Poetry competition CLOSED 19th February 2021 2:05pm
WINNER
slipalong
slipalong
RUNNER-UP:
Razzerleaf
Watchers Tale
sit and listen.
i.
the colors are dark now
a sweet flickering
from soft lighted windowsill candles
glow, off in the distance;
catching my eye just right
it's then-
those dancing twists of light
are heartache perfect
ii.
fingers
absent in mind
tendril twirl
in repeated twirls;
my custom-made afterthought
blinded,
to an automatic action
of such a soothe,
that instigates to create
iii.
a hushed index finger
[pon nosetip]
sit and listen
as breezes blow
of purest creation
an absolute
to write my known heart
in raw and in all it's bold
or maybe a waiting,
a sort of inspired gold
always, it's there.
this poetic needing
compounded I think,
by tonight's silken wafting
O'er these billowy breezes
is nature's ethereal speech
so, my pen begins,
just in time to seize it .
Written by Bluevelvete
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Related submission no longer exists.
Related submission no longer exists.
Bedsit
A bedsit room above a street
I’ve known since childhood.
(This poem comes from childhood.)
The street is known for drugs
and poverty.
A taxi driver recently
told me about a fare he drove
to and from a crack house on that street.
(I can’t write “crack house” unsmilingly.
It’s just a funny phrase, like “batty boy”
or “government integrity”.)
An emaciated woman leant
in the doorway.
She wore a loose bathrobe,
the merest courtesy
hiding her breasts and bones.
The bedsit as I picture it
was up a flight of ratty steps
and somehow so crushingly sad
I wanted to flee.
My mother, for whom appropriate talk
was never quite a skill,
sat me on the bed and chatted about
the man next door, found dead,
his body blue. Heroin overdose.
It must have been the ‘90s because
she offered to read me Ghost Camp,
a horror novella for kids.
If I saw that book today - paperback
binding, red slime background,
cover illustration of
a girl walking to camp
behind a troop of ghost children,
invisible but for their clothes -
I’d fall backwards through memory
and be in that bedsit again.
I’ve known since childhood.
(This poem comes from childhood.)
The street is known for drugs
and poverty.
A taxi driver recently
told me about a fare he drove
to and from a crack house on that street.
(I can’t write “crack house” unsmilingly.
It’s just a funny phrase, like “batty boy”
or “government integrity”.)
An emaciated woman leant
in the doorway.
She wore a loose bathrobe,
the merest courtesy
hiding her breasts and bones.
The bedsit as I picture it
was up a flight of ratty steps
and somehow so crushingly sad
I wanted to flee.
My mother, for whom appropriate talk
was never quite a skill,
sat me on the bed and chatted about
the man next door, found dead,
his body blue. Heroin overdose.
It must have been the ‘90s because
she offered to read me Ghost Camp,
a horror novella for kids.
If I saw that book today - paperback
binding, red slime background,
cover illustration of
a girl walking to camp
behind a troop of ghost children,
invisible but for their clothes -
I’d fall backwards through memory
and be in that bedsit again.
Written by The_Silly_Sibyl
(Jack Thomas)
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Thank you everyone for participating in this competition. I am honoured to have received and read all the marvelous poems. However, after much deliberation the winners picked by non-DU members (readers) and I, are as follows:
1. The grey geese by Slipalong
2. Left behind by the Sea by Insiderew
3. Guilty gifts by Razzerleaf
Thank you very much for being with me. Please be with me again in my next competition.
1. The grey geese by Slipalong
2. Left behind by the Sea by Insiderew
3. Guilty gifts by Razzerleaf
Thank you very much for being with me. Please be with me again in my next competition.
A fairy tale is a childish mysticism, which is pure about the torment of adults. More in my essays about the fairy tale https://eduzaurus.com/free-essay-samples/fairy-tale/ for fans of the genre.
Let the tale be fiction and lie,
But here you can read between the lines,
That you will confidently enter life
Only through the school threshold.
Transparent sunbeam
Your way will be paved in the world
And life is based on what
You will understand when you wake up at dawn!
P.S. Sorry if the text is not very good, I'm not a native speaker. But I love poetry very much.
Let the tale be fiction and lie,
But here you can read between the lines,
That you will confidently enter life
Only through the school threshold.
Transparent sunbeam
Your way will be paved in the world
And life is based on what
You will understand when you wake up at dawn!
P.S. Sorry if the text is not very good, I'm not a native speaker. But I love poetry very much.
