Poetry competition CLOSED 5th January 2022 3:46am
WINNER
KittyFromHell
KittyFromHell
Page:
Appearance versus Reality
Poetry Contest Description
What, for you, appeared to be ''The Whole Truth'' and what shock it it was for you when it turned out to be a sham, window dressing...
Like those fake house fronts made for Catherine the Great.... or those you see in Western films. Of course it could be about the person who you thought was great and turned out to be most despicable. It's your story: whatever you have in mind. Run with it.
I prefer poem to 30 lines or so, but I do not disregard if you go over.
It can also be a short story, up to 500 words.
I prefer poem to 30 lines or so, but I do not disregard if you go over.
It can also be a short story, up to 500 words.
In nomine patris
Father Georgio barely made it out of seminary. Lousy grades. His hopes of one day becoming a cardinal were dashed. Crushed.
As he had zero connections in the Church hierarchy, his hopes of connecting with a good church anywhere near the Vatican were crushed as well.
He ended up running a small church, ok, it was actually a dilapidated garage which, with the help of his dear friend Leonardo, he cleaned up, brought in the necessary religious and sacred items, found an old altar plus tables, benches and chairs where he could and was all set to celebrate mass.
He could only dream of one day getting enough money to eventually fix the leaky roof, never mind dreaming of getting if only only a reasonably big chapel for his terribly devout parishioners. They were of the best, at times dropping a few coins in the collection box. And sometimes sometimes sometimes, thank you Lord, an anonymous and generous donor dropped a somewhat fat envelope in the box as well.
Despite his impossible dreams of a mitre, he enjoyed his parish and his environment.
As a ritual before closing up for the day, it was his habit to take the content of the collection box to the rear where he had a sort of sacristy. He served hinself a glass of white mass wine, then counted the money, keeping the envelope for last. Counting the bills, his mind and soul (as well as his conscience) told him that it was safe to put a few hundred euros in his pocket before putting the rest in his safety box.
Locking everything properly behind him, he then left his garage-cum-church and took his usual walk home a few kilometers away, taking time to stop by the liquor store to purchase a couple of bottles of a rare pleasure. Allegrini Amarone della Valpolicella before resuming his walk home to his beloved Leonardo.
Yes, gorgeous Leonardo, his lover of two years now. They shared his rather spacious third floor loft, a loft with an elegant terrace and a superb view on the Tiber. Not on his meagre salary of course. But Leonardo was an up-and-coming artist in the gay community.
The special wine for the upcoming festive evening as a number of guests would join them to celebrate Leorardo's birthday
As he had zero connections in the Church hierarchy, his hopes of connecting with a good church anywhere near the Vatican were crushed as well.
He ended up running a small church, ok, it was actually a dilapidated garage which, with the help of his dear friend Leonardo, he cleaned up, brought in the necessary religious and sacred items, found an old altar plus tables, benches and chairs where he could and was all set to celebrate mass.
He could only dream of one day getting enough money to eventually fix the leaky roof, never mind dreaming of getting if only only a reasonably big chapel for his terribly devout parishioners. They were of the best, at times dropping a few coins in the collection box. And sometimes sometimes sometimes, thank you Lord, an anonymous and generous donor dropped a somewhat fat envelope in the box as well.
Despite his impossible dreams of a mitre, he enjoyed his parish and his environment.
As a ritual before closing up for the day, it was his habit to take the content of the collection box to the rear where he had a sort of sacristy. He served hinself a glass of white mass wine, then counted the money, keeping the envelope for last. Counting the bills, his mind and soul (as well as his conscience) told him that it was safe to put a few hundred euros in his pocket before putting the rest in his safety box.
Locking everything properly behind him, he then left his garage-cum-church and took his usual walk home a few kilometers away, taking time to stop by the liquor store to purchase a couple of bottles of a rare pleasure. Allegrini Amarone della Valpolicella before resuming his walk home to his beloved Leonardo.
Yes, gorgeous Leonardo, his lover of two years now. They shared his rather spacious third floor loft, a loft with an elegant terrace and a superb view on the Tiber. Not on his meagre salary of course. But Leonardo was an up-and-coming artist in the gay community.
The special wine for the upcoming festive evening as a number of guests would join them to celebrate Leorardo's birthday
Written by robert43041
(Viking)
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Anonymous
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Anonymous
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Conversations With a Former Self
over these past few months
my old shyness has surfaced again
in moments of anxiety and withdrawal
my shadows are my only friends
that little hole to which you retreat
is a cocoon or a coffin, maybe both—
transformation awaiting it's time to emerge with wings
or a thousand deaths of things you do not want to be.
this, my dear, is a part of you
those voices will follow you for years to come
oh! the diplomacy, the weeping, the madness, the joy!
such things ahead
the conversations all begin and end
with you
in the light of my former wildness
I cringe and squint at the spotlight
shying away from human touch
yet craving it every single night
far greater transgressions await
in the shadows you don't hear
childish woes will await your darkest hour
when even in the
prime of your wildest escapades
you'll find you still
feel scared and alone
your family is broken
and this is why you cry
you ache for a safe place in warm arms that you never got
hold on to yourself baby girl
you may wander
but you are not lost
going from scandalous nights partying
to lying in my bed with a stuffed unicorn
feeling like a little child again
but far from the innocence with which I was born
a foreboding statement
even from eyes that never saw
the ugly truth of realities
beyond the safety of your childhood home
I know it feels like a prison now
and you dream of escape one day
but mark my words
you'll move too fast
and the cold walls of that same hell
will find you
when you've run out of places to run
and the wreckage of all you've done
sits in your own personal file
of guilt and self pity
waiting to burn to ashes
to be the next tragic story of the town
to be paper airplanes wished upon
to be
to be
to be
Well?
exactly
my old shyness has surfaced again
in moments of anxiety and withdrawal
my shadows are my only friends
that little hole to which you retreat
is a cocoon or a coffin, maybe both—
transformation awaiting it's time to emerge with wings
or a thousand deaths of things you do not want to be.
this, my dear, is a part of you
those voices will follow you for years to come
oh! the diplomacy, the weeping, the madness, the joy!
such things ahead
the conversations all begin and end
with you
in the light of my former wildness
I cringe and squint at the spotlight
shying away from human touch
yet craving it every single night
far greater transgressions await
in the shadows you don't hear
childish woes will await your darkest hour
when even in the
prime of your wildest escapades
you'll find you still
feel scared and alone
your family is broken
and this is why you cry
you ache for a safe place in warm arms that you never got
hold on to yourself baby girl
you may wander
but you are not lost
going from scandalous nights partying
to lying in my bed with a stuffed unicorn
feeling like a little child again
but far from the innocence with which I was born
a foreboding statement
even from eyes that never saw
the ugly truth of realities
beyond the safety of your childhood home
I know it feels like a prison now
and you dream of escape one day
but mark my words
you'll move too fast
and the cold walls of that same hell
will find you
when you've run out of places to run
and the wreckage of all you've done
sits in your own personal file
of guilt and self pity
waiting to burn to ashes
to be the next tragic story of the town
to be paper airplanes wished upon
to be
to be
to be
Well?
exactly
Written by KittyFromHell
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