Poetry competition CLOSED 25th June 2023 5:57pm
WINNER
neves
neves
Poem of the Month June 2023
Related submission no longer exists.
It Happened Again
why are we surprised?
when someone
guns down
children
teachers
clergy
blacks
gays
jews
why are we surprised?
when someone burns down
a church or clinic
why are we surprised?
when someone
runs down people
in charlottesville
or waukesha
who fills the madman’s
addled mind with ideas?
who fills his hand
with the gun?
who sneers
in their commentaries
(that the victims
brought it on themselves)?
what’s surprising is
it doesn’t happen
more frequently
popular media
doesn’t acknowledge
or even understand
their complicity
lone assassin
a nonentity
right-wing media’s
constant spew of hatred
spurs on
such madmen
television and movies
bring them into being
life imitating art
but the worst art the stupid art
coating the world
like a bad case of diarrhea
why are we surprised?
our culture
is a petri dish
intentionally breeding
hatred and murder
by people who will
make money from them
why are we surprised?
“it was a crazy guy”
it always is
they’re re easy to find
pick anyone
(C)2023 Raibeart Bruis
when someone
guns down
children
teachers
clergy
blacks
gays
jews
why are we surprised?
when someone burns down
a church or clinic
why are we surprised?
when someone
runs down people
in charlottesville
or waukesha
who fills the madman’s
addled mind with ideas?
who fills his hand
with the gun?
who sneers
in their commentaries
(that the victims
brought it on themselves)?
what’s surprising is
it doesn’t happen
more frequently
popular media
doesn’t acknowledge
or even understand
their complicity
lone assassin
a nonentity
right-wing media’s
constant spew of hatred
spurs on
such madmen
television and movies
bring them into being
life imitating art
but the worst art the stupid art
coating the world
like a bad case of diarrhea
why are we surprised?
our culture
is a petri dish
intentionally breeding
hatred and murder
by people who will
make money from them
why are we surprised?
“it was a crazy guy”
it always is
they’re re easy to find
pick anyone
(C)2023 Raibeart Bruis
Written by Kinkpoet
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South
”Growing up Southern is a privilege, really. It’s more than where you’re born, it’s an idea and state of mind that seems imparted at birth. It’s more than loving fried chicken, sweet tea, football, and country music. It’s being hospitable, devoted to front porches, magnolias, moon pies and coca-cola… and each other. We don’t become Southern – we’re born that way.”
Unknown
*
It’s hot
As I sit outside night drawing down
Humid
The damp of perspiration covers me
As the first stars appear
Through the haze, and clouds, and distant contrails
Which mask the deepening blue
A warm breeze idly stirs
And its touch awakens the thought
If only it was more
Its summer in the south
And there’s a depth which hides behind the veneer of day
Like a character at the crossroads
Struggling to find her way
But the freight of the past
Is like a lone train whistle in the night
There’s a deep here to feelings
Poignant beyond the knowing
They just is
Old things are remembered here
Good and bad
Side by side
The south is an old soul set in her ways
Intangible as the scent of honeysuckle and pine
Adamant as the summer’s heat
In drought dry fields
The myth which slew the truth
Though the truth rises again with the dawn
There’s a waiting here
An expectancy here
Amid shuttered mills and sagging mill homes
And urban sprawl of the "new south"
As the lights go out
Of dreams that whisper
There’s yet a final act
The south will rise again
But is it a south that’s ever been?
The cicadas hum in the evening heat
A warm breeze idly stirs
And its touch awakens the thought
If only it was more
Unknown
*
It’s hot
As I sit outside night drawing down
Humid
The damp of perspiration covers me
As the first stars appear
Through the haze, and clouds, and distant contrails
Which mask the deepening blue
A warm breeze idly stirs
And its touch awakens the thought
If only it was more
Its summer in the south
And there’s a depth which hides behind the veneer of day
Like a character at the crossroads
Struggling to find her way
But the freight of the past
Is like a lone train whistle in the night
There’s a deep here to feelings
Poignant beyond the knowing
They just is
Old things are remembered here
Good and bad
Side by side
The south is an old soul set in her ways
Intangible as the scent of honeysuckle and pine
Adamant as the summer’s heat
In drought dry fields
The myth which slew the truth
Though the truth rises again with the dawn
There’s a waiting here
An expectancy here
Amid shuttered mills and sagging mill homes
And urban sprawl of the "new south"
As the lights go out
Of dreams that whisper
There’s yet a final act
The south will rise again
But is it a south that’s ever been?
The cicadas hum in the evening heat
A warm breeze idly stirs
And its touch awakens the thought
If only it was more
Written by AverageJoe
(Average Joe. AJ. Joe)
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Queen of Insects...
The walls of this destination are so haunting.
Rejects of society all gather here.
It isn't a prison although it may as well be.
The skittering of insects along the floor.
Agonizing screams each with unique tones.
Banging heads against the door in hopes of release.
My voice is religion everyone adheres to.
Do you want to lick my shoe's heel?
I just might allow it.
Flickering fluorescent lights all along the corridor.
A long list of numbers with names no one cares about.
Except for me.
Of course, I care.
I'm a doctor.
Here to make you feel better.
Do as you're told so you won't get worse.
Don't resist my treatment.
This is for your own good.
Tell me your secrets so I can begin assessing.
Is this place where you hurt the most?
That bitch has got us lined up again.
Who's going to be her plaything tonight?
I hate myself for wanting to be the one.
I hate myself and want to kill myself!
My deteriorating mental state Is her doing.
What did she say?
"Feel better...?"
Money has erased my existence.
No birth certificate just number on a list.
I'm the one who you answer to.
Don't forget you're my responsibility.
Come to me like a moth to a flame.
This black widow is starving.
There's no one by that name.
I swear, so don't look into it.
I'm the queen of this hive.
Caring for insects everyone has no problem squishing...
Rejects of society all gather here.
It isn't a prison although it may as well be.
The skittering of insects along the floor.
Agonizing screams each with unique tones.
Banging heads against the door in hopes of release.
My voice is religion everyone adheres to.
Do you want to lick my shoe's heel?
I just might allow it.
Flickering fluorescent lights all along the corridor.
A long list of numbers with names no one cares about.
Except for me.
Of course, I care.
I'm a doctor.
Here to make you feel better.
Do as you're told so you won't get worse.
Don't resist my treatment.
This is for your own good.
Tell me your secrets so I can begin assessing.
Is this place where you hurt the most?
That bitch has got us lined up again.
Who's going to be her plaything tonight?
I hate myself for wanting to be the one.
I hate myself and want to kill myself!
My deteriorating mental state Is her doing.
What did she say?
"Feel better...?"
Money has erased my existence.
No birth certificate just number on a list.
I'm the one who you answer to.
Don't forget you're my responsibility.
Come to me like a moth to a flame.
This black widow is starving.
There's no one by that name.
I swear, so don't look into it.
I'm the queen of this hive.
Caring for insects everyone has no problem squishing...
Written by O_Blue
(CiRcLeS...)
Go To Page
if-then
if there is love in
this world
then why so many
broken hearts,
tears of loneliness,
desperation and
suicides.
if there is hope in
this world
then why so much
bigotry, division,
rage, whole sale
slaughter and war
if there is a God of
this world
then why are we
surrounded by
so many
hells
Written by buddhakitty
Go To Page
Stay Humble
We are not the big shots we think we are;
Not kings, Lords, or Magna Carta Barons,
Or any kind of Hollywood star,
Or any constable friendly Karens.
We are poets of The Underground Deep!
We are devoted to elegant verse,
And the craft of it, even as we sleep,
To all things honorable and perverse...
For nothing exists in the day or night
That cannot be improved with our skill,
At graciousness and poetic insight
Mixed with occasional erotic thrill;
That sweet icing on the existence cake
Which has every poet learning to bake!
Not kings, Lords, or Magna Carta Barons,
Or any kind of Hollywood star,
Or any constable friendly Karens.
We are poets of The Underground Deep!
We are devoted to elegant verse,
And the craft of it, even as we sleep,
To all things honorable and perverse...
For nothing exists in the day or night
That cannot be improved with our skill,
At graciousness and poetic insight
Mixed with occasional erotic thrill;
That sweet icing on the existence cake
Which has every poet learning to bake!
Written by MidnightSonneteer
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:
LunaGreyhawk, AspergerPoet56, monovox128, Pinkdreams, Northern_Soul, ajay, dimpy, Her, LadyRain, Marks, Kinkpoet, MidnightSonneteer, James_A_Knight, MadameLavender, Betty, Bluevelvete
Thank you to the following members for voting:
LunaGreyhawk, AspergerPoet56, monovox128, Pinkdreams, Northern_Soul, ajay, dimpy, Her, LadyRain, Marks, Kinkpoet, MidnightSonneteer, James_A_Knight, MadameLavender, Betty, Bluevelvete
