FreeWrights Peer Review™

Please post your own submission or nomination of another poet's work for the February contest as a reply to this thread. Closes at 8 pm January 28. Thanks.

The Season


She’s not awakened predawn this morning
like a wife of somber habit. Of late
my slightest stir provokes her peace;
in search of restoration she rises
two hours before us all, before she must,

to roam throughout the first-floor rooms
with coffee in hand. Maybe she adjusts
trinkets on the tree, pauses to consider
three stockings hung and embers in the hearth,
then breaks her fast on tepid pumpkin pie.

Last night, the youngest of our cats pressed
and stretched against her thigh, inspecting
possibilities through a single squinted eye,
perhaps perceiving that his home was then
as tranquil as it’s ever been.

To extend this stage of sleep, I’ll restrain
from kissing her, until fully ready
to go. With this moment and the glow
from the nearest window’s candle
I can read her relief, without giving

too much concern. Pouring over her,
while buttoning and tucking my shirt,
I find that her brow is smooth, her chest
unwavering, and that, without a thought,
I’ve palmed the quilted curve of her hip.

The bottom land at 7 am, viewed through coffee steam


Cold busted through late September’s door
and bludgeoned the maples, leaving them bruised
and scarlet. It seems only days since samaras
took wing and whirlygigged to loamy places
of hope. By week’s end they will be leaf-covered
and a festival of rotting will begin. Our field rests
in a coffin of frost, the last thistles and ragweed sag.
The river’s warmth diffused in dead space between
earth and moon. A brittle blast stiffened my thoughts;
a hot cup on my lips brought resurrection and a vision
of the weeks ahead: the spruce will fluff its plumage,
become a peacock in a backdrop of bland.

O’Malley and the God of Maize

The “Fasten Seat Belt” sign pings off. O’Malley untenses,
flinches at ripping velcro: “Forgive me, father,” a grinning
young gringo untethers his laptop. Relax, boyo, he tells himself

as he coddles a couple of miniatures of single malt on ice.
His mind resides in the village enjoying the maize harvest --
after months of famine and distended bellies. Rainclouds masked

the jungle below, the Mestite village hidden from view even
if he could discern it on a cloudless day with no rainy season.
Villagers emerged from hiding as General Madragal’s troops chased

Delgado’s guerrillas into the mountains. They located their buzones,
dug up their pitiful belongings. The corn had grown high, twice the size
of the men—the same fields they’d skeltered through weeks earlier,

trampling plants, chased by the zing of the campesono AK-47’s
as bullets shredded green leaves; now corn hung blanched by sun,
ears bulged tumescently; he helped teams fight back weeds,

gather the harvest, a basket slung to his back with rough rope.
The God of Maize gives bounty: praise heaven (forgive me Lord).
The Mestite women shucked the ears -- boiled, broiled, baked, steamed;

for days, villagers gorged on corn bread, corn tamales, corn soup, corn fritters.
Oh Lord! Corn, corn, corn: our village is the kingdom of the God of Maize!
How to explain that to my Yankee audiences! How the old gods still rule,

even when they worship Our Lord? He savors the bite of single malt,
lets it circulate round his tongue as the young gringo taps his keyboard.

Christopher T. George

These are our 3 entries for the month. CTG, the submission to IBPC contains the italics as you posted, they were lost here in all the copying/moving.