Thursday, April 30, 2015

Honorable Mention

The Ghost of Happiness in Fiddler’s Pond

The local water hole became
A legend once he drowned.
A body never floated up.
A fiddle case was found.

It is a fable some maintain.
Why would there be a ghost?
A wagon dropped its load in pond
And then recovered most.

The tourists go on local walk.
The skeptics say they’re conned.
Believers know the truth about
The haunted Fiddler’s Pond.

At night, they hear his music play
A ballad quite beyond
The reach of mortal hands.  The song,
A dirge in Fiddler’s Pond.

This fiddler had a morning job.
The player cobbled shoes.
At night, the virtuoso tapped
The transcendental muse.

Adults and children speak about
The olden clothes he donned.
For over hundred years, he has
Been haunting Fiddler’s Pond.

The folks are scared to try to fish.
They hear the devil spawned
The evil goings-on
In modern Fiddler’s Pond.

A party searched for proof, but saw
A lonely overgrown frond.
It was another overblown
Attempt to save the pond.

The town had longed to fill the hole.
The spirit would respond
By serenading mayor’s wife.                                                                                                          
She loved attractive pond.

Her husband was consumed with job.
He tried to pass a bond.
He had his business matters wrong
And hated Fiddler’s Pond.

The contributors held a roast.
A toaster praised campaign.
He substituted sparkling juice
For costly chilled champagne.

The hall was lit by candlesticks.
The orange and eerie glow
Enhanced by phantom music played
In flicker’s afterglow.

Obnoxious cocky spirit played
The couple’s wedding song.
The mayor’s wife adored the tune.
It made them get along.

At college, mayor met his wife,
A genius beauty queen.
Attending many opera dates,
They sat in mezzanine.

The fiddle player dreamed about
The preacher’s wife, a blonde.
He dared to sing a song to her.
They skinnydipped in pond.

He had to find a secret way
To quickly correspond.
With letter, scarlet blush would stop
Illicit passion pond.

Her husband read the paper, drank
His coffee, sighed, and yawned.
He had confession scheduled soon.
He took a walk by pond.

He searched for sermon’s topic, saw
A sinful vagabond.
Who knew that inspiration flows
In worthless stagnant pond?                                                                                                            

He read his Bible, stayed in shade.
He witnessed ducklings swim.
He had condemned the violin
Except to play a hymn.

His wife began to plan a lunch
To satisfy gourmand.
She brought a picnic basket full
Of wine and cheese to pond.

Her lover’s appetite was light,
Of fancy never fond.
From water, silver fish escaped,
A light above the pond.

The couple dreamed about a way
To swiftly flee, abscond
From meddling melancholy town.
They skipped a stone on pond.

The purpled pair produced a plan,
But wisdom quickly dawned.
The waiting game like time delayed
Reprints across the pond.

Returning home, she baked a cake.
The quiet interlude,
A peace she found through batter mix:
The scent of devil’s food.

The pastor heard about a man
Who had a fiddle pawned.
He also heard the gossip made
A ghost in Fiddler’s Pond!

©2015 Ryan Tilley

About the Author Ryan Tilley

Ryan Tilley was born in New Orleans, grew up in Baton Rouge, and was graduated from LSU.  He lives in central Florida with his wife, son, and dog.  Ryan has been writing poetry about death and rebirth in rhyme and meter for 30 years and composed the sequel to The Raven on February 2, 2006 while being unaware at that time of the significance of February 2, 1847 in Poe family history.   His only published book is A Prophet's Burden: The Raven Returns.

Monday, April 27, 2015

Honorable Mention

The Forsaken Tradition

As we sit waiting in our illusion mind
We await none but of the elusive time
The birds in their nest
Yet we think not what is best
When their creepy noise is at rest

Our heritage which have long been sold
That we seek not but of old
Best in thought but rap in cold
Failing to create none we seek of gold
The suffering though have long been foretold

Clamoring in future hope
When we fail on how to cope
Our fast track have been forgot in a lope
Now we seek prayer from a rat Pope

Oh! those glorious days have long been gone
Heritage our father's build have all been torn
Our heritage abashed from the rule of the unknown masters
All now is a story of disaster

Coming in with a face like that of a dove
Innermost mind we know not but a predator
Ruling out our heritage theirs is installed into ours
Now we all love not of ours but theirs in every hours.

©2015 Ogoh Owulo Alex

About the Author Ogoh Owulo
Ogoh Alex is an ambitious writer who feels the pains its people are trailing through. His writing cuts across political leadership, tradition, love etc. From his writing one can clearly detect his nature and attributes of life. He was born in the early 90s at Ibadan in Oyo state but an indigene of Obibagwu, Oju L.G.A of Benue State, Nigeria. Has a good educational background, above all his stance against injustice in all ramifications.

Thursday, April 23, 2015

Fifth Place

Sea Witch
(Frank Frazetta, 1966)

Two silver snakes fly
from her outstretched arms.
She:  white as moon
bathed in gauzy pall
hair Nix-black
a thick dark wave
roiling in wind
gold on her ears
wrists   neck   slung
from her waist.
She commands
mottled clouds  
fierce ocean
of azure and lapis
now stained with the patina
of storm. 
Below the rock
on which she stands
something dark  
dappled   tentacled
rises   winds itself
around her craggy dais;
behind her a leviathan
lizard hoists itself
pulling veins of ocean
in its wake.
She basks in dominion.

©2015 Taunja Thomson

About the Author Taunja Thomson
My poetry has appeared in The Cincinnati Poets’ Collective, The Cincinnati Poetry Review, The Licking River Review, The Aurorean (2014), Lime Hawk Collective Arts Journal (2015), Really System (2015), Squalorly (2015), and Wild Age Press (2015).  My poem “Seahorse and Moon” was nominated for the Pushcart Award in 2005.  The Cahaba River Journal will feature my work in its 2015 spring and summer editions.  I have a writer’s page on Facebook at
I reside in Kentucky with my husband and seven cats, where I practice collage craft, terrarium creation, and water gardening.