Poetry competition CLOSED 4th July 2021 10:46pm
WINNER
Anonymous
Anonymous
RUNNER-UP:
Razzerleaf
Sunday Mornings
Poetry Contest Description
Write a poem capturing the Sunday mood
Does anybody else find that there is just something magical about Sunday’s? It seems to be a day of laziness. A day of introspection. A day of processing. Maybe even rest.
For this competition I would like you to write an introspective piece about your Sunday. See if you can capture a fine bit of story telling — that’s what I’m looking for with this contest. Not just a list of events.
Your poem should finish with the line:
Sunday morning;
the light returns.
Rules
• New writes only
• Poetry, not prose
• No erotica
• No word count. The end line should be the line provided in bold above.
• Audio / visual accepted
• Up to 2 writes per human
• Two weeks
For this competition I would like you to write an introspective piece about your Sunday. See if you can capture a fine bit of story telling — that’s what I’m looking for with this contest. Not just a list of events.
Your poem should finish with the line:
Sunday morning;
the light returns.
Rules
• New writes only
• Poetry, not prose
• No erotica
• No word count. The end line should be the line provided in bold above.
• Audio / visual accepted
• Up to 2 writes per human
• Two weeks
Summer Sunday School
“On Sunday morning I went out for a while in the neighbourhood; I bought some raisin bread. The day was warm but a little sad, as Sundays often are in Paris, especially when one doesn’t believe in God.” - Michel Houellebecq
Near where I live
is a Quaker meeting house,
and an Anglican church
I’ve been in once,
but only to help with a stall
at a farmer’s market.
On hot and humid
Sunday mornings,
I sit on a bench
in the shadow of a tree,
and watch the leaves
and motes of dust,
falling like notes
in a composition,
intended to celebrate days like this.
When you don’t believe in God, the bliss
you find in looking at churches
on hot and humid Sunday mornings
is just a little sad,
but all the more
intensely beautiful for that.
The days of work pass in a bat
of Time’s eyelids.
Away, the Saturday sabbath light burns.
Sunday morning;
the light returns.
Near where I live
is a Quaker meeting house,
and an Anglican church
I’ve been in once,
but only to help with a stall
at a farmer’s market.
On hot and humid
Sunday mornings,
I sit on a bench
in the shadow of a tree,
and watch the leaves
and motes of dust,
falling like notes
in a composition,
intended to celebrate days like this.
When you don’t believe in God, the bliss
you find in looking at churches
on hot and humid Sunday mornings
is just a little sad,
but all the more
intensely beautiful for that.
The days of work pass in a bat
of Time’s eyelids.
Away, the Saturday sabbath light burns.
Sunday morning;
the light returns.
Written by The_Silly_Sibyl
(Jack Thomas)
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Anonymous
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Related submission no longer exists.
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Sunday morning muse
My damaged head reminds me
how much wine I took to bed,
still unsure on legs that stamp
each step.
The bathroom slaps me cold
in my feeling old, can't handle it face.
Piss proud I lean cheek first
and taste the dry streaks of
toothpaste on the mirror.
The angry kettle spills hot
as I yawn into caffeine,
still wrapped in a quilt.
I slide back the conservatory door
and bathe in a burst of warm air.
My favourite sun-bleached chair
has been harvesting heat,
enough to feed my aches for a while.
The dog finishes off my cereal bowl
then curls like a cat on my lap.
Her bad breath asks a question
of why we eat our own weekly shit
and the answer is simply Sunday morning;
the light returns.
how much wine I took to bed,
still unsure on legs that stamp
each step.
The bathroom slaps me cold
in my feeling old, can't handle it face.
Piss proud I lean cheek first
and taste the dry streaks of
toothpaste on the mirror.
The angry kettle spills hot
as I yawn into caffeine,
still wrapped in a quilt.
I slide back the conservatory door
and bathe in a burst of warm air.
My favourite sun-bleached chair
has been harvesting heat,
enough to feed my aches for a while.
The dog finishes off my cereal bowl
then curls like a cat on my lap.
Her bad breath asks a question
of why we eat our own weekly shit
and the answer is simply Sunday morning;
the light returns.
Written by Razzerleaf
Go To Page
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
