Poetry competition CLOSED 7th July 2019 1:45pm
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Doppelgänger: the DUP Oscars

poet Anonymous

Jardim  ( A Villanelle )

By my garden gate’s first-light yawn
reveals entry to the Jardim*  
awaiting patiently each dawn
Blue daisy and black-eyed Susan  
misty flowers can scarce be seen    
by my garden gate’s first-light yawn  
Rows of pots and trellised arbor  
flora buds in need of weeding    
awaiting patiently each dawn  
Calla lilies, peony rose,    
buttercups and hearts a bleeding  
by my garden gate’s first-light yawn  
What have I reaped but what was sown;    
beauty emerged from seedlings    
awaiting patiently each dawn  
Every evening I dream and long  
for daily blooms and birds singing    
by my garden gate’s first-light yawn  
awaiting patiently each dawn  
Josh is the King of Form and constantly amazes me with the precision he executes them with.  I have come to love his emergent leadership from a mature perspective, and admire him as an integral member of the Deep Side.  
poet Anonymous

Dreamlight Friendship


His friendship, like a ribbon of melody  
heard only in quiet nights  
subtle like roses rustling  
as their blooms inhale the wind  
it is he that sits under the moon  
revels on the wind upon his face  
grateful for a life though not perfect  
extracting wonder in his every day  
he shares no pompous words  
nor does he crave for accolades  
just a right to exhale inhale  
on his own little patch of sun  
a caring hello...telepathic touch  
of a kindred spirit  
lift his aloneness a little  
the smile on his lips linger longer  
he has the quiet fire of a poet  
an element that symbolises strength  
and he sends flowers  
unpretentious friendship.  
*this poem was entered in a competition here. thank you for reading*
poet Anonymous

Of wind & rain, birds & you

( a note of ambient sounds )

I hear a random trill
outside my door
and stop
to lean my head back;
strained eyes closed,
both hands slip off my
lap like a
rush of wind,
where a leather journal
lies open; lined paper,
with inkings
that faintly echo
their vignettes:

cicada shiver
in the rooted trees
from their humid shrill
above the swamp.

It’s times like this
when summer’s young,
nothing like it
will become,
when days are
‘till after ten at night,
and reason
takes its leave
in flight above the
time that now begins,

to let go the sins
of heat that
I’ve been shackled to
as an inmate
who is
to bust out
of prison and pain
like so many
cloudbursts, of rain!

Guards in their towers
don’t see me
as I venture out
only going late at night
when the fevered air
has turned to mist
I’ve blended in,
and won’t be missed.

Though thoughts of you
in southern climes
are often on my mind,
like soothing sounds of
ambient that I never hear,
but I can always feel
as if by touch, a tap
where then I turn
and look back across
the stillness of the
park I always walk.

In time perhaps,
It’s where your words
will find me then.

Written in tribute to Ahavati.

poet Anonymous

Twinned Planet

On a twinned planet
where stars shine in different patterns
presenting constellations with unusual names,
valued perspectives shape parallel curves
converging at vanishing points
of uncommon human experience.
I’ve been taken there on many occasions
returning to my world
filled with a sense of intriguing possibilities.

Beyond my usual radars, clipping ships
sail the horizon following special instructions;
they filter my assumptions through a strain
made with soft, yet durable, gauze.
A stepped pyramid is imprinted in my mind
as a place which holds treasures from ancient times.
If you wish to remain the same, don’t go there.


poet Anonymous

Wayward Words and the Magic Of Such

There’s what’s left of my dignity
curled around the flail of my own disregard
for the addicts credo
that I want what I want
and I'm willing to set us all on fire to get it
a pretty arsonist
with a penchant for 100%proof and
playing with matches
shuffle steps stagger and slide
out into the morose evening
a drizzle of hunger
spewed onto the pavement
a multicoloured
multi faceted gem
glistening rainbows in the grease
of my lack of self control
and I turn the lock
I turn the lock
I turn the lock
till the tumbler clicks enough times to  
satisfy the fact that I'm
living under a bridge
and drank the rent money again
hope that when the sky clears I can touch the moon
I used to pretend I was anywhere than here
but I know
a secret  
they never see the left coming
my foot on the roaring pedal
is no way to flee myself
despite leaving pieces of me strewn in the alleyway
a garish bunting of my failures
always used to end at the bottom of a bottle
now they're here
in words that fall from my fingers
in metaphors
streaming water that cascades
down my cheeks
the ache in my blood
my bones
and I serve them up with no garnish
no adornments
raw and uncooked
so maybe just maybe
we can sink this shot together and burn
into the night
howling at the pretty moon
finding real dignity
in cursive letters
A tribute to missy demeanour  
Who’s writing is a metaphorical treasure trove
of honest and raw
Her life told in pretty pictures  
even the parts that hack to the bone
A poet
A crafter of words
And someone worth your time to read

poet Anonymous

Late Night Automat

Too many years to count
Had passed
But there she was  
In a late night automat  
(isn’t that how it always starts)  
Looking like a painting
Cracked by too much light  
As she sipped her coffee
We talked all night  
In the ways of strangers  
Reacquainting, each hoping  
The other understood
What they missed before.  
She was a late-night loner  
Too caffeinated to see  
Beyond her lipstick-stained mug  
And me, I needed to feel warm  
“So, what do you do now”  
She asked nonchalantly  
I couldn’t say unemployed
Down and out between jobs
I could barely afford the coffee
We shared
I couldn’t take the pity  
Look on her face, again  
“Sales”, I explained  
Like it was an affliction  
A bane in my soul
She was gracious  
But knew I was lying  
Also knew deep down  
I would be gone by morning
She was still single—
We walked to her place  
Around the corner  
And for a time, I was warm  
Until light shredded the illusion  
Her eyes didn’t sting
Morning mist and dew  
She’d been here before  
Knew the routine  
Fed me good before I left  
“Don’t work too hard” she said  
Looking like an old painting
Cracked by too much light  
As she sipped her coffee  
Never saw her again after that-  
But heard years later  
She’d married pretty good
I hoped she'd finally found that thing  
I could never give her  
We were just too different  
And yet wanted so badly to love  
the other  
highlyfunctional is one of the more unique poets on DU. His poetry springs from a reservoir of personal experience combined with human discovery and recognition of the human spirit when affected by unrequited love and carnal desire. While many of his pieces are erotic, many more shadow noir, reflecting those black and white films of mystery, intrigue, and perils of love. Yet the underlying essence is desire for truth, the real deal of a relationship.  
poet Anonymous


she dreams    
in pane-glass reflections    
between here and now    
lounging in the middle    
of how      
summer heat warms      
her memories, nights      
wrapped in his safe arms      
but of hospital echos    
and emptiness, too      
she burgeons    
from experience    
shadows life's lead    
garners meaning      
she desires a repeat      
so thick in dreamery      
the future appears oblique    
a vertigo sense of being      
If any balance exists      
it lies not beneath      
nor above her-      
but, in the second hand      
of each breath she exhales      
between life and death    
lies footfalls      
she plants each with grace    
and ineffable beauty of spirit      
an example to us all      
of how to carry on  
'JeJe' is a quite, graceful writer sharing her hopes, desires, fears, and dreams from the tragedy of past experience.  Despite the pain of life, she walks in beauty and grace, sharing each footfall through poetry.      
poet Anonymous


 A rose with petals of titanium
Her bloody thorns tiny daggers
ripped my flesh, elevated me
I kneel, and know she is my love

COMPETITION PIECE: Doppelganger: the DUP Oscars. I wrote this for Delanee, She has a razor sharp terse verse that takes my breath away.

poet Anonymous

deliberately aimless

Deliberately aimless
Not just in the current city where my
domicile of choice exists but also towns  
small with one or two main streets, I    
love to roam and visit the wholeness  
of the entire city so that I might feel  
experience and know its  culture &  
No decisions made as to where or    
when to act upon the where only to  
immerse myself by interacting with  
the awakening hustle and bustle of  
a place where everyone knows    
everyone and everyone’s business.  
I am the Flaneur Gook who now  
everyone is gossiping about  
not just in my small city but in  
everywhere -  small town.  
I’ve have been reading / following oskar for nearly a decade  
& his subtle wit and humor in his ink has captured me  
to a point where I wish I could share his ink with everyone!  
AND what is up with his #themes??!!  Love them though I do  
not understand the choices.  
poet Anonymous

Seraphic Dragon

a Dragon of DUP
wilder than a hurricane
Sexy Intelligent Free
Fearless Brilliantly


no topic off
the list

Drop Dead Gorgeous
Smart sense
& sense of humor
dances and tackles
all poetic forms

Quick quirky quiet
quietly loves to flirt
Quintessential queue
Kindness not inert

Two-edged sword
a samurai of words
Seraphic Dragon
breathes searing
loving while hot
the lines, they blur

I am not very adept to writing like many Poets here
let alone, The Cosmic Dragon, and so, this is my Tribute
to Her, Her kindness, support and challenges to me to
write and often spill out of my comfort zone.
& so I spill this for Sky_dancer

poet Anonymous

Treasured Gems

Gently chiselled from past pains
her words carve new hope
into a troubled world,
leaving treasured gems
next to upturned stones,
offered freely to perceptive travellers
trekking through the jungle
of everyday life.


poet Anonymous

The buzz of love is nothing more than broken wings

there was nothing else to be done and no where else to turn  
I lay belly down enshrouded in darkness to write
pins and needles tingling in my unruly fingers  
squinting to find a place between the lines  
shadows a tapestry of understanding drifting between  
cognizant and illusion  
honesty sticks to my throat like honey  
sweet and thick with the richness
of a million hours of unacknowledged back breaking effort  
sorrow never sounded so beautiful as the buzz of broken wings  
despondent and still fluttering  
still trying under the moonlight  
how can I tell her  
the sky no longer holds  
constellations of our dreams  
an afterimage of stars that float between  
clouds and smog  
ecohoes of a secret  
made an art of pressing desiccated flowers  
and revelling in their frozen disphoria  
I am responsible  
for the irresponsibility  
of a lover  
standing naked in the kitchen  
a pulsing nerve  
tearing the knuckle bone from  
slow cooked pork steeped in thick gravy  
it runs over my fingers  
sloughing off  
as the sunrise bleeds through venitian blinds  
and a question comes unbidden  
do you still love me?  
and I find I’m more in love with  
the art of loving  
as I sup on the last greasy  
scraps clinging to the knuckle  
I dig in the pot of madness  
leaving hunks of meat intact  
so I can suck at the tibia  
because the sweetest meat is closest to the bone  
Tell me what it’s like being human  
able to stand beneath the sun  
tell me what it’s like  
even though I see  
nothing else can be done

Written for Layla

A poetess who’s words are deep often profound and carry so much light and shade dancing below the surface

Take time out

poet Anonymous

A Stoic Rock Hits Hardest

I take another soothe of
barrell-charred-smoky-flavoured whiskey  
light my immitation Cuban Cigar  

because I
feel as if I’ve lost everything  
more than  
you’ll ever understand, because  
i dont know how to let it out  
it hangs in the lost silences of our last  
drifts in the air heavy  
as decadence flavoured in cancer  
you think its just you  
that I’m able to pick up  
move on as if  
all in  
was a metaphor  
to spread thighs  
to open doors to promises  
as if all i was doing was playing one last tune  
on one more lousy juke box  
while the smoke machine  
blurred reality  
until you bent naked to my ministrations  
an orchestra, I wielded out an opus  
then fled the stage, fled the country  
leaving you with an echo  
well fuck you  
because parts of me are carved in grisly detail  
the silent rock  
you dash your own brains out with  
long after your hurt is gone  
I’ll still be stained  
in your blood  
with only bottles of  
anesthetics to wash it off  
A small tribute to HighlyFunctional  
Who’s noir styling is smoothe as aged whiskey  
and he sees the light in the darkness  
poet Anonymous

For The Living

Trail-blazing evolution
paint-balling poetry onto blank pages
words grass-hopper along the lines
linking concepts in novel pictures

magnetising Stephen King
for summary execution,
pirate’s treasure-trove
buried beneath crackling sands of DUP

NaPo hosting stars A+
with exemplary encouragement
through calm psychology

as Magnetron spots anomalies,
Bloody Mary walks the spittle-talk
and an architect stretches designs
to incorporate pencilled portraiture

of history’s heroism with poets.
Readers stand back struggling to find
the right expression - then it comes:
“Make Way for the Living”.


poet Anonymous

Nattdans med himleni (Inlak'esh beautiful one)


You are the very light that welcomes
weary travellers
those that have strayed from the path
unto darkness, that fearful unknown
Those journeys walked
are the individuals steps to walk alone

You had said
All we can, is but shine for them
perhaps, bright enough to guide them
Home if they so desire
to feel again 'source', warmth... Connected

Go now
You had said
be that shining beacon, little bird.. fly
or had you forgotten those questions
in the ethereal pool

Remember what it means

to play the illuminaries
Little bird don't cry, next time we meet
it will be 'I' that is holding 'you'


through Cassiopias wispy hair strands
acceleration lightening speed
quickening pace
leveling out
slipped through
even andromedas fingertips

What the soul promised on that day,
when time herself awoke conscious
that ancient of pacts became broken
The wings removed from both parties
Fading memories..

how long has this gone
Days, weeks, months
Countless millennia

A million stars shoot past
as if in farewell

(3) Rise

how bright that one burns
Even in its last gasp death throes
Look, still 'that' which is pure
fueling defiantly, all but fumes now
soon to crash as a tear drop in the ocean

catch a falling star
keep it within a lantern  
better that then let it die

Wake little bird
Arise from your slumber
Rest a moment, here within my arms
you are safe, fear not little bird
For we have much to accomplish,
it is 'I' that is holding 'You'
As it was, when all was one
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