Poetry competition CLOSED 17th June 2020 3:15pm
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poet Anonymous

Poetry Contest

A poem about your most influencial people

A week long comp, because any longer would be overwhelming

No rules

Enjoy!

poet Anonymous

My Family


 
love was
as rare as a bug  
planting flowers  
or painting walls  
 
words were spoken  
for truth and care  
never endearments  
 
dad stressed his commands  
with his fists  
and feet  
 
mom kept quiet  
until her kids were hit  
then she screamed a blue fit  
 
my brothers played outside  
till dusk  
they got beaten  
 
i stole a banana  
and was beaten
to nothingness  
 
grown we are now  
and gone they are  
to the netherworld  
 
but we will always remember  
our family...of mom and dad  
and nine kids  
 
and how we grew up  
on the straight and narrow  
with dad's guiding fists.
 
poet Anonymous

Progenitors Wake

The drip  
And delicacy of my eye
You imagine
It holds pity
You imagine  
It holds your favor  
And that I intuitively reach  
For your nerve
 
Some nerve
 
In all my resolve
A posture built of stone
And the stalwart mortar
Experience  
My wisdom sticky with it
 
Even against the Great Wall  
You helped lay
From cornerstone  
To turret and my stare from it
Even against this  
You blow
 
Silly fragile fragments
You expect  
To crumble tumble down  
 
And long gold locks  
Like the hair
I used to wear
You believe might spill over
Return to your pull
Of grooming  
Tight plaited  
Twisted curving
Insecurity  
 
Inebriated wit
Calculated curiosities  
Woven tightly  
Into my thought process  
When puberty
Hit with urge
 
Remorse
That I had left certain things behind
 
Laughter with you
Inside jokes
And shared knowledge  
A privilege meant
Only for us
 
An isolationist  
In your measure
Your way with me
You had  
But not quite  
proved  
Cold calculating  
Alienation
 
But oh father  
How I’ve sinned against  
The nature of things
 
In my head
To my knees  
With private mournful  
Accusations  
With the need for  
absolution from it
 
But with absolve  
I dissolve
 
So return to my eye
The drip she shines
When let loose
That shine  
She is not pity
And she is not for you
 
To my knees
With other things
 
A world who’s axis  
Is not you
A prayer to a God  
Who’s strangest angels
Do not sing  
In your tonality
 
A hallelujah chorus rise
Over your horn
And its shrill  
Efforts  
My walls
They hold
 
 
 
 
 
 
poet Anonymous

Purposeful soul

…I bled ecotoplasmic red  
as with the sharpened spoon  
You pierced and scooped  
with swift sleight of hands.  

Damaged I could not soar  
above the cloudy nights  
as You poured into Your  
caldron, my soul.  
 
Fired up the grill  
I screamed, crying out  
for You searing me  
I could not endure  
without tearful elixir!  
 
No strength to regenerate  
a fallen angel  
upon the wet dirt  
life force began to fade…  
 
…until She came to me  
in the warming cold of the mist  
a wet and Healing fog  
She wrapped me and filled  
weakened at first, I managed  
sipped on Her womanhood.  
She breast-fed me with Her  
Healing thoughts  
Healing words  
Healing touch  
Felt it secrete like sap  
from Her soul to mine.  
truly felt like no time stirred  
I could take my time  
to repair the damage of  
heart and soul  
 
for She loved me  
and gave me purpose  
through Hers  
&  
of our soul.  
  
poet Anonymous

Emmitt Till

To that young boy named Emmitt Till
Whose death was heard on Capitol Hill
Whose crime was naught but he was black
Whose judgement was his life to lack

A time when freedom hid her face
And reason was without her place
A decade, two, and century still
To maim, and pulverize and kill

'Twas such a time in this great land
Where hatred waved his wild hand
And in his murd'rous rage contend
A nation witnessed Emmitt's end

And all the papers, all around
Saw Emmitt's blood upon the ground
And though he died, his voice could tell
America was doomed to hell

And yet, despite the whims of rage
America would turn the page
And those that loved, and those that felt
Would cause the hearts of men to melt

Encapsulated in the ice
Of war and cash and other vice
The blinding blizzard went away
To bring on freedom's sunny day

And though the road is long
I still
Recall the life of Emmitt Till
poet Anonymous

Legacies

                                    I  remember  it  was the summer of nineteen-eighty-nine when I  
                                    first walked into that bandroom.  There  were  so  many pictures  
                                    and trophies on the wall, some were as big as four feet tall along  
 with a nostalgia I’ve never felt before. Mrs. Davidson took a liking to me, a scared year fifteen-year old  
 kid yet she made everyone feel at home. As the years progressed,  I  understood  why  she stressed the  
 importance of developing our craft, they were tools of a great work ethic, team building and friendships  
 learning                    skills that were going to last. And Mrs. Davidson  kept building a                     program  
 of future                   leaders and champions who would be productive citizens of the                     world,
 and with                   each passing year I’d visit the kids and cheer them on as they too                   became                
 winners,                    believers in the same dream as we were in my time, their minds                    were set:  
 they too                     were  part  of  this family,  this legacy.  Mrs. Davidson was more                     than  a  
 teacher                       or director, to us she was also our band mom, a guiding mentor                   she had  
  instilled                      sets of skills that we would all use through the rest of our lives.                     Alongside  
  fond and                     cherished memories of friends and relationships we’ve all built                    over the  
     years                           we take pride in the excellence.  And the room kept filling                           up with                    
      even                             more trophies from parades and tournaments each year                          kids who
        once had                       marched had their kids march because it was really a                         family,            
           so many                           young faces were filled with hope and wonder                      whenever            
                us alumni                          would visit the school because room 102                        felt very          
                        special,                          like our home away from home. And                 Mrs. “D”    
                             would tell the tale of us - her first kids, building up the legends and myths    
                                           whenever they saw old pictures that hung from the wall,                    
                                                          then I understood how she built up dreams                            
                                                                                    when young                                                
                                                                                     kids find a                                                            
                                                                                     purpose to                                                            
                                                                                     believe  in                                                              
                                                                                     and choose                                                          
                                                                                     to  work as                                                          
                                                                                     a  team  to                                                            
                                                                   achieve their common goals.                                              
                                                       After twenty-eight years at my alma mater                                  
                                    and twenty-five consecutive championships Mrs. D went on to make      
                     more champions at another school. She’s highly revered at all city and in the community
                   so Mrs. D, this trophy is for you. By the way, it’s old Drum Major Wally, from the class of ’92.
poet Anonymous

Number Six

Since my diagnosis
Epiphany moment of clarity
All the years
Of struggle
Feelings of not quite being
Had a foundation of meaning

An autism one stop shop
Place of sanctuary
The harbour of choice
When the world
The mind
Gets far too much too handle

Find it hard to connect
Even In a community of writers
Was encouraged to write
To express
Address my thoughts
At number six

The support network
Is the only reason I’m alive
My umbilical cord
That gave a little stability
Enough confidence
To scribble here
poet Anonymous

The Language Of The Birds / The Green Language

One Of Our Initiates Said Architecture Is Frozen Music

Fulcanelli Said Alchemical Initiates Speak In Cant Or Code

It May Take A Lifetime To Learn The Great Magic Trick

The Gold Is In The Words And The Way They Are Sowed


https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fulcanelli

https://www.quora.com/Who-said-architecture-is-frozen-music-and-why

Architecture = 557

Frozen Music = 556

I Am Contrapuntal = 556

Hidden Alchemist Initiate Fulcanelli = 557



A Net Of Numbers ,

A Web Of Words ,

Such Is The Craft's

Language Of Birds ;

A Fabric Of Code ,

As Space Time Woven ,

Two Language Symbol ,

Was The Hoof Cloven ;

Feminine And Masculine ,

Divine Letter-Symbol Wrote ,

Do Ye See Our Baphomet ,

Our Androgynine Goat ?

Some Are Goats , Some Are Sheep ,

Some Need A Shepherd , To Get To Sleep ;

Some Yet Worship , And Some Are Gods ,

On This Earth We Share , And Trod ;

Write By Number , And Weave With Words ,

Ye Shall Know The Language Of The Birds !
poet Anonymous

The ration book

WARNING !! as this contains no rose scented words
no beseech from the altar to the heart
blessings bestowed upon the flock  
just pictures of neglect that wars have brought  
and destitution was its scourge  
  
Hear that quote the "uncofortabe truth"  
the cerfew as good times depart  
the drone of bombers overhead  
heard sirens wail, and escape onslaught  
the praying deadly birds  
   
Scratch around for comforts  
amongst the debris piles  
playgrounds imaginations  
the ink that never dries  
and all of that mosaic the cream amid the curd  
   
Each classroom beset with the correction pen  
the margins we survived  
for in that red, the underline, a total out of ten  
as the fractions were applied  
in hard times, the invest a rapid learning curve  
   
The ration book the teachers pet  
teaching of non essentials  be purged  
for those who took you shoulder  
the brotherhood you tied  
the boyish grin, a hug and whispered hold your nerve  
   
stamped with the stuff of nightmares  
the worst and best of times  
not in books, a siblings right to share  
and blood the essence of that guide  
and wisdom come and hold in that preserve    
   
 
poet Anonymous

Thank You Dr. S

Thank you
Dr S
 
for teaching me
that burn patients
are people
 
that their injuries
are just challenges
to teach us
different ways to heal
 
thank you
for teaching me
that
a short pencil
is more valuable
than a long
memory
 
thank you
for writing down
your affirmations for assimilation
and passing them on
to each of your students
 
thank you
for being
 
knowledgable
yet open
 
strong
yet kind
 
thank you
for honoring
the contributions
of every member
of the team
 
thank you for teaching me
to embrace technology
to use it
effectively and efficiently
 
and to drop it
 
when someone needs
a hand to hold
a shoulder to cry on
or a kind word
 
thank you
for helping me
get past
my mistakes
through
my prejudices  
beyond
my narrow vision
 
to see
the humanity
in every living being
no matter
how disfigured
or deformed
poet Anonymous

My Guidance Counselor

You, me, yo no
Persuasion,
brought before me
It's degree, is heightened  
beyond beauty 

 Limerance set aside
with  folly 
I find clear lucidity
 in artful service 

A perpetual state
of non-resistance 
The deep, unobstructed,
 unfolded,
 In me,
you are limitless 
 
Ego dissolved,
conssumate 
Subconscious pain,
altered 
Into conscious elation

A determined touch,
 leads me  to open waters
where I dive  
into willfull embodiment
Me, you, yo no  
poet Anonymous

thinking: a man called mania

// said of him//wary-eyed//muscles like eggshells//pain//is weakness leaving the body////pain is weakness leaving the body//had enough that he put it on tap and on the house//dripdrip//why but what good is there in a happy childhood//as much as in a happy meal he'd maybe have said//critical his attitude//his place//his mental health//tractable concrete//opacity of mirrors//we shared some things//how old is he? and i//uncaring//distantly obsessed//i divided in my womb//became two//enough of this and i will have fingertips soon//
poet Anonymous

The Master of IV’s

That day was supposed to be
A nightmare
Like the night before
Shaking in fear
Surgery
Goodbye wisdom

Crying eyes, wiped dry
By a peculiar nurse
Easing my mind
Until she walked away
And I trailed behind
My eyes couldn’t follow
Her love was my arrow

Swish this, she said
“Spit it out?”
“Yup, all over my sink”
What the hell is this

Trembling legs, paralyzed
Here comes the needle
Hold still
“Good girl”
That’s it?
And then I sat back
And watched her magic
One that worked within seconds
And I was out
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