Poetry competition CLOSED 11th June 2019 12:59pm
WINNER
Carpe_Noctem
Carpe_Noctem
Page:
The Talking Stick
Anonymous
Poetry Contest Description
Weave your permission to speak into a poem.
What is a talking stick?
The Talking Stick is a tool used in many Native American Traditions when a council is called. It allows all council members to present their Sacred Point of View. The Talking Stick is passed from person to person as they speak and only the person holding the stick is allowed to talk during that time period.
Here’s a writing challenge for you:
• Record yourself talking to yourself for five minutes either on your computer or on your phone. This is just for you and you do not have to share this recording. Do this somewhere where you will not be interrupted. Give yourself the permission to talk for those five minutes.
• Note what themes arise. What do you start talking about when you’re given the permission to speak? What is it that really matters to you in that moment? Weave this into a poem.
Rules
• Although there’s no way of proving that the recorded bit happened, in the spirit of the comp I do encourage you to do this to explore your own mind.
• NEW poems only
• One entry per human being
• Video / audio entries accepted
* If you would like to comment on the entries, please go to the individual submission pages. This keeps the thread clutter free.
* 2 weeks
The Soft Serve Van.
It plays the most ridiculous
annologue
badly recorded tune
That ice cream van
doing the rounds
on a Sunday morning
The business side of my brain
shudders when
adding the costs
of fuel
maintenance
a living wage
against the price of a cone
(Have to remind myself that not all business plans
are filled with logic and reason)
But the kids and I have turned
the 9H45
Sunday rendezvous
into a little religion
The van offers mixed flavours
-a little dark
mixed into some light
They offer both chocolate
and caramel dips
They'll even throw a Flake
type chocolate
into the sugar cone mix
(It's all rather daring really)
But that damn music
playing Jingle Bells in May
ruins the experience
I think it's to do with
shouting my order over
the wonderful petrol smell
in an old Volkswagen engin
that shudders profusely
through the chiming
chinese megaphone
that settles me down
As dark and decadent as the menu is
As tantalizing as the photo
of dipped flake infused
mixed flavour
soft serve is
I always walk away
with a little scoop
of Vanilla
in a cup
-x-
Written by RevolutionAL
(Alistair Plint)
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Anonymous
Thanks for the entry, just what we were looking for. 👍🏻
Related submission no longer exists.
Anonymous
Oof. That’s the comment I save for when I can’t say anything else. Thank you for sharing.
Thought Process
One year left
and I can save for the house—the one
near the ocean
with a pantry
and backstairs.
Calculate. Calculate.
How much can I pay down the truck in a year?
“Bronson—stop opening the cabinet doors!”
I’ve got to find it—
the places where I’m to go
and buy things, old things they don’t want
but I do.
Free things—you tossed it, it’s mine
now.
I need to know what to keep,
what to sell—
God tells me.
“Pearl—get off the counter!”
Damn cats, I love them.
I just washed the laundry
and the smell reminds of summers long ago—
linens drying on the clothesline
lilacs, roses on the wind.
One more thing to add to the picture I live in.
I’m building it.
Assembling the missing parts of myself.
I’ll be the grandmother in the kitchen
someday
captured in the black and white photos
from a simpler time.
One year left
and I can save for the house—the one
near the ocean
with a pantry
and backstairs.
Calculate. Calculate.
How much can I pay down the truck in a year?
“Bronson—stop opening the cabinet doors!”
I’ve got to find it—
the places where I’m to go
and buy things, old things they don’t want
but I do.
Free things—you tossed it, it’s mine
now.
I need to know what to keep,
what to sell—
God tells me.
“Pearl—get off the counter!”
Damn cats, I love them.
I just washed the laundry
and the smell reminds of summers long ago—
linens drying on the clothesline
lilacs, roses on the wind.
One more thing to add to the picture I live in.
I’m building it.
Assembling the missing parts of myself.
I’ll be the grandmother in the kitchen
someday
captured in the black and white photos
from a simpler time.
waterfall dances in the eternal pools
with a heart that aches, I approach the council of wisdom
the universes have been on my mind and my place within it
so far removed from nature Mother provides us
wild and free as the wind we used to dance among her
confined to a virtual cell my mind becomes estranged
I enter the lush ferns of the forests
the trees hush and quietly whisper tell us your secrets
child of the dawn we've been awaiting you
my eyes glazed I'm taken to the pools of renewal
I am told to enter with truth in my heart
here my soul is refreshed
I blink and open my eyes to a beautiful and strange world
the daisies themselves raise their faces to me
imploring me lady where have you been?
have you forgotten the magic of the flowers?
who cast for your beauty on the airs
woven in your hair is the beauty of our very essence
do you remember who you are?
waterfall dances in the eternal pools your ethereal name
I sit and listen in wonder as the forest comes alive with music
birds chirping, the leaves sweet rustling, the trees creek...swaying
tears start to flow from my eyes
it's been so long since I've been in tune
a voice thunders child of the dawn watch your footing
among mortal foolishness
stay on the path this is a journey meant to expand your thinking
you are to stay true to your calling
don't lose your natural ability to an AI invasion
Written by crimsin
(Unveiling)
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The baton
The orchestra it sits. assembled
Instruments not raised and ready
Chatter is the score the rising hububb
Now comes the conductor short and chubby
Comand the rostrum with his presence
Robes he wears, the suited elegance
He turns about with confidence
The upturned looks and baited breath
He holds the floor in a pregnant pause
With arms aloft the baton raised
All eyes await that downward progression
That stick hold each players to attention
They will follow as it dances
Rapid movements, slow cadenza
Speaking as the melody intended
That stick the ruler till its ended
Silence or cresceno bellow
All in time and fathful follow
Power born of disciplin and talent
To interupt a crime abhorrent
Raise the orchestra out of their chairs
Take the cheering and applause
Boquets and the roses thrown
That digit music knot and grain
That metronome that rocks
The word it brings straight from the Gods
For music speaks all languages
A wand that lifts it from of the page
Instruments not raised and ready
Chatter is the score the rising hububb
Now comes the conductor short and chubby
Comand the rostrum with his presence
Robes he wears, the suited elegance
He turns about with confidence
The upturned looks and baited breath
He holds the floor in a pregnant pause
With arms aloft the baton raised
All eyes await that downward progression
That stick hold each players to attention
They will follow as it dances
Rapid movements, slow cadenza
Speaking as the melody intended
That stick the ruler till its ended
Silence or cresceno bellow
All in time and fathful follow
Power born of disciplin and talent
To interupt a crime abhorrent
Raise the orchestra out of their chairs
Take the cheering and applause
Boquets and the roses thrown
That digit music knot and grain
That metronome that rocks
The word it brings straight from the Gods
For music speaks all languages
A wand that lifts it from of the page
Written by slipalong
Go To Page
Ramblin’
There’s a ten minute window
From the time I drop off my son at school
Until I get to work
Where I have time to myself,
Preparing mentally for the day,
Reflecting on where I am versus where I want to be.
(Left turn)
I don’t mind the time in traffic but it seems that lately...
I haven’t put much my effort into where I want to go.
I’ve written two full books and haven’t done any editing,
I started a third book but it relies on the first two,
I written a fourth book in parts, like a puzzle, saying to myself…
“This is going to be my opus”.
(The man in the car next to me sees me talking to myself,
But I keep looking ahead pretending to be on my phone).
I don’t want to get stuck in a rut again,
Barely making ends meet when I know there’s more for me,
I know I have potential,
I may not make a fortune,
Or become famous,
But the satisfaction of publishing
(Right turn at the light)
Will probably shed a light on more possibilities,
And there I’ll have a better definition of myself,
A clearer picture of my purpose.
(Back on the freeway, punch it to 75)
Because I want to feel alive,
Share with the world my work,
Even if I fail,
At least I know I tried.
I know I’m ramblin’,
But I really have to work the plan.
There’s a ten minute window
From the time I drop off my son at school
Until I get to work
Where I have time to myself,
Preparing mentally for the day,
Reflecting on where I am versus where I want to be.
(Left turn)
I don’t mind the time in traffic but it seems that lately...
I haven’t put much my effort into where I want to go.
I’ve written two full books and haven’t done any editing,
I started a third book but it relies on the first two,
I written a fourth book in parts, like a puzzle, saying to myself…
“This is going to be my opus”.
(The man in the car next to me sees me talking to myself,
But I keep looking ahead pretending to be on my phone).
I don’t want to get stuck in a rut again,
Barely making ends meet when I know there’s more for me,
I know I have potential,
I may not make a fortune,
Or become famous,
But the satisfaction of publishing
(Right turn at the light)
Will probably shed a light on more possibilities,
And there I’ll have a better definition of myself,
A clearer picture of my purpose.
(Back on the freeway, punch it to 75)
Because I want to feel alive,
Share with the world my work,
Even if I fail,
At least I know I tried.
I know I’m ramblin’,
But I really have to work the plan.
Killing loneliness
I’m killing loneliness so it doesn’t kill me
Broke down, I’m dying
I set myself free
Burning in a fire
Of leaving when you leave
The dark emptiness
Haunts and chases me
I can’t escape it
I might never be free
Shadows of pain
Follow
Attached
Attracted to me
So I’m killing loneliness
Before it kills me.
I’m killing loneliness so it doesn’t kill me
Broke down, I’m dying
I set myself free
Burning in a fire
Of leaving when you leave
The dark emptiness
Haunts and chases me
I can’t escape it
I might never be free
Shadows of pain
Follow
Attached
Attracted to me
So I’m killing loneliness
Before it kills me.
Deity and Theism
I never could see
the point
in worshipping a deity
so insecure that it wanted to be…
worshipped in the first place…
and 'im with such a self-indulgent slew of bad habits of 'is own…
like jealousy… anger and taking revenge…
All traits that in us... aren't allowed…
You might think that, "Our Father" could set a better example for all us children to follow…
it's worth so much more than cheap words…
Then there are all the other gods out there...shall we delve into their pecadillos too?
And while we're at it…
what's with all this "temptation" bullshit…
It's like teasing animals in the zoo…
"Go on Billy...poke 'em with yer stick… don't you want to see what they'll do?"
the point
in worshipping a deity
so insecure that it wanted to be…
worshipped in the first place…
and 'im with such a self-indulgent slew of bad habits of 'is own…
like jealousy… anger and taking revenge…
All traits that in us... aren't allowed…
You might think that, "Our Father" could set a better example for all us children to follow…
it's worth so much more than cheap words…
Then there are all the other gods out there...shall we delve into their pecadillos too?
And while we're at it…
what's with all this "temptation" bullshit…
It's like teasing animals in the zoo…
"Go on Billy...poke 'em with yer stick… don't you want to see what they'll do?"
Written by Ely
(E.A.Rothwell)
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The Demons I've Slain
Born with a death sentence
the clocks always been ticking
so what does it matter anyway
by the time you read this I will
have long been dead
Always the last thing to fade away
with each passing moment
a little hope slowly dies
that downward spiral
blood stained walls the floor
carpeted empty booze bottles drug paraphernalia
Could climb some place high
do a swan dive though I'm no Monet
it would be my impression
of a dying landscape
Call the coroner
broken hearts don't show up on autopsys
Find it morbidly ironic though
through forgiveness you could show clemency
You sure ripped my heart out
guess it never was mine
that day I gifed it to you
to have and to hold
better or for worse
A hundred suicide notes
piled next to the overflown bin
If you do find this it's probably better this way
Who applauded when he tried
who mourned when he died
Tell her I love her
tell her daddy died fighting demons
Anonymous
Related submission no longer exists.
Anonymous
All were magnificent entries into this competition... but the trophy goes to Carpe_Noctem who I felt used this space the most of all to let out what really mattered at the time, and captured the true spirit of this competition the most. He allowed himself to be vulnerable. To speak his truth.
Thank you all. They were all really worthy entries. x
Thank you all. They were all really worthy entries. x
