Poetry competition CLOSED 24th January 2015 9:23pm
WINNER
toniscales (Lost Girl)
toniscales (Lost Girl)
RUNNERS-UP:
Indie
and hornyatmorn
Pick A List
Anonymous
List #2
I've never been in a Subway
(not the restaurant....)
but I do wear cowboy boots
a lot!
I've climbed my share
of water towers
thrown off some bricks
and arched a few showers
there's probably some of my gum
still up under the hand rail
Damn! After just now reading this
could my lil town life get more stale....
I've never been in a Subway
(not the restaurant....)
but I do wear cowboy boots
a lot!
I've climbed my share
of water towers
thrown off some bricks
and arched a few showers
there's probably some of my gum
still up under the hand rail
Damn! After just now reading this
could my lil town life get more stale....
the suicide tracks List #1
They call them the suicide tracks
slick with ice and remnants of mourning lace
skin still clinging to the metal undersides
where women lay down their souls
seeking salvation in the outbound train
to where their men await them
somewhere beyond the clouds
lost in the glory of the civil war
I’ve lost count of the coffins
we’ve hewn from frozen wood
dismembered youth and age rattling against
the horse drawn wagon
to be lowered into the ground
their spirits now far from where
we’ll lay their bodies to rest
the cemetery barely a stone’s throw away
from the railroad tracks
They call them the suicide tracks
slick with ice and remnants of mourning lace
skin still clinging to the metal undersides
where women lay down their souls
seeking salvation in the outbound train
to where their men await them
somewhere beyond the clouds
lost in the glory of the civil war
I’ve lost count of the coffins
we’ve hewn from frozen wood
dismembered youth and age rattling against
the horse drawn wagon
to be lowered into the ground
their spirits now far from where
we’ll lay their bodies to rest
the cemetery barely a stone’s throw away
from the railroad tracks
these boots were made for walking List#2
There’s a gum heart stuck to the water tower
with the crooked scrapings of
Jimmy loves Mary 1989
carved into the metal
along with Call Amy for a good time
with the number scratched out
and the kind of crude graffiti
left by drunken teens at 2 in the morning
on a Saturday night
The dusty streets of this town
have held all our stories
the blood, sweat and tears
the births, marriages, deaths
affairs and divorces
My cowboy boots have kicked the gutters
tasted Friday night’s vomit
and been cleaned up in the haze of
Saturday’s hangovers
they’ve scuffled and kicked
and tasted the blood of youthful misunderstandings
they’ve run and hid and stared at walls
where you count the times and girls
you’ve fucked up against the bricks
behind the tavern, the supermarket
and town hall
I know the stories here
better than the back of my hand
and in a generation to come
they’ll be my stories to tell
like bent fairy tales of a far off place
my children might never get to see
through the eyes of my youth
Tonight I drink a farewell
to the places I know so well
my cowboy boots kicking up the dust one last time
before I chase new adventures in the city of lights
finding new stories to tell in the back alley’s
and subway carts of a new life
There’s a gum heart stuck to the water tower
with the crooked scrapings of
Jimmy loves Mary 1989
carved into the metal
along with Call Amy for a good time
with the number scratched out
and the kind of crude graffiti
left by drunken teens at 2 in the morning
on a Saturday night
The dusty streets of this town
have held all our stories
the blood, sweat and tears
the births, marriages, deaths
affairs and divorces
My cowboy boots have kicked the gutters
tasted Friday night’s vomit
and been cleaned up in the haze of
Saturday’s hangovers
they’ve scuffled and kicked
and tasted the blood of youthful misunderstandings
they’ve run and hid and stared at walls
where you count the times and girls
you’ve fucked up against the bricks
behind the tavern, the supermarket
and town hall
I know the stories here
better than the back of my hand
and in a generation to come
they’ll be my stories to tell
like bent fairy tales of a far off place
my children might never get to see
through the eyes of my youth
Tonight I drink a farewell
to the places I know so well
my cowboy boots kicking up the dust one last time
before I chase new adventures in the city of lights
finding new stories to tell in the back alley’s
and subway carts of a new life
the lonely city List #3
Love isn’t like The Sound of Music
I don’t get to run out the door
of my self-imposed convent
and into the arms of a man in a uniform
with a readymade family
waiting for someone to love them
and take care of them
when he gets himself blown up
somewhere in Afghanistan
(not that they put that in the movie)
New York City isn’t the place for singles
and some days I walk down the street
customary coffee in hand
and buy myself a bunch of roses
so it’ll look like someone loves me
or at least I have someone
worth giving them too
when the reality is they’ll wilt
on my windowsill until I can bear
to part with them
which is always too long
This place was meant to be a fairy tale
and instead all I’ve found is a city
full of lonely people with broken dreams
nights spent free of passionless one night stands
in its place I find myself staring out the window
listening to the sound of cars
dreaming of hailing a taxi
with a one way fare to the airport
and back to place where my dreams of love
where still alive
if only I had the money to do more
than dream
Love isn’t like The Sound of Music
I don’t get to run out the door
of my self-imposed convent
and into the arms of a man in a uniform
with a readymade family
waiting for someone to love them
and take care of them
when he gets himself blown up
somewhere in Afghanistan
(not that they put that in the movie)
New York City isn’t the place for singles
and some days I walk down the street
customary coffee in hand
and buy myself a bunch of roses
so it’ll look like someone loves me
or at least I have someone
worth giving them too
when the reality is they’ll wilt
on my windowsill until I can bear
to part with them
which is always too long
This place was meant to be a fairy tale
and instead all I’ve found is a city
full of lonely people with broken dreams
nights spent free of passionless one night stands
in its place I find myself staring out the window
listening to the sound of cars
dreaming of hailing a taxi
with a one way fare to the airport
and back to place where my dreams of love
where still alive
if only I had the money to do more
than dream
reverse destination List #4
The backpack cuts into my shoulders
we’ve been walking too long
along barren tracks of grass
trying to find the ocean
in the morning frost
The camera lies unfocused
against my chest
the artist in me lusting for more
than green and blue and grey
I itch to sit, to draw
to feel the wind
on my cold chapped skin
creating my own impressions of Finland
far from the home I know
if only we could find the beach
You complain of sore feet
and I suggest we rest
but we both fear that if we sit
we might never make it
to our destination
so we trudge along in silence
praying the next incline will be the last
And finally when we consider
heading back
the hill crests and I am hit
with the ocean air on my face
my pains evaporating
at the sight of the bleached sand
and stretch of blue
You breathe in the salted air
as I run to the beach
and scramble to unzip my backpack
my pencils spilling onto the beach
in my haste to sketch the mountains
behind us
The backpack cuts into my shoulders
we’ve been walking too long
along barren tracks of grass
trying to find the ocean
in the morning frost
The camera lies unfocused
against my chest
the artist in me lusting for more
than green and blue and grey
I itch to sit, to draw
to feel the wind
on my cold chapped skin
creating my own impressions of Finland
far from the home I know
if only we could find the beach
You complain of sore feet
and I suggest we rest
but we both fear that if we sit
we might never make it
to our destination
so we trudge along in silence
praying the next incline will be the last
And finally when we consider
heading back
the hill crests and I am hit
with the ocean air on my face
my pains evaporating
at the sight of the bleached sand
and stretch of blue
You breathe in the salted air
as I run to the beach
and scramble to unzip my backpack
my pencils spilling onto the beach
in my haste to sketch the mountains
behind us
the mysteries of our island List #6
Nova Scotia - they say we reside half way
between the Arctic Circle and the equator
I say it’s too cold here for us
to be anywhere near the equator
so we must lean more the other way
-40 is something you have to experience
to understand
They say there were monks here
hundreds of years ago
among the first settlers
but I wasn’t around to know
the old church ground looms
on the edge of town
religion and mystery rooted
in our history
and I know we’ll barely ever know
half the story
Legend tells of fires and ghosts here
tales of murder, revenge, greed and sex
with the kinds of scandals
that gets the Vatican in trouble these days
but what a place it must have been
back when people were God fearing
and all churches where grand and regal
and no one knew what went on
behind the scenes
I can only imagine the secrets
contained within its walls
skeleton keys for rooms
we were never mean to see
candle light cascading through the gloom
men bent over holy books
I’d find too boring to read
people confessing to sins
possible tame to a 21st century world
but still dirty enough
to make my mother blush
The crumbling walls make me think
of loneliness and silence
conversations carried out in hushed whispers
forbidden lovers seeking out quiet alcoves
in the middle of the night
to let lust consume them
before they repented to God alone
for their lusty transgressions
And perhaps there really are ghosts here
of men and women and children
who froze to death on the
doorstep during the bad winters
turned away by the Men of God
among the more sordid deaths
of men who aimed to live
in a world without sex
I wouldn’t know
I’ve only heard stories
And the keening of wind through
cracked rock and broken glass
but I wonder if those long gone souls
miss the silence of ages gone by
or if the busker with the guitar
across the street soothes the ache
of their restless spirits
for surely the history of the dead
is numerous
even in a place as small as ours
Nova Scotia - they say we reside half way
between the Arctic Circle and the equator
I say it’s too cold here for us
to be anywhere near the equator
so we must lean more the other way
-40 is something you have to experience
to understand
They say there were monks here
hundreds of years ago
among the first settlers
but I wasn’t around to know
the old church ground looms
on the edge of town
religion and mystery rooted
in our history
and I know we’ll barely ever know
half the story
Legend tells of fires and ghosts here
tales of murder, revenge, greed and sex
with the kinds of scandals
that gets the Vatican in trouble these days
but what a place it must have been
back when people were God fearing
and all churches where grand and regal
and no one knew what went on
behind the scenes
I can only imagine the secrets
contained within its walls
skeleton keys for rooms
we were never mean to see
candle light cascading through the gloom
men bent over holy books
I’d find too boring to read
people confessing to sins
possible tame to a 21st century world
but still dirty enough
to make my mother blush
The crumbling walls make me think
of loneliness and silence
conversations carried out in hushed whispers
forbidden lovers seeking out quiet alcoves
in the middle of the night
to let lust consume them
before they repented to God alone
for their lusty transgressions
And perhaps there really are ghosts here
of men and women and children
who froze to death on the
doorstep during the bad winters
turned away by the Men of God
among the more sordid deaths
of men who aimed to live
in a world without sex
I wouldn’t know
I’ve only heard stories
And the keening of wind through
cracked rock and broken glass
but I wonder if those long gone souls
miss the silence of ages gone by
or if the busker with the guitar
across the street soothes the ache
of their restless spirits
for surely the history of the dead
is numerous
even in a place as small as ours
dog soup List #7
This defunct Siberian mining town is a wasteland
tonight we were so hungry we ate dog soup
I think I found the bullet from where we shot it
(though perhaps it was a stray bone)
I’ve been reading the diary of the last guy
who lived here with his wife and kids
the baby died
and they were so hungry they ate it
it doesn’t make me feel so bad about eating
some useless dog that lingered too long
on the edge of town
as hungry as we are and looking for food
better than cutting up my little sister
I'd rather die that eat her
And it's not like I’ll be telling anyone
that our family is so poor
we’ve resorted to eating dog
if caught the law has handcuffs
to drag us away with in a public spectacle
before we get thrown into the decrepit jailhouse
where they’ll abuse anyone stupid enough
to get arrested
on the lone nights
when the stray dogs have scattered
and there is nothing left to shoot at
Note: piece was inspired by a documentary about a guy travelling through Mongolia, with nothing more than a tent, some supplies, a packhorse and his pet dog, that went missing in a town where it was reported the poor shot the stray dogs for meat.
This defunct Siberian mining town is a wasteland
tonight we were so hungry we ate dog soup
I think I found the bullet from where we shot it
(though perhaps it was a stray bone)
I’ve been reading the diary of the last guy
who lived here with his wife and kids
the baby died
and they were so hungry they ate it
it doesn’t make me feel so bad about eating
some useless dog that lingered too long
on the edge of town
as hungry as we are and looking for food
better than cutting up my little sister
I'd rather die that eat her
And it's not like I’ll be telling anyone
that our family is so poor
we’ve resorted to eating dog
if caught the law has handcuffs
to drag us away with in a public spectacle
before we get thrown into the decrepit jailhouse
where they’ll abuse anyone stupid enough
to get arrested
on the lone nights
when the stray dogs have scattered
and there is nothing left to shoot at
Note: piece was inspired by a documentary about a guy travelling through Mongolia, with nothing more than a tent, some supplies, a packhorse and his pet dog, that went missing in a town where it was reported the poor shot the stray dogs for meat.
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
No problem , Ricky! I was thinking of doing a second comp like this one, with different words, so you could cherry pick from that if you want . :). got a great response from this comp and hoping for a slow night at work tonight, to get a winner-- gonna need help for it with so many awesome entries-- might have to have my fellow lab techs read through and cast their votes!
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Here you go Ricky, and anyone else who wants to give it another go:
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/competitions/read/7827/
Will get a winner chosen for this comp, later tonight after it times-out!
http://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/competitions/read/7827/
Will get a winner chosen for this comp, later tonight after it times-out!
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Episodes of Stillborn Dreams in Lived Deaths
List #1
In excessive rigorous regimens
the IST were garnered like ethics
as ever, unquestioned
the Indian Stretchable Time
her window-seated lengthening journey
crossed many silencing nights
from the dotted remote stations
when she woke up early
to one
unhappening morning
the non-'express'ive mail
was staggering
amidst the valley of dacoits once
when horsemen thievery
were not uncommon
same old terrains
(only left with
the sharply flat-shaven Acacia canopies
and rockhard terrains like tonsered heads)
stared empty
as if in unsaid agonizing depths
more darker
than the numerous crossed tunnels
eyes ached
from sleepless nighmarish blinks
thin stuck film
floated in stillborn dreams
a sip of hot coffee
from the pantry specialities
would have superficially
repaired her somewhat
if only
there were contractor's timely supplies
who never were tendered uncorrupted
everything existed
but only just existed
as faded remnants
dying or dead
like her stillborn dreams
all well coffined
mostly inside the eye-burials
of the cracked red veinlets
and in those rarely falling
teardroplets
the trailing caterpillar coach
pulled back sudden
in the middle of Santra orange fields
some acrobatical youths
(who were obviously 'non-buffalo' fellows
when it came to activated movements)
jumped out earnest
for hurried haphazard harvests
a grand new fusion flavour
emanated from citrussy bursts
over the almost molten
rusted railroad tracks
in that scorching noon
when the lazy pantry unit
kick-functioned finally
to a meagre revival
of her fainting eyes
behind hazy laces
of enormous
dearths and deaths
Iced mint tea
vapourized bland
as it flowed past
the necrotizing coasts
of her burnt tongue
List #1
In excessive rigorous regimens
the IST were garnered like ethics
as ever, unquestioned
the Indian Stretchable Time
her window-seated lengthening journey
crossed many silencing nights
from the dotted remote stations
when she woke up early
to one
unhappening morning
the non-'express'ive mail
was staggering
amidst the valley of dacoits once
when horsemen thievery
were not uncommon
same old terrains
(only left with
the sharply flat-shaven Acacia canopies
and rockhard terrains like tonsered heads)
stared empty
as if in unsaid agonizing depths
more darker
than the numerous crossed tunnels
eyes ached
from sleepless nighmarish blinks
thin stuck film
floated in stillborn dreams
a sip of hot coffee
from the pantry specialities
would have superficially
repaired her somewhat
if only
there were contractor's timely supplies
who never were tendered uncorrupted
everything existed
but only just existed
as faded remnants
dying or dead
like her stillborn dreams
all well coffined
mostly inside the eye-burials
of the cracked red veinlets
and in those rarely falling
teardroplets
the trailing caterpillar coach
pulled back sudden
in the middle of Santra orange fields
some acrobatical youths
(who were obviously 'non-buffalo' fellows
when it came to activated movements)
jumped out earnest
for hurried haphazard harvests
a grand new fusion flavour
emanated from citrussy bursts
over the almost molten
rusted railroad tracks
in that scorching noon
when the lazy pantry unit
kick-functioned finally
to a meagre revival
of her fainting eyes
behind hazy laces
of enormous
dearths and deaths
Iced mint tea
vapourized bland
as it flowed past
the necrotizing coasts
of her burnt tongue
Artistic (de)Voids
List#4
exaggerations?
these prevalent colours
their chameleonic reflections
parceled in grave someness
in pure existential suchness
added over and upon
the karmic dirts
the cameras flashed feigning innocence
blinding whiteness loaded with manipulation motives
however momentary they pronounced
a synthetic turf was the resultant devastation
earthen skins and sands
got thoroughly blown off from the scenes
and then
the accentuations
in strange alien accents
with the other juggleries
rolled out from his oddity tool
the protruding backpack
eventually
blackened the void
that held chaotic stillness
the contained oceans and merging horizons
the simplistic pencilled invisibilities
all that got
deceptively war-mirrored
were the frail mechanical faces
with seriosity shrinkline fixations
of hidden desires and desperations
marring crisscross
like fragile lake geographies
of a Finland's snowy innocence
lying beneath
were the cruelest Dead seas
extinct
of fresh breaths
and the bare essentials
of emotions, truth and art
List#4
exaggerations?
these prevalent colours
their chameleonic reflections
parceled in grave someness
in pure existential suchness
added over and upon
the karmic dirts
the cameras flashed feigning innocence
blinding whiteness loaded with manipulation motives
however momentary they pronounced
a synthetic turf was the resultant devastation
earthen skins and sands
got thoroughly blown off from the scenes
and then
the accentuations
in strange alien accents
with the other juggleries
rolled out from his oddity tool
the protruding backpack
eventually
blackened the void
that held chaotic stillness
the contained oceans and merging horizons
the simplistic pencilled invisibilities
all that got
deceptively war-mirrored
were the frail mechanical faces
with seriosity shrinkline fixations
of hidden desires and desperations
marring crisscross
like fragile lake geographies
of a Finland's snowy innocence
lying beneath
were the cruelest Dead seas
extinct
of fresh breaths
and the bare essentials
of emotions, truth and art
http://blogs.unimelb.edu.au/sciencecommunication/files/2014/09/2810731479_5b3884d80e_b-300x123.jpg
(List #9)
Love Poem #742
I know we were there when it rained in Tokyo
I know we took bicycle rides in London
I know we watched the tight rope artists in Paris
I know we ate Linzer cookies in Geneva
I know we listened to Ella Fitzgerald
sing in a Harlem cafe
I know because I love you
(List #9)
Love Poem #742
I know we were there when it rained in Tokyo
I know we took bicycle rides in London
I know we watched the tight rope artists in Paris
I know we ate Linzer cookies in Geneva
I know we listened to Ella Fitzgerald
sing in a Harlem cafe
I know because I love you
