Poetry competition CLOSED 7th June 2017 9:27pm
WINNER
Zazzles (Broomie)
Zazzles (Broomie)
RUNNERS-UP:
flowergirl
and SatansSperm
Poetry or Death
Martyrs Of Poetry
Take over me now my Muse
For this might be my last
No,I am not confused
Our glorious days have passed
Last night I heard their scream
But I hoped it wasn't real
On reaching the slaughter scene
I saw the martyrs of poetry
In a pool of their own blood
Deep in the sleep of death
For uttering poetic words
In cold blood they snatched their breath
Dear Muse now give me the power
To write and rhyme my best
In the face of danger and never cower
Fearlessly unto eternal rest
If to me in the end is given
Death or poetry to make a choice
Sternly I will look to heaven
And join the saintly voice
Of poets murdered for their Art
Please let me soar above
With joy filled in my heart
For dying for what I love
Take over me now my Muse
For this might be my last
No,I am not confused
Our glorious days have passed
Last night I heard their scream
But I hoped it wasn't real
On reaching the slaughter scene
I saw the martyrs of poetry
In a pool of their own blood
Deep in the sleep of death
For uttering poetic words
In cold blood they snatched their breath
Dear Muse now give me the power
To write and rhyme my best
In the face of danger and never cower
Fearlessly unto eternal rest
If to me in the end is given
Death or poetry to make a choice
Sternly I will look to heaven
And join the saintly voice
Of poets murdered for their Art
Please let me soar above
With joy filled in my heart
For dying for what I love
Speaking Out With Poetry
The words are being silenced and censored.
They are making an effort to ban and make them
Become a taboo. Darling, we have entered
A new reality and we cannot let the drum
Beat carry it all away like sand on a windy day.
It is like taking the main parts like the stem
And root of a flower. It is like every ray
Of sunshine disappearing forever. We will sneak
Out when it feels like they are going to betray
Our freedom and hope. We are not weak
When they take away our voice because we
Still have a strong and steady way to speak
The truth out loud within every tree.
Within every root we are standing tall
And taking back what makes us feel free.
They are making an effort to ban and make them
Become a taboo. Darling, we have entered
A new reality and we cannot let the drum
Beat carry it all away like sand on a windy day.
It is like taking the main parts like the stem
And root of a flower. It is like every ray
Of sunshine disappearing forever. We will sneak
Out when it feels like they are going to betray
Our freedom and hope. We are not weak
When they take away our voice because we
Still have a strong and steady way to speak
The truth out loud within every tree.
Within every root we are standing tall
And taking back what makes us feel free.
Written by eswaller
Go To Page
"Czar Trump Stops the Presses"
The great oppressor brought writing truth to a sudden grinding halt
And the world was fooled into believing it was all the Russians fault
While the poets were all driven into hiding in the dark deep underground
Scratching prophesies in rhymes on walls to be spoken without sound
Until one day when the unknown bard will rise to write us free of this prison
For the press is dead, executed as false claims of fake news have arisen
All that's left is for a silent society of dead poets to raise their mighty quills
And stab them down on the empty pages to pen their independent wills
To make a declaration that will constitute a new world where freedom will not rest
Where those elected to serve US will be kept in check by the freedom of the press!
(JJ Johnson)
The great oppressor brought writing truth to a sudden grinding halt
And the world was fooled into believing it was all the Russians fault
While the poets were all driven into hiding in the dark deep underground
Scratching prophesies in rhymes on walls to be spoken without sound
Until one day when the unknown bard will rise to write us free of this prison
For the press is dead, executed as false claims of fake news have arisen
All that's left is for a silent society of dead poets to raise their mighty quills
And stab them down on the empty pages to pen their independent wills
To make a declaration that will constitute a new world where freedom will not rest
Where those elected to serve US will be kept in check by the freedom of the press!
(JJ Johnson)
On Granite Walls
tales of battles and wars
death by spears
traps to shove them down
into ravines
the glow of this etches live on granite walls
tales of conquests
of maiden warriors
and man slaves
of procreation
they are written on cave walls
bard songs
thoughts and ideas
will be etched again
on granite walls
away from the eyes of tyrants
to avoid tickets punched
too early
eternal sleep to keep
into the caves and mountain
they will go...
the prosecuted poets.
tales of battles and wars
death by spears
traps to shove them down
into ravines
the glow of this etches live on granite walls
tales of conquests
of maiden warriors
and man slaves
of procreation
they are written on cave walls
bard songs
thoughts and ideas
will be etched again
on granite walls
away from the eyes of tyrants
to avoid tickets punched
too early
eternal sleep to keep
into the caves and mountain
they will go...
the prosecuted poets.
Anonymous
An open letter to the letter readerer
These days
we send our poems
to each other
'cos here
the sheer volume
of spite
has polluted
the
atmosphere
so we talk
and watch the demi_-gods
their stupidly
insanity
and of course
the outright
vanity
of Goldilocks
and her twelve warts
we chat about poetry
how it used to be
and how
there's never been
a fatality
because words
not here
the power trip
is good for no-one
cep't the same few eejits
who fall over themselves
to be someone
part of the illusion
but hey
let them carry on
it's of no significance
in the long run
Tiocfaidh ár lá
These days
we send our poems
to each other
'cos here
the sheer volume
of spite
has polluted
the
atmosphere
so we talk
and watch the demi_-gods
their stupidly
insanity
and of course
the outright
vanity
of Goldilocks
and her twelve warts
we chat about poetry
how it used to be
and how
there's never been
a fatality
because words
not here
the power trip
is good for no-one
cep't the same few eejits
who fall over themselves
to be someone
part of the illusion
but hey
let them carry on
it's of no significance
in the long run
Tiocfaidh ár lá
Blood In The Ground
Perhaps poetry is dying
beneath this stagnated air
perhaps we’re all tangled
in this wave of fate
Tears of blood
smeared in purple hues
bruised and betrayed
by friends and poe
Skinned and hung
dark side of the moon
where gloom oversteps
blooming death next door
Even scarecrows hide
appalled by the night
and carnivores tongues
lap unfaithful light
Pious and hypocrites
knee sunk in muck
mocking the Word
Vein’d of true blood
Vigilant rains pound
cold clayed-Ground
demanding for seeds
planted in our hearts.
Written by Lena-underneath
Go To Page
Fake Roses
predators restless this moonless night
disguising as white roses of purity
beautifully stained with venomous luv
little do they understand about us
bloodied slain hearts stain paper coffins
blood drips in cursive scarlet ink
buried in shallow graves pens whisper
at darkness of midnight they rise
bleeding stories under a blackened moon
Copyright © 2017 Flowergirl All Rights Reserved
predators restless this moonless night
disguising as white roses of purity
beautifully stained with venomous luv
little do they understand about us
bloodied slain hearts stain paper coffins
blood drips in cursive scarlet ink
buried in shallow graves pens whisper
at darkness of midnight they rise
bleeding stories under a blackened moon
Copyright © 2017 Flowergirl All Rights Reserved
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZVinwOpllQk
please listen while reading thank you.
Poetess
https://sibha37.files.wordpress.com/2011/01/vamp.jpg
I will die 10,000 deaths and 10,000 times more before I give up my freedom of speech
poetry is my sanctuary and my sense of peace
my go-to place when I'm feeling out of sorts
my personal unlimited outreach source
Do with me what you will
but I will write with my black feathered quill
till the bitter end, while I can and,
I won't go quietly undeniably with my heart
on my sleeve for all to read ...
No!
I won't just lay down and die and I,
I will write until my hands bleed
until my fingers show bone
until my blood rains heavy at my feet
and I die alone.
Poetry or Death? You Ask?
I choose death....
http://i16.photobucket.com/albums/b43/tabithadrake/tattycandle0109zazzles_zpse1xewhpi.gif
please listen while reading thank you.
Poetess
https://sibha37.files.wordpress.com/2011/01/vamp.jpg
I will die 10,000 deaths and 10,000 times more before I give up my freedom of speech
poetry is my sanctuary and my sense of peace
my go-to place when I'm feeling out of sorts
my personal unlimited outreach source
Do with me what you will
but I will write with my black feathered quill
till the bitter end, while I can and,
I won't go quietly undeniably with my heart
on my sleeve for all to read ...
No!
I won't just lay down and die and I,
I will write until my hands bleed
until my fingers show bone
until my blood rains heavy at my feet
and I die alone.
Poetry or Death? You Ask?
I choose death....
http://i16.photobucket.com/albums/b43/tabithadrake/tattycandle0109zazzles_zpse1xewhpi.gif
http://i48.photobucket.com/albums/f248/jadepandora/reading%20poetry00.png
Death of a Poet
Ha! I don't choose your death,
Not the kind you threaten with.
Who are you and your army,
Isn't the size of you man enough?
Does that mean I won't die for you?
I'll go on my own terms thank you,
While I keep on doing
What I've always done
Since I was a child in the trenches.
That way, when you get one of your
Henchmen to do your dirty deed,
To send a metal jacket
To my brain when I'm not looking,
When I'm bent over a tree trunk
Writing hastily in my field journal,
Doing what keeps me alive
And will be the death of me,
Pull the trigger, face-down in the mud
In which I stand when it rains
And when it isn't raining.
Do what you will with my journal,
You can't lock away the words
Or kill all poetry,
You'll only quiet my pain.
You will never stop the poets
No matter what the holocaust.
So here I am. I hold my pen aloft
One last time, in utter defiance!
