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Welcome to Garden 506 in

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

Poetry Gardens of Fame Index

First Place
Second Place
Third Place
Fourth Place


Paulette Weaver

Paulette Weaver is a published writer of poetry, numerous chapbooks and two memoirs. She is about to launch her first novel, Desert Bones, a fictional murder mystery set in desert of the southwest. Ms. Weaver is also a freelance research writers consultant. She lives in the foothills of the beautiful Nevada desert.

Sweet Vintage
By Paulette Weaver

Glint of the word on the page
beams off glossy backs of flies,
birch trees spiraled in white gauze,
holding together her years.

Bundles of dried lavender, fragrance
sweet from yesterday overflow her
garden, both hands laden with
ripe strawberries.

Midwinter deep in her veins, looking for
the door she's been through many times, one by one the years bristle
off her shield.

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by Amy Smith

A girl
I wore a word on my forehead
It was scorched there like a brand
searing and painful>br> It was the truth of my soul and the pain of my heart

A woman
I wear a word on my forehead
I keep it in a treasure box made of beautiful deep rich wood carved with mermaids and angels
I take it out and place it on my forehead when the sweetest moments envelope me
It is jewel-encrusted and brilliant
It sings the truth of my soul and the fullness of my heart

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Kaleidoscope souls
byLauri Griffin


we take our life pieces
broken, cracked
turn them in the sun
watching the light shine through

we shift and form bits
splintered pieces
finding patterns
making sense
of shadows from childhood
from paths and choices that formed us
even as they fractured our souls

as the light illuminates
spins and twists and shifts
we find our strength
in the shifting shapes
of our Kaleidoscope souls

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Portait of an Unknown young man by Botticelli
by Melissa Kulhanek

I can picture the room in my mind,
After decades of nearly forgetting;
On the second floor of an old house,
Dark inside,
Soiled sheets on the bed that I don't notice immediately
Only when it's already too late.
Raw autumn breeze and rain coming in through the open window,
Room intermittently lit by failing neon lights
Of a supermarket right across the street.

Luscious fruit on display,
Glistening, outside,
Washed by the rain that's streams
In rivulets inside the darkened room;
Umbrellas obstructing the full view,
Late shoppers shivering in cold.

Inside, on the wall, a sleeping gypsy under desert night skies,
So peaceful while a lion's watching over the whole scene;
And I, trembling, in anticipation, unsure of what may happen.
But I did want to come; I so did want to come.
It's been so long, the conversation I hardly remember,
If ever I was listening -
I remember the hesitation - it was the first time;
I was mesmerized -
My renaissance portrait of an unknown young man
By Botticelli.
Feelings - a mix of guilt, desire and passion,
Guilt probably more for being with
This almost unknown boy, a man, a stranger,
Of unknown past while I was expected somewhere else.

No longer minding the unwashed linens,
I gave in oh, so willingly,
So easily and happily as never before;
Overlooking the dust,
The cold and the rain and not thinking,
At last, of anything.
Not of the consequences, not then.
Laughing, after the hesitant lovemaking,
At his college joke,
I, Mrs. Robinson, having a smoke,
He, Leonid (the Beautiful), making coffee
On an ancient espresso machine
Just for me;
So touching- and I stayed all night,
Didn't telephone,
Knowing that someone's waiting for my call.

The gray morning...tired, Leonid brews yet another cup,
Brings raised chocolate covered doughnuts
From the bakery shop down the street,
And I am in love - forever, I think.
We both go back to sleep
While the lion's watching over the whole scene.

Years, many years later,
I find myself staring vacantly at the screen;
My good husband again on business in China
Where I would not go, I could not.
Leonid's buried there,
So I could live.

On the wall of my daughter's old room,
The very same scene of the lion
Watching over a sleeping gypsy
In the desert night.
Why would she choose this one to paint
Out of all my art books
While still a child,
Not even a teenager yet?
Capriciously, she added Van Gogh's disturbing starry night
Instead of the peaceful one lit by the full moon.
Now, having other life, other walls to paint on elsewhere,
She left the lion
To watch over me.

Still at an empty screen
I've decided to search
For an unknown obscure poet
On Internet.
By a slip of a finger, the wrong key or fate
I am reading, in disbelief,
A critique by a professional,
An expert in coffee making;
A critique on some sophisticated espresso making machine -
By Leonid, (the Great).
I laugh and laugh, ecstatically happy
That he is still alive.
I wonder if I will be able
To talk myself out of a suicide this time.

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