Poetry competition CLOSED 24th August 2011 1:36pm
WINNER
rayheinrich (Death Plane for Teddy)
rayheinrich (Death Plane for Teddy)
Page:
Inanimate as animate
Door knob.
I am touched, squeezed,
forced to turn
though I stay hard.
Unable to run from such a fate,
yes, of course, my job is special
but I'm always unnoticed.
I can talk to the door,
though he doesn't like me,
they had to drill a hole in him
for me to fit.
Post-traumatic stress they say,
though the creaking always hurts my brass.
Shame really...
I am touched, squeezed,
forced to turn
though I stay hard.
Unable to run from such a fate,
yes, of course, my job is special
but I'm always unnoticed.
I can talk to the door,
though he doesn't like me,
they had to drill a hole in him
for me to fit.
Post-traumatic stress they say,
though the creaking always hurts my brass.
Shame really...
Anonymous
Doorway
You enter me
most times without thought.
In too much of a hurry
to take off your muddy boots.
In and out
with your excess baggage;
ranting and raving
while slamming me about.
Has it never occurred to you
how much I have to keep shut out?
or that I swing both ways…
Maybe I wouldn’t be such a rusty hinge
if you regularly oiled me up.
You enter me
most times without thought.
In too much of a hurry
to take off your muddy boots.
In and out
with your excess baggage;
ranting and raving
while slamming me about.
Has it never occurred to you
how much I have to keep shut out?
or that I swing both ways…
Maybe I wouldn’t be such a rusty hinge
if you regularly oiled me up.
door
she leaned against me gently
when she used to get steamy kisses from her lover
now she staggers down the hallway
digging for keys, high on anesthesia
once, she fell against me, tears flooding
her cerulean eyes, hands pulling on hair
waiting for him to love her again
of course, asking him for love
was like asking me for blood
I will always be here to support her, though
even when the world falls away
I stay true to my casing, true to her
I have to; after all, I am her door
she leaned against me gently
when she used to get steamy kisses from her lover
now she staggers down the hallway
digging for keys, high on anesthesia
once, she fell against me, tears flooding
her cerulean eyes, hands pulling on hair
waiting for him to love her again
of course, asking him for love
was like asking me for blood
I will always be here to support her, though
even when the world falls away
I stay true to my casing, true to her
I have to; after all, I am her door
Sorry, LA, I'm breaking the 13-line rule, but I had this poem written and I couldn't easily cut it down. I know it breaks the rule, but I hope you enjoy it anyway.
When I'm not there
What does my flat do
When I'm out at work all day?
Does the sunlight filtering through the dust
Charm my cheap guitar to play?
What of the hallway, long and austere,
Does it play the coquette and laugh too loud
When I'm not here?
What about the carpets
When there's no-one walking around,
Surely they conspire with the floorboards
To make some kind of sound?
The plants stand still - or seem to -
Whenever they catch my eye,
But I bet they shake and rustle
As they hear my footsteps die...
Air, shadow, silence,
Is it really like that for ten hours?
The distant slam of a door,
The gradual dying of flowers?
How does my flat stand the boredom
Of waiting till I reappear?
Can the world really get on without us
When we're simply
No longer
Here?
When I'm not there
What does my flat do
When I'm out at work all day?
Does the sunlight filtering through the dust
Charm my cheap guitar to play?
What of the hallway, long and austere,
Does it play the coquette and laugh too loud
When I'm not here?
What about the carpets
When there's no-one walking around,
Surely they conspire with the floorboards
To make some kind of sound?
The plants stand still - or seem to -
Whenever they catch my eye,
But I bet they shake and rustle
As they hear my footsteps die...
Air, shadow, silence,
Is it really like that for ten hours?
The distant slam of a door,
The gradual dying of flowers?
How does my flat stand the boredom
Of waiting till I reappear?
Can the world really get on without us
When we're simply
No longer
Here?
Speaking my soul
My second pair of lips
It has more to say
It is my pen
We have our conversations
It translates for me
It can do so much
More than you can believe
It tells my story
My legacy is born from it
It walks across my page
Creating art and beauty
My pen, my soul
My second pair of lips
It has more to say
It is my pen
We have our conversations
It translates for me
It can do so much
More than you can believe
It tells my story
My legacy is born from it
It walks across my page
Creating art and beauty
My pen, my soul
Anonymous
TATTOO
Creeping
roughly scrubbing
and biting my squall down
into an articulated art form
I insinuate myself until we are one.
Willing flesh becomes both my host and
your tormentor, my sting lingers, licking, laughing
until the visible fade
echoes remorse.
Creeping
roughly scrubbing
and biting my squall down
into an articulated art form
I insinuate myself until we are one.
Willing flesh becomes both my host and
your tormentor, my sting lingers, licking, laughing
until the visible fade
echoes remorse.
[font=Courier New][size=2]
< humphrey the chair >
was an expert in butts (but what chair isn't?)
and he could (of course)
tell fat from lean and dry from sweaty
but not every chair (he prided himself on)
could tell the squeeze of tight jeans
from the loose push of bell-bottoms
the thick of winter wool
from the thin of tropical
and the rub of nylon
from the delicate press of silk
but today his talents were being wasted
today
he sat the cat
- - -
< humphrey the chair >
was an expert in butts (but what chair isn't?)
and he could (of course)
tell fat from lean and dry from sweaty
but not every chair (he prided himself on)
could tell the squeeze of tight jeans
from the loose push of bell-bottoms
the thick of winter wool
from the thin of tropical
and the rub of nylon
from the delicate press of silk
but today his talents were being wasted
today
he sat the cat
- - -
Marionette
Hear the wooden sounds of me whittling away
A deadly sharpened chisel
A hammer-head of great weight
I am a puppet that was custom made
Fashioned from red lumber
I splinter into myself making skin curls
Sure it hurts
Throbbing at the very end of my raw nerves
Pain tendrills screaming louder in sharp electricity
I'll be damned if I let you out-fuck me
This is who I was shaped to be
Strings going back to the hands of underworld things
I could slit my own throat in trying to sever them
I am hard wood
It may be soft inside
Keep peeling these thin slices on the way to find out
Shaving until I am completly gone or somthing spills from inside
Hear the wooden sounds of me whittling away
A deadly sharpened chisel
A hammer-head of great weight
I am a puppet that was custom made
Fashioned from red lumber
I splinter into myself making skin curls
Sure it hurts
Throbbing at the very end of my raw nerves
Pain tendrills screaming louder in sharp electricity
I'll be damned if I let you out-fuck me
This is who I was shaped to be
Strings going back to the hands of underworld things
I could slit my own throat in trying to sever them
I am hard wood
It may be soft inside
Keep peeling these thin slices on the way to find out
Shaving until I am completly gone or somthing spills from inside
