Poetry competition CLOSED 22nd April 2017 10:23pm
WINNER
case28 (Alexander Case)
case28 (Alexander Case)
Poem of the Month - May 2017
The Traveler 3 . . . Reworked
He stood; naked, afraid, and alone.
Should he go back or forward?I
Instead of doing either
he placed his hand on the bridge's railing,
hoping his knees wouldn't give way.
A terrifying dread overcame him.
He leaned forward,
trying to steady himself,
the noise; ferocious.
He knew he shouldn't,
tried not to,
but he cast his eyes down and beheld the rapids.
Wait.
But wait.
The foaming water was not rapids at all.
Oh no, it was only a languid little stream.
It was foaming and churning because of all the
drowning Libidos and accompanying Egos.
“Please, what do you want from me?”
No one answered him.
He didn't expect them to.
He stared down at the horrible scene below,
hundreds,
no thousands of perishing Libidos
screamed for one more chance.
To be able to go back,
go back to the very perversion
which had sent them to their watery grave in the first place.
Defiant and lustful to the absolute end
is mankind's fascination with skin against skin.
The traveler allowed his eyes to linger
on the scene below,
to not do so he would have had to look into himself.
He gulped a few quick,
intense, mouthfuls of air,
leaned further over the railing,
into the turbulence below
as if he were seeing the very last thing left on earth.
Rank odor emitted from the water now,
an odor which could mean only death and decay.
Suddenly he saw something scurrying from the stream.
Then another.
And more.
egos making a mad dash for . . . where?
Where could an Ego go if it had no body to prod and to push?
Still, they were leaving the water
by the hundreds, maybe thousands,
looking so comical
the traveler laughed aloud in spite of his own calamitous situation.
The egos bounced ahead without feet,
a kaleidoscope of colors, mostly black,
dark blues or heavy greens,
no wimpy colors for the Egos of the world.
And the noise!
Deafening.
How could Egos make sounds?
But they did.
Angry, spiteful sounds,
like jet planes screaming inside his head.
Then suddenly,
they stopped.
The traveler watched in fascination and horror
as the Egos became too big for themselves
and burst into gore and globs of Ego matter.
Then they were gone;
seeping down the bank into the stream.
What had been fetid odors wafting from below
gave way to a different fragrance;
the lingering smell of All The Lovers he had known.
The combined smell was at first pleasant and satisfying,
taking the traveler back to better times,
the sensuousness of women's caresses.
Faces flooded his thoughts.
Headless, naked bodies fought for dominance inside his head,
until there was only one left.
It was grotesque.
Looked neither feminine or anything remotely close to it.
It was a misshapen apparition,
but it did have a head,
and the face on the head was recognizable.
See?
The face spoke.
I am your lover. Can you not see that?
I am you
Should he go back or forward?I
Instead of doing either
he placed his hand on the bridge's railing,
hoping his knees wouldn't give way.
A terrifying dread overcame him.
He leaned forward,
trying to steady himself,
the noise; ferocious.
He knew he shouldn't,
tried not to,
but he cast his eyes down and beheld the rapids.
Wait.
But wait.
The foaming water was not rapids at all.
Oh no, it was only a languid little stream.
It was foaming and churning because of all the
drowning Libidos and accompanying Egos.
“Please, what do you want from me?”
No one answered him.
He didn't expect them to.
He stared down at the horrible scene below,
hundreds,
no thousands of perishing Libidos
screamed for one more chance.
To be able to go back,
go back to the very perversion
which had sent them to their watery grave in the first place.
Defiant and lustful to the absolute end
is mankind's fascination with skin against skin.
The traveler allowed his eyes to linger
on the scene below,
to not do so he would have had to look into himself.
He gulped a few quick,
intense, mouthfuls of air,
leaned further over the railing,
into the turbulence below
as if he were seeing the very last thing left on earth.
Rank odor emitted from the water now,
an odor which could mean only death and decay.
Suddenly he saw something scurrying from the stream.
Then another.
And more.
egos making a mad dash for . . . where?
Where could an Ego go if it had no body to prod and to push?
Still, they were leaving the water
by the hundreds, maybe thousands,
looking so comical
the traveler laughed aloud in spite of his own calamitous situation.
The egos bounced ahead without feet,
a kaleidoscope of colors, mostly black,
dark blues or heavy greens,
no wimpy colors for the Egos of the world.
And the noise!
Deafening.
How could Egos make sounds?
But they did.
Angry, spiteful sounds,
like jet planes screaming inside his head.
Then suddenly,
they stopped.
The traveler watched in fascination and horror
as the Egos became too big for themselves
and burst into gore and globs of Ego matter.
Then they were gone;
seeping down the bank into the stream.
What had been fetid odors wafting from below
gave way to a different fragrance;
the lingering smell of All The Lovers he had known.
The combined smell was at first pleasant and satisfying,
taking the traveler back to better times,
the sensuousness of women's caresses.
Faces flooded his thoughts.
Headless, naked bodies fought for dominance inside his head,
until there was only one left.
It was grotesque.
Looked neither feminine or anything remotely close to it.
It was a misshapen apparition,
but it did have a head,
and the face on the head was recognizable.
See?
The face spoke.
I am your lover. Can you not see that?
I am you
Written by standingmyground
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Enough is Enough
Too many have died,
Too many fourteen year old's have been found dead,
Too many wrists dripping red,
How dare you tell them their too young to know.
The body count rises each day,
Because Ignorant people tell them It's a sin to be gay.
Love is love,
And no one can fucking take that from us.
It hurts to see lives ended,
Before they had even begun,
Enough is Enough,
If you kick your kid out for being gay,
You're basically holding the gun.
Too many have died for human rights.
The world is an ugly place,
Especially when someone tells a child it's not okay to be gay.
Love is love,
And No one can take that way from me.
Enough is enough,
Too many have died,
For this simple wanting to love.
Too many fourteen year old's have been found dead,
Too many wrists dripping red,
How dare you tell them their too young to know.
The body count rises each day,
Because Ignorant people tell them It's a sin to be gay.
Love is love,
And no one can fucking take that from us.
It hurts to see lives ended,
Before they had even begun,
Enough is Enough,
If you kick your kid out for being gay,
You're basically holding the gun.
Too many have died for human rights.
The world is an ugly place,
Especially when someone tells a child it's not okay to be gay.
Love is love,
And No one can take that way from me.
Enough is enough,
Too many have died,
For this simple wanting to love.
Written by Fallen_Angel_194
(Angel.)
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A Week In The Life Of Edith Brown
It’s eight ‘o’ clock on Monday morning
And a certain someone is on the bus to town
It’s the start of another hectic week
In the life of Edith Brown
At ten she meets her old friend Pam
In the Pink Teapot Cafe
There'll be tea and cakes waiting for her
And as usual Pam won’t let her pay
Pam will moan about her husband Fred
Who’s the laziest man on earth
Ever since she married him
He’s been more trouble than he’s worth
Edith will listen attentively
But she’s cautious to offer advice
Pam can be very defensive
Sometimes downright nasty to be precise
When the tea and cakes are drunk and eaten
Edith and Pam go their separate ways
No hug as they part company
Cos Pam's not keen on public displays
Edith goes home and does some ironing
Then sits down to watch TV
With a cuppa and a plate of digestives
On a lap-tray upon her knee
When seven-thirty comes around
It’s time for Edith to put up her feet
With a steaming cup of hot chocolate
Watching Coronation Street
She goes to bed at ten-thirty
And wakes up each day at six
After a glass of hot water and lemon
Her fried breakfast she will fix
Two eggs, two sausages and a slice of fried bread
She eats the same thing every day
She’s just about due for her cholesterol check
Goodness knows what her doctor will say
Tuesday is the day she bakes
Cakes she’s not supposed to eat
She uses guesswork for the measures
And ends up with enough cakes to feed the street
On Wednesday Edith plays Bridge
With some friends she’s known for years
Sometimes they play in her sitting room
Other times they play in theirs
One particular friend called Sally
Plays her cards close to her chest
She makes up the rules to suit herself
Much to the dismay of the rest
Whenever she is playing
She likes a large glass of gin
And when someone has a bit of luck
She swears down she's let them win
On Thursdays, Edith goes to the market
Where there are bargains to be found
But the site is on a car-park
Where large potholes are profound
Many a time she’s almost dislocated
Her newly-fitted plastic hip
Not looking where she’s going
And resulting in a trip
The stalls are full of varied things
From furniture to lemonade
Electrical appliances and ornaments
And lots of lamps without a shade
Friday afternoons, Edith goes to the cinema
To see the latest blockbuster
Her favourite film is ‘Son of the Morning Star’
In which Gary Cole played General Custer
At the weekend she takes it easy
Doing a crossword or reading a book
She hopes that no-one needs to contact her
Because her phone is off the hook
She’s got tired of cold-callers
Wanting to know who’s her energy supplier
They pestered her so much
She felt like disconnecting the telephone wire
She’s had a laid-back weekend
Now it’s time to go to sleep
Before Monday morning comes
And the start of another busy week
If you pop into the Pink Teapot Cafe
When you’re in the town
The lady at the table near the window
Is the one and only Edith Brown
And a certain someone is on the bus to town
It’s the start of another hectic week
In the life of Edith Brown
At ten she meets her old friend Pam
In the Pink Teapot Cafe
There'll be tea and cakes waiting for her
And as usual Pam won’t let her pay
Pam will moan about her husband Fred
Who’s the laziest man on earth
Ever since she married him
He’s been more trouble than he’s worth
Edith will listen attentively
But she’s cautious to offer advice
Pam can be very defensive
Sometimes downright nasty to be precise
When the tea and cakes are drunk and eaten
Edith and Pam go their separate ways
No hug as they part company
Cos Pam's not keen on public displays
Edith goes home and does some ironing
Then sits down to watch TV
With a cuppa and a plate of digestives
On a lap-tray upon her knee
When seven-thirty comes around
It’s time for Edith to put up her feet
With a steaming cup of hot chocolate
Watching Coronation Street
She goes to bed at ten-thirty
And wakes up each day at six
After a glass of hot water and lemon
Her fried breakfast she will fix
Two eggs, two sausages and a slice of fried bread
She eats the same thing every day
She’s just about due for her cholesterol check
Goodness knows what her doctor will say
Tuesday is the day she bakes
Cakes she’s not supposed to eat
She uses guesswork for the measures
And ends up with enough cakes to feed the street
On Wednesday Edith plays Bridge
With some friends she’s known for years
Sometimes they play in her sitting room
Other times they play in theirs
One particular friend called Sally
Plays her cards close to her chest
She makes up the rules to suit herself
Much to the dismay of the rest
Whenever she is playing
She likes a large glass of gin
And when someone has a bit of luck
She swears down she's let them win
On Thursdays, Edith goes to the market
Where there are bargains to be found
But the site is on a car-park
Where large potholes are profound
Many a time she’s almost dislocated
Her newly-fitted plastic hip
Not looking where she’s going
And resulting in a trip
The stalls are full of varied things
From furniture to lemonade
Electrical appliances and ornaments
And lots of lamps without a shade
Friday afternoons, Edith goes to the cinema
To see the latest blockbuster
Her favourite film is ‘Son of the Morning Star’
In which Gary Cole played General Custer
At the weekend she takes it easy
Doing a crossword or reading a book
She hopes that no-one needs to contact her
Because her phone is off the hook
She’s got tired of cold-callers
Wanting to know who’s her energy supplier
They pestered her so much
She felt like disconnecting the telephone wire
She’s had a laid-back weekend
Now it’s time to go to sleep
Before Monday morning comes
And the start of another busy week
If you pop into the Pink Teapot Cafe
When you’re in the town
The lady at the table near the window
Is the one and only Edith Brown
Written by Jenny1959
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Anonymous
...
Missing You
Sometimes
I like missing you
It gives me appreciation
For what I have
Our bond
Our connection
Our us
Unique
One of a kind
As most lovers will say
When you walk through the door
I fold into your arms
Your embrace
Loving
With character and grace
Holding you close
Wishing the moment had no end
Sometimes
I like missing you
It gives me appreciation
For what I have
Our bond
Our connection
Our us
Unique
One of a kind
As most lovers will say
When you walk through the door
I fold into your arms
Your embrace
Loving
With character and grace
Holding you close
Wishing the moment had no end
Beauty in Illness
I.
The voices in my head never stop
They overwhelm me like a pebble stuck
In an ocean’s tempest. The insidious screams
Of hidden devils torments my nights
So I paint their unheard whispers
On a wide blank canvas that can envelop
The secrets they share with me
II.
Everyday I drown in my own shadow
Through sundown and moonrise my misery
Encapsulates the sky and turns black the sultry
sun and stars. That darkness is my ink
With which I weave beauty upon a simple white page
From the ashes of nonexistence I bring to life
The broken galaxies trapped within my crippled mind
the words I stich from my soul’s drooling blood
Are laid bare for all to see
III.
I tremble at the slightest touch of a stranger's gaze
I’m uncomfortable in the skin in which I was borne
A raging sea of red ants crawl underneath, tiptoeing
Quickly across my shaken sanity. I shudder underneath
The weight of my clumsy words, I let slip so inelegantly
My frail thoughts for all to ignore, the softly uttered mumblings
Of a ghost. I slink away into invisibility to be alone with my
Anxiety. Yet in my music, I’ve found something
A new body, stability from the air in my lungs,
Strength from my quivering diaphragm,
Courage from the persistent vibrations in my voice
In my music I am born anew
The voices in my head never stop
They overwhelm me like a pebble stuck
In an ocean’s tempest. The insidious screams
Of hidden devils torments my nights
So I paint their unheard whispers
On a wide blank canvas that can envelop
The secrets they share with me
II.
Everyday I drown in my own shadow
Through sundown and moonrise my misery
Encapsulates the sky and turns black the sultry
sun and stars. That darkness is my ink
With which I weave beauty upon a simple white page
From the ashes of nonexistence I bring to life
The broken galaxies trapped within my crippled mind
the words I stich from my soul’s drooling blood
Are laid bare for all to see
III.
I tremble at the slightest touch of a stranger's gaze
I’m uncomfortable in the skin in which I was borne
A raging sea of red ants crawl underneath, tiptoeing
Quickly across my shaken sanity. I shudder underneath
The weight of my clumsy words, I let slip so inelegantly
My frail thoughts for all to ignore, the softly uttered mumblings
Of a ghost. I slink away into invisibility to be alone with my
Anxiety. Yet in my music, I’ve found something
A new body, stability from the air in my lungs,
Strength from my quivering diaphragm,
Courage from the persistent vibrations in my voice
In my music I am born anew
Written by sankara
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Related submission no longer exists.
Pieces of a Day
Hi. Wanted to say thanks to everyone who has left comments. I'm sorry I haven't responded. Trying to go back to school and take care of pestering bills. But thank you so much, you don't know what your comments mean to me.
(1/16/2012)
Fall arrives softly, creeping, circling,
Licking around the edges of the house.
The sky a shivering pink while clouds
Coagulate into thin streams of blood.
I want to die but I don't kill myself, it's like
When you're about to put out that last
Cigarette but you wait. Not yet. Not yet.
I once was in love with a guy
Who swore death sounds like the moment
A butt hits water,
That beautiful transparent
Hiss.
You try to wring something out of the day,
Some final fit, use words like naked
And nubile, fumble to give classification
To this hunger inside you. Silence drapes
The windows while emptiness snarls and
Tears beneath your skin. Desire has you
Bent and moaning aloud, whispering promises and pleas to the wind.
I ache to give the right language to the
Feeling hissing inside me. My will like
Hands gently guiding a lover.
Not like that. Like this.
(1/16/2012)
Fall arrives softly, creeping, circling,
Licking around the edges of the house.
The sky a shivering pink while clouds
Coagulate into thin streams of blood.
I want to die but I don't kill myself, it's like
When you're about to put out that last
Cigarette but you wait. Not yet. Not yet.
I once was in love with a guy
Who swore death sounds like the moment
A butt hits water,
That beautiful transparent
Hiss.
You try to wring something out of the day,
Some final fit, use words like naked
And nubile, fumble to give classification
To this hunger inside you. Silence drapes
The windows while emptiness snarls and
Tears beneath your skin. Desire has you
Bent and moaning aloud, whispering promises and pleas to the wind.
I ache to give the right language to the
Feeling hissing inside me. My will like
Hands gently guiding a lover.
Not like that. Like this.
Written by toniscales
(Lost Girl)
Go To Page
A Transcendence
Beyond our past and our dead
that which mourning did not erase
a passage for our soul exists
and remains for us to embrace
Each upon a journey
an expedition of survival
inward renaissance
preceding a revival
A personal pilgrimage
consciousness raising
psychology of self
internal appraising
Seeking revelation
a pathway to peace
awareness is dawning
liberating release
As our lives transcend
outside the literal sense
we rediscover ourselves
without pretence
that which mourning did not erase
a passage for our soul exists
and remains for us to embrace
Each upon a journey
an expedition of survival
inward renaissance
preceding a revival
A personal pilgrimage
consciousness raising
psychology of self
internal appraising
Seeking revelation
a pathway to peace
awareness is dawning
liberating release
As our lives transcend
outside the literal sense
we rediscover ourselves
without pretence
Written by mel44
Go To Page
