Subject Poetry Contest.

After the Flood

There came a time, in the early spring,
when the creek overflowed
like a stopped-up commode,
and the Dark Clouds wept
as if the Earth had died.
The lightsabers flashed as the Duel continued,
the Darkside of the Force battling to stay.
We waded the water, and talked about Arks.
Flat-bottomed boats took the place of taxies.
We hung our keepsakes and memories out to dry,
scraped up the gooey remnants of our lives,
and sloshed on.
Some things could be replaced.
Some could not.
We buried our dead quietly.
Our tears rivaled the torrential rain
that had caused all of this heartache, sorrow, and madness.
But, it was time to rebuild.
We intended to stay.
Business as usual—
almost.

Pendragon

Thanks Silven and Pendragon. An almost claustrophobic, personal piece with insistent rhymes that I loved - and an epic-scale bleeding chunk of history. It's dawning on me that I'll have to judge these. Hmm.

Every time it rains
Gaia washes out her hair
Washes out the dust and smoke
The desiccated leaves
The dung and the stink
And the unfettered flotsam
Of human endeavors

Languorously she scoops
Sea foam with a negligent hand
Luxuriously lathers her
Shining tresses, brown strands and gold
Intertwined each lock reflecting
the variegated hues of cinnamon
and saffron and poppy and bark

she runs her fingers through the
valleys and crevasses of the mountains
the towers and canyons of the cities
the trenches and abysses
of the oceans and the seas
with a gesture smooths
the desert and the plains

then rinses in the downpour
the foamy brew of beaches
and the surf
rinses in the torrent
in the deluge in the shower
glories in the water
cascading from her brow

with a flourish throws back
her mighty mane
creating without a thought
a tidal wave a thunderstorm
a hurricane of seas that make her
locks as black as night
oh to be a goddess, to be revered again

with nimble fingers she
brushes out the tangled glory
shining in the apple sun
lemon swirling in the air around her
pink rosebuds to lay on her Madonna brow
revels in the lightness of her being
every time it rains every time it rains

Weather Report

The gray outside invades the room,
where the air’s already a heavy drudge
and the mood darkens into smoky glass.
Plans drop as more thick clouds loom
and drip, drip, dr –-

now it’s coming earnestly down.

Faces segue from wince to frown
With their favorite steeds washed off the grass,
or their little picnics ruined, alas.
Me, I can't see the silver behind the gloom
But then, who am I to begrudge?

When good turf’s pounded into sludge
worms will come up, but so might blooms,
defying the odds. Splashing sad streams
the weeping window doesn't reflect
facts that we occasionally neglect:

at the sky’s soft edge the sun’s dry traces
mirror themselves in brightening faces;
that after a storm, comes a cooling breeze,
releasing pressure through a timely sneeze,
and relieving brains and bones with lesser pains --

sometimes -- but not every-- time it rains.

...oh my goodness two magnificent poems. I am feeling unworthy! Thank you qimissung and AuntShecky for responding to my theme with respectively a beautifully, oh, preraphaelite-esque (ugh! but you know what I mean) allegorical scene, and with a poem that combines colloquial ease with tight musical patterning and produces that rare thing, wit...

AusntShecky is witty, isn't she?

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by qimissung

AusntShecky is witty, isn't she?

---

:) she is. And you are lyrical and vivid :). Thank you all for sending these poems, there is something magical about having occasioned them.

OK, just a couple more days to go...

Four hours to go.

is finally here. OK let's take a look:

Waterford Crystal

When we were starting
a Zen couple in transit
tears bound up our sighs

We survived rivals
honeymoon night together
swore vows at the Falls

Anniversaries
at the neighbourhood fountain
throwing pennies in

Tomorrows pressed like
dried rainbows in mesh scrapbooks
beckon to the years

Now, time after time, it rains
like the times that bid their grace.

(Alakungfu)

I loved this. There's a hidden progression - tears, Falls, fountain, rainbows - that is so beautiful a response to the subject. And a sense of honesty, and being true to a relationship. The last line is very beautiful, and has a sweet mystery.

These are the Rainy Days

The great purge, of those dirty.
It cleans with natures fury.
The sky though wet may blaze
These are the rainy days.

As the window’s threatened with ever gust
The hearth sizzles, and begins to rust
The warmth sinks, in a dreary haze
These are the rainy days.

The lights flicker, with thunderclap
The sockets simmer with a spark and zap
As the clouds thicken, and look glazed
These are the rainy days

As hopelessness begin to sink
The clouds part and one thinks
That rainbows have the prettiest face
These are, the moments of grace.

(Rabid Reader)

I am a complete sucker for poetic repetition-with-variations. I liked the way the idea of grace was picked up from the previous poem. We are writing to one another; poetry rarely does that.


Then it rains...

Closet closed, cant get away,
not random, when you look that way,
cant stand it, that one day I'll pay,
lest right now - it rain again.

a running score, me one them four,
running faster, than thought before,
brought to dawn, and struck my core,
and look - its raining down some more

Fate repay, and congregate
and conjure spell to emulate,
a normal life be mine today
and fix the rain to go away!

(Silven)

This manages to be intensely personal and highly communicative at once. The rhymes add to the intensity. Yes it is just like a spell, Silven. Magical.


After the Flood

There came a time, in the early spring,
when the creek overflowed
like a stopped-up commode,
and the Dark Clouds wept
as if the Earth had died.
The lightsabers flashed as the Duel continued,
the Darkside of the Force battling to stay.
We waded the water, and talked about Arks.
Flat-bottomed boats took the place of taxies.
We hung our keepsakes and memories out to dry,
scraped up the gooey remnants of our lives,
and sloshed on.
Some things could be replaced.
Some could not.
We buried our dead quietly.
Our tears rivaled the torrential rain
that had caused all of this heartache, sorrow, and madness.
But, it was time to rebuild.
We intended to stay.
Business as usual—
almost.

(Pendragon)

An epic quality here. Also a sense of being sick of war, and not knowing how to get outside it: 'Some things could be replaced./Some could not.'


Gaia's hair, as black as night

Every time it rains
Gaia washes out her hair
Washes out the dust and smoke
The desiccated leaves
The dung and the stink
And the unfettered flotsam
Of human endeavors

Languorously she scoops
Sea foam with a negligent hand
Luxuriously lathers her
Shining tresses, brown strands and gold
Intertwined each lock reflecting
the variegated hues of cinnamon
and saffron and poppy and bark

she runs her fingers through the
valleys and crevasses of the mountains
the towers and canyons of the cities
the trenches and abysses
of the oceans and the seas
with a gesture smooths
the desert and the plains

then rinses in the downpour
the foamy brew of beaches
and the surf
rinses in the torrent
in the deluge in the shower
glories in the water
cascading from her brow

with a flourish throws back
her mighty mane
creating without a thought
a tidal wave a thunderstorm
a hurricane of seas that make her
locks as black as night
oh to be a goddess, to be revered again

with nimble fingers she
brushes out the tangled glory
shining in the apple sun
lemon swirling in the air around her
pink rosebuds to lay on her Madonna brow
revels in the lightness of her being
every time it rains every time it rains

(qimissung)

Allegory is another of my favourite things, and this one works so completely, turning the rain falling on the earth into a living magic. The repetition of my title phrase in the last line was a charm!


Weather Report

The gray outside invades the room,
where the air’s already a heavy drudge
and the mood darkens into smoky glass.
Plans drop as more thick clouds loom
and drip, drip, dr –-

now it’s coming earnestly down.

Faces segue from wince to frown
With their favorite steeds washed off the grass,
or their little picnics ruined, alas.
Me, I can't see the silver behind the gloom
But then, who am I to begrudge?

When good turf’s pounded into sludge
worms will come up, but so might blooms,
defying the odds. Splashing sad streams
the weeping window doesn't reflect
facts that we occasionally neglect:

at the sky’s soft edge the sun’s dry traces
mirror themselves in brightening faces;
that after a storm, comes a cooling breeze,
releasing pressure through a timely sneeze,
and relieving brains and bones with lesser pains --

sometimes -- but not every-- time it rains.

(AuntShecky)

I liked this worldly poem. 'and drip, drip, dr –-//now it’s coming earnestly down.' enacts a real moment dramatically and wittily. 'worms will come up, but so might blooms' has aphoristic power. I love the knowing caveat in the last line.


OK which is the nearest to perfection. I'm hesitating between Alakungfu's suggestive haiku stanzas, and qimissung's grand-scale imagery. As a pure personal thing I think I like Alakungfu's best, marginally... but I'm just not totally sure about the last stanza,I mean I love the last line, but not sure I quite get the whole stanza... and qimissung's poem WORKS so well... So by a short head... qimissung is the winner!

Now I'm going to go hide.

Thank You, alexar. And my congratulations to alakungfu, Rabid Reader, Silven, Pendragon, and Aunt Shecky. I really enjoy pitting myself against myself, and I love writing with you all and I love seeing what everyone else comes up with. No lack of imagination in this group.

And, alexar, I understand well the feeling of going to hide! :lol:

Now, on to the next challenge. The subject is "...the letter in his pocket."

Good luck, have fun, be brilliant. The contest will close July 24, at 8 p.m.

From Me with love

Speak with me, don’t forget my son,
The words which hold my thoughts as a locket.
Don’t bend, and don’t fold, or crease
This letter that’s in your pocket.

For the love that I tell you,
Cannot be fond in some general thought
It is I your bearer to you my son,
Which is love that cannot be sought.

So please remain well, and brush your hair.
Remove the dust and crumbs from it.
If your lonely and need some care,
Look upon the letter that’s in your pocket.

Thank you rabid reader! I was beginning to despair of any entries. Yours is a fine one. Love the second line..."The words which hold my thoughts as a locket."

there is this letter
that wanted to belong
to someone

one day he came along
and accepted it

if a letter could feel
it was happy and safe
in his blue jean pocket
warmed by his hand

but who would wear
the same jeans forever?

They were left behind
on the closet floor
when he moved on

still in the pocket
now long forgotten
is the letter...

this little
letter...

i

Here is my little contribution. I guess it shows that I have been focussing on lyrics a bit too much lately :lol:

The mailman came today

The door opened, the door closed
he came in - but still alone
His eyes show secret memories
but he does not speak to me

_____________There's a letter in his pocket

I dipped a pencil
into a well of many words[*]
Careless, but no whispers [**]
only silence to be heard

_____________There's a letter in his pocket

I am inscensed; I bottle up my fears
and throw them in the ocean
Let them never reach the shore
All these fake emotions

_____________There's a letter in his pocket
_____________and it is not mine to read


I wait for Monday [***]
to wash it all away

[]
* Robert Plant and Allison Krauss - Please read this letter
** George Michael - Careless whisper
*** the Scaffolds - Today's Monday

I can't figure out how to "outline" with just spaces so I used _____ to get it right. And I added[*] as references - I am not sure whether it is necessary but sometimes it is nice to know where an idea comes from. :)