...would tying the images to a specific event or person produce an even more i...

Such cleverness in so few words....though I wasn't moved by the poem, I enjoyed it

I like any poems on Emily Dickinson. I like "domesticated lioness"....an apt description.

Terrific, imaginative concept. Good poem.

Gently I brush your long, dark hair, and speak to you quietly though my heart’s at a gallop. I’ve never held beauty so close. She’s always bolted off for the hills, a cloud of dust trailing her like a long tail. How I’ve followed her every time till she was out of sight. Walked slowly, you nuzzle yo...

I wanted to work in something re the narrator's aging, being part of the process that all life goes through, and the father reference kinda references that. Don't know if it's distracting...

I like the close the best...I like S1 as an opening stanza a lot. The whole poem works.

He returned an hour later, laughing,
then feigned a stern countenance, saying,
that's some good shit, be careful, it's illegal.

Another tough, strong poem, Ken. Making a fife from a finger grabs your attention immediately. Then the dangerous, clearly drawn father. The father knocking the kid from his chair with a backhand swipe will hit home with many.