Poetry competition CLOSED 19th June 2021 5:31am
WINNER
Razzerleaf
Razzerleaf
RUNNER-UP:
Ljdynamic
First Poem
True Story Of My First Poem
images
suppressed for over
thirty years
tucked away
in a locked box
in a collapsed tunnel
somewhere
in my
subconscious
were emerging
unbidden and
uncontrollable
we had met
at a local
meet and greet
more like
two old friends reuniting
than strangers meeting
he was sober
for thirty plus years
(first thing he shared after handshake and his name)
we talked extensively
about the bdsm community in general
and sadism in particular
at the end of the evening
as the barista was closing up
he gave me his number
said “call if you ever need to talk”
i assumed he meant
to continue our
conversation about bdsm
months later nightmares were waking me
shaking soaked in sweat
(sweat of fear and sorrow)
day dreams kept me from
work and society
unable to focus
blood
bombs
dead people
waking nightmares
intruding into
awareness
after three days without sleep
i felt compelled
to call him
not friends
not family
not a preacher
when he answered
i identified myself
nothing more
he didn’t ask
“why did you call” or
“what’s wrong”
he said
“how can i help?”
baffled
i blurted out
“i’m having weird dreams”
he immediately said
“get dressed
meet me at the park
picnic bench nearest the mountain trail
ill be there in twenty-seven minutes”
then hung up
i’m not sure how he knew but
i lived directly across the road from
a local hiking trail
i put on some shorts and hiking boots
walked to the park
found the bench closest to the trail head
twenty-seven minutes later
he roared into the parking area
on his harley
he smelled
of sweat dust
cigarettes and gasoline
not the sweat of fear
but of hard labor
in a hot climate
not household dust
but fine airborne
desert dust
settling across from me
leaning on the table
he looked me in the eye
“tell me about it”
i rambled on about the dreams
blurted a few sentences about the bombing
shaking and near tears
he said “salt water is
always good for the soul
whether tears, sweat or the sea.”
“i've seen this before,
you’ll be stronger
on the other side”
his acknowledgment
and confidence
calmed me
he said ‘write it down, that will help”
i said ‘ive tried journaling…’
he interrupted:
“NO!
Write from your soul!
Write poetically!”
then he stood
said
“call me in a few days”
climbed on his harley
and roared away
two days more without sleep
until
i finally took his advice
the poem poured
effortlessly
onto the page
and then
i slept
(C) 2021 Raibeart Bruis
images
suppressed for over
thirty years
tucked away
in a locked box
in a collapsed tunnel
somewhere
in my
subconscious
were emerging
unbidden and
uncontrollable
we had met
at a local
meet and greet
more like
two old friends reuniting
than strangers meeting
he was sober
for thirty plus years
(first thing he shared after handshake and his name)
we talked extensively
about the bdsm community in general
and sadism in particular
at the end of the evening
as the barista was closing up
he gave me his number
said “call if you ever need to talk”
i assumed he meant
to continue our
conversation about bdsm
months later nightmares were waking me
shaking soaked in sweat
(sweat of fear and sorrow)
day dreams kept me from
work and society
unable to focus
blood
bombs
dead people
waking nightmares
intruding into
awareness
after three days without sleep
i felt compelled
to call him
not friends
not family
not a preacher
when he answered
i identified myself
nothing more
he didn’t ask
“why did you call” or
“what’s wrong”
he said
“how can i help?”
baffled
i blurted out
“i’m having weird dreams”
he immediately said
“get dressed
meet me at the park
picnic bench nearest the mountain trail
ill be there in twenty-seven minutes”
then hung up
i’m not sure how he knew but
i lived directly across the road from
a local hiking trail
i put on some shorts and hiking boots
walked to the park
found the bench closest to the trail head
twenty-seven minutes later
he roared into the parking area
on his harley
he smelled
of sweat dust
cigarettes and gasoline
not the sweat of fear
but of hard labor
in a hot climate
not household dust
but fine airborne
desert dust
settling across from me
leaning on the table
he looked me in the eye
“tell me about it”
i rambled on about the dreams
blurted a few sentences about the bombing
shaking and near tears
he said “salt water is
always good for the soul
whether tears, sweat or the sea.”
“i've seen this before,
you’ll be stronger
on the other side”
his acknowledgment
and confidence
calmed me
he said ‘write it down, that will help”
i said ‘ive tried journaling…’
he interrupted:
“NO!
Write from your soul!
Write poetically!”
then he stood
said
“call me in a few days”
climbed on his harley
and roared away
two days more without sleep
until
i finally took his advice
the poem poured
effortlessly
onto the page
and then
i slept
(C) 2021 Raibeart Bruis
21 Twist Street
We were young
living was fun
bikes without helmets
even when
soaked in rum
Money was easy
work cheesy
Clubs were grand
even when
we played sleazy
Lived on the drug
we bought from Doug
Danced all night
even when
passed out on the rug
Now it's a Gallery
for "Art By Vallery"
paint by numbers
even when
displayed as canvas poetry
Written by Peanut
Go To Page
The Return
Twelve years, closer to thirteen
did Silence reign, absolute
Nothing was Above, nor Below
I was that Silence, mere shadow
Then there was The Music
relentless in the background
barely audible, yet constant
Softly, Silence began to speak
Not aloud, no, not yet, shh
Silence put pen to paper
music filling mind with colors
translated into hesitant words
The colors, muted at first
brightened as time passed
Music drove Silence away
Words returned, so too Life
did Silence reign, absolute
Nothing was Above, nor Below
I was that Silence, mere shadow
Then there was The Music
relentless in the background
barely audible, yet constant
Softly, Silence began to speak
Not aloud, no, not yet, shh
Silence put pen to paper
music filling mind with colors
translated into hesitant words
The colors, muted at first
brightened as time passed
Music drove Silence away
Words returned, so too Life
Written by inechoingsilence
Go To Page
My first poem
It was market day cold,
up at five, unfolding tarps
for anyone who said yes,
hard graft for a ten year old
before cornflakes
and a two mile walk to school.
Michelle and I sat boy-girl,
squashed on wooden benches
with beetle-blue ink wells
whose capillary action highlighted
the splits in hard fingerprints
that still cant open an iphone.
As instructed I lifted the desk lid
and rummaged for a pale blue,
cloth-backed poetry book
and we read the owl and the pussy-cat.
Michelle cried as she did most afternoons,
I was told to never ask why.
"Now its your turn to write something"
Miss Eves was not to be messed with,
a shit your pants stare that she had perfected
in a Hansel and Gretel kind of way.
"Write about nature and make it rhyme"
November
The crack of a fire
No top to a spire
Autumn leaves swirl round
As they fall to the ground
Birds flee their trees
Ponds start to freeze
Winter sets in
like a great white blanket
covered in sin.
Miss Eves put it on the wall
without saying a word
and my mother brought it back
from parents evening.
She kept it pressed between
the pages of a poetry collection
written in Lancashire dialect,
I never saw the point.
It would be 40 years before
I would write another poem
and I still don't know why I did.
The exploration of words maybe
or the image of a well crafted simile
or maybe it was a wood where a Piggy-wig stood,
"with a ring on the end of his nose, his nose
with a ring on the end of his nose"
up at five, unfolding tarps
for anyone who said yes,
hard graft for a ten year old
before cornflakes
and a two mile walk to school.
Michelle and I sat boy-girl,
squashed on wooden benches
with beetle-blue ink wells
whose capillary action highlighted
the splits in hard fingerprints
that still cant open an iphone.
As instructed I lifted the desk lid
and rummaged for a pale blue,
cloth-backed poetry book
and we read the owl and the pussy-cat.
Michelle cried as she did most afternoons,
I was told to never ask why.
"Now its your turn to write something"
Miss Eves was not to be messed with,
a shit your pants stare that she had perfected
in a Hansel and Gretel kind of way.
"Write about nature and make it rhyme"
November
The crack of a fire
No top to a spire
Autumn leaves swirl round
As they fall to the ground
Birds flee their trees
Ponds start to freeze
Winter sets in
like a great white blanket
covered in sin.
Miss Eves put it on the wall
without saying a word
and my mother brought it back
from parents evening.
She kept it pressed between
the pages of a poetry collection
written in Lancashire dialect,
I never saw the point.
It would be 40 years before
I would write another poem
and I still don't know why I did.
The exploration of words maybe
or the image of a well crafted simile
or maybe it was a wood where a Piggy-wig stood,
"with a ring on the end of his nose, his nose
with a ring on the end of his nose"
Written by Razzerleaf
Go To Page
Is There Redemption? (Revisiting my first poem)
I revisited my first poem today
wondering who I was back then.
It was written from my history crashing into
a young lady in a coffee shop,
waking me from a numbing sleep
to face the wrong I’d committed years before.
My enthusiastic seeking of animal pleasures got the best of me,
leaving two souls with regrets.
That guy wasn't much different than who I am today.
But now I know that even regrets may hold magic.
Damaged hearts may feel love and carry scars that
add pleasure to their passions as they are redeemed
in the selfless giving to another.
Had her scars been healed by the family she made and love she spread?
Had my scars become badges of pride in my tireless pursuit of pleasure?
Would there never be redemption for me?
If offered, would I even accept it?
Both love in its purest form and the lusts of our hearts in their sprouting seeds of obsession remain always worth the seeking.
And so, I seek.
wondering who I was back then.
It was written from my history crashing into
a young lady in a coffee shop,
waking me from a numbing sleep
to face the wrong I’d committed years before.
My enthusiastic seeking of animal pleasures got the best of me,
leaving two souls with regrets.
That guy wasn't much different than who I am today.
But now I know that even regrets may hold magic.
Damaged hearts may feel love and carry scars that
add pleasure to their passions as they are redeemed
in the selfless giving to another.
Had her scars been healed by the family she made and love she spread?
Had my scars become badges of pride in my tireless pursuit of pleasure?
Would there never be redemption for me?
If offered, would I even accept it?
Both love in its purest form and the lusts of our hearts in their sprouting seeds of obsession remain always worth the seeking.
And so, I seek.
Written by LostViking
(Lost Viking)
Go To Page
Related submission no longer exists.
Thanks for recommending wonderful poetry. I am inspired by cool modern prose. I recently read a story about a Puerto Rican woman. This book https://freebooksummary.com/category/when-i-was-puerto-rican is about natural beauty and human qualities. I liked the main idea of freedom of human choice. Freedom is a symbol of the poetry that follows the authors every second.
My First Poem
Dedicated to Michelle
I used to write short stories about real events.
A girl called Michelle inspired me to write poems.
She was writing in a notebook on the counter.
Out of curiosity, I asked her what she was writing.
And she said that she was writing a poem.
I told her that I wanted to read the poem,
But at first, she was reluctant to show it to me.
She said that her poems were personal.
I kept urging her to show me the poems.
Finally, she handed me the book, and I read them.
Michelle's emotional writing impressed me.
Her feelings of love were similar to mine.
And I was really moved by one of the stanzas.
I could fully understand her depression,
For I had been experiencing sadness too.
That night I took a long time to fall asleep.
I was thinking deeply about the things I read.
The words of her poems kept ringing in my mind.
I had to reveal my secret pain to someone,
So in the early morning, I wrote a poem of love.
My first poem was entitled, “Nobody Loves Me.”
The next day I showed Michelle the poem.
She silently read it, and then she looked at me.
I could easily tell what she was thinking.
And from then on, I have been writing poems.
I used to write short stories about real events.
A girl called Michelle inspired me to write poems.
She was writing in a notebook on the counter.
Out of curiosity, I asked her what she was writing.
And she said that she was writing a poem.
I told her that I wanted to read the poem,
But at first, she was reluctant to show it to me.
She said that her poems were personal.
I kept urging her to show me the poems.
Finally, she handed me the book, and I read them.
Michelle's emotional writing impressed me.
Her feelings of love were similar to mine.
And I was really moved by one of the stanzas.
I could fully understand her depression,
For I had been experiencing sadness too.
That night I took a long time to fall asleep.
I was thinking deeply about the things I read.
The words of her poems kept ringing in my mind.
I had to reveal my secret pain to someone,
So in the early morning, I wrote a poem of love.
My first poem was entitled, “Nobody Loves Me.”
The next day I showed Michelle the poem.
She silently read it, and then she looked at me.
I could easily tell what she was thinking.
And from then on, I have been writing poems.
Written by PittinixDesigns
Go To Page
Related submission no longer exists.
November 29, 1989
I remember it well
I was only fifteen
And though I’d seen so much death and destruction at a younger age
On that day
I didn’t know how else to cope with loss
Sam and I had been friends when we were kids
The last time I saw him I was nine
We said we would write to each other
But for some reason, we never did
From time to time I would wonder what happened to him
One tends to wonder if friends are swept off by the rage of civil war
As a casualty
Or joining the cause… (for whatever side)
But my memory of Sam seemed to become more distant as I got older
I remember my mom’s best friend coming over for Thanksgiving
And amidst conversations she broke the news
“My nephew drowned…”
I felt guilt
I felt anger
The thought of my friend no longer filled me with a sadness I hadn’t felt before
Pieces of childhood memory seemed surreal
Someone I knew was gone
For days I moped and pondered
How?
Why?
And though I never spoke of him
He became an inspiration
I fantasized a lasting friendship that would takes us on epic adventures
All the teen angst I felt filled my head with words
And so, Sam become my first poem
Written by wallyroo92
Go To Page
The winner of this competition and any runners up were decided by public vote.
Thank you to the following members for voting:
DevilsChild, Numer90, ArtToChokeHearts, nutbuster, Honoria, Tallen, Josh, wilberfloss, toniscales, Cipher_O, Phantom2426, Grace, Marks, Remy_L, Kinkpoet, AnonymousBystander
Thank you to the following members for voting:
DevilsChild, Numer90, ArtToChokeHearts, nutbuster, Honoria, Tallen, Josh, wilberfloss, toniscales, Cipher_O, Phantom2426, Grace, Marks, Remy_L, Kinkpoet, AnonymousBystander
