The Poem of the Month for November 2024, selected by 2024 Anthology editors Ivan Rehorek (Avalanche) and Martha Landman, is Rime of the Ancient Surfer by Rob Ferris. The commended poems are sail by Rory Harris, Stop at red light by Martin Christmas and an own table by Geoffrey Atkin.
Rime of the Ancient Surfer
Rob Ferris
At 75, the long board could be
a stretcher
but here you are
improbable
paddling gamely with
rubber clad old sticks
for arms
seeming to hold your own
until Poseidon frowns
at your presumption
and breaks one on your head.
Jammed into reverse
your geriatric outfit
loses ground and
flounders back toward
the scrapyard of the shore.
Tireless arms have gathered
the young and middle-aged
out past the break,
their boards are
short sharp sentences
mocking your age.
The God relents
and waves away
the clean up set
he meant to send you home with…
you puff your way
out far enough
beyond the take off zone
to safety from the
strong white teeth
of foam.
You think about a wave
but
here’s flash Jack
his little board wielded
like a short sharp knife
filleting the thin green slab
of upright ocean
the Sea God surely
has his back
gifting him always
the proper angle of attack
flying him just ahead
of foam’s giant
following fist.
Your turn old man
to stutter to your feet,
but the wave assumes command
of your long board,
admiration for Flash Jack
will keep you briefly upright
then envy swipes you,
wipes you out.
sail
Rory Harris
You fold yourself
against the wind
& even wearing my tee shirt
ten sizes too big
you complain about the cold
& when you stand
a full sail unfurled
you hold fast
streamers of blond hair behind you
as a sun would warm the new world
Stop at red light
Martin Christmas
The small beetle trundles across the road
untouched by the cars that scream home.
Friday afternoon.
Metallic beasts caught up
in hurly burly living.
The beetle crawls through a suburban drain.
Murky waters from heavy rain
forcing it to cling to the concrete wall.
Inching along centimetre by centimetre,
it heads to its home.
The valiant beetle reaches the safety
of a suburban block,
settling down for a well earned break.
It is devoured in one awesome gulp
by a wandering
blue tongue lizard.
an own table
Geoffrey Atkin
it was Saturday
May 12th, 1973
when i recall
sitting
commiserating
in a favourite
café
tasting
the bitterness of regret
in a 5oz cappuccino
after realising
i did not have
a single guilty pleasure
to my name.