Poetry competition CLOSED 28th November 2013 7:41pm
WINNER
JohnFeddeler
JohnFeddeler
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"See How They Run"
_____________________
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hyacinth_(mythology)
_____________________
Early fire & rise…
the morning sizzles...
a warmed up
&
chilled out
flowering first, I am
a walk (more like
a run) through the night...
& I have forsaken sweet
for a kiss of bite,
a zephyr frozen spear of time
& truth can spit the heart
like a space of wavering
~daze~
can smack around a mountain,
cheerful bash of wind,
a confident Sun or growling saw
of hope, the future
is stretching & relaxing
a breeze of change
into killing blows
& I run where I feel
the absence more pronounced
than death or hyacinth,
alas, I am
to beg Apollo's favor:
somewhere
there is a healthy break of ground
from blood of fools
& magistrates...
even to them the power
to believe in love or flying stones
or an oracle
of door to door corridors
that lend a reprobated course:
though Sun-drenched, I am
smoking in the stench
of gasoline & Hades
sweating the arts of light & poetry
to suffer accidental salvation,
a satisfied grumbling
in winding sacrament
-serendipitous events-
choice...I leave my heart to burn
a rise of silent murder
scorching still
or
chilled out:
chance
I feel like a walk
(more like a run)
& grow to explosion...
_____________________
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hyacinth_(mythology)
_____________________
Early fire & rise…
the morning sizzles...
a warmed up
&
chilled out
flowering first, I am
a walk (more like
a run) through the night...
& I have forsaken sweet
for a kiss of bite,
a zephyr frozen spear of time
& truth can spit the heart
like a space of wavering
~daze~
can smack around a mountain,
cheerful bash of wind,
a confident Sun or growling saw
of hope, the future
is stretching & relaxing
a breeze of change
into killing blows
& I run where I feel
the absence more pronounced
than death or hyacinth,
alas, I am
to beg Apollo's favor:
somewhere
there is a healthy break of ground
from blood of fools
& magistrates...
even to them the power
to believe in love or flying stones
or an oracle
of door to door corridors
that lend a reprobated course:
though Sun-drenched, I am
smoking in the stench
of gasoline & Hades
sweating the arts of light & poetry
to suffer accidental salvation,
a satisfied grumbling
in winding sacrament
-serendipitous events-
choice...I leave my heart to burn
a rise of silent murder
scorching still
or
chilled out:
chance
I feel like a walk
(more like a run)
& grow to explosion...
Anonymous
In One Breath
by Osiris Rex
As if I knew nothing of this art, teach me the skill painters know. Soft as skin, hard as bone. Where blood and milk flowed. Where I am not afraid to go. There are those who have art within them, but they tell it not in words. As if their art were as long as life. They who have no talent for pleasure nor use for the body. They who do not live by words alone. If I were a painter, I would reproduce on canvas the geometry of her nipples. All done on the same geometric principles, precision of line and angle. Art as a world, a life, a formula. The formula all great art is made of. There are new fires of colors over here never seen before colors until now unknown.
Instruct the eye in the language of painting. The canvas needs paint, the paper the pen. Ink, is the black blood of belladonna’s. With fever and fire of the muse I would observe the curvature of her form and figure. The splendid proportions of her hips, bosom, and beautifully shaped legs, soft and delicately rounded. No single beauty is best because we forget that beauty was once itself and nothing else like the rainbow after the storm, a thousand colors shining and blending bright as paint in the vocabulary of oil. The artist admires new beauties not their own. By Heavens! Was I born for nothing but to create? Does the painted soldier in the painting bleed? Rome learnt art from Greece.
On the mystery and not on the Madonna. A culture is no better than its words. She shall be perfect in my painting. Beautiful as pictures no man drew. A picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again. The wish to do what one's not done before. Forged for proof eternal. Her breasts are breathless. The identity of her body, is tall, slender and of a white beauty. Her divine breasts and buttocks shine like silver and gold. Everything she takes off would violate the secrets of a woman's skin. When that faun's head of hers became the subject for painters, poets, and adulterers.
It is mine, O my love! This prize is mine! Not in a dream will I die in Paris! Let young poets go to the center of culture and civilization. The painting of the night, stars, and meteors. I have dreamed, seen an epiphany, as Picasso's bronze head of a Jester was seen. Tell me, what have you seen? Where have our high words gone? Yet although low, it is perfect in its kind. The eye is the best of artists. We have much to achieve never dreamed of before. Give me more substance with less art! I live for art alone. Who art our winged self? I am myself, that is never enough! A poet of grand effect, a poet of grand cause. One substance and one color. Shall we receive the Rhino for the labor of our muse? O so she says, they taste like eyes. Eyes like opium dens, eyes of Picasso. Aren't we exchanging substance for the shadow?
An artist's hand gives style to paint. As good as could be made by art. Art half as happy as we. Color, scents and touch mix. Given new life with each stroke of the brush. The arrangement contains the desire of the artist. The authentic touch of fairy hands vanishing before the dawn. “I am an artist!” From my coat a piece of charcoal I fetched. And on the wall a woman's face I sketched. A sketch done in an hour, “In one breath.”
by Osiris Rex
As if I knew nothing of this art, teach me the skill painters know. Soft as skin, hard as bone. Where blood and milk flowed. Where I am not afraid to go. There are those who have art within them, but they tell it not in words. As if their art were as long as life. They who have no talent for pleasure nor use for the body. They who do not live by words alone. If I were a painter, I would reproduce on canvas the geometry of her nipples. All done on the same geometric principles, precision of line and angle. Art as a world, a life, a formula. The formula all great art is made of. There are new fires of colors over here never seen before colors until now unknown.
Instruct the eye in the language of painting. The canvas needs paint, the paper the pen. Ink, is the black blood of belladonna’s. With fever and fire of the muse I would observe the curvature of her form and figure. The splendid proportions of her hips, bosom, and beautifully shaped legs, soft and delicately rounded. No single beauty is best because we forget that beauty was once itself and nothing else like the rainbow after the storm, a thousand colors shining and blending bright as paint in the vocabulary of oil. The artist admires new beauties not their own. By Heavens! Was I born for nothing but to create? Does the painted soldier in the painting bleed? Rome learnt art from Greece.
On the mystery and not on the Madonna. A culture is no better than its words. She shall be perfect in my painting. Beautiful as pictures no man drew. A picture which was never seen before, and which shall never be seen again. The wish to do what one's not done before. Forged for proof eternal. Her breasts are breathless. The identity of her body, is tall, slender and of a white beauty. Her divine breasts and buttocks shine like silver and gold. Everything she takes off would violate the secrets of a woman's skin. When that faun's head of hers became the subject for painters, poets, and adulterers.
It is mine, O my love! This prize is mine! Not in a dream will I die in Paris! Let young poets go to the center of culture and civilization. The painting of the night, stars, and meteors. I have dreamed, seen an epiphany, as Picasso's bronze head of a Jester was seen. Tell me, what have you seen? Where have our high words gone? Yet although low, it is perfect in its kind. The eye is the best of artists. We have much to achieve never dreamed of before. Give me more substance with less art! I live for art alone. Who art our winged self? I am myself, that is never enough! A poet of grand effect, a poet of grand cause. One substance and one color. Shall we receive the Rhino for the labor of our muse? O so she says, they taste like eyes. Eyes like opium dens, eyes of Picasso. Aren't we exchanging substance for the shadow?
An artist's hand gives style to paint. As good as could be made by art. Art half as happy as we. Color, scents and touch mix. Given new life with each stroke of the brush. The arrangement contains the desire of the artist. The authentic touch of fairy hands vanishing before the dawn. “I am an artist!” From my coat a piece of charcoal I fetched. And on the wall a woman's face I sketched. A sketch done in an hour, “In one breath.”
Stitched in Time
Poet In Motion,
Is my only potion,
To understand and feel, to live and to breathe love,
My dreams and visions of harmonious heart near,
Blue skies above.
On this fine day, all but bad is far from sight, clouds part,
Feelings so pure of beauty invade and envelope my heart,
Is this real? How can this be?
Yet i gaze into those sumptuous eyes and yet i see...
Deep into a soul that my body connect, soul singing, soul yearning,
to hold this moment deep down,
not turning, not ignoring and embracing.
Mind of reason wrestles with my heart melting.
You see my heart is now devoid of reason, yet i have never felt such feelings as this.
Deep down inside i feel my soul warm, and at home,
This cannot be a dream... True Bliss.
I give in to the trueness of my heart and soul, i breakdown barriers to allow this tender heart to be mine
A joining of two such warm hearts, the gaze that time ignores...
Reason implores,
Yet, Yet feel devine.
The glues now of this connection,
Of heart and soul, binding in time,
Stitched together to never be apart.
For if this were to end..
To die..
My heart, my soul, would die,
Not beating, no love again to ever start.
Scared of death of love,
Scared of how life could ever be,
Without these now feelings my heart do breathe.
I love you forever,
This is what my soul does say,
To remain in this moment today, to stay, told, to love,
to never stray into another day.
Just be still in time, to feel what i feel,
In this moment,
Forever ill be..
Poet In Motion,
Is my only potion,
To understand and feel, to live and to breathe love,
My dreams and visions of harmonious heart near,
Blue skies above.
On this fine day, all but bad is far from sight, clouds part,
Feelings so pure of beauty invade and envelope my heart,
Is this real? How can this be?
Yet i gaze into those sumptuous eyes and yet i see...
Deep into a soul that my body connect, soul singing, soul yearning,
to hold this moment deep down,
not turning, not ignoring and embracing.
Mind of reason wrestles with my heart melting.
You see my heart is now devoid of reason, yet i have never felt such feelings as this.
Deep down inside i feel my soul warm, and at home,
This cannot be a dream... True Bliss.
I give in to the trueness of my heart and soul, i breakdown barriers to allow this tender heart to be mine
A joining of two such warm hearts, the gaze that time ignores...
Reason implores,
Yet, Yet feel devine.
The glues now of this connection,
Of heart and soul, binding in time,
Stitched together to never be apart.
For if this were to end..
To die..
My heart, my soul, would die,
Not beating, no love again to ever start.
Scared of death of love,
Scared of how life could ever be,
Without these now feelings my heart do breathe.
I love you forever,
This is what my soul does say,
To remain in this moment today, to stay, told, to love,
to never stray into another day.
Just be still in time, to feel what i feel,
In this moment,
Forever ill be..
Sic Luceat Creptium
‘Rats in the cellar,’ a wise man remarked
‘Eat finer than many a king
Do you wear that crown or suffer it?’
On many occasion my magic does sing
Rhapsody made into ink
Never, however, have I taken pleasure
Gave my tired soul just relief
‘You may be inclined to lose sight,’ he said
‘Leave reason with pride at your bed
Lest you fall victim to pursuits of wealth
With towers then wrought in your head’
Grey lies once swarmed like assassins, I divulged
Ribald clamor from my same jilted tongue
No Brutus, your conniving hath no malice like my own
‘Better the devil you know and know yourself, if truth be told
Lepers and wretches have more use to you than sycophants in droves
Understand, whether the waters rise or cosmic ways unfold
Every man with his tail on his tongue must find his way back home’
‘Rats in the cellar,’ a wise man remarked
‘Eat finer than many a king
Do you wear that crown or suffer it?’
On many occasion my magic does sing
Rhapsody made into ink
Never, however, have I taken pleasure
Gave my tired soul just relief
‘You may be inclined to lose sight,’ he said
‘Leave reason with pride at your bed
Lest you fall victim to pursuits of wealth
With towers then wrought in your head’
Grey lies once swarmed like assassins, I divulged
Ribald clamor from my same jilted tongue
No Brutus, your conniving hath no malice like my own
‘Better the devil you know and know yourself, if truth be told
Lepers and wretches have more use to you than sycophants in droves
Understand, whether the waters rise or cosmic ways unfold
Every man with his tail on his tongue must find his way back home’
Sylvan Wisdom
refreshing and warm
these raindrops that fall
drifting as faery wings resting
upon a maze of greenery
where pastel flowers bloom and
emerald shoots dance upon the
earth their dance of life
underneath the sodden leaves
where little birds run for cover
while the king watches from his throne
as everything keeps changing
yet remains the same
the old oak tree
has stood through
the test of Gods time...
he knows he stands alone
after the rain has quenched
the thirst of the earth
bees and butterflies flit and
flutter silently through his branches
a lone squirrel caresses his bark
chirping eagerly as he runs down
sniffing about at the new scents
brought forth in a burst of life
just as all of nature
whispers her loving tune
wild and free in
an orbiting forest
the old oak tree still stands
through many seasons
the chill of the winter, the heat of the summer
he knows he stands alone...
refreshing and warm
these raindrops that fall
drifting as faery wings resting
upon a maze of greenery
where pastel flowers bloom and
emerald shoots dance upon the
earth their dance of life
underneath the sodden leaves
where little birds run for cover
while the king watches from his throne
as everything keeps changing
yet remains the same
the old oak tree
has stood through
the test of Gods time...
he knows he stands alone
after the rain has quenched
the thirst of the earth
bees and butterflies flit and
flutter silently through his branches
a lone squirrel caresses his bark
chirping eagerly as he runs down
sniffing about at the new scents
brought forth in a burst of life
just as all of nature
whispers her loving tune
wild and free in
an orbiting forest
the old oak tree still stands
through many seasons
the chill of the winter, the heat of the summer
he knows he stands alone...
-Souls Paved Over-
Is I who mocks God?
From the darkness of my chapel,
Dizzy in the fog of the incense of opium,
Praying to the gods in my head,
But at least I commune.
I drink at my altar,
For wine is my lifeblood,
And my mouth is
the bittersweet dualism
of scripture and sacrifice.
I sit with the congregation,
each face oddly familiar
yet distantly distinct.
Is it, perhaps, the disgust
that their faces cast on me
as I writhe in blood as tribute?
I am the world's sacrifice,
and yet the world's to forget.
I spend my days and nights
starving and mad.
Rambling, shouting, cursing,
Madness.
And how is it that such a presence
can be forgotten by the world?
How mad is such a world
that a man like me is forgettable?
So I just lay here in my concrete palace
as the fog thickens around me.
Is I who mocks God?
From the darkness of my chapel,
Dizzy in the fog of the incense of opium,
Praying to the gods in my head,
But at least I commune.
I drink at my altar,
For wine is my lifeblood,
And my mouth is
the bittersweet dualism
of scripture and sacrifice.
I sit with the congregation,
each face oddly familiar
yet distantly distinct.
Is it, perhaps, the disgust
that their faces cast on me
as I writhe in blood as tribute?
I am the world's sacrifice,
and yet the world's to forget.
I spend my days and nights
starving and mad.
Rambling, shouting, cursing,
Madness.
And how is it that such a presence
can be forgotten by the world?
How mad is such a world
that a man like me is forgettable?
So I just lay here in my concrete palace
as the fog thickens around me.
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Dark Eyes
I love the nights when your dark eyes are there on my floor,
if there is something deeper than my desire it would be yours,
they say that eyes hide the truth and then i looked at you,
i felt pain and sadness, i felt you wanted to...
I love the nights when those dark eyes are looking at mine,
i've heard love hurts, no, pain is passion,
there is nothing to loose, but through my mind,
heart doesn't get a shot.
Oh, at the end of universe,
through the galaxy and stars,
i promise that nothing tastes better than the thrill of love,
at the end of universe,
beyond every light of life,
there somewhere has to be a hope for us.
I love the nights when your dark eyes are there in the sky,
i am so oh i could die, my darkness lives in you
and a hope lives through me, that we can be free,
times i am alone, i can feel the night is my home, my home.
I love the nights when your dark eyes are a living fire,
as i crave, believe, bleed, see the night,
my universe will never lay dead, my faith won't die so young,
and even the stars are living drunk of hope,
maybe i just don't wanna die alone...
I love the nights,
when your dark eyes are dying in mine, but the night flows
and we have to go, always wanting to stay a little more,
can you stay a little more ? a little more...
I love the nights when your dark eyes are there on my floor,
if there is something deeper than my desire it would be yours,
they say that eyes hide the truth and then i looked at you,
i felt pain and sadness, i felt you wanted to...
I love the nights when those dark eyes are looking at mine,
i've heard love hurts, no, pain is passion,
there is nothing to loose, but through my mind,
heart doesn't get a shot.
Oh, at the end of universe,
through the galaxy and stars,
i promise that nothing tastes better than the thrill of love,
at the end of universe,
beyond every light of life,
there somewhere has to be a hope for us.
I love the nights when your dark eyes are there in the sky,
i am so oh i could die, my darkness lives in you
and a hope lives through me, that we can be free,
times i am alone, i can feel the night is my home, my home.
I love the nights when your dark eyes are a living fire,
as i crave, believe, bleed, see the night,
my universe will never lay dead, my faith won't die so young,
and even the stars are living drunk of hope,
maybe i just don't wanna die alone...
I love the nights,
when your dark eyes are dying in mine, but the night flows
and we have to go, always wanting to stay a little more,
can you stay a little more ? a little more...
I was sitting very still, blood dripping from my nails.
As i was watching out my window at the water and the sails.
When i gazed upon a familiar face
i remembered our ancient meeting place.
Now the pain was on its way up my coat
all i could feel was dread and hope.
when someone walked in and grabbed my throat
I struggled and pulled but it was no use
i knew it was my time to die,
but then someone walked in and killed the guy.
they walked over to me, and i screamed Clarissa!
the thought of her
made me ache in pain
i sat up straight and felt the pain awake.
i knew i was a serial killer,
but i rather die in hell then on earth with a gal.
the women sighed and lifted me up
she then started punching me in the gut.
i knew i was dying
when i heard the sirens
i thew the women against the wall
i stumbled out the window
when i knew i was going to fall
every bone in my body broke
this is when i started to choke
i felt the pain the gruesome pain
now i knew in life i had no gain
upon this day i knew death await
When i finally drew my last breath,
i knew it was my time to go to rest.
here my body lay for the best.
here is my poem hope i win! :)
As i was watching out my window at the water and the sails.
When i gazed upon a familiar face
i remembered our ancient meeting place.
Now the pain was on its way up my coat
all i could feel was dread and hope.
when someone walked in and grabbed my throat
I struggled and pulled but it was no use
i knew it was my time to die,
but then someone walked in and killed the guy.
they walked over to me, and i screamed Clarissa!
the thought of her
made me ache in pain
i sat up straight and felt the pain awake.
i knew i was a serial killer,
but i rather die in hell then on earth with a gal.
the women sighed and lifted me up
she then started punching me in the gut.
i knew i was dying
when i heard the sirens
i thew the women against the wall
i stumbled out the window
when i knew i was going to fall
every bone in my body broke
this is when i started to choke
i felt the pain the gruesome pain
now i knew in life i had no gain
upon this day i knew death await
When i finally drew my last breath,
i knew it was my time to go to rest.
here my body lay for the best.
here is my poem hope i win! :)
Sumerian Skies
A rendezvous of forbidden flavour
conceived of a darker shade of pleasure.
We meet beyond the courtyard beneath the live oak tree.
....
There the universe unfolds, scrolls, cracking aristocratic molds.
He squeezes my juices upon his chin like overly ripened sin.
With both hands I hold his tenfold masterpiece as royalty set free.
Tightly drawn strings reveal weakened cotton seams.
Lilac scented breeze stirs my long, silken waves.
Torrent passion released within my soiled, frilly lace.
I gaze upon his sculptured design. You Sir, I shan't deny.
I tangle in my hem, grasping grass, struggling against him.
He holds in deep and fills me with his fervent seeds.
As blood slides down my thighs this cherry pie is left in utter strife.
....
"Look at you lying there bottom bare.
Harlot in training with his seed still draining."
Tis, my father whose caught me with
his punishment not being spared.
Unhinged, he belts me, right then and there.
I admire the welts I wear. I think of him when I dare.
A rendezvous of forbidden flavour
conceived of a darker shade of pleasure.
We meet beyond the courtyard beneath the live oak tree.
....
There the universe unfolds, scrolls, cracking aristocratic molds.
He squeezes my juices upon his chin like overly ripened sin.
With both hands I hold his tenfold masterpiece as royalty set free.
Tightly drawn strings reveal weakened cotton seams.
Lilac scented breeze stirs my long, silken waves.
Torrent passion released within my soiled, frilly lace.
I gaze upon his sculptured design. You Sir, I shan't deny.
I tangle in my hem, grasping grass, struggling against him.
He holds in deep and fills me with his fervent seeds.
As blood slides down my thighs this cherry pie is left in utter strife.
....
"Look at you lying there bottom bare.
Harlot in training with his seed still draining."
Tis, my father whose caught me with
his punishment not being spared.
Unhinged, he belts me, right then and there.
I admire the welts I wear. I think of him when I dare.
