Poetry competition CLOSED 22nd June 2020 2:23pm
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Poem of the month ~ JUNE

poet Anonymous

Poetry Contest

Nominate an Amazing Poem to Represent DU across social media!
It's time for our "Poem of the Month" to be featured in the DUP 'Poem of the Month Hall of Fame' and on the official Facebook page.
You have THREE weeks to nominate no more than THREE of your favorite poems from another DUP poet!

Please note the following when making nominations:

NOTE: The Spoken Word of the Month comp is here:
https://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/competitions/read/11384/
Because the vote for this com is anonymous, and spoken word pieces cannot be anonymous due to avatars and voices, we would prefer you nominate those pieces in the appropriate comp above so that voting remains fair.

NOTE: New Member ( six ( 6 ) months of less ) of the Month comp is here: https://deepundergroundpoetry.com/forum/competitions/read/11385/#479949

1. Self nominations are not accepted. The great majority of the competitions here are about spotlighting one's own work on a particular topic or theme.  This is a chance to nominate that poem that you wish you had written but some other great talent here beat you to it.

2. You may nominate only THREE poems from THREE different DU members.

3. No DUPLICATES. If someone nominates the same poem the entry will be deleted. If you like it that much wait and vote for it!

4. Any genre except erotica or pornography. This is a Facebook feature and we must adhere to their guidelines.  

5. Any member who is banned or disables their account PRIOR to the win will be automatically disqualified.

6. One win per member within a Calendar Year.

7. You must personally notify the member that they have been nominated.

Nomination Duration is three weeks followed by a week of site voting!

Current Poem of the Month Hall of Famers:

2020

January 2020-  NEW BEGINNINGS
February 2020 - EDIBLE WORDS
March 2020 - MADAME LAVENDER
APRIL 2020 - MONKEYMAN
MAY 2020 -


2019

January, 2019 - DANIELCHRISTENSEN
February, 2019 - SOPHIE_ERICSON
March, 2019 - AUDIOHARLEEA
April, 2019 - FROM THE ASH
May, 2019 - MISS_SUB
June, 2019 - NAAJIR
July, 2019 - LAYLA
August, 2019 - AHAVATI
September, 2019 - MISS_SUB
October, 2019 - HOWLING_WHELMS
November, 2019 - JOHNNY BLAZE
December 2019- RACHEL_LAUREN


2018

January, 2018 - LADY_OF_THE_QUILL
February, 2018  - LEPPEROCHAN Craic in a Box
March, 2018 - TINABUBUYA (Tee Mali)
April, 2018 - CROWFLY
May, 2018  - ATOMIKBOMB
June, 2018  - MISS_SUB (Missy)
July, 2018  - MEADOWSWEET
August, 2018  - LAYLA
September, 2018 - COLD FUSION
October, 2018  - TODSKI28
November, 2018 - TheMUSE22
December, 2018  - BENDER


2017

January, 2017 - VEE
February, 2017 - CRIMSIN
March, 2017 - ONEFIFTYSIX
April, 2017 - DANIEL CHRISTENSEN
May, 2017 - ALEXANDER CASE
June, 2017 - AEMelia564
July, 2017 - THE_SILLY_SIBYL (Jack Thomas Heslop)
August, 2017 - QUIETUSQUILL
September, 2017 - _SHADOE_
October, 2017 - POETSREVENGE
November, 2017 - NAAJIR
December, 2017 - POETSPEAK


2016

November, 2016 - JOHN FEDDELER
December, 2016 - AHAVATI

poet Anonymous

A name that still exists

~

I could have stuck a pin in it
popped it like a balloon on a string
holding on to everything within
but it seemed more appropriate to just let it go

To float away, slowly deflate
and maybe be found again someday
after the songs on the record player have changed
and ghosts no longer dance the night away

Maybe your brain slows down when you age
maybe it gives you time to think
to finally catch up with thoughts
that kept running away

I could wipe the mirror clean and dress up my face
but I'm still the same
strolling through the cemetery
looking for a name that still exists

~
poet Anonymous

Charity Work

When I was a kid
he was my hero,  
he saved a dog
all sliced up...  
abandoned  
in the canal
 
rabbits with no ears
he took pity on  
brought them home  
 
then there was the hare:
long ears
in a bag,  
I ate him
 
We didn't tell our Barbara,
only we willingly ate the dead
 
He gave me books
Threw them at me with words
Like,  
"Don't talk wet"  
and
...  
 
under a Land Rover
{one of three}  
He always smelled of petrichor  
 
Soft
Gentle  
Deep  
Blue
Eyes
 
Calling me home
To him
My safety  
My refuge  
 
"He didn't know"  
I told myself  
"He didn't know  
I was being hurt"  
 
But I'm a masonic child
I'm a programmed fuckbot  
they got me young  
I'm Crowleyed;
But I survived.  
 
And I'll keep surviving
Him
 
After he left ~
We broke.  
What I saw
Was never there:
My illusion of him
 
I saw the lie
I saw the thread
I saw the pattern  
 
I broke the chains
It didn't hurt
{At least not that way}  
 
we all hurt each other  
 
He travelled to the east
Where women are sold  
In vending machines  
 
He got himself a young bar girl
Practically rescued her from poverty
And virginity


 
Brought his fever home
And I broke his...  
{the zuegma here is "home"}  
I destroyed his family
Because of my values
I can't say he's right  
I know it's all wrong  
 
he helped her ~
The Beast ~
He broke her free
And seeded the world  
gave me Mahalikan family
 
I yearn for Cebu
A home I've never been  
 
But then,  
 
I have that virus
that white people get
When we want to rescue  
The Poor
With our
Charity work
poet Anonymous

only yesterday, when we were mad

In delirium, et tu brutal,
Woodpecker-jabber of
‘Making houses from horses.’
&
Endless rewording of biography
Of him
Yet,
Not of him.
 
‘Last night I dreamt I was in Japan. Cauldrons of wayward wind pinned me to pagoda, mountains of inked cherry blossom slit my skin. Woken by the sound of sun thrashing aluminium rooves and fragrance of porcelain bowled shirumono soup. I cradled the bowl and tiger slurped. Wrapped myself in kamikaze kimono and with no thought for the impending mess on the floor, leapt to my death. It was my 25th death of the year – an anniversary of sorts. I paper-cut a record on my left arm. A litany of life affirmation…..’    
 
Semaphorists failed to comprehend
The sinew speech of his bodied language.
Show me the space’scape  
                    Of your forget-me-nots galaxy,
The digitalised map had been a sparse constellation
Of grey circles spotting the black expanse -
Let me paint your universe a certain kindle of red.
The world is not everything. That is the case.
 
Caged, rapacious roar
“My kingdom for a pencil”
Self-armed, lithium loaded
Sloshed on Karenina kisses:
 
‘The strawberry ember of her cigarette lingered for the span of a breath; and then she, too, was gone.’
 
When he finally spoke to her
Beyond grassy knoll of an estate:
“I’ll speak to you in rhyme.”
She sat mute on outside step
Waiting to clutch the first
Thing to fall from the sky.
 
Oh, for a stumped pencil
He would write the world
In graphite & broken points.
Place the ink pot closer
Watch it spill into the
Well of gratification.
 
You are / You are not
It might become what it is
When it will be

 
I understood him.
He could have been me.
poet Anonymous

Fuck

Went to sleep considering how many days it would take to arm every unarmed lady in my life. Keep from harm. Cold life. Oldest nights. Still speak to me from ancient days. DNA layered faces. Running down their current plays. Coming down from riding the waves. Survival, hunting, blood haze. Close my eyes and open my heart wide to meditate. Drift away. Shift and live somewhere else for days. Wake up sweating, breath unphased. Another day. Hands form, Janus Coin, ready to join those faces of me already in the grave. Burn away, but turning the page? Sojourn remains, so yearns the warrior within the sage. Live another age. Trade some wage, to stay the path. Protect the pack from harm. Get on track. World on fire. Loki's higher than that. Noah's wired for combat and steam. No alarm, stay pat. Go arm your Queens.
 
 
 
 
Militarized thug play / Sparks bug spray / Fucking up your dissent centipede / Fucking tribalism is a conscious entity / Who wants to be this generation’s Reginald Denny? / Nothing original to a belligerence stampede / That’s neither justice / Nor effective technical use of your piece / Fucking please / Maurauding children filling the over spill / Buzzed off that edge / Keep bringing us closer to Judge Dredd time / Ahead of the design / Fuck your tinfoil hat; there’s no mastermind / Disaster just finds / The same patterns time after time
poet Anonymous

in silver cups on silver trays

in silver cups on silver trays
poet Anonymous

1965

1

The ‘60s postmark rots away
and I’m left in the latter day
so many years distant from you.

The pain of love was one I didn’t feel
before I turned thirty,
and happened to be walking home
from office work one day.

I wrote sports and you drove cars
outside the town’s hotspot.
Deemed too ugly for anyone’s girl
to be swept off her feet -
missing teeth, a bulbous brow,
and gaze forever glum -
the studs all felt secure,
pulling up beside
the valet in his cheap red coat.

But even if you were handsome
you couldn’t have returned a girl’s
least amorous advance.

I saw that, watching you.
Sometimes we know each other’s pain
without need of the thinking brain,
and also I’d seen you before
lingering outside the door
of a hidden bar.

2

We shared cigarettes and spoke
the secret language of the freak.
I gave you hotel money and said
to look out from the bar.

Soon enough I heard the knock, like lead
tipping a cowboy’s boot and kicked
against a car.

As quickly as men flee
you’d pushed your way in me
and so I thought I’d been murdered
until that rush of feeling came
and swept me like rich man’s cocaine
towards a bright-lit paradise.

I like to think I taught you, after that,
how urges can be met
with compassion. How men can treat
each other with kindness, and heat
a potent love outside the vaunted norm.

I told you you were beautiful
and that your dreams
were worthy of respect. You cried,
and then laughed when I didn’t laugh
at you, “for crying like a girl.”

3

It’s now gone fifty years and that old lie, that hate fell down to hell from heaven
back in nineteen sixty-seven,
still leaves me bitter as the lemons
growing on my tree.

What of nineteen sixty-five
when I last saw you, just alive,
attended by two parents who
had seen this day ten years away,
and got my autograph when I
reported that I’d seen you at
the various home games, and that
I’d mention you in my next article...

4

The 60s postmark rots away
but I can still read what’s inside,
simple and crude and capitalised,
each letter written as
if with flashing red lightbulbs.
I LUV U N HOAP I CAN SEE U AGEN.

Not since nineteen sixty-five
have I seen you or me alive,
nor has there been a perfect day
since I last shared a cigarette
with my ugly, and beautiful valet.
poet Anonymous

KNEE AND ROPE

this hatred
born of
fear
and envy
in a culture
of greed
always
pressed
the neck
as knee
or rope
or chain
or dope
or simple
deprivation

and decorated
the limbs
of trees
with strong
brown
bodies
and took
the best
you had
and called
it ours
and kept
brain
and
brawn
and
beauty
underfoot
but
called
it free

and then
dismissed
your rage
and god knows
had you
not been
shackled
you could
have owned
world

and may yet
poet Anonymous

Advanced Psychology.

Silence can represent much
between us: the failure of  
a synapse to make its proper
 
connections, from one trans-
mission to its next destination,
an obstruction, or a delayed
 
response, due to outer causes
that have roots, established  
deep in a cerebrum: one that
 
will lay unread, as the coroner
makes a pronounced, and final,
judgement, from the inquest.
poet Anonymous

never been great with titles, but call me sir if you must

     
((1))      
     
sky seems dark now      
darker than it's ever been      
and I know, I know in my heart      
there's light busting at the seams      
trying to get in      
     
     
     
((2))      
     
they don't know      
and there's no way in hell      
I'm ever going to tell them      
     
most of me died      
in a court room      
way back      
     
they were children      
     
and sometimes I resent      
that they still look up to me      
like I'm something to be      
     
like im something to be      
     
please      
for the love of god      
run, run away from me      
     
     
((3))      
     
It may be dark      
and maybe I've grown      
too comfortable with      
the cloak of it      
      
a sense of attrition      
      
     
but I've never given up      
or given in      
so dont take those words      
as anything      
     
but a lorry load      
of self pity  
poet Anonymous

In The Dehydrated Mind, Tears Are A Waste

 

A hollow shell on a beach waiting to
be crushed beneath the weight of
the waves.

Empty and unfulfilled.

The nothing, it closes in at night
so exceptionally heavy you'd think
It'd be something more than it is.

Mud, just stuck
no movement, no feelings,
just kinda here or there.
Numb is just too basic to describe it
it's in the right direction,
but not the right bike.

poet Anonymous

Jelly

We had kept discord
In mason jars
Wrenched the spiral tightly  
With ape fisted dexterity  
And nodded politely as we placed them on the shelf  
 
The tippy toe effort  
To reach them again  
Enough to keep them dusty  
And in this kitchen  
With all the tasks to do  
Mindless chatter here  
A hungry man there  
 
They go unnoticed  
Until another is closed  
And placed beside its brother  
Swirling discontent and sloshing sound  
In the others  
No longer clear  
And the breaking down  
 
Today it is toast and jelly  
And alone with the sound  
Of crusty spread and scrape  
The bite warm and sweet  
 
I think I will clean house  
Toss the old and rotting into the bin  
With pleasing thump into bagged bottom  
And heave it out of my house  
The burden on my shoulder  
Easy  
 
When considering the great burden  
Of time wasted  
And jarred resentment fermenting  
My peace coldly interrupted  
By seemingly innocuous canned goods  
 
And it might just be that simple  
Or, it might not  
Either way  
I might just be ok  
(I’ll be just fine)  
 
I’ll write it all down in homey metaphor  
To place the comfort of spiritual logic  
By bits and pieces within me  
Practice believing it  
Until it is a wholehearted effort  
And ability  
That mirrors faith  
 
(To be well within my soul)  
I am well within my soul  
I sing it like my grandfather  
During a Baptist revival by an Ozark river  
 
He seemed very happy  
Was a Godly man  
Salt of the Earth made by a God he knew well  
And my Grandma  
She kept plenty on her shelf  
She opened them for us  
(Peach preserves spread liberally)  
And everyone was happy there  
 
I do not remember being alone a day  
Even when I was
 
So this chore done
Spreads good news in my house
(Home)
I emphasize this word
Home
And believe it makes the difference
Enough to still my tummy
And lift my shrug
Apple my cheeks a while
 
I will fall to my knees  
Each time I feel whole
It has been a long while
And I am ever so grateful
So very blessed  
And I should be
Grateful  
For many many things
The greatest of these
Love
The following peace
The affirmation a comfort far beyond  
Anything I might place politely on a shelf
poet Anonymous

this is not a love poem ~

it's as though you stole the moon
from my sky, to keep it  
eternally burning in yours  
leaving me in shadows  
thick and tangible as  
an oil slick coating the heavens  

and it seems the stars followed  
the path of your hands, unable  
to withstand your magnetism  
and fell to your feet, basking  
in the light that once drew me,  
a light that could make the sun  
shrink from its brilliance  

though i tremble with fear  
on nights without a glow,  
my fingers want to tug  
the horizon, keep it in place  
so first blush cannot cut  
through the velvety darkness  
that reminds me of you  
poet Anonymous

in the weeping hours

 
I ache starlight inside my dying time
secret sin devours...

in my weeping hours
I seek sanctuary
inside the silence of my prayers
bitter in my regrets
I lament
choking on my tears

my confessions well up
but with no priest to listen
there will be no absolution
only payment in full
when the devil comes to collect
a dying love his due

with I ache starlight
and forgive me on my lips
I die a little more inside
while stars crash to the earth
a lover's death

to burn so hot then fade away
jilted feelings pressed in my diary of secrets
speak against me
in my quiet times, I contemplate
holding tight to our memory

I never saw the end coming
tenderness turned into loneliness
I don't know when it happened
I turned and look
and saw my love of forever
turn again and saw a stranger

I still love you
my best friend and confidant
we streak across the skies
burning with a passion
then with one last twinkle fade away

it will break my heart to watch you go
I don't know if I will survive it
only the stars know
my soul weeps for the morrow

poet Anonymous

I'm Sorry I'm Not The Me You Imagined

What a massive disappointment I must have been
when you realised I'm made of flesh and flaws
did you dream all the things I couldv'e seen
as I fight to just breathe through tooth and claw
 
How far did I fall, when I hit your ground
when my pedestal toppled on waffer thin faith
did your expectations make breaking sounds
and now you leave, me for another drawing, without a trace
 
And should I now feel pity, or a hole of shame
for the lies you told yourself about the person I am
where your wishbone grew over your vertebrae  
did I welch on the deal of your promised land
 
if I was, who I am, for a million of you
I still couldn't be the illusion you chase
If you love me, then love the whole fucking truth
not some idea you created to suit to your taste
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