Poetry competition CLOSED 29th January 2016 3:33pm
WINNER
JohnFeddeler
JohnFeddeler
RUNNERS-UP:
Jade-Pandora
and RedefineLoneliness
Stuck in the wrong era
~~~{Where the Willows Bend}~~~
Since olden times the wind blew strong upon the rugged plains,
And many are the people who dwelt there, and built their dreams.
With mighty hands they raised stone circles in mystical domains,
They cried and wept, they laughed and loved, near quiet streams.
The ash, the oak, and the willow tree, on each the river's sides,
Did grow to touch the heavens, where ancient folk did once abide.
I walked there long, and wandered far in search of forgotten lore,
But I left with silent understanding, and a yearning to learn more.
In the woods, the yew grows tall and the pine trees point above,
To where the birds soar brightly with grace, across the azure sky.
So moved was I, that still I hold that land in my heart with love...
For there is a magic still in its' hills, that a modern mind may deny.
Did you walk there in your day, and delight in the tall green grass,
The sound of which was like a sea, when the wind blew through...
The swaying green where once danced many a pretty country lass,
With flowers in their golden hair, hopes for dreams to come true?
Where now are they, and their sires who bore the arms of kings...
Where now are the minstrels who sang of their beauty and more?
They are gone, their age is past, along with so many other things,
Forgotten are their cities, now just stones due to some old war...
The cause of which we cannot guess, for it is past beyond memory.
Your minstrel heart did sing to mine, and I remember that beauty!
For none could forget eyes moved to tears by such a muse as you,
Who could spin a tapestry so fair, that it made dreams come true.
One more time, let us go back to those ancient streams of silver...
Where flowed the waters gently from the hills so far, so far away!
Cool were those waters, that in winter made mighty men shiver...
Now they are gone, their age is past, in the glow of another day.
Where now do you sing, gentle minstrel lass who moved me so?
Mayhaps in the fields beyond, where all the softer breezes blow!
Perhaps I'll spy you amidst the grass, your lute in hand as before,
When so many stopped to hear you play, and sing of magical lore.
Every night the crickets chirp, and we see the fireflies dance free,
Amidst the stones that rose across the lands of that old country...
But we hear not your lute, save when it plays in our hearts again,
And the music makes us dance, near where the willows yet bend.
Since olden times the wind blew strong upon the rugged plains,
And many are the people who dwelt there, and built their dreams.
With mighty hands they raised stone circles in mystical domains,
They cried and wept, they laughed and loved, near quiet streams.
The ash, the oak, and the willow tree, on each the river's sides,
Did grow to touch the heavens, where ancient folk did once abide.
I walked there long, and wandered far in search of forgotten lore,
But I left with silent understanding, and a yearning to learn more.
In the woods, the yew grows tall and the pine trees point above,
To where the birds soar brightly with grace, across the azure sky.
So moved was I, that still I hold that land in my heart with love...
For there is a magic still in its' hills, that a modern mind may deny.
Did you walk there in your day, and delight in the tall green grass,
The sound of which was like a sea, when the wind blew through...
The swaying green where once danced many a pretty country lass,
With flowers in their golden hair, hopes for dreams to come true?
Where now are they, and their sires who bore the arms of kings...
Where now are the minstrels who sang of their beauty and more?
They are gone, their age is past, along with so many other things,
Forgotten are their cities, now just stones due to some old war...
The cause of which we cannot guess, for it is past beyond memory.
Your minstrel heart did sing to mine, and I remember that beauty!
For none could forget eyes moved to tears by such a muse as you,
Who could spin a tapestry so fair, that it made dreams come true.
One more time, let us go back to those ancient streams of silver...
Where flowed the waters gently from the hills so far, so far away!
Cool were those waters, that in winter made mighty men shiver...
Now they are gone, their age is past, in the glow of another day.
Where now do you sing, gentle minstrel lass who moved me so?
Mayhaps in the fields beyond, where all the softer breezes blow!
Perhaps I'll spy you amidst the grass, your lute in hand as before,
When so many stopped to hear you play, and sing of magical lore.
Every night the crickets chirp, and we see the fireflies dance free,
Amidst the stones that rose across the lands of that old country...
But we hear not your lute, save when it plays in our hearts again,
And the music makes us dance, near where the willows yet bend.
Anonymous
As The Sun Dial Turns
Isis smiles
Rising from her feathered bed
Yawning
Greets the dawning sun with a sleepy head
Surveying out the bay window
Egypt
Grand and prosperous below
And it warms her heart to know
All is well in the Kingdom
While Nefretiri cries crocodile tears
Pouting neurotic mess that she is
Wiping away her bleary eyes
She can't imagine skies any less dreary
And in the Palace of the Pharaohs
Her life with Ramses really blows goats
Babble on
He yammers endlessly
Gloats about Ethiopia
And other empirical conquests
Dinner party guests think he's such a snore
Heard his goddam stories so many times before
And for the umpteenth time
She finds herself wondering
What the hell is this all for?
Where is her Moses
Lavishing her with roses?
Along with other silly romantic antics
Like having her good side in naked poses
Tanned and toned
Painted onto obelisks
By commissioned artists telling dirty jokes
Admiring her tits between their brushstrokes
Their dicks hard in fists of wishful thinking
What she would give at the bargaining table
To that cruel desert god who lured
Her leading man away
Last she heard
He went on to live a lecherous fairy tale life of a fable
Banging the seven daughters of a Midian sheik
A different lay for every night of the week
Here she sits alone
Pitiful
Amidst fits of drinking
Drowning her sorrows in grain alcohol
Laced with lime
Stoned out of her mind
Slowly sinking
Descending into the waters of denial
Up to her eyeballs
Horus scowls
Into bed he falls
Muttering to himself,
This was no proper way
For the Queen of the Nile to live,
Nefretiri
The fault is yours
For refusing to follow him into the mud pits
Get your manicured princess hands dirty
And thanks to your mule headedness
This God of Abraham he heralds
Will soon knock on the doorsteps of our firstborn
Isis smiles
Rising from her feathered bed
Yawning
Greets the dawning sun with a sleepy head
Surveying out the bay window
Egypt
Grand and prosperous below
And it warms her heart to know
All is well in the Kingdom
While Nefretiri cries crocodile tears
Pouting neurotic mess that she is
Wiping away her bleary eyes
She can't imagine skies any less dreary
And in the Palace of the Pharaohs
Her life with Ramses really blows goats
Babble on
He yammers endlessly
Gloats about Ethiopia
And other empirical conquests
Dinner party guests think he's such a snore
Heard his goddam stories so many times before
And for the umpteenth time
She finds herself wondering
What the hell is this all for?
Where is her Moses
Lavishing her with roses?
Along with other silly romantic antics
Like having her good side in naked poses
Tanned and toned
Painted onto obelisks
By commissioned artists telling dirty jokes
Admiring her tits between their brushstrokes
Their dicks hard in fists of wishful thinking
What she would give at the bargaining table
To that cruel desert god who lured
Her leading man away
Last she heard
He went on to live a lecherous fairy tale life of a fable
Banging the seven daughters of a Midian sheik
A different lay for every night of the week
Here she sits alone
Pitiful
Amidst fits of drinking
Drowning her sorrows in grain alcohol
Laced with lime
Stoned out of her mind
Slowly sinking
Descending into the waters of denial
Up to her eyeballs
Horus scowls
Into bed he falls
Muttering to himself,
This was no proper way
For the Queen of the Nile to live,
Nefretiri
The fault is yours
For refusing to follow him into the mud pits
Get your manicured princess hands dirty
And thanks to your mule headedness
This God of Abraham he heralds
Will soon knock on the doorsteps of our firstborn
Anonymous
Living In A 'Merica
I want to live in a 'Merica
where there's no reservations
absent any dirty White Man
with his European invasions
I want to live in a 'Merica
the way it used to be
I want to live in a 'Merica
where you could run wild and free
buck naked
Fuck Yeah!
Don't hate me when I state it plainly
I don't want any praise Jesus Come Lately
no crotch rotting Anglo Saxon diseases
no Big Brother camera that always see us
and the only Climate Changes
that will never freeze us
are glaciers we can outrun on foot
I want to live in a 'Merica
where there's no reservations
absent any dirty White Man
with his European invasions
I want to live in a 'Merica
the way it used to be
I want to live in a 'Merica
where you could run wild and free
buck naked
Fuck Yeah!
Don't hate me when I state it plainly
I don't want any praise Jesus Come Lately
no crotch rotting Anglo Saxon diseases
no Big Brother camera that always see us
and the only Climate Changes
that will never freeze us
are glaciers we can outrun on foot
stand alone
http://www.garboforever.com/Bilder/Film-Pic/Temptress/Temptress-68.jpg
perhaps it was Paris, or Madrid. it was a café, he thinks;
a bistro with no other diners. if there was a crowd, they
were soundless & spectral.
he was sober, for a change, or only slightly drunk. it was
late at night, of course, & there was a moon. or else there
was not. he remembers none of the details. he only
remembers her.
was she a baroness? or a courtesan? surely a woman of
the arts. or simply a girl of the streets. she was herself a
work of art: rare as a Claudel or a Rodin. quietly spectacular
in her ordinary clothes. she seemed pensive, forlorn, yet she
radiated desire. his desire.
he was not the type to approach a lady, his shyness held him
at bay. also his features: he had been scarred in the war, &
considered himself too unremarkable to be regarded by a
woman, even if she was ‘looking.’
but her beauty, her fascination, would not let him refrain. his
feeble courage delivered him to her chair. after some mute,
awkward moments, he explained that he wasn’t a madman.
he only wanted to share a table with her, a drink, gentle words
to pass the time. money, if she needed it.
she told him to sit then, & call for the wine, a meal too. & the
words did not have to be so gentle. & so it was good for him,
comforting. the wine was bracing, & she – she was a dream in
the flesh of a woman.
the evening accelerated, as it does when a man wants time to pause.
they walked along the banks of the river that ran through the city. on
a park bench, he kissed her; kissed her as if she would fade away if
he stopped.
in his room, they engaged in a sexual passion as a man makes when
he loves a woman. when he believes, truly, that she loves him. there
was no song for it, nor symphony, nor moon or stars in the sky. only
his grateful heart, surrendered to her…
…the sun blazing through the window woke him, to find her gone.
there was no note nor any trace of her, but a lingering scent. & so his
quest began, to retrieve her from whatever had drawn her away.
days grew long & dark, & weeks, & the tears grew more blinding. he
did not drink for days, then he drank too much. every door he passed
through was empty, every woman he peered at with pleading eyes
was not her.
when hope had nearly choked on its own wings, he spied her. it was a
distant café, she unescorted at a table, ever as beautiful. but there was
no recognition in her eyes when he confronted her. did she not remember
their first night – their love – their joy & the ache of it?
she chooses her words carefully, to slay a lover, as he stands alone:
‘I meet so many men’ …
(Garbo. The Temptress. 1926.)
http://i48.photobucket.com/albums/f248/jadepandora/NYC%201944%20color%20half%20size_4.png
Wartime Noir
(circa 1944)
Sparks flying off asphalt of a
June summer's heat and humidity
after a another shower for the day.
I huddle in the open doorway
of a deli, partially hidden under
the striped awning, a neon sign
flickers in the display window.
The smell of warm pastrami on rye
entices passers-by to come in.
That's New York City for you,
the bustle of pedestrians racing
always against the red lights until
a cloudburst makes people gather,
temporary acquaintances, in
every doorway, from the downpour.
Most will filter into the shop for
coffee and a blintz, or egg salad;
the street eerily bare at the moment
until a taxi pulls up and there you are,
wearing a summer trench that
falls open and collapses from the
vortex of your rush to get in.
Holding my breath, I watch in secret
as you bend low, rain beads from the
passing storm shimmer and hold fast
in your impeccably groomed hair.
I have the urge to join you, and so I
start to cross towards the curb, when
a cop rushes up asking me,
do I know what time it is?
I shake my head, looking past him.
Why the hell doesn't he know,
I ask myself as he runs off.
He's a cop for Christ's sake!
In quiet dread, I see the cab
pull away with you in it,
tires hissing on wet pavement,
steam rising from the exhaust.
I squint through the haze at the fading
tail lights while holding a soggy
newspaper over my hair, headline reads:
"INVASION BEGINS:
ALLIES LAND IN FRANCE"
Wartime Noir
(circa 1944)
Sparks flying off asphalt of a
June summer's heat and humidity
after a another shower for the day.
I huddle in the open doorway
of a deli, partially hidden under
the striped awning, a neon sign
flickers in the display window.
The smell of warm pastrami on rye
entices passers-by to come in.
That's New York City for you,
the bustle of pedestrians racing
always against the red lights until
a cloudburst makes people gather,
temporary acquaintances, in
every doorway, from the downpour.
Most will filter into the shop for
coffee and a blintz, or egg salad;
the street eerily bare at the moment
until a taxi pulls up and there you are,
wearing a summer trench that
falls open and collapses from the
vortex of your rush to get in.
Holding my breath, I watch in secret
as you bend low, rain beads from the
passing storm shimmer and hold fast
in your impeccably groomed hair.
I have the urge to join you, and so I
start to cross towards the curb, when
a cop rushes up asking me,
do I know what time it is?
I shake my head, looking past him.
Why the hell doesn't he know,
I ask myself as he runs off.
He's a cop for Christ's sake!
In quiet dread, I see the cab
pull away with you in it,
tires hissing on wet pavement,
steam rising from the exhaust.
I squint through the haze at the fading
tail lights while holding a soggy
newspaper over my hair, headline reads:
"INVASION BEGINS:
ALLIES LAND IN FRANCE"
A year is drenched in days of sweat routine suggests our minds reset with screens our rest is put to test
Our time invests in manifests
Of meaningless text and fake finesse
A lawyer says yes and the judge reflects
Another message sends regrets
Come sun come rain it blurs our days
Reside in a cage creatively raised
To invoke disarray with distractions conveyed
a lone soul will retrace the steps that we take
console our mistakes suggest meds and faith.
Enter this day and age with abrasions upon face
And witness a parade of vultures that prey
Circling the wounded with intentions so gruesome
the power of the people is just an illusion
Control is subjective to avoiding transgressions
designed with intentions to bind our perception
To balance the tension of fear and repression
To challenge whats destined our consiousness races
Our children replace us
A desperate engagement
to tame generations.
Remember that blessings sometimes wear dresses
Visually lessened
by the cursed perception
An altered perspective
Confines our intentions
To conform to the mentioned
And only Accepted
rendition from society
Which pollutes us undeniably
so i wish for a reality
Where intuition's clouds would leave
Where eyes and minds are proud and free
without expecting crowds to meet
Just primal unbound honesty
Experience anomolys
Decide, defined, symbollically
Nothing described as impossibly
Sunconciouss unburdened by lock and key
A limitless anthology
Our time invests in manifests
Of meaningless text and fake finesse
A lawyer says yes and the judge reflects
Another message sends regrets
Come sun come rain it blurs our days
Reside in a cage creatively raised
To invoke disarray with distractions conveyed
a lone soul will retrace the steps that we take
console our mistakes suggest meds and faith.
Enter this day and age with abrasions upon face
And witness a parade of vultures that prey
Circling the wounded with intentions so gruesome
the power of the people is just an illusion
Control is subjective to avoiding transgressions
designed with intentions to bind our perception
To balance the tension of fear and repression
To challenge whats destined our consiousness races
Our children replace us
A desperate engagement
to tame generations.
Remember that blessings sometimes wear dresses
Visually lessened
by the cursed perception
An altered perspective
Confines our intentions
To conform to the mentioned
And only Accepted
rendition from society
Which pollutes us undeniably
so i wish for a reality
Where intuition's clouds would leave
Where eyes and minds are proud and free
without expecting crowds to meet
Just primal unbound honesty
Experience anomolys
Decide, defined, symbollically
Nothing described as impossibly
Sunconciouss unburdened by lock and key
A limitless anthology
Dude, the 60s were out of sight
Groovin' down at Woodstock,
Look’n for a stone fox!
Meeeeeoooow.
Jiggy down, sweat-hogs,
all stacked and getting funky.
Mhmm, mhmm.
Hey cool head – sweet momma,
you cats looking for a love in?
Hotdog! Babes with sugar cubes!
And her? No, wait. Not her,
she’d gag me with a spoon.
But other wise all-in-all,
wall-to-wall groovy chicks,
with put-out vibes,
in a very Woody
Summer of Love.
top that copy-cat :)
Groovin' down at Woodstock,
Look’n for a stone fox!
Meeeeeoooow.
Jiggy down, sweat-hogs,
all stacked and getting funky.
Mhmm, mhmm.
Hey cool head – sweet momma,
you cats looking for a love in?
Hotdog! Babes with sugar cubes!
And her? No, wait. Not her,
she’d gag me with a spoon.
But other wise all-in-all,
wall-to-wall groovy chicks,
with put-out vibes,
in a very Woody
Summer of Love.
top that copy-cat :)
Calamity a go go
Devils beat a go go
Body move
To junkie poet twist philosopher
A Disco funk mystery man
Hip roll groove
Oh my soul to taste a bit more
Of my young girl
Rock n Roll
I slide to dance floor
No care in this world
Gin lipped and mind flicked
To off and grind
Man stuck to my behind
Hang on all the young dudes!
Gonna be a bumble bee ride
That sweet Melon sunk out
Oh but what a big shout his guitar made me woman
To disco Lemonade
Sex and Candy Marcy's
Big grenade
Peace at 4 AM I cried
Reverie by mad hatter rap
Picked me up by 7 Ms
Maniacal grin fast selling crazy sin
Ah! they did move me to many
Nights looong good fuck
My 20s sweet soul music
Taste it again?
With luck
Devils beat a go go
Body move
To junkie poet twist philosopher
A Disco funk mystery man
Hip roll groove
Oh my soul to taste a bit more
Of my young girl
Rock n Roll
I slide to dance floor
No care in this world
Gin lipped and mind flicked
To off and grind
Man stuck to my behind
Hang on all the young dudes!
Gonna be a bumble bee ride
That sweet Melon sunk out
Oh but what a big shout his guitar made me woman
To disco Lemonade
Sex and Candy Marcy's
Big grenade
Peace at 4 AM I cried
Reverie by mad hatter rap
Picked me up by 7 Ms
Maniacal grin fast selling crazy sin
Ah! they did move me to many
Nights looong good fuck
My 20s sweet soul music
Taste it again?
With luck
Jen you're a cool chick, I like you a lot. You made me feel welcome and encouraged me along with laughter and enjoyment.
Just like you do everyone, hey.
Stoked that you would call me mate! I look forward to walking with you awhile
let 'er rip taterchip!
Love Jack
Just like you do everyone, hey.
Stoked that you would call me mate! I look forward to walking with you awhile
let 'er rip taterchip!
Love Jack
I so imagined Zeus-Swan goose-stepping like geese do, LOL
and then that youtube scene: "Stephen Fry Watches Rare Bird Hump Zoologist"
I pictured zeus all happy like that.
LOL LOL LOL
thank you
Magnetron said:
Why can't you see
what Zeus is doing to me?
he's stepping out
having silly goose sex with that Leda
and then that youtube scene: "Stephen Fry Watches Rare Bird Hump Zoologist"
I pictured zeus all happy like that.
LOL LOL LOL
thank you
Magnetron said:
Why can't you see
what Zeus is doing to me?
he's stepping out
having silly goose sex with that Leda
