Poetry competition CLOSED 22nd August 2023 2:51pm
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Your take on the theme of melancholy

poet Anonymous

Poetry Contest

Melancholy. The theme is wide in implications. Tell me.
Poems up to 50 lines preferred.

poet Anonymous

(I Pick) Scabs

I pick scabs
Watching the wound bleed
Tormenting myself
More ruthlessly
Than any other
Could hope to do
In their wildest
Darkest imaginings

Peeling broken skin
As if inviting pain
Like hurt is my breath
That my mind
Deserves nothing else
I let the monster
Of my own choosing
Dwell coiled around my heart

Letís say it
Like it is
I fear life more
Than any death could
So in the wilderness
I leave my soul
To decay
Blow away
poet Anonymous

The Melancholy Meme of "Me! †Me! †Me!"

"The hopeless romantic endlessly experiences a deep, heartfelt sympathy  
for his own pain."
-- the mainstay of melancholy
 
*
 
Its glimpse entails the same old lardy lies,
the same old oily verse full scrawled by rote,
the same old soppy heart of sloppy sighs,
the same old plainsong on the same blah note --
Then Melancholy scurries from the pane
to greedier yet grow beyond the rain.
 
*
 
a dedication of Respect
for
the occasional Pain of countless feeling beings yet presently  
dropping dead like flies --
yet presently dropping dead to boot
 
a revolving helios rhyme menippean satire on
Romanticism's mania for melancholy
 
august, 2023 -- 'tis now the very sad-boi time of night,
with sad-girl hours cried by candlelight
poet Anonymous

heavy can

 


i crack
open a can
of monster

he asks

why do
you drink
that awful
stuff?

i said

the world †
is taxing
enough.








poet Anonymous

eternal parting

 

daylight teases around the corners
tentative & noncommittal
golden-hued highlights trace fingers
over every shadowed surface
as mist reluctantly settles
silently resting upon dew-kissed ground
palms pressed to fogging pane
random glimmers hold my seeking gaze
as branches sway to nature's beat
lifting & falling with the breeze
such music is beyond divine
only heard by haunted ears
like mine
hymnal open in ancient trees
whispering song of dancing leaves
directing eyes to dusky skies
where sparkling stars slowly fade
as Night gently greets her lover Day
and I bear witness
to their bittersweet parting
small wonder beloved Moon remains so late
Sun rising slowly in delay
but for these few moments
their time is brief
thus morning rises melancholy



Copyright @ Willow. All rights reserved
poet Anonymous

Empty Circles.

Hearing the tools of the workmen ring
the ring...
then echo of each blow,
this hammering echoing,
pause, pause, then the swing
clang and echo of the echoing
the hammer fell, then rose
unseen, it goes...

to the child
where silence fills ever crack
at home,
this child, seemingly alone, empty wracked
and isled,
could fill some doctor's weighty tome
with hammer blows and rings
forging empty circles
here, within.
poet Anonymous

A Romanticized Past

 
There is an ecstasy in the grief of yesterdayís fractured delights
As if longing to relive the nearly forgotten downtrodden pain
The realistic becomes a romanticized past fully idealized
Wrapped up in a sweet torture of both dignity and shame

I put the needle down as the vinyl spins round and round
Tones and notes rock the soul but soften this old heart of stone
A diversity of emotions reconvene in a magnificent discord
Tugging at the strings of time and memory, of flesh and bone
 
Itís a sweet reminder of the ups and downs, joys and burdens  
The vulnerable stages and unstable phases of battles fought
The losses, the heartaches, everything that makes us human
The lessons taught to us by life, whether we liked them or not
 
The older I get the more I remember wistfully, emphatically
About the path taken, about who Iíve become in this journey
Hoping Iíve grown from yesterdayís sorrow and through to tomorrow
Because thatís what melancholy and beautiful sadness means to me  
poet Anonymous

Golden Pockets

Standing alone in my old house, residents carried away by cancer, yet still their presence remains in each coat of paint and flowerbed, all now partly concealed by my much needed indifference. The home is bare, stripped back to its shell, except for the ghosts of old furniture that appear, just for a second, as I enter each room.
 
Iím supposed to feel sad, it's just me and my brother now. Weíll split the money and never speak again but that doesnít bring sadness. I stare out over aged gardens and contemplate my loss. Many times I have wept with my own forced memories, the self-torture that brings tears for company, but that is not why I want to shout. Losing family is painful, but a severed link to childhood is barren by comparison and I fear one will compound the other; such a loss makes me tremble inside.
I move on, a giant looking into shrunken bedrooms and gloomy hallways; too many tiny details fill my eyes, viewed like shards of glass from a broken vase, which I'm trying to reassemble. Each piece is an image: places I once played games, a soundbite from a past conversation, the odours of wet dog and washing days or doors opened and slammed shut. The glass cuts at my chest making it hard to breathe.
 
I place my hand on the wall to check for a heartbeat. Can it be that traces of lost childhood are captured in the fabric of a room, dwell in wooden handles of old tools or crayon scribblings trapped behind wallpaper? Can it be that if we close our eyes and breathe in the essence of childhood haunts then chemistry alone can unlock memories once key-less and forgotten? And in doing so can you retrieve something so precious it can twist your body, crumple your face and turn sobs into shouts. Iím shouting now as I slide down the wall; I felt it beat before pulling away.
 
Such places can be found in most of our footsteps and if you know how to look they can almost be touched. But my other places do not compare to this home, I could linger here for an eternity, drifting as a child, growing on thought and melancholy, surviving on smiles and laughter unlocked from memories.
 
I cannot linger, the house is sold to the highest bidder. I have offered up my most prized possession, my touch-stone, my portal, for a pocket full of gold. Now when I need to look, how can I return to these places that hold me in their essence, that tell my story? Who now will listen to the beating fabric of my old home?
poet Anonymous

This Be The Verse.

We lived our lives in silent ways
a silence of some olden ways,
where only work was allowed noise
but silence from my small voice.

Creaking floorboards, rattle of latch,
a distant dog bark these would catch,
and emphasize my silent room
faint echoes of life's distant boom...

The silence of my father still
reflecting on life's iller will,
my mother too her damaged past,
a damage that will last, did last.

And I, here, on this busy road
busy traffic, with life's great load,
alone recall that silent time,
a silence that will end with mine.
poet Anonymous

Happiness

Teach me to see
and only see
How love exists
Everywhere

Open my mouth,
wade in my pulse
And teach me to sing
Everything

Teach me to dive,
into her eyes
And keep on swimming
To the core of her light

Repeat the human song,
Sing ďThereís a whale in meĒ

Teach me to be
A juniper tree
To live and die
Peacefully
poet Anonymous

Related submission no longer exists.
poet Anonymous

Is this the way to San Jose...

Is this the way to San Jose...
really?
There are no gardens of stones
without sounds or bones
or hoarders that seek

Rhinestones and wrinkle-free
memories of Jack in the box
holding on to the handles
screaming...
"I lost my way †to San Jose."

But my ticket was punched
in Tucumcari buy a runaway taco
beating a dead horse †

Casting a spell over troubled quarters
up to my ass in a rundown casket
waiting on sundown connecting dots †
listening to, "Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang" † †

Is this the way to San Jose...
really?
poet Anonymous

A Bout of Melancholy

 There is a vague timeline
In this earthly transition
looking at the ticking clock
counting the seconds
Am I that afraid of the darkness
Of an unknown beyond
Well, nothing promised nothing gained

I look into the mirror
Where beauty once resided
A thing of beauty is a joy forever.
they say but no, not this decline
forever is just a word
Nobody have returned and told
where forever resides

So do I wait for death
Or expect the unexpected
Things happen for a reason
So they sayÖ
but not aging pain and demise
or is it?
I refuse to seep in melancholy

So let me think positively
A good beginning
makes a good ending
may not apply to me
the beginning was terrible
the same endingÖ
o help me Lord!

Better to have loved and lost,
than never to have loved at all
thatís positive
lost my love to lost love
His not mine
She returnedÖ..
Positive indeed.

I give up
Tick Tock
Iím counting
Definitely not sheep.
poet Anonymous

melancholy's melancholy

 
in my morose mood I capture honesty
in darkened tones, create
it is with pure unadulterated hurt I coax the truth

in my malaise I am real
the lies drop away and you meet my sadness
sorrow comes forward and embraces my soul

it is melancholy who knows me
in my solemn thoughts I am well known
neediness in mortal love
I am shy to admit so I do without it
it hurts to feel anything so powerful
but the reality is there none the less

I conquer my ghosts
just to have the dead rise again
winsome loneliness presents itself
I can't simply usher it away

it is an utter disenchantment with life
looking for fascination and being denied
in my hollow places empty
reaching for the light among shadows

condemnation for the damned



poet Anonymous

Box Of A Cello

To the silence of it all, echoing memories
through the willows and trees
along the thistles of the Susquehanna
of death's moonlight in your eyes
whispering oboes

as you grew pale and I died with you
with chained melodies of love
tucked away in my portmanteau
of my gothic lunch and your tarnished flesh
with lusting palpitations in the twilight

star bright, eternal life
with a mahogany string-box of a cello †
and amorous proclivities of my shining †
rolling tides along the byways
whittling the night away

to the silence of it all, echoing memories
through the willows and trees
along the thistles of the Susquehanna †
with the essence of death
a cold September
 
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