Poetry competition CLOSED 19th July 2013 9:25pm
WINNER
GBLJ09712 (Luis Cruz)
GBLJ09712 (Luis Cruz)
RUNNERS-UP:
Pravus
and Carpe_Noctem
A Living Trilogy Pt. 1
We Are Nothing
***************
We are absolutely nothing
in this world.
We are lives that bloom and perish
in the blink of the eyes of time.
We are tiny ants trying to live in an anthill,
at the will of fate.
We are unimportant, insignificant.
Or are we?
The little girl down the street thinks I am a goddess,
sent from the heavens, and despite me trying to be modest,
she thinks the world of me!
The boy on the other end of the street things I am the devil,
always putting in end to his attempts to rebel,
catching him in his little schemes,
boy, he dreams of getting away with murder sometimes
My mother thinks I am a handful,
of sugar or salt...that's always up for debate.
She can love and hate
me in the same space of time.
It's a gifts, special unto her kind. (mothers)
But I digress,
and hope that you understand,
despite the distresses of life
that your importance, or your happiness...
that is defined only by you!
When you wake up, down and blue
you must recall all those lives
that you touch, that you bless.
There is so much
that one can live for.
What a sad day when you decide
to not take those lifetime moments,
those little special things
that make being human so blessedly wonderful.
***************
We are absolutely nothing
in this world.
We are lives that bloom and perish
in the blink of the eyes of time.
We are tiny ants trying to live in an anthill,
at the will of fate.
We are unimportant, insignificant.
Or are we?
The little girl down the street thinks I am a goddess,
sent from the heavens, and despite me trying to be modest,
she thinks the world of me!
The boy on the other end of the street things I am the devil,
always putting in end to his attempts to rebel,
catching him in his little schemes,
boy, he dreams of getting away with murder sometimes
My mother thinks I am a handful,
of sugar or salt...that's always up for debate.
She can love and hate
me in the same space of time.
It's a gifts, special unto her kind. (mothers)
But I digress,
and hope that you understand,
despite the distresses of life
that your importance, or your happiness...
that is defined only by you!
When you wake up, down and blue
you must recall all those lives
that you touch, that you bless.
There is so much
that one can live for.
What a sad day when you decide
to not take those lifetime moments,
those little special things
that make being human so blessedly wonderful.
A child's first snow fall..
The tiny snow flakes, fell one by one...
My first time remembering, the uncanny fun.
The excitement balled up and hyped up a kid, My first memory of snow fall, I bout flipped my lid.
I peeked out the window, oh what excitement.
As the dusk settled in, this 3 year old's thought process.
To run around, the oak tree in the front lawn,
And catch all the snow flakes, in my mouth until dawn.
Nevermind the cold, I just wanted to play,
Such innocence lost, what a pitty to say.
Nothing else mattered, cept that cold white stuff,
That fell down relentless, I couldn't get enough.
I just wanted so bad, to go out and play,
With the sun setting, there was no more day.
So wait till tomorrow, when the light was long, When I awoke, I felt so wronged.
No accumulation, to a child's dismay,
There's always next time. I'll count down the days.
The tiny snow flakes, fell one by one...
My first time remembering, the uncanny fun.
The excitement balled up and hyped up a kid, My first memory of snow fall, I bout flipped my lid.
I peeked out the window, oh what excitement.
As the dusk settled in, this 3 year old's thought process.
To run around, the oak tree in the front lawn,
And catch all the snow flakes, in my mouth until dawn.
Nevermind the cold, I just wanted to play,
Such innocence lost, what a pitty to say.
Nothing else mattered, cept that cold white stuff,
That fell down relentless, I couldn't get enough.
I just wanted so bad, to go out and play,
With the sun setting, there was no more day.
So wait till tomorrow, when the light was long, When I awoke, I felt so wronged.
No accumulation, to a child's dismay,
There's always next time. I'll count down the days.
A child's redemption..
Seventeen years old,
jaded from some deeply wrought,
freshly cut mommy issues,
also adorned upon his neck,
a 45 pound plate of teen angst.
Bored and pissed at the world,
he reaches for the door and walks outside.
As snow crunches between his shoes and the porch, he steps out. Lingering ruminants of oranges and reds and yellows
all blended with a dark,
quickly fading blue.
A crisp, winter's eve.
And with a deep sigh,
and slight grunt,
his face passes through his own vapor,
that lingers on the winter air. Another boring night,
in a boring trailer park,
in Po Dunk Randomville,
Dust Bowl Bible Belt.
Right here in 'Merika.
"Six to twelve inches" he scoffed,
"this is more like 18 inches"
as he trudged forth at a steady pace.
In a hurry to get no where fast,
this bored, post pubescent teen
is on a mission.
"Haven't seen snow like this since I was a kid.
Stupid, cold white shit. Nothing but a damned mess"
a lone white flake,
falling ever so gracefully
and melts immediately upon his cheek bone,
streaking his cheek,
as though a lone tear.
Hardly dressed for the weather,
though not blustery cold
-blue jeans, hoodie under which he had a t shirt and thermal, and his ever present, holy sneekers-
he was warm enough.
Strolling placidly, his eyes wander,
and as the last bit of color
diminishes from the winter gloom,
he pauses for a monent.
Taking in through his nose,
a long deep breath,
and a strange feeling of calm
washes over the boy.
Though a little past dusk,
all the freshly fallen snow,
reflected all of the ambient light,
and upon this white winterland,
an eerily illuminated glow.
Walking down a gradual slope,
to the pond's dock,
he is ever weary of his footing,
for slick are the slopes of the bank
of this might body of water.
A strange curiosity
comes over this boy.
An ease.
A release of stress..
Checking the thickness of the ice
as he approached
the water's edge ,
the young man,
bent over
to scoop up a cynder block
and with all of his might,
he heaved it as far onto the ice
as possible.
With a dull thud,
the cinder block,
landed square on a corner,
and broke into three pieces.
"Good enough"..
Conscious of his footing at first,
expecting the ice to be slick,
but with the fine,
virgin white pure snow,
glazed across the ice,
the footing was firm.
And with that,
his baby steps,
broke into a stride,
towards the center of the ice.
The distant humming of cars
on the freeway,
and the eery,
iridescent glow,
and the steady downfall
of the biggest,
most beautiful
white flakes a person could see,
the night,
to say the least,
was the perfect,
clear winter night.
He stood firm,
and the ambience of the night
enveloped him,
and he dropped to the ice
(his back threatening the integrity of the ice beneath).
And,
just as he had as a child of nine,
and hadn't done since then,
this
"jaded on life teenager"
thrust out his arms and legs,
and did the eternal,
"child forever" slow dance
with the snow.
"Man, if anyone saw me right now..."
an adrenaline rush,
racing through his body,
over come with a child like wonderment.
"Fuck it, this is right where I'm supposed to be right now."
And down the right side of his face,
trailing a salty creek bed
in it's wake upon his cheek,
for the very first time
in the boy's life,
he shed a joyous tear.
The kid felt like a kid again.
Seventeen years old,
jaded from some deeply wrought,
freshly cut mommy issues,
also adorned upon his neck,
a 45 pound plate of teen angst.
Bored and pissed at the world,
he reaches for the door and walks outside.
As snow crunches between his shoes and the porch, he steps out. Lingering ruminants of oranges and reds and yellows
all blended with a dark,
quickly fading blue.
A crisp, winter's eve.
And with a deep sigh,
and slight grunt,
his face passes through his own vapor,
that lingers on the winter air. Another boring night,
in a boring trailer park,
in Po Dunk Randomville,
Dust Bowl Bible Belt.
Right here in 'Merika.
"Six to twelve inches" he scoffed,
"this is more like 18 inches"
as he trudged forth at a steady pace.
In a hurry to get no where fast,
this bored, post pubescent teen
is on a mission.
"Haven't seen snow like this since I was a kid.
Stupid, cold white shit. Nothing but a damned mess"
a lone white flake,
falling ever so gracefully
and melts immediately upon his cheek bone,
streaking his cheek,
as though a lone tear.
Hardly dressed for the weather,
though not blustery cold
-blue jeans, hoodie under which he had a t shirt and thermal, and his ever present, holy sneekers-
he was warm enough.
Strolling placidly, his eyes wander,
and as the last bit of color
diminishes from the winter gloom,
he pauses for a monent.
Taking in through his nose,
a long deep breath,
and a strange feeling of calm
washes over the boy.
Though a little past dusk,
all the freshly fallen snow,
reflected all of the ambient light,
and upon this white winterland,
an eerily illuminated glow.
Walking down a gradual slope,
to the pond's dock,
he is ever weary of his footing,
for slick are the slopes of the bank
of this might body of water.
A strange curiosity
comes over this boy.
An ease.
A release of stress..
Checking the thickness of the ice
as he approached
the water's edge ,
the young man,
bent over
to scoop up a cynder block
and with all of his might,
he heaved it as far onto the ice
as possible.
With a dull thud,
the cinder block,
landed square on a corner,
and broke into three pieces.
"Good enough"..
Conscious of his footing at first,
expecting the ice to be slick,
but with the fine,
virgin white pure snow,
glazed across the ice,
the footing was firm.
And with that,
his baby steps,
broke into a stride,
towards the center of the ice.
The distant humming of cars
on the freeway,
and the eery,
iridescent glow,
and the steady downfall
of the biggest,
most beautiful
white flakes a person could see,
the night,
to say the least,
was the perfect,
clear winter night.
He stood firm,
and the ambience of the night
enveloped him,
and he dropped to the ice
(his back threatening the integrity of the ice beneath).
And,
just as he had as a child of nine,
and hadn't done since then,
this
"jaded on life teenager"
thrust out his arms and legs,
and did the eternal,
"child forever" slow dance
with the snow.
"Man, if anyone saw me right now..."
an adrenaline rush,
racing through his body,
over come with a child like wonderment.
"Fuck it, this is right where I'm supposed to be right now."
And down the right side of his face,
trailing a salty creek bed
in it's wake upon his cheek,
for the very first time
in the boy's life,
he shed a joyous tear.
The kid felt like a kid again.
This is a poem I wrote after a breakup. Though it probably is not exactly what you are looking for, I do believe, humbly, that when it comes to light, this is the brightest I get.
Seasonal changes
Strange thing, that which happens
When the mind tells the heart not to look back.
There always comes a time
In which you give in,
You analyze the minutae
All that you can.
You seize these mornings,
That shine brighter than usual.
Though when you cast your thoughts
Upon that past,
You realize how fast things have changed.
You are taken aback.
At that juncture go outside,
And do your best to enjoy
Life under the sun.
You enjoy evenings fresh and cool,
That don't bite or spit the face.
But it's still strange
Not kiss someone good night.
Strange to realize you felt that you had to,
To realize you didn't want to.
What you need now to remember
Is that you can forget,
Is that you let,
Mistakenly so,
Your heart and your mind
Share their feelings and thoughts,
To their utmost intimacy,
To only one heart and only one mind.
So, loneliness at times can be
A gruesome thing.
You feel its pangs throng inside your guts.
A seemingly restless anxiety.
A silent noise clouding your thoughts.
At those very moments remember,
Remember why you want to forget.
It's not that roses smelled so dear
That you can't bear the thought of that treasure,
That is gone;
It's that the country flowers that you held
In your hand,
Never did enchant you so
That the heart,
Though not the mind,
Can't forget them.
For all those mornings and evenings form a season.
It's a winter with strange clear skies,
That sing of promise,
And of hope and love.
But it's winter still and at intervals,
You'll wish you had but a modicum
Of summer times.
When the heat was rough,
But at least it warmed the heart
Enough.
Remember, then.
Remember you grew sick and you grew weary
Into an unshaped self,
Unrecognizable,
Burnt.
But drenched in wet ashes,
Buried in the snow,
From the paleness of winter
You will rise.
Like a phenix to shine and to fly.
This is the path we all walk.
The stark truth of it all:
All the winters wither.
All the seasons die,
Every new spring to come,
Along with all the rest of ever-changing stations,
The summers and the falls,
And so it'd be forever,
If for the always present gloom that creeps,
Forevermore.
Every single leaf falls,
And the earth that so provides,
Takes too in its turn,
And to no one grants forgiveness.
So is man like the years he spends,
In gaiety or gloom at times;
So is man in his pride,
In his grand solitude,
In his most intimate stance;
He changes and comes back to life,
But life, the shapeshifter, the law divine
It dictates all too sternly:
That which you left planted yore
You will harvest tomorrow.
So make all you can of the winter,
And also resist the temptation
Of looking forward too soon.
Always resist, never desist,
Think not even of the day,
Think of the moment.
Live there.
Live.
Everything will be all right.
Seasonal changes
Strange thing, that which happens
When the mind tells the heart not to look back.
There always comes a time
In which you give in,
You analyze the minutae
All that you can.
You seize these mornings,
That shine brighter than usual.
Though when you cast your thoughts
Upon that past,
You realize how fast things have changed.
You are taken aback.
At that juncture go outside,
And do your best to enjoy
Life under the sun.
You enjoy evenings fresh and cool,
That don't bite or spit the face.
But it's still strange
Not kiss someone good night.
Strange to realize you felt that you had to,
To realize you didn't want to.
What you need now to remember
Is that you can forget,
Is that you let,
Mistakenly so,
Your heart and your mind
Share their feelings and thoughts,
To their utmost intimacy,
To only one heart and only one mind.
So, loneliness at times can be
A gruesome thing.
You feel its pangs throng inside your guts.
A seemingly restless anxiety.
A silent noise clouding your thoughts.
At those very moments remember,
Remember why you want to forget.
It's not that roses smelled so dear
That you can't bear the thought of that treasure,
That is gone;
It's that the country flowers that you held
In your hand,
Never did enchant you so
That the heart,
Though not the mind,
Can't forget them.
For all those mornings and evenings form a season.
It's a winter with strange clear skies,
That sing of promise,
And of hope and love.
But it's winter still and at intervals,
You'll wish you had but a modicum
Of summer times.
When the heat was rough,
But at least it warmed the heart
Enough.
Remember, then.
Remember you grew sick and you grew weary
Into an unshaped self,
Unrecognizable,
Burnt.
But drenched in wet ashes,
Buried in the snow,
From the paleness of winter
You will rise.
Like a phenix to shine and to fly.
This is the path we all walk.
The stark truth of it all:
All the winters wither.
All the seasons die,
Every new spring to come,
Along with all the rest of ever-changing stations,
The summers and the falls,
And so it'd be forever,
If for the always present gloom that creeps,
Forevermore.
Every single leaf falls,
And the earth that so provides,
Takes too in its turn,
And to no one grants forgiveness.
So is man like the years he spends,
In gaiety or gloom at times;
So is man in his pride,
In his grand solitude,
In his most intimate stance;
He changes and comes back to life,
But life, the shapeshifter, the law divine
It dictates all too sternly:
That which you left planted yore
You will harvest tomorrow.
So make all you can of the winter,
And also resist the temptation
Of looking forward too soon.
Always resist, never desist,
Think not even of the day,
Think of the moment.
Live there.
Live.
Everything will be all right.
It takes two ropes to drag you out of hell.
A flower is a beautiful thing.
And the sight of a storm seen from the outside is a peculiar mix of awe, fear and longing.
But neither of those things stopped me from looking into the darkness at the bottom of a bottle of pills and longing for whatever brand of eternal oblivion lay inside.
What gave me the strength to go through the motions was much simpler than any abstract thought of the wonders of life.
It was the thought of big boy handing me a bottle and a smoke, the look in his eyes saying he understood what had made a home in mine and that he understood. His hand on my shoulder weighed down with the importance of letting go.
It was the memory of Ellie holding me close, the feelings of her words gently brushing my hair as she reminded me that even though I'd played with her heart more times than I could remember, whenever I needed her she would hold me close. Through every other girl that broke my heart and every dark hole I fell into, she would always climb down with me, rock me to sleep and keep my demons at bay.
What stopped me was knowing she'd need me to remind her of her beauty and her worth the next time a guy like me came around and the thought of her finally finding one who deserved her.
When I bent down to drop a bunch of service station flowers on a freshly dug grave, it was those two pairs of hands that stopped me from wanting to fall in.
It was them who lightened the weight of pain from my memories.
And it was those two lights that pulled, tugged and guided me until I found the road back to living.
A flower is a beautiful thing.
And the sight of a storm seen from the outside is a peculiar mix of awe, fear and longing.
But neither of those things stopped me from looking into the darkness at the bottom of a bottle of pills and longing for whatever brand of eternal oblivion lay inside.
What gave me the strength to go through the motions was much simpler than any abstract thought of the wonders of life.
It was the thought of big boy handing me a bottle and a smoke, the look in his eyes saying he understood what had made a home in mine and that he understood. His hand on my shoulder weighed down with the importance of letting go.
It was the memory of Ellie holding me close, the feelings of her words gently brushing my hair as she reminded me that even though I'd played with her heart more times than I could remember, whenever I needed her she would hold me close. Through every other girl that broke my heart and every dark hole I fell into, she would always climb down with me, rock me to sleep and keep my demons at bay.
What stopped me was knowing she'd need me to remind her of her beauty and her worth the next time a guy like me came around and the thought of her finally finding one who deserved her.
When I bent down to drop a bunch of service station flowers on a freshly dug grave, it was those two pairs of hands that stopped me from wanting to fall in.
It was them who lightened the weight of pain from my memories.
And it was those two lights that pulled, tugged and guided me until I found the road back to living.
