Suggestion Box

OK... two types of posts are welcome here.

1) Suggest an image or a topic that you would like to see worked into a poem.

2) Write a poem using one or more of the suggested images.

The poems, not the suggestions, will be judged. The suggestions are just to make the contest more interesting.

One month. Anything goes.

Here are a couple of suggestions to start

Blood on a sidewalk

A bare tree with birds instead of leaves

A door falling from its hinges

An old circus poster in a barn

or perhaps the mysterious mouse with cheese next to cans of tuna

This does sound interesting. I'll be back

Blood on a sidewalk


"This blood on the sidewalk",
the detective said,
"is the result of a fierce fight."

A young boy listened to him,
but said:
"Mister detective, you are not right."

"Oh boy, you see, I'm long enough"
said the detective boasting loud,
"in this profession, so I should know
what this is about."

"But mister, this is simply wrong"
another boy butted in.
"This is no blood, mister detective-man,
what happened was another sin."

The audience laughed and the detective said:
"You know the name of the one wearing this hat?
I'm never wrong when I solve a crime
But give me your deduction, lad."

The boys smiled with big brown eyes
"We will now tell the cause.
We yesterday ate some burgers here,
this is just tomato sauce."

          Blood on the Streets
http://kevintsweeney.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/05/Ghetto1.jpg
Living Across one hundred and tenth street
Living across one hundred and Tenth Street
There is a story within everyone you met
People just trying to make it another day
In this world gone weak.
.

A woman walking the streets
Up and down the block she keeps
Calling out to cars, hanging out in bars
trying to met get  a John
to make quota for the week
Blood drips from her lips
Eyes wide in the dark, body lay stiff
Where unmerciful had his way
No one looks for a missing whore these days.


He works hard to make a dollar
Because he didn’t want to be like his father
Working nights paid the bills so he wouldn’t have to steal.
He was the man of the family, the one who would provide.
The man his mother could count on, until that night when a young gun came into the store looking to earned his black tear.
On shot rang out and like his father, he watched a boy
lay dying, while the cops put him in the back seat.


A girl of thirteen seeks rest
Off these troubled streets and her swollen feet.
Full of baby, she was thrown out for the sin she alone bears,
but made with the pastor’s son name Ken.
She finds a vacant building to rest her burden
To have her child alone she bleeds, screaming
This child left crying, her baby she left dying.

These kings of the streets
Don’t know him, this child
The one they push around, ridicule and scorn
They don’t know the depth of him, yet
They don’t see him, this boy
Watching the game, seeing the players and keeping score
They don’t know him, not yet.
They heard of him, this guy
The one that’s making a name
That’s taken out all the old players,
While taking over the game.


He don’t belong
His color is all wrong
They hated him for his tongue
They hate him for his name
They hate him for his turban
They hate him for his religion
That they think is wrong, because only theirs is right
His store they frequent
They hate him for what they think he’s got
They hate him for what they think he hates
They hate him with a Glock to the face
They hate him bleeding with his family in church.

He shakes hands
All day long he finds new friends
On this street he meets them in cars, on the corner and in alleyways.
He walks the midway shaking hands his
Eyes always watching, his ears always listening
Pockets loaded he sells his small plastic packets.
He shock one hand and felt the burn
He felt wet, he felt numb
Falling on the concrete he watched his blood  
Draining down the sewer
He wished now he hadn't shook that hand


Red lights, white lights
Blood showers down like rain
From the many brown bodies
Slang in violence, hated and greed.
There is no love on the streets
where the blood is trapped in its concrete
Draining down its sewers
Staining the young minds and killing their future.


Living across from one hundred and Tenth Street
There is a story with everyone you met
In this world gone weak

So it looks like there will be blood. Anyone who wishes to throw out some suggestions of their own is encouraged to do so. Really any suggestions. The more there are, the more poems you are likely to stimulate.

Senses

I hear
Rain pounding on the concrete
The distant echoing of a dog barking
The ocean crashing beyond the hill
I see
Trees swaying in tune to the wind
Wild flowers reaching up to kiss the raindrops
An elderly man sitting on his front porch
I smell
Rain cramping it's way onto the streets
Freshly brewed coffee inside my home
Dampness of the bark mulch in my flower beds
I taste
Cleanliness of the fresh air
The hot bitterness of my folgers
And the sweet, nuttiness of my coffee creamer
I feel
The barometric pressure assaulting my joints
The warmth from my sleeping dogs
The rough hewn edges of an old book

Mid Day Rain in Fairgreen

Grey skies
Water stained pavement and sidewalks.
Roof tops sighing from the cold
Pots of flowers drinking the nectar
Wild flowers stretch up their faces
A light drizzle
Tickling the leaves of the trees
Kissing the petals of the roses
Dripping down the stems of poppies
Gleaming on the clover
A soft breeze
Touching the faces of an elderly couple
Rolling over the lush green hills
Playing tag in the tall grass
Moving over the huddled cattle
A distant thunder
Echoing in the mountains
Doing battle in the air
Going to war in the Heavens
Crying out in disdain
An eery call
Sighing outside a dotted window
Sneaking under the front door
Singing down the chimney
Dancing on the wind

The old poster


then we dusted off the old poster
and Grandad smiled
said he remembered the man in the picture

"That's Nobby no brain,
we'd christened him with that name
the first time he tried to say the alphabet
at his fifteenth birthday party

the only one that had real people there
and there were more than a few raised brows
when he switched to colors after only getting as far as m
for the seventh time in a row

nature has her way of balancing things
but there was a clear lack of follow through
apparent from a early stage
no age at all if you don't count
the first few years
when his doctor wasn't able to tell the difference
between a really slow learner
and the need for some series volts to the brain

so you'd think that the surprise factor involved
would have been medium to low when it became clear
that he'd be making a living
hammering 8 inch nails up his nose"

we stared for a bit at the man in the poster
and went back to hunting for treasures  

Bump

braggman said:

A door falling from its hinges




::

true story; true mistake
out by the lake I’m snowbound
buried alive
caught in a drift..
taken under by your flake.

I’m barely hinged, like my front door
I scream more…used to be slamming
now I’m ready to fall completely off; unhinged
if you could only pave way to my door
shovel me out; remove
the storm.

this midsummer sun doesn't seem to be working

not quick enough
the sun and it's rays; the meltdown
it appears the only success is my sense of imbalance
my proof..

evidence is my craving your assistance
instead of my insistence
that you remain
far, far and away from me

yet meanwhile
conflicted are my wants
constantly; they betray me
and just maybe
this isn't your storm to weather
no, not at all.

::

I like this thread. I'll make some suggestions.

A painting of a dollar bill.

A moving picture frame.

A coal powered submarine.

Ten dogs chasing a child.

A red fan slowing down after it's been turned off.

A hurricane sinking a small island back under the water.

A hurricane building a small island up out of the water.

Written from Mike's suggestion. It was only a quick write, not very original, I know.


On Second Thoughts



She rounds the corner
sweat dripping from her brow
heart pounding in her chest
her long hair sticking to her face
covering her eyes restricting her view



"Please don't let me fall, please don't let me fall"
she thinks
over and over in her fear filled mind


Just a child she is
running for her damn life
"why are these dogs chasing me? ten or more"
she thinks


"please go away please go away please go away"


So tired
so breathless
she runs through one deserted road after another


"Someone please help me"


but no one is around
just a pack of hungry dogs on her trail
getting closer and closer
she is too afraid to look around


and then
she feels teeth sink into her ankle
she screams and falls to the ground
the dogs consume her


She wakes screaming
her mum runs into her bedroom
it was just a bad dream


"Mummy mummy
I'm so sorry for being so naughty
because you wouldn't buy me a dog
I really really don't want one any more"


She says...

An old circus poster in a barn

Bobo

Ah troughed through tah mud out to tah old blood red barn
Tah hang mahself an escape the holy flood written down in dead yarns
Tah splinters peeling off
Mah winter’s almost up
So ah throw the rope up over a rafter
To subside mah own mad laughter
To confide my cesspool of a mind
Ah balance on ah stool ready to die
When ah spotted
Upon tah walls that stood rotting
A faded image of a clown with a painted smile
That hardly hid his frown of tainted vile
Grainy films played through his head
Of electric carnivals that now lay dead
Spun dreams of sugar weave
Dat one eye ghoul and te preacher man who doesn’t believe
Ah spotted on mah stool
Tat blind emu sweet Eloise, who would never take flight and tat rat tamer who would play his pipes
Ta crooning catfish pie maker who would loom over clockheart waiting for him to die so he could steal te old man’s pacemaker
But that old man would sure go out kicking and fighting
We called him clockheart cos he ticks like a flea biting
Ah start to think of dat catfish and ah trickle a drool
That forms a slippery pool
And ah slip right off mah stool