Poetry competition CLOSED 14th April 2024 1:55pm
WINNER
faithmairee (Faith Elizabeth Brigham)
faithmairee (Faith Elizabeth Brigham)
RUNNERS-UP:
adagio
and Heisenberg68
Laughter
Shanghai Sleuth - Chapter 1
Shanghai in the 1930s, known as The Wicked Old City of the Orient's Babylon. Where villains ruled, and exhibitionists danced. A perfect place for a wounded heart like Slade Garrison, PI. Opium was the rage and the booze flowed freely.
So how did a guy like me end up here? I was a Whiffenpoof (a male Cappella singer) at one time and graduated to misdemeanors before I became a cop. Eventually, I found myself in China after a doomed marriage. Then, after a string of really bad decisions, I found my career cut short as well.
I was furloughed by the police department. In reality, I was caught with my zipper down, banging the Chief's wife at his retirement party. It, and a broken nose, became my adieu. I turned in my shield and Smith & Wesson; I kept my backup gun, of course.
With a bandage across my nose and cotton stuck up my nostrils, along with two black eyes, I knew how opponents of Joe Louis felt after a couple of rounds. I'm not a perfect world but I don't shit in the street as the crazies do. I'm just a little bit sarcastic and horny as hell.
Now I'm sleuthing, mostly for missing pets and runaway teenagers. It pays the bills, barely. Because my 1937 coupe was paid for, albeit in need of a new set of tires, I was living cheaply in a room off my office. It wasn't what one would call luxury. Up three flights of stairs and down a long-forgotten hallway of vacant offices, it wasn't what one would call, "Putting on the Ritz."
I’m an on-again, off-again agnostic, when not in detox. One might say that I am an alcoholic. One might say I am just a fuckin’ drunk. I see myself as somewhere between a Wild Turkey and Four Roses stuck between jobs, reality, and pipe dreams. Knowing my own strengths and weaknesses of opium. At times drifting into the underworld of prostitution's seediness.
At the moment, I was on a retainer to find Sadie, a Schnauzer with an attitude, which was missing from my landlord's menagerie. The little fucker was an ankle biter and I had a pair of argyles with holes to prove it. Also, I think I inherited the mutt's fleas.
It was hot in the city and the oscillating fan was just stirring up ashes and dreams as I looked up from the crossword puzzle. There was a beginning of a shadow beneath the office door; the office atop a noodle factory in the steamy garment district adjacent to the bordellos. No one spoke English, including my secretary who had just given me her notice. Leaving with her steno pad and my old Remington typewriter.
Then a knock. I was thinking it could be my ex looking for her support payment. The door that bore on pebbled glass the following information:
SUITE 409
SLADE GARRISON
PRIVATE DETECTIVE
So how did a guy like me end up here? I was a Whiffenpoof (a male Cappella singer) at one time and graduated to misdemeanors before I became a cop. Eventually, I found myself in China after a doomed marriage. Then, after a string of really bad decisions, I found my career cut short as well.
I was furloughed by the police department. In reality, I was caught with my zipper down, banging the Chief's wife at his retirement party. It, and a broken nose, became my adieu. I turned in my shield and Smith & Wesson; I kept my backup gun, of course.
With a bandage across my nose and cotton stuck up my nostrils, along with two black eyes, I knew how opponents of Joe Louis felt after a couple of rounds. I'm not a perfect world but I don't shit in the street as the crazies do. I'm just a little bit sarcastic and horny as hell.
Now I'm sleuthing, mostly for missing pets and runaway teenagers. It pays the bills, barely. Because my 1937 coupe was paid for, albeit in need of a new set of tires, I was living cheaply in a room off my office. It wasn't what one would call luxury. Up three flights of stairs and down a long-forgotten hallway of vacant offices, it wasn't what one would call, "Putting on the Ritz."
I’m an on-again, off-again agnostic, when not in detox. One might say that I am an alcoholic. One might say I am just a fuckin’ drunk. I see myself as somewhere between a Wild Turkey and Four Roses stuck between jobs, reality, and pipe dreams. Knowing my own strengths and weaknesses of opium. At times drifting into the underworld of prostitution's seediness.
At the moment, I was on a retainer to find Sadie, a Schnauzer with an attitude, which was missing from my landlord's menagerie. The little fucker was an ankle biter and I had a pair of argyles with holes to prove it. Also, I think I inherited the mutt's fleas.
It was hot in the city and the oscillating fan was just stirring up ashes and dreams as I looked up from the crossword puzzle. There was a beginning of a shadow beneath the office door; the office atop a noodle factory in the steamy garment district adjacent to the bordellos. No one spoke English, including my secretary who had just given me her notice. Leaving with her steno pad and my old Remington typewriter.
Then a knock. I was thinking it could be my ex looking for her support payment. The door that bore on pebbled glass the following information:
SUITE 409
SLADE GARRISON
PRIVATE DETECTIVE
Written by adagio
Go To Page
a true story
caught in traffic
in downtown orlando
on our way to meet up
with friends from
out of town
the traffic light
at livingston turns red
we are in the
right hand lane
when i notice a lone male
in the left lane
in a car same make
and model as ours
ogling me from a far
eventually my husband
sees the man stare
asks under his breath
why's this nut
staring at our car
my husbands curiosity
overwhelms him and he
calls out the window
to him asking if
he wants our car
the stranger shakes
his head and grins
'you can have the car'
he calls out and adds
'i'll take your woman'
my husband's face
reveals his shock
as the light turns green
and the guy speeds ahead
laughing his arse off
in downtown orlando
on our way to meet up
with friends from
out of town
the traffic light
at livingston turns red
we are in the
right hand lane
when i notice a lone male
in the left lane
in a car same make
and model as ours
ogling me from a far
eventually my husband
sees the man stare
asks under his breath
why's this nut
staring at our car
my husbands curiosity
overwhelms him and he
calls out the window
to him asking if
he wants our car
the stranger shakes
his head and grins
'you can have the car'
he calls out and adds
'i'll take your woman'
my husband's face
reveals his shock
as the light turns green
and the guy speeds ahead
laughing his arse off
Written by faithmairee
(Faith Elizabeth Brigham)
Go To Page
Gloria The Goat
Who needs a car
When they always break down?
Or a boat when it gets
Holes in the bottom
And it won't float?
I'd rather have a goat
even though
It couldn't get me
As far as a car
Gloria is more than just
a pet goat
Gloria keeps me company
She is a friend indeed
She 's a real blessing
Because my lawn
Never needs mowing
With her around
When they always break down?
Or a boat when it gets
Holes in the bottom
And it won't float?
I'd rather have a goat
even though
It couldn't get me
As far as a car
Gloria is more than just
a pet goat
Gloria keeps me company
She is a friend indeed
She 's a real blessing
Because my lawn
Never needs mowing
With her around
Written by faithmairee
(Faith Elizabeth Brigham)
Go To Page
Related submission no longer exists.
The Isle of Snugglindon
- The Isle of Snugglindon -
On the Isle of Snugglindon, upon the forest floor,
The silly little wugglebugs, are scurrying around.
“Oh, if I only had a brain!” they’ll say once more,
When the silly little bugs, deem to make a sound.
But no one ever hears those wugglebugs at play…
And most ignore the dens they’ll build in summer.
For high above, the mak-mak birds fly, every day,
Saying: “We must mak-mak our nests!” so sure…
And when you hear these birds calling, so loudly,
You might forget those furry rarglesnarfs so close.
As they lumber through the woods, ever proudly,
Hunting for honey in the buzzy trees by the coasts.
“Oh, I am so fierce and furry!” they’ll say to all…
So the bees drop their honeycombs, and fly so far!
The rarglesnarf is delighted to see the prize to fall,
Whilst mother moon laughs, oft tickling every star.
And there: telling woodchuck jokes in the shade…
Of the bigawig tree, sits a wise ancient hermit crab.
He knows the names of every animal as God made,
And he recites them before bed, him slightly mad!
Often pirates like to come to search for a treasure,
But when they say “Arrrgh!” they’ll have to run…
Lest those rarglesnarfs catch them with a pleasure,
To tickle them into revealing: their barrels of rum.
Now the wookisnooks bring whisky and often yell:
“Uz me, uz you!” and sing old wookisnook songs.
The critters drink until they dream after night fell,
Until the ring ringing: of the early morning gongs.
Within the trees, where the gong-ringers still live,
Fur-balls with arms and legs both strong and long.
It is they: who make the whisky that they do give,
To the wookisnooks: in return for a game of pong.
And once every seven moons, to the cry of loons,
The creatures of Snugglindon Isle hold their party.
With stumbles and swoons, and hungry raccoons,
They drink ‘till they drop and eat feasts so hearty!
Where, oh where a navigator might ask himself…
Oh where or wherever is uncharted Snugglindon?
I’ve heard that there lives many an enchanted elf,
On that island, where strange critters dwell upon!
You’ll not find it on maps: nor by taking catnaps,
And certainly it can’t be found by swimming off.
You could swim for laps until all strength it saps,
Or, you could simply ask the average gargleboff!
But since they only live on the isle that you seek,
There is only one way to be certain you’ll arrive.
Why not ask: any child, on any day of the week?
They’ll happily tell you where the critters thrive!
On the Isle of Snugglindon, upon the forest floor,
The silly little wugglebugs, are scurrying around.
“Oh, if I only had a brain!” they’ll say once more,
When the silly little bugs, deem to make a sound.
But no one ever hears those wugglebugs at play…
And most ignore the dens they’ll build in summer.
For high above, the mak-mak birds fly, every day,
Saying: “We must mak-mak our nests!” so sure…
And when you hear these birds calling, so loudly,
You might forget those furry rarglesnarfs so close.
As they lumber through the woods, ever proudly,
Hunting for honey in the buzzy trees by the coasts.
“Oh, I am so fierce and furry!” they’ll say to all…
So the bees drop their honeycombs, and fly so far!
The rarglesnarf is delighted to see the prize to fall,
Whilst mother moon laughs, oft tickling every star.
And there: telling woodchuck jokes in the shade…
Of the bigawig tree, sits a wise ancient hermit crab.
He knows the names of every animal as God made,
And he recites them before bed, him slightly mad!
Often pirates like to come to search for a treasure,
But when they say “Arrrgh!” they’ll have to run…
Lest those rarglesnarfs catch them with a pleasure,
To tickle them into revealing: their barrels of rum.
Now the wookisnooks bring whisky and often yell:
“Uz me, uz you!” and sing old wookisnook songs.
The critters drink until they dream after night fell,
Until the ring ringing: of the early morning gongs.
Within the trees, where the gong-ringers still live,
Fur-balls with arms and legs both strong and long.
It is they: who make the whisky that they do give,
To the wookisnooks: in return for a game of pong.
And once every seven moons, to the cry of loons,
The creatures of Snugglindon Isle hold their party.
With stumbles and swoons, and hungry raccoons,
They drink ‘till they drop and eat feasts so hearty!
Where, oh where a navigator might ask himself…
Oh where or wherever is uncharted Snugglindon?
I’ve heard that there lives many an enchanted elf,
On that island, where strange critters dwell upon!
You’ll not find it on maps: nor by taking catnaps,
And certainly it can’t be found by swimming off.
You could swim for laps until all strength it saps,
Or, you could simply ask the average gargleboff!
But since they only live on the isle that you seek,
There is only one way to be certain you’ll arrive.
Why not ask: any child, on any day of the week?
They’ll happily tell you where the critters thrive!
Written by Kou_Indigo
(Karam L. Parveen-Ashton)
Go To Page
The Death of Cupid
- The Death of Cupid -
Aphrodite spied the god of love one day, that pesky Eros!
Cupid some called him, and made of him that fat little imp,
Which decorates cards one day a year, with his pudgy toes.
But the goddess was jealous, all because of that silly gimp,
Who stole the fame that was rightfully hers, and her alone!
So she went to the god of war one day, Ares the crimson,
And together they hatched a plan of bloody steel and stone.
By their design, the god of love would be entirely undone!
Ares waited by the pillars of Olympus, watching the clouds,
Whilst Eros visited fools below, giving heats to each couple.
The god of war waited long hearing the many joyous shouts,
Which sickened him, and made his muscles tighten supple.
He waited all of that Valentine’s Day for Eros to get done,
Plotting mad murder of that annoying god, one and for all!
Tightening his grip on his sword, anticipating a scarlet fun…
He smiled when at last foolish Eros flew by Olympus’ wall.
Close to the pillar where Ares hid, the winged god did fly,
Never suspected his end was near, and so he did shriek…
Whilst the god of war did slice him in two with a battle cry!
Valentine’s Day was finished, its’ mascot never to speak.
Ares tore the wings from out Eros’ back, a trophy so red,
And brought them before Aphrodite, to lie at her soft feet.
Even more delighted was she, to see Eros’ cloven head…
Now love was hers alone to grant, on her terms to meet.
Aphrodite spied the god of love one day, that pesky Eros!
Cupid some called him, and made of him that fat little imp,
Which decorates cards one day a year, with his pudgy toes.
But the goddess was jealous, all because of that silly gimp,
Who stole the fame that was rightfully hers, and her alone!
So she went to the god of war one day, Ares the crimson,
And together they hatched a plan of bloody steel and stone.
By their design, the god of love would be entirely undone!
Ares waited by the pillars of Olympus, watching the clouds,
Whilst Eros visited fools below, giving heats to each couple.
The god of war waited long hearing the many joyous shouts,
Which sickened him, and made his muscles tighten supple.
He waited all of that Valentine’s Day for Eros to get done,
Plotting mad murder of that annoying god, one and for all!
Tightening his grip on his sword, anticipating a scarlet fun…
He smiled when at last foolish Eros flew by Olympus’ wall.
Close to the pillar where Ares hid, the winged god did fly,
Never suspected his end was near, and so he did shriek…
Whilst the god of war did slice him in two with a battle cry!
Valentine’s Day was finished, its’ mascot never to speak.
Ares tore the wings from out Eros’ back, a trophy so red,
And brought them before Aphrodite, to lie at her soft feet.
Even more delighted was she, to see Eros’ cloven head…
Now love was hers alone to grant, on her terms to meet.
Written by Kou_Indigo
(Karam L. Parveen-Ashton)
Go To Page
