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Welcome to Garden 206 in

Click the links below to read the winning poems for February, 2006.

Poetry Gardens of Fame Index

First Place
Second Place
Third Place
Fourth Place


Jennifer Gomoll

Jennifer Gomoll is a former office worker who now spends her days writing articles, humorous filler, short stories, and poetry. Her poems have appeared in Rattle,, Ink Pot, and Verse Libre Occasional, among other journals and web zines. Currently, she splits her time between her home town of Chicago and her soon-to-be new home of Springfield, Illinois.


There's something wrong with this skin you want me to wear—-
the stores downtown are full of them and I can't find one that fits.
All of them are too small,
straight, narrow,
as if it's wrong for a woman
to curve.

See this skin I've been using
has scars where I've needed to grow.
The soles are hard from walking everywhere, nobody's thought to wax
the hair off, and there's a callus where I hold my pen.

The poor face is starting to crease
from years of making questions.

It's a little transparent, I know.
You can see where I'm blue inside
in the backs of my knees, my wrists--
these rivers are no less than my life.

I'm sorry, but I don't like shopping
this way--
I'll make do with what I have.
We've many years yet, my skin and I.

Someday it will hang on my bones,
a ratty old kite remembering
all the kisses of the wind.

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Connie Reichert

If I Were

If I were a bolt of lightning
I would wash my hair with rainwater
And I would sing all night
Until I became still and one with myself

If I were a redwood tree
I would live my life enjoying
Everything around me
And I would cry
Until the stars fell in my lap

If I were a rich man
I would fly
And I would wrap my blanket about
My shoulders
Until the last river runs no more.

If I were a tiny spark
I would flow to the ocean
And I would sing and dance
If I wanted
Until I died on the earth and
became one with it.

If I were hot coffee
I would dance the two-step
And I would
Cradle my flame
Until the moon sets.

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Tara McDaniel

Waiting for the Reverend


To become suffering, lest the end
drown in its own sorrow,
it cannot be as you wished,
it can only be the woman
who is standing
by the river, in thought,
in a white gown
made of tuberoses
tumbling into the water,
burning in that curved
and twisted shadow of recompense --
no one remembers this hour,
      it is a pair of feet covered in moss,
a path winding towards daylight,
a younger version of the woman
growing eyes for the night, creating golden nests
out of her hair, in the garden of herself, opening
her legs to let the butterflies


So yellow, every shade, and chartruse,
and chambray, and linen, arks of wings,
the sun rising, she flutters towards
      the embrace which does not end,
the wheel which has no beginning,
the hour that places bright
elderberries at her mouth and
embroidered leaves between the toes
of her children, all tied together, all
spinning, knitting, painting stories
with the upward lilt of a voice
she knows we will soon love.

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Amber Ann Van Kirk

Cold Togetherness (A Terza Rima)

All is lost through thy portal's lips
sifting through the specialties
frozen frames, cut into clips

Shaken feelings, black hearts eclipse
Forgotten worries long since gone
as we break off like parting ships

To you my love I am your pawn
but of the others, they are weak
Let's reap them of all they own

We are a team though cold and bleak
All is lost to the dark abyss
I let you act...for I am weak

Let's slip off all our hardened chips
that weigh us down like massive bricks

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