This poem won second place in a national poetry contest through Eber & Wein in 2010. It is about my husband, who finds money everywhere he goes. He does give them all to me.
They call to him
By A. Gagliardi
He spots their roundness yards away.
Whatever else he sees, I cannot say
but anyway, his gift dismays me.
He sees cold hard cash. He is one with them.
Yes. He detects coinage in all
their calibrated hiding places,
playing peek-a-boo in the grasses,
sleeping along the edge of the road, nestled
amongst the fallen leaves,
peeping from the concrete lip
of the sidewalk as we stroll hand in hand.
He sees each and every one.
They call to him, ringing out their round sound.
Summoning, beckoning – exclaiming their presence. Pick me!
Pick me! They shout for him.
As a homing pigeon he spies their curvature
of green or darkest brown,
the coins not one other person has found.
They signal and he hears their ballooned sphere
hollow and muted, yet distinctively there.
He picks them up, caresses their continuity
. . . and gives them all to me.
Here we are sailing the Aegean Sea on a lovely sailing vessel called the Stressbuster.
I also won third place honors out of 12,000 entries, so feel proud of the following poem.
Broadway Avenue Panhandler
by A. Gagliardi
Misery gazed through beer-stained blur,
Despair in faded jeans;
enslaved by his habit,
his outstretched claw
beseeched me donate to his cause.
A ghost begged another ride
on his addiction.
His wretchedness reached out
and slapped me lonely;
the squalid secrets of his torment
displayed like a porno movie.
An apparition of journey’s end,
the destination of choices not chosen.
His shabby figure beckons me consider -
Where is my port of call?
He shuffled his approach
with eyes lurking despondent,
reached out shabby sleeves to accept my oblation,
then clutching the prize to his chest
two-stepped back to his prerogative.