Poetry competition CLOSED 22nd April 2020 5:33pm
WINNER
ravisa
ravisa
Page:
New Member of the Month – April 2020
Poetry Contest Description
New Member of the Month Feature!
Welcome to "New Member of the Month" to be featured in the DUP 'New Member of the Month Hall of Fame', sponsored by Tallen.
You have 3 weeks to nominate Your favorite poems from a NEW DUP poet - someone who has been a member for no more than six months.
To locate New Members simply click on 'Poems' > *Latest Poems > Sort Poems > New Members! Thanks to Umm for the image and helping us old people out!
Please note the following when making nominations:
1. Self nominations are not accepted. The great majority of the competitions here are about spotlighting one's own work on a particular topic or theme. This is a chance to nominate that poem that you wish you had written but some other great talent here beat you to it.
2. Until this comp is established, there is no limit to nominations; however, you can't nominate more than one poem per individual new member. *****
3. No DUPLICATES. If someone nominates the same poem the entry will be deleted. If you like it that much wait and vote for it!
4. Any genre except erotica or pornography. This is a Facebook feature and we must adhere to their guidelines.
5. Any member who is banned or disables their account PRIOR to the win will be automatically disqualified.
6. One win per member per calendar year ( 12 months ).
7. All nominators should notify their nominees of nominations.
Any nominated member who wishes to opt out of the competition may do so by messaging me. I will contact the person who nominated you and request an alternate nomination.
Nomination Duration is 3 weeks followed by a week of site voting!
Current Winners:
November 2019: LunaGreyhawk
December 2019: Rachel_Lauren
January 2020: cobralips (Abbey)
February 2020: timkit (Tim Kitchen)
March 2020: Pete82
The Night Of A Thousand And One Paper Cuts
Imprisoned by your poetry,
(Cell) membrane flayed, flamed
As roses set the frost on fire.
Sonnet’ised stanza
Turns my skin to
A purple love bite.
Breath of my sightations
Moisten her index finger,
In Wo(o)lf waves
Ocean kerb kisses silver froth
Its eternal tide is set to auto-pilot.
We have nothing to wait for:
Only the succulent seduction
In our delicious seclusion.
Tissue’d Titian fibres
Carefully open entry to
Museum of Immaterial Mind:
Rooms one to ten glaze over,
Twelve is the café at end of world, and
Thirteen……well 13 is her.
Oh, who forgot to wake Alice?
In the narrow water of two birds
An A4 sparrow finds solace on paper boat
Origami lovers fold themselves into a sex box
Suddenly,
Age of wire and string became flimsier.
After ribs and mud, to become
Born of the ground
Into fonts and unknown colour.
Peoples of the paper
Can you even defy murmuring breeze?
So many days
So many hours of two lives
So many rooms
And such light,
So many alphabets
And such words,
In the precocious dusted air.
And such a silence now,
Now that that night has come.
We have worn this epilogue
Scribbled epitaphs in cranium cemeteries,
Spoke rapidly, in monochrome hue,
As if voices were soon to be stolen.
Thus, we know
The papyrus decree xc22
‘All paper walls will come a’ tumbling down.’
It will be smouldering moon light
Which cremate the paragraph people
And singe a Universe chapter.
Hold this magnifying glass,
Twist into teeth of the sun,
Burn your biography on my flesh
And tattoo our hopes
Across my tiring heart.
#ERULGCT #4
Pic. Writer’s Block. Sheryl Orig. Installation at Bebelplatz. 66 steel cages crammed with ancient typewriters: one to commemorate each author whose books were burnt by Nazis on 10 May, 1933.
(Cell) membrane flayed, flamed
As roses set the frost on fire.
Sonnet’ised stanza
Turns my skin to
A purple love bite.
Breath of my sightations
Moisten her index finger,
In Wo(o)lf waves
Ocean kerb kisses silver froth
Its eternal tide is set to auto-pilot.
We have nothing to wait for:
Only the succulent seduction
In our delicious seclusion.
Tissue’d Titian fibres
Carefully open entry to
Museum of Immaterial Mind:
Rooms one to ten glaze over,
Twelve is the café at end of world, and
Thirteen……well 13 is her.
Oh, who forgot to wake Alice?
In the narrow water of two birds
An A4 sparrow finds solace on paper boat
Origami lovers fold themselves into a sex box
Suddenly,
Age of wire and string became flimsier.
After ribs and mud, to become
Born of the ground
Into fonts and unknown colour.
Peoples of the paper
Can you even defy murmuring breeze?
So many days
So many hours of two lives
So many rooms
And such light,
So many alphabets
And such words,
In the precocious dusted air.
And such a silence now,
Now that that night has come.
We have worn this epilogue
Scribbled epitaphs in cranium cemeteries,
Spoke rapidly, in monochrome hue,
As if voices were soon to be stolen.
Thus, we know
The papyrus decree xc22
‘All paper walls will come a’ tumbling down.’
It will be smouldering moon light
Which cremate the paragraph people
And singe a Universe chapter.
Hold this magnifying glass,
Twist into teeth of the sun,
Burn your biography on my flesh
And tattoo our hopes
Across my tiring heart.
#ERULGCT #4
Pic. Writer’s Block. Sheryl Orig. Installation at Bebelplatz. 66 steel cages crammed with ancient typewriters: one to commemorate each author whose books were burnt by Nazis on 10 May, 1933.
Written by Strangeways_Rob
Go To Page
The Guardians
Head bent in Kabbalah
Yet Buddha still ask the questions of why
Lost in the sovereign of this earth’s strife
The bullets ring out
Plague, diseases, owns the breath of life
I look toward the hills asking God for relief
Thy broken ten commitments
Has separated us from thee
One more day, cries heard in the final hours
Lives among a chaotic midst flat-lining
Money does not matter, unto the reaper your soul lacks buying power
We are praying in the name of a Deity locked on our knees
We stand in the hour of deliverance
An imminent death certificate we sign with a cough, fever, or a sneeze
Closing my eyes, attuned of better days in my dreams
Fields of poppies, lilacs, violets
Beautiful rivers and flowing streams
The alarm clock rings
Birds chipping with a morning song they sing
Yet more bodies pilling on manmade palates
Cremation, without the bling
Mask is the new designer wear
Hair tousled moving about to scurry for toilet paper
Unconscious vanity does not even care
Yet Buddha still ask the questions of why
Lost in the sovereign of this earth’s strife
The bullets ring out
Plague, diseases, owns the breath of life
I look toward the hills asking God for relief
Thy broken ten commitments
Has separated us from thee
One more day, cries heard in the final hours
Lives among a chaotic midst flat-lining
Money does not matter, unto the reaper your soul lacks buying power
We are praying in the name of a Deity locked on our knees
We stand in the hour of deliverance
An imminent death certificate we sign with a cough, fever, or a sneeze
Closing my eyes, attuned of better days in my dreams
Fields of poppies, lilacs, violets
Beautiful rivers and flowing streams
The alarm clock rings
Birds chipping with a morning song they sing
Yet more bodies pilling on manmade palates
Cremation, without the bling
Mask is the new designer wear
Hair tousled moving about to scurry for toilet paper
Unconscious vanity does not even care
Written by CherryLoveNotes
Go To Page
Rituals
I have sipped the blood of wine
The water of tears
Gone the silver chalice in the rustling of the surplice.
I have felt the heart's glow.
The gaze of God through coloured glass,
Rising lightly at the nunc dimittis while dead barons slumber.
I have wondered at what relics held:
Delusion, renewal, confusion, betrayal,
And heard the empty echo on the clashing stones.
I have drained the empty cup.
Another's silent body in the night
Who smiling, with "I love you", spun away into darker wastes.
You are my chalice, you my wine
Your tears my joy and pain
Redemption in your lips, the yearning of your skin, trembling
Hair at the nape of your neck, the scent
Of inner holiness
God silent beneath your clouded eye.
My stumbling resurrection, you
My heart the pealing bell
Echoing from the nave to sing an angel's love.
A pure and fluttering wind
Soars across a cloudless sky
Love clasped as fast as the Grail in Gawain's gloved finger.
The water of tears
Gone the silver chalice in the rustling of the surplice.
I have felt the heart's glow.
The gaze of God through coloured glass,
Rising lightly at the nunc dimittis while dead barons slumber.
I have wondered at what relics held:
Delusion, renewal, confusion, betrayal,
And heard the empty echo on the clashing stones.
I have drained the empty cup.
Another's silent body in the night
Who smiling, with "I love you", spun away into darker wastes.
You are my chalice, you my wine
Your tears my joy and pain
Redemption in your lips, the yearning of your skin, trembling
Hair at the nape of your neck, the scent
Of inner holiness
God silent beneath your clouded eye.
My stumbling resurrection, you
My heart the pealing bell
Echoing from the nave to sing an angel's love.
A pure and fluttering wind
Soars across a cloudless sky
Love clasped as fast as the Grail in Gawain's gloved finger.
Written by dr_swing
Go To Page
Butterflies.
Butterflies dont live in my garden.
Flowers dont grow here.
My sun shivers behind clouds of doubt that dances to a tattered song of caution in the wind.
My skies drip slowly ,and only when i swallow my pride.
This thought me that you could never hug the rain.
You only end up soaking wet and by your self.
You see butterflies dont live in my garden.
The only thing that i can seem to stomach is a belly full of imagination, stapled to the thought of you.
Flowers dont grow here.
The good soil isnt rich.
The word possible.
Fell to the way side, thumbled through torns, sandpapered on stones, and landed on the edge of a parrabel that i dont understand.
Butterflies.
Darling they dont live in my garden.
But i rise inches of the ground to the sound of your voice. Floating on a prayer that you might one day let me live in yours.
Flowers dont grow here.
My sun shivers behind clouds of doubt that dances to a tattered song of caution in the wind.
My skies drip slowly ,and only when i swallow my pride.
This thought me that you could never hug the rain.
You only end up soaking wet and by your self.
You see butterflies dont live in my garden.
The only thing that i can seem to stomach is a belly full of imagination, stapled to the thought of you.
Flowers dont grow here.
The good soil isnt rich.
The word possible.
Fell to the way side, thumbled through torns, sandpapered on stones, and landed on the edge of a parrabel that i dont understand.
Butterflies.
Darling they dont live in my garden.
But i rise inches of the ground to the sound of your voice. Floating on a prayer that you might one day let me live in yours.
Written by ravisa
Go To Page
The winner of this competition and any runners up were decided by public vote.
Thank you to the following members for voting:
Billy_Snagg, Ahavati, anvinvil, calamitygin, nutbuster, Kinkpoet, NewBeginnings, OG-Poetry, Wh1skeySwagger, Jade-Pandora, Phantom2426, _shadoe_, Layla, nomoth, Stoney223, FromTheAsh, Frustrated_prole, lepperochan
Thank you to the following members for voting:
Billy_Snagg, Ahavati, anvinvil, calamitygin, nutbuster, Kinkpoet, NewBeginnings, OG-Poetry, Wh1skeySwagger, Jade-Pandora, Phantom2426, _shadoe_, Layla, nomoth, Stoney223, FromTheAsh, Frustrated_prole, lepperochan
