Poetry competition CLOSED 14th February 2023 10:43pm
WINNER
LunaGreyhawk
LunaGreyhawk
RUNNERS-UP:
PoetSpeak
and Strangeways_Rob
Page:
DUP Time Capsule
Poetry Contest Description
What will you add to the time capsule?
If there were to be a DUP time capsule created, that will be opened 100 years from now, what would you contribute to it? Pieces of writing or other?
Poems or prose
One entry per person
2 weeks to write your entry
No collabs
Gather up your contributions & pen them down, here!
Poems or prose
One entry per person
2 weeks to write your entry
No collabs
Gather up your contributions & pen them down, here!
I Write My Own Destiny
The midnight sun is out again
The earth below baths in her soft light
The wind brings echoes of a timeless melody
Ancestral music to my heart.
Each star has a story to tell in their gleaming light
A story is told for you, and a story is told for me
Nothing else needs to be said
But if you must, write your thoughts down.
Words unlock the gates of my reserved soul
If you’re patient enough, you can catch a glimpse
Of who I was, who I am, and who I’ll become
Do you dare to venture further?
I often delve within myself
To better understand my purpose
This is what’s imprinted on my essence
“I write my own destiny.”
The earth below baths in her soft light
The wind brings echoes of a timeless melody
Ancestral music to my heart.
Each star has a story to tell in their gleaming light
A story is told for you, and a story is told for me
Nothing else needs to be said
But if you must, write your thoughts down.
Words unlock the gates of my reserved soul
If you’re patient enough, you can catch a glimpse
Of who I was, who I am, and who I’ll become
Do you dare to venture further?
I often delve within myself
To better understand my purpose
This is what’s imprinted on my essence
“I write my own destiny.”
Written by LunasChild8
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Gave it all
I am so grateful to DUP
It is an inestimable support for me
So it is with great pleasure
That I include al the poetry
All the fiction I've jotted down here
For I have kept nothing
For better or worse
It is all for you....
It is an inestimable support for me
So it is with great pleasure
That I include al the poetry
All the fiction I've jotted down here
For I have kept nothing
For better or worse
It is all for you....
Written by robert43041
(Viking)
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Beauty Wrapped in a Muslim Cry
Listening to "Eastern Sounds" on the turntable
Yusef Lateef
Master of outside jazz gone melodic
Follow me
Your connection, your vessel
To a time long past
Beauty wrapped in a Muslim cry
Long before the hatred began
Entwined piano and flute paradise
Out on the wing in solitude ...
Yusef Lateef
Master of outside jazz gone melodic
Follow me
Your connection, your vessel
To a time long past
Beauty wrapped in a Muslim cry
Long before the hatred began
Entwined piano and flute paradise
Out on the wing in solitude ...
Written by PoetSpeak
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Full Bohemian and a Yard Full Of Dogs
I want to grow old
in a cottage made of stone,
far away from the troubles
of unkempt connections
and social faux pas,
near a lazily flowing creek
that taps it’s wand on the rocks,
conducting a soft and sweet melody;
the mornings will arrive slowly,
sunshine caressing my skin
with its warm, strong hands
I want to sing loudly
silly, made-up songs
competing with the birds
from the painted metal sink
in my clapboard kitchen,
a kaleidoscope of tapestry rugs
and tiny, Swiss dot curtains
dancing on the the breeze;
I will make too-strong coffee
on the temperamental old stove,
growing herbs in my windows
creating old-earth magic
at my worn wood counters
I will plot out my days
consulting my most trusted advisors,
the kinds of souls with four legs
and knowing eyes that tell stories;
they very well may be revered
as man’s best friend,
but a woman has never known
a more loyal companion,
and never a better keeper
of her secrets;
and so I shall rescue
a yard full of dogs
that transform into a bed full
as we sleep soundly
and dream of chasing rabbits
we never intend to catch
I will waste away the afternoons
in a decadent red velvet chair,
filling volume after volume
with the hedonistic thoughts
of my fleeting youth;
I will fondly recall the days
when I was the star of my own tales,
weighing all the wrong I committed
against all the right I achieved,
finding balance in the mix
I will welcome the lines that map
the landscape of my face
and redefine my knowledge
of what is beautiful,
with silver hair flowing
down my back
ancient denim overalls
stained with paint
from a thousand projects
I may or may not have finished,
my bare feet kissing the floor
with every step
in a cottage made of stone,
far away from the troubles
of unkempt connections
and social faux pas,
near a lazily flowing creek
that taps it’s wand on the rocks,
conducting a soft and sweet melody;
the mornings will arrive slowly,
sunshine caressing my skin
with its warm, strong hands
I want to sing loudly
silly, made-up songs
competing with the birds
from the painted metal sink
in my clapboard kitchen,
a kaleidoscope of tapestry rugs
and tiny, Swiss dot curtains
dancing on the the breeze;
I will make too-strong coffee
on the temperamental old stove,
growing herbs in my windows
creating old-earth magic
at my worn wood counters
I will plot out my days
consulting my most trusted advisors,
the kinds of souls with four legs
and knowing eyes that tell stories;
they very well may be revered
as man’s best friend,
but a woman has never known
a more loyal companion,
and never a better keeper
of her secrets;
and so I shall rescue
a yard full of dogs
that transform into a bed full
as we sleep soundly
and dream of chasing rabbits
we never intend to catch
I will waste away the afternoons
in a decadent red velvet chair,
filling volume after volume
with the hedonistic thoughts
of my fleeting youth;
I will fondly recall the days
when I was the star of my own tales,
weighing all the wrong I committed
against all the right I achieved,
finding balance in the mix
I will welcome the lines that map
the landscape of my face
and redefine my knowledge
of what is beautiful,
with silver hair flowing
down my back
ancient denim overalls
stained with paint
from a thousand projects
I may or may not have finished,
my bare feet kissing the floor
with every step
Written by LunaGreyhawk
Go To Page
Ethereal
He went there,
didn't want to but he went
even he paid for the taxi.
The house was old,
walls with moldy designs
of endless years and slovenly dwellers.
He put the key in the door,
he entered, stopped in the center of the room,
there were ghosts in the attic he was sure.
He walked up the aisle, or down the aisle,
it matters little, he opened one, then another, door.
He breathed the spirits of the place,
felt penetrated, invaded,
souls and dust stuck to the nasal mucosa,
macabre sinusitis of forgotten deaths.
He desecrated the house with dense eyes
of search and despair.
The echo of the years pierced eardrums, retinas,
a faint rustling of dry leaves
archived in memory, fire crackling,
birth and death certificates.
The wallpaper had come off and,
hanging, it stabilized on glue-addicted snails.
His blood ran across the kitchen walls,
execution of chickens and hot soups of feverish nights.
There was a putrid empty smell of fruit on the tiles.
and stubborn flies fed on the memories
of leftover love and food.
He strangely didn't see any mice,
maybe they couldn't stand the absence
of a scraping of chairs and screams.
Through the windows of patient cobwebs he saw:
Occasionally dry rose bushes, no flower, many thorns,
where she had often left pieces of lace,
pieces of skin, childhood games.
He saw himself dressed as a sailor, wandering around the house,
pursued by a brother or a slipper,
on impulse he ran through the house again,
time machine, time stopped,
he stopped at the door of the old room,
he extended his hand, did not open, half turn,
the tear devoured the dust from his face in a straight line.
Key in the door, he went out and stopped on the sidewalk,
he got into the taxi, didn't look back.
The house remained, glued to the rearview mirror - he went there -
he didn't want to but he did.
Fingers on keys, electronic sounds, yes, yes, Mr. So-and-so...
I would like to know if your proposal is still standing...
Yes, that's right, I decided to sell... the house...
There he was, a stranger to himself,
he had made a memory withdraw and now
deposited it in the bank.
He went there, he didn't want to, but he did.
PAR
didn't want to but he went
even he paid for the taxi.
The house was old,
walls with moldy designs
of endless years and slovenly dwellers.
He put the key in the door,
he entered, stopped in the center of the room,
there were ghosts in the attic he was sure.
He walked up the aisle, or down the aisle,
it matters little, he opened one, then another, door.
He breathed the spirits of the place,
felt penetrated, invaded,
souls and dust stuck to the nasal mucosa,
macabre sinusitis of forgotten deaths.
He desecrated the house with dense eyes
of search and despair.
The echo of the years pierced eardrums, retinas,
a faint rustling of dry leaves
archived in memory, fire crackling,
birth and death certificates.
The wallpaper had come off and,
hanging, it stabilized on glue-addicted snails.
His blood ran across the kitchen walls,
execution of chickens and hot soups of feverish nights.
There was a putrid empty smell of fruit on the tiles.
and stubborn flies fed on the memories
of leftover love and food.
He strangely didn't see any mice,
maybe they couldn't stand the absence
of a scraping of chairs and screams.
Through the windows of patient cobwebs he saw:
Occasionally dry rose bushes, no flower, many thorns,
where she had often left pieces of lace,
pieces of skin, childhood games.
He saw himself dressed as a sailor, wandering around the house,
pursued by a brother or a slipper,
on impulse he ran through the house again,
time machine, time stopped,
he stopped at the door of the old room,
he extended his hand, did not open, half turn,
the tear devoured the dust from his face in a straight line.
Key in the door, he went out and stopped on the sidewalk,
he got into the taxi, didn't look back.
The house remained, glued to the rearview mirror - he went there -
he didn't want to but he did.
Fingers on keys, electronic sounds, yes, yes, Mr. So-and-so...
I would like to know if your proposal is still standing...
Yes, that's right, I decided to sell... the house...
There he was, a stranger to himself,
he had made a memory withdraw and now
deposited it in the bank.
He went there, he didn't want to, but he did.
PAR
Written by PAR
(PAULO ACACIO RAMOS)
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Related submission no longer exists.
Litany of a Life, Boring
In lieu of words,
Which will be left unread
Inside the small café atop Snowdon
Where coffee tastes of midnight blue,
The view is breath of my very existence
In no particular unholy order
(Counted by mathemagicians)
Preying priests of solace to bury:
2,683 hangovers (hangovers are Hell’s psychiatrists)
64 front door keys
2 babies lost in womb-space (or trapped in nightmares) somewhere
1 ballerina pirouetting away
835 unfinished manuscripts of ‘Forever Yesterday’ under various beds
3 unsliced wedding cakes (rings never returned)
108 Morrissey concerts
1 Mum-1 Dad-1 Heart
2 bottles smashed in face and stick’ed in stomach
6 scars (one diamond shaped)
1 jukebox (housing the songs of my life)
27 stains left by tattoos on bed sheets
1 psychotic South Africa (who very nearly fucking killed me)
2 journeys to the caravan trail of my Romany ancestors
7 ½ mountains (the last yards are the hardest yards)
1 broken ankle and shoulder
1 ride in an air-ambulance (saw fuck all as the morphine blurred vision)
15 poems burnt in a polaroid pyre
3 inflatable plastic sheep (The Welsh are still oh-so amusingly called sheep-shaggers)
2 untimely deaths of imaginary friends (at sea and an accident at the zoo)
11 scraps for the Cymru Red (bury me in a Welsh shirt & let the worms do their worst)
1 night of passion with excommunicated Nun (well, I write passion…it was…er different)
12 unsent postcards left on Hotel room window ledges
2 dalliances with Catholicism (see above) and an Autumnal vision (probably the vodka)
3 dirty weekends in Brighton (stiletto heel being flung from the pier)
Too much death in 24 months of sorrow
1 beautiful conversation with Alan Bennett
300-ish visits to places of worship
1 wreath for a love bereaved, before it even breathed
237 wickets (it’s a cricket thing)
3 felled ‘rats’ at my feet
1 feeble attempt at Teaching English as a Foreign Language to adolescent Japanese
2 aborted trips to the Northern Lights
552 rainy nights in Soho
1 unread novella on Paris – Toulouse night train
7 regretfully sent letters to pop stars
16 hours on a boat with dozen would-be wordsmiths (prayed for capsizing and take my chances)
2 red boxes of memories
1 reliquary for tomorrow
Which will be left unread
Inside the small café atop Snowdon
Where coffee tastes of midnight blue,
The view is breath of my very existence
In no particular unholy order
(Counted by mathemagicians)
Preying priests of solace to bury:
2,683 hangovers (hangovers are Hell’s psychiatrists)
64 front door keys
2 babies lost in womb-space (or trapped in nightmares) somewhere
1 ballerina pirouetting away
835 unfinished manuscripts of ‘Forever Yesterday’ under various beds
3 unsliced wedding cakes (rings never returned)
108 Morrissey concerts
1 Mum-1 Dad-1 Heart
2 bottles smashed in face and stick’ed in stomach
6 scars (one diamond shaped)
1 jukebox (housing the songs of my life)
27 stains left by tattoos on bed sheets
1 psychotic South Africa (who very nearly fucking killed me)
2 journeys to the caravan trail of my Romany ancestors
7 ½ mountains (the last yards are the hardest yards)
1 broken ankle and shoulder
1 ride in an air-ambulance (saw fuck all as the morphine blurred vision)
15 poems burnt in a polaroid pyre
3 inflatable plastic sheep (The Welsh are still oh-so amusingly called sheep-shaggers)
2 untimely deaths of imaginary friends (at sea and an accident at the zoo)
11 scraps for the Cymru Red (bury me in a Welsh shirt & let the worms do their worst)
1 night of passion with excommunicated Nun (well, I write passion…it was…er different)
12 unsent postcards left on Hotel room window ledges
2 dalliances with Catholicism (see above) and an Autumnal vision (probably the vodka)
3 dirty weekends in Brighton (stiletto heel being flung from the pier)
Too much death in 24 months of sorrow
1 beautiful conversation with Alan Bennett
300-ish visits to places of worship
1 wreath for a love bereaved, before it even breathed
237 wickets (it’s a cricket thing)
3 felled ‘rats’ at my feet
1 feeble attempt at Teaching English as a Foreign Language to adolescent Japanese
2 aborted trips to the Northern Lights
552 rainy nights in Soho
1 unread novella on Paris – Toulouse night train
7 regretfully sent letters to pop stars
16 hours on a boat with dozen would-be wordsmiths (prayed for capsizing and take my chances)
2 red boxes of memories
1 reliquary for tomorrow
Written by Strangeways_Rob
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