Poetry competition CLOSED 13th November 2015 10:04am
WINNER
Krosgood (Violence)
Krosgood (Violence)
Something on nature
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Returning to Her -
When I hear the dark bell toll,
I shall crawl to Her wild shadow
and gently nestle my worn flesh
'neath Her leafy wings to rest.
When it's time, my friend
to grasp Her fallow hand,
I'll swallow my fears and
bite back the welling tears.
When it's time to let go,
and feel the weight of rain
I'll surrender to softened earth;
Her diamond made of dirt.
When it's time to cross the thresh,
I'll crumble against Her soiled feet
and enrapt myself in Her long tendrils
and there I'll mingle tears with seeds.
Aye! when it's time to die,
I'll curl up on the edge of Her emerald hem,
embracing vines, entangle in Her willowy shrine.
Taking my last breath; accepting Her hand in Death.
[please just let me take that last walk into the wilderness, alone]
When I hear the dark bell toll,
I shall crawl to Her wild shadow
and gently nestle my worn flesh
'neath Her leafy wings to rest.
When it's time, my friend
to grasp Her fallow hand,
I'll swallow my fears and
bite back the welling tears.
When it's time to let go,
and feel the weight of rain
I'll surrender to softened earth;
Her diamond made of dirt.
When it's time to cross the thresh,
I'll crumble against Her soiled feet
and enrapt myself in Her long tendrils
and there I'll mingle tears with seeds.
Aye! when it's time to die,
I'll curl up on the edge of Her emerald hem,
embracing vines, entangle in Her willowy shrine.
Taking my last breath; accepting Her hand in Death.
[please just let me take that last walk into the wilderness, alone]
Children at the Gate
In revenge, we have set fire
to our mother's womb
where all life emerged,
where the shadows of
countless pillars of smoke
fill the skies of oceans
from coffers burst open
pouring forth stains of
prehistory risen from the dead
by the reckless children
let loose upon the shores
of glacier salt licks
to haze the land with deserts
that choke her arteries;
the relentless march to the sea
where there is no welcome-
to ravage the spices of her
jeweled neck and arms, to
lay barren her thousand bosoms,
to defile our first and only home
that lays at our feet waiting
as our yearning gaze points us
to the starry firmament
until at last we might implore
O Earth Mother, forgive us
before you cast us out of Eden!
and of course, she does
with her blessings, in spite
our contempt for our birthright
(it belongs to us, we reason)
too short-lived and fragile
by our own hand to earn it,
so we try and take it
for we are the brazen children
who forsake her, and
play with the keys to the gate
which bars our way to the
knowledge in the shadow of
the pillars of fire;
they cannot be extinguished
while at war with ourselves,
much to our mother's grief.
In revenge, we have set fire
to our mother's womb
where all life emerged,
where the shadows of
countless pillars of smoke
fill the skies of oceans
from coffers burst open
pouring forth stains of
prehistory risen from the dead
by the reckless children
let loose upon the shores
of glacier salt licks
to haze the land with deserts
that choke her arteries;
the relentless march to the sea
where there is no welcome-
to ravage the spices of her
jeweled neck and arms, to
lay barren her thousand bosoms,
to defile our first and only home
that lays at our feet waiting
as our yearning gaze points us
to the starry firmament
until at last we might implore
O Earth Mother, forgive us
before you cast us out of Eden!
and of course, she does
with her blessings, in spite
our contempt for our birthright
(it belongs to us, we reason)
too short-lived and fragile
by our own hand to earn it,
so we try and take it
for we are the brazen children
who forsake her, and
play with the keys to the gate
which bars our way to the
knowledge in the shadow of
the pillars of fire;
they cannot be extinguished
while at war with ourselves,
much to our mother's grief.
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Anonymous
<< post removed >>
Black Widow
In threads of silk She hangs in wait,
Her hapless victims court their fate;
Around them, summer's flowers bloom,
Nature's glory, victims' doom.
They touch the web with carefree tread,
Alert, She feels the trembling thread;
The scuttling lunge, the terrible eyes,
The victim quivers, stiffens, dies.
With gossamer ropes She binds the kill,
She sucks the juices, takes her fill,
And leaves the tiny, blackened husk
Hanging in the gathering dusk.
Sated, deadly, proud, alone,
She hangs once more within her throne.
Unmoved by feelings, loves or hates,
The patient Widow sits and waits
In threads of silk She hangs in wait,
Her hapless victims court their fate;
Around them, summer's flowers bloom,
Nature's glory, victims' doom.
They touch the web with carefree tread,
Alert, She feels the trembling thread;
The scuttling lunge, the terrible eyes,
The victim quivers, stiffens, dies.
With gossamer ropes She binds the kill,
She sucks the juices, takes her fill,
And leaves the tiny, blackened husk
Hanging in the gathering dusk.
Sated, deadly, proud, alone,
She hangs once more within her throne.
Unmoved by feelings, loves or hates,
The patient Widow sits and waits
Made of Meat
How stupid to be made of meat:
The very thing that lions eat.
For bears we’d make a tasty treat.
Whose damn idea was this?
Why can’t we all be made of stone?
Trade silicon for marrow-bone,
Be strong, eternal, bold, alone?
That’s my idea of bliss.
How stupid to be made of meat:
The very thing that lions eat.
For bears we’d make a tasty treat.
Whose damn idea was this?
Why can’t we all be made of stone?
Trade silicon for marrow-bone,
Be strong, eternal, bold, alone?
That’s my idea of bliss.
Autumn Operetta
fracturing from the branches,
capturing it’s climatic glances
during it’s urban wander
enclosed within a orange torrent
composed on chariots of current
the prelude to ponder
blown by casual conversations,
tones of brown tour by a woman’s interrogation
of her significant other
hitchhiking on school children’s knapsacks
hanging jewels on lawn knick knacks,
in sunkist colors
of apricot, tangerine and yellows
zigzag and careen to a band of cellos,
whisked midair by footballs
watching people catch and then throw,
peeping into windows
in auras of auburn they befall
a chorus of chimera flame reds,
above the poorest and shame heads
mourning for yesterday
criss crossing on keys of the hurting
teetering on the breeze of uncertain,
arraigned in a tragic array
fluttering fuchsia flow into a lullaby
others uttering a solo from the sky,
a lonely acapella
bringing the melody of a martyr
singing it’s requiem into the water,
the end of it’s operetta...
fracturing from the branches,
capturing it’s climatic glances
during it’s urban wander
enclosed within a orange torrent
composed on chariots of current
the prelude to ponder
blown by casual conversations,
tones of brown tour by a woman’s interrogation
of her significant other
hitchhiking on school children’s knapsacks
hanging jewels on lawn knick knacks,
in sunkist colors
of apricot, tangerine and yellows
zigzag and careen to a band of cellos,
whisked midair by footballs
watching people catch and then throw,
peeping into windows
in auras of auburn they befall
a chorus of chimera flame reds,
above the poorest and shame heads
mourning for yesterday
criss crossing on keys of the hurting
teetering on the breeze of uncertain,
arraigned in a tragic array
fluttering fuchsia flow into a lullaby
others uttering a solo from the sky,
a lonely acapella
bringing the melody of a martyr
singing it’s requiem into the water,
the end of it’s operetta...
The Ancient Lark
On bright and blustery summer days
of childhood, I would often walk
along the path that led from Sandy Gap,
past caravans, fields and golf links, to West Shore.
There, by the links, I’d stop to hear a sound,
the endless trill and chatter of a lark.
I searched the squinting, eye-hurting blue
Until I saw the tiny silhouette,
fluttering madly, clinging to the air
in one, still spot, so high above the ground.
As I walked on, the bird’s song faded and was lost
amid the rustle of the wind-tossed grass.
And every year, each time I took that walk,
the lark was there, aloft and singing still
with tireless, undiminished power.
How long larks live I cannot say,
but the lark above the golf links near West Shore
has sung to me for fifty years at least,
and will be singing still when I’m no more.
On bright and blustery summer days
of childhood, I would often walk
along the path that led from Sandy Gap,
past caravans, fields and golf links, to West Shore.
There, by the links, I’d stop to hear a sound,
the endless trill and chatter of a lark.
I searched the squinting, eye-hurting blue
Until I saw the tiny silhouette,
fluttering madly, clinging to the air
in one, still spot, so high above the ground.
As I walked on, the bird’s song faded and was lost
amid the rustle of the wind-tossed grass.
And every year, each time I took that walk,
the lark was there, aloft and singing still
with tireless, undiminished power.
How long larks live I cannot say,
but the lark above the golf links near West Shore
has sung to me for fifty years at least,
and will be singing still when I’m no more.
