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6 75%
0 0%
An Fhoghair
2 25%
5 63%
Voters: 8.

When that first leaf falls
from the weeping willow,
we both look at one another,
wink and welcome the coming of the winter;
at least that’s what he thought.
I, however, would wait with baited breath
for the day that first bud opened,
at which point I’d walk outside and
pick up the tools that we put down
the day we knew autumn had come.
Through the summer we would
measure, cut and put together
anything my Mother wished for,
he would teach me what each tool did,
its name and often where it came from,
as if it was a foreigner indebted
to his hand for its guiding touch.
It is only now, some years on,
I wish I could remember every weekend
we spent underneath that willow tree,
but sadly, as the case may be,
a memory is not as perfect as we’d like,
so I pack the band-saws, the ball-
peen hammer and the screws into
the bag he took to work for many years,
and head off to the market to
barter with some traders with
the few memories of my father
I still have, in the solemn hope that
shiny new tools will keep my son’s
attention as much as these did mine.


People get ready; thunder’s upon the palm trees.
I shall wait to find the frith of autumn’s downpour,
among the flute
of lightheadedness.
The priest is counting the bald heads
in the tent of meeting.
The ram-skinned children,
with their belted faces
and rigid voices, they speak:
“And who are ‘e officers, ay-
who shall vanish the colourless

I stare back and forth on the boulevard;
I wander restlessly before commencing
to speech: “Holy calf; may I sip
the gin and beer of the rivers?”

An Fhoghair

A light-hearted waltz into no-man’s land
destroyed us, left us broken and bruised.
Shells squealed above our heads and
we cowered. Between us, a single dead leaf,
bronze and decayed, the last signs of
a fruitless Autumn covered in death.
In three months, we’ve come so far.
In three minutes, we’ve gone so quick.

In the mud and dust of friends,
watching the last of the gold fall
from the trees and drown in
something they cannot understand,
I hold your hand.
We grew up together.
We fought together.
We’ll bloody die together.


I've felt gallant for these crisp times, noting
to myself the changing colours, or the
hipsters taking pictures of dead leaves. Calming
to the sense, a draft of purely smell,
leaving vague emotions, a composite sketch
of tranquility. My intelligence leaves after
a few thoughts and I'm left thinking of nothing
but her.

Last time I saw Sarah she was sitting in a pile
of leaves, falling on the way home, or
as she put it, "Having concrete bones." Left
a finger behind in the lack of snow. Rolling
down the window to let the oxygen take it's toll.
A wedding approaches for neither of us, but
after thinking about it, I'm okay with all of this.
She said after taking my penis in her hands,
"What a nice time of year." True story.

In an interesting twist, my heart and my lungs
belong to the apple tree down the street,
fell in the love with the thing after I moved here,
swimming the sea of green and red, through
wormed cores and a widow's web of bitter apple
pie, an amoral window of oppurtunity, a sweater for her
breasts, and we left each other's tongues under
a tree's shedding skin. A vertical friend, roaming
gifts of broken bark, I can't tell from the distance
whether it's rough or smooth. I can't tell who I'm talking
about; her skin or the forest.
Her lips or the leaves.
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.
Matt, you can't vote for own piece. I believe I've said this to you before.
Filth, pure filth... That's what you are.
that's a stupid rule and you know it.

i didn't like any of these, i liked mine. i voted for what i enjoyed the most. deal with it. give me a poem that's better than what I wrote and i'll vote for it, until that time I'm sticking with what's the best written.