Subject Poetry Contest.

The Bus Stop

She’s walking the streets so far from home
She feels so depressed and now all alone
Wondering if she might have made a mistake
Hoping to survive one more night for heaven’s sake
But the bus stops here…

She turns to a stranger to give her a hand
He gives her the finger; she does not understand
In the town where she lived the people were more polite
Helping each other, making sure all is right
But the bus stops here…

Cold, hungry, and lonely and filled with remorse
She finds herself traveling from bad to much worse
Making a dollar the only way that she can
To eat and find a place she can lay her head
But the bus stops here…

Finally coming to her senses and swallowing her pride
She finds a dark, deserted phone booth and she ducks inside
Dials that familiar number, now mom’s on the line
“Sure you can come home, baby, everything will be fine
Remember, the bus still stops here.”

Pendragon
Friday, May 14, 2010

miss spelled scribblings

sitting at bus stop
across from
white haired
grey faced
derivative of black-and-white television McCarthyism, raised in Vietman 60's and achromatized in cold 70's

cigarette in her hands
streaming the thoughts of men
passing by

across her, next to me
is homeless Diogenes
still hungover after forty years
of abstemious nights

a tear drops
from the man sitting under the timetable
who has just dropped
his small transparent plastic box of tic-tacs

buses in Europe come from outerspace and like
but here in 'merica we sit in paper bags

In Germany, they build paper-bag bus stops by nursing homes
so that dementia-ridden patients can sit and gravitate to whatever destination they please
on the magic school bus of papier-mâché lunches and Zhuzhu cats.

Looking for a double decked bus
though world cup festivities have
wrecked us.
We're teetering down cobbled streets
to meet mysterious faces
and our goal
your place or mine?
Here they speak English
not American
but we mind the hens and
the hounds mind themselves.
What's a bus stop
among friends?
Finding no red buses
leaves us blue
a taxi ride
will have to do.

"Hey, look, it's Mini-Bus!" said a tall, pony-tailed girl.
I smiled shyly. "Hi, I'm Michaela."
She waved this away. "Yeah, I know, Ashley's little sis."
"Ashley? As in, The Bus?" another girl asked, eyes wide.
The tall girl grinned. "The same."
At once everyone crowded around me, giggling and talking girlishly.
Among the mass of shrill voices, one word rang out the most:
"Mini-Bus!"
"My name's Michaela," I said, almost pleadingly.
The tall girl rolled her eyes. "You were Michaela. Now you're Mini-Bus."
She slapped me playfully on the back.
I smiled nervously. "But I'd rather get my own nickname, not my sister's."
"Too late!" she replied, skipping away. "See you tomorrow, Mini-Bus!"
"Yeah, later, Mini-Bus!" another called.
"It's Michaela!" I cried.
They laughed and walked away.


So, um, I'm not sure if this exactly fits the theme... or if it even qualifies as a poem at all... but I was bored, so I wrote it. Disqualify me if you must :p

So, uh….. does this Greyhound really go all the way -
Salt Lake City to Sacramento?

Interstate 80
an endless mirage of dust and white concrete freeway
the husk of a rattlesnake on the sliproad
wrapped in vines baked dry like stems of summer lightning

A perpetual convoy of tubular oil tankers
threading along the hemline; green sumps of mildewed salt-lick
and the guy in the next seat zonked out
with his umbilical i-player zoned into some mariachi number

Seems like the horizon is going to sit there all day
waiting for the diesel fumes to blend into the general miasma
of desert heat and burnt rubber and roadkill
as another freightliner thunders past
with its refrigerated stowaways

At the intersection of Idaho Street and 5th in Elko
a pretty girl in cowboy boots and pink denim skirt
catches the eye of my reflection as she waits for the lights
and I raise my hand momentarily
but she’s focused on her mobile busy making other plans for tonight

Slam bang into that hillside
horns blaring as we seek out the cool refuge of tunnel
then an obligatory rest break
in some one-horse town minus the horse
and I’m looking for a place I can buy some ice-cold soda for less than a dollar

Battle Mountain barely registers
Winnemucca: welcome to the real Nevada
and a nod from that cow’s skull grazing for thoughts on the roadside
the echoes of some long forgotten rodeo ricocheting off its horns

Did that sign really say Reno?
Let me off at Reno.
Grab my rucksack, hit the sidewalk running
and I’m back in Salt Lake

So you getting on or not, kid?
Nah – think I’d better sit this one out.
Might make tomorrow the day I finally decide to run away from home.

What wonderful entries so far! Just one more day to go.... Those who're still penning out your poems, be sure to post them by June 10, 11:59pm.

*Pendragon, your poem is wonderfull I love the steady flow than the abrupt repetition of the bus stops here, its a beautiful poem.

*Hillwalker, I love the imagry in your poem.

*Moonbird, I like it. Not sure if it fits the theme but thats up to the judge, would make an interesting short story if you wanted to expand on it.

*Krymsokyng, Interesting. I like the way you structured your poem.

*DB, I loved your poem! I like almost everything you do but this is my favorite. I love how you structured it, and the way it reads. It provokes feelings that made me go back and re-read it two or three times to see if it was really saying one thing, or another. :) I like it!!!

*Comedian, minus the cattails I loved yours :) sorry but I hate those things, jk. I really enjoyed reading it, and the imagry, it brought back memorys of riding through the fields..hmm wonder if my horses would appreciate me waking them up right now.. It was an enjoyable read.

*Dark Muse, your poem gave me chills! It was incredible, you are really a very talented poet! my favorite was the ending about the howling with no master at home and this one.
"Has the day
not yet begun,
or just coming
to its end?"
I always enjoy how you use your structure to help convey the feelings you want your reader to feel. I admire your writing greatly.

*Autolycus, I have not seen your work before, but I enjoyed this piece, I will have to go look some more up. You deffinitly have talent, I like how you phrase things, and "I feel the blood pop, pouring down the drain, I piston out but feel no pain" that is one of my favorites in your poem. well written.

Thanks everyone for letting me read your poems, HAUNTED, I'm glad your the judge of this round! Its going to be tough! Goodluck to all. :) Can't wait for the next subject maybe I'll enter that one if I have more time. Just thought I would throw my opinion of everyones work in since I was not entering. Hope I didnt step on any toes.

Woohoo! Congrats to all participants, especially Haunted! Such good stuff...

CORRECTIONS...they really meant Dark Muse. Haunted didn't write anything, she's judging *glump*

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by stephofthenight

*Haunted, your poem gave me chills! It was incredible, you are really a very talented poet! my favorite was the ending about the howling with no master at home and this one.
"Has the day
not yet begun,
or just coming
to its end?"
I always enjoy how you use your structure to help convey the feelings you want your reader to feel. I admire your writing greatly.

---

ahh, I love that line too. Just wish I wrote that. It's Dark Muse's poetry.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by krymsonkyng

Woohoo! Congrats to all participants, especially Haunted! Such good stuff...

---

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Haunted

CORRECTIONS...they really meant Dark Muse. Haunted didn't write anything, she's judging *glump*



ahh, I love that line too. Just wish I wrote that. It's Dark Muse's poetry.

---

Thank you very much!

... right. yep. totally knew that...

:blush:

Thank you, you are quite right, I ment Dark Muse, please forgive me my friend lol I am on many pain killers that make me easily confused :blush: But I loved it none the less. I was thinking how much I would hate to be Haunted on this one lol.

I feel so privileged to be judge of this round of amazing poems. Any one of you surpasses me in your art and I'm feeling sooo small now *tiny tiny tiny* but I'll do my best job in picking a winner out of winners!!! I mostly agree with my co-judge Steph (lol), here's a bit more of my thoughts.

There was a time when crippled men gathered around bus stops on the streets of Manhattan asking for loose change. One lost both legs and had to drag himself along the sidewalk on his butts. It was gut wrenching to speculate the cause of these tragedies. Then they weren't around anymore. People walked past them everyday until one by one they died off, right on the streets of a country they once served. autolycus's poem is the voice for these forgotten souls. Now, tragedy has a name, Leyland. It's mean, it's gritty, and I digged every word of it.

Dark Muse, such an affecting piece. It draws me right in — the scene of desolation, and the sense of loyalty and unconditional love — so vividly presented. What happened to his master? What will happen to the dog? One may never know. But hope is on the next bus that stops here...even if only false hope.

Pendragon, great use of repetition "the bus stops here…". Same line, but a different bus stop and a whole different world and redemption. It's not a one way trip afterall, one can still return. I like it a lot. May I dedicate this song to you click

Comedian, I've never ridden a horse and the closest thing to riding one is in reading your poem. The short syllables simulate a crisp, robust, rhythmic ride. The horse-bus-railroad convergence is dynamic, I enjoyed it very much.

DanielBenoit, excellent poetry and amazing imageries... "still hungover after forty years / of abstemious nights", tear drops and tic-tacs...paper-bag bus stops and papier-mâché lunches. It's a very memorable piece — and not just for the Zhuzhu cats (hope they're not edible!)

Krymsonkyng, I really like what you did with the subject — the festivities and the partying and the hooking up. The bus stop is symbolic as a point of connection and accidental relationships. It's a cool poem.

moonbird, there's good tension in the exchange, and the nicknames Bus and Mini Bus are totally cute despite being frustrating to the persona. No disqualification for being a prose poem but...I look to the right, I look to the left, where's the bus stop?

Hillwalker, awesome description. This poem has a lot of potential. Is Salt Lake City is on a high elevation and Sacramento in a valley? In addition to a lateral journey, how about a reference to altitude to bring in focus of a young person's life slipping downhill? Maybe the emotionless scenic rundown is necessary to make the twist ending work, but for me personally, without an angst filled landscape the pay off line wasn't quite as believable as a trip played out in the mind of a runaway. Why Sacramento? It's an engrossing piece, I wish there were more!

I have so many favorites but one stands out more than others. autolycus, it seems that your hero won in the end. And he will be remembered. Will you have the honor to pick the next subject....

Can I cheer now? Can I? Ah who cares, congrats to everyone who participated!

Haunted - thanks so much for your detailed crit, and your kind words. Your suggestions are extremely valid.

I loved all the entries, and also felt autolycus's piece stood head and shoulders above the others (I read it before posting my piece and almost didn't bother).

Just to clarify - I believe it is written about an actual bus (the death throes of an old Leyland?). If I have misconstrued this piece then I apologise, but it read like a truly touching memorial to an old road warrior.

Thanks again, H

Great work autolycus! I also very much enjoyed your poem.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by Haunted

Pendragon, great use of repetition "the bus stops here…". Same line, but a different bus stop and a whole different world and redemption. It's not a one way trip afterall, one can still return. I like it a lot. May I dedicate this song to you click

---

Song definitely fits the mood of my poem. Thank you for the kind remarks, and congrads to autolycus!

Thank you very much, Haunted! Strangely enough, it was partly based on my experiences in NYC both pre- and post- 9/11, as well as memories of old Leyland buses around the world. I deliberately put both memories of man and bus into one.

The next subject is: "Piles and Piles of Files". Deadline is... Saturday 17 July 2010, 2359 EST.

[ Haha, sorry, I couldn't resist it because this is what I've been seeing in front of me for the last few months. :) ]

Quick question: does the line "piles and piles of flies" have to be in the poem or just the subject matter that the line suggests?

Comedian: it's FILES not FLIES :D — or was that a joke :) and yes it's the subject, but does not need to be explicitly quoted in the poem itself... some people take it as a challenge to do so, but that's a personal thing.

Quote:

---

Originally Posted by autolycus

Comedian: it's FILES not FLIES :D — or was that a joke :) and yes it's the subject, but does not need to be explicitly quoted in the poem itself... some people take it as a challenge to do so, but that's a personal thing.

---

:lol: a typo. but I sort of like it piles and piles of flies: sort of hellish. Well, piles and piles of files is also hellish. And all too real hellish for me. ;)

Thanks for the clarification on both points.

Here's my submission:

Pockets

My papers, graphs, and charts --
My pictures, songs, and .docs
Have never seen a box
Nor rode the transfer carts.

My mind molds to pixels.
My heart beats in blinks.
My work is made from cells --
My words of hyperlinks.

Invisible pile
Of my fingers' work:
My pocket-sized flash drive
That consumes my homework.

But my own flash drive
Is mostly case, air, and
Carpentry. My files?
Nowhere -- Dust on the sand.

The Comedian: you've given this round a very enjoyable start! Thanks, and let's hope for more to come...

OK, here's mine:

The Paper Tiger

The man finished his daily toil,
And on slippered feet left the room
And its piles and piles of files,
Not one of whom but thought that he, or she,
Could better the quiet man at his paper war.

“Hist, my fellow warriors!” called the haughty Agamemnon
“Come round and let us council
I propose that we do more
Than put pen to paper;
I will lead you into battle, which we will
Fight with all glory to ancient Greece!”

“Still at it, you old war horse?” sneered Achilles
"You always did excel at taking things that
Did not, in this world, or in ours, belong to you.
But you can’t paper over this old wrong.
I think I’ll pass on this invitation to raise my sword again.
Briseis asks that we make peace; at the least I’ll not make war.”

“What?” roared the mighty wounded king.
“Still full of hubris, you young pup?
I’ll show you the paper trail!”
And with a great shout flung himself at
The cherry red file folder strutting and preening
At the wide oak desks’ edge, and the other folders,
Anxious not to miss this battle between the ancient foes,
Sprang to their feet, baying, a keening fire
Stirring their soft, worn paper hearts.
“We are worth more than the words printed hereon!
Oh, paper, cut our foes to the bone!”
shouted one knave, and eagerly they dove in, gave chase,
The air soon thick with confetti and joyous rage.

And morning came, cold as a dish of sweet revenge.
The man, late from the murmuring waves of Lethe,
Looked at the carnage wrought,
The little cardboard hearts laid bare
And strewn across the office floor,
The orderly files, dissapated like a bottle
Of wine uncorked and then forgotten.
What had looked good on paper,
A mighty statue
Fallen,
Like any great, lost civilization.

Qimissung

qimissung: that is indeed in the epic mode; I was half-expecting to find 'this is the tale of the wrath of Achilles' somewhere in it! :)

A DIFFICULT CHOICE

The date of doom came swiftly to the fore;
Two entries only wait now at the door.
The choice of Paris was not harder than
This test of finest judgement to a man.

First comes a comic turn that turns the eye,
Of files that cannot pile or stand or lie;
When is a file that cannot file a file?
Ah, this comedian's art is full of guile.

Then comes an Iliad passionate aflame
A tiger to burn brightly by its name;
These epic dead are bound to disappoint
Their quiet clerk whose nose is out of joint.

How then to judge, between the mind and heart —
One comic turn, another tragic art?
I would give prize to both and not just one —
But in this place, such things are never done.

=====

So now I weasel on my judgement seat
To find the balance-point of choice that's meet.
By closer look, I find Comedian's great
But falling to the legalist's dictate.

You see, my friends, the epic one must win
For qimissung has found a lead, though thin:
Homeric effort leaves its dead in piles
But comic skill has disappeared the files!

=====

I'm sorry for this arbitrary choice
But you gave me the arbiter's own voice —
I now declare for all to clearly see,
That qimissung's the winner narrowly!

Thank you, autolycus. I think yours is better than mine. :)

Here, however, is a new subject: an epiphany; please include the phrase "and then fell I under friendly fire."

Blackout

......and then I fell under friendly fire
staring down the barrel of the gun in your hand
the steam still rises and I cannot erase the look within your eyes,
in the flash of light, the poignant sulfuric odor
I wonder how did I land here in the first place?

It did not begin with a will to die and broken hearts
upon the table ready for dissection
I try to find a moment in which we were happy,
your face is an image burned into my brain
I remember your smiles, but not if those smiles
where intended for me.

There were the ghosts in my head
which you could not live with and the secrets we kept
that bound us.......how many nights spent
finding me with stale coffee and a madman's tears
the look of a wounded deer fixed upon your face.

All the things I tried to forget came rushing back to me
the moment my life was inches away from evaporating
and then at last you would be set free, because I knew
as long as I breathed you could never leave me.

So how did it come that you were the one left
holding the gun....time flash......hit reverse,
the bullet explodes back inside the gun
when I realize I am facing your frozen eyes
behind the glass frame, catching the scent of flowers
on a grave.

I lived my life in a waking dream holding you
by my side, because you were the only thing
keeping me alive, for 20 years after you died
I escaped reality into this fantasy.

and in the end, I made you murder me
because I was always such a coward,
now I sit alone among the broken sorrows
with the blood upon the floor remembering
only falsified memories of a life built up
upon your bones.

Wow! I was just kind of checking, not really thinking I'd find anything, and here this is. You really know how to leap out of the starting gates, DM!

Hahaha, thank you!

A Bit of Cinematography


Short stop footsteps downhall show television reflections in their faces

Is that the sound I wait for months in line at a gas station dmv and whatnot?

no,-no

I clearly want to say or err mean what I say and say what I mean and stuff but,-

must ghosts haunt me in the morning fog?
other souls to pounce my falling sleep
the sickly cat and the sagging dog
her face out of memory
elsewhere i am in space and time
relentless indifference steal mine mind

So there it is; a few words, a few birds, to fly around until I awake

And discover in the early morning with the beating Floridean sun

That "under friendly fire" I am won and weary, but in sleep, I am lost but gay.

we are friends forever now
and i will love you to death
she said and i was happy
and at the end i wondered
even at the brink and then
i fell under friendly fire

friendly friendly friendly fire
it wasnt that kind of love
at all but it hurt like hell

Good ones and interesting, Daniel and autolycus!

Perhaps not everyone's idea of an epiphany..... or even poetry (!) but here goes :

DATING A RED-NECK

Our first ever date was a stylish affair;
there was beer, and burritos with dip.
He acted the gentleman all the way through
til he bit off that chunk from my lip.

He phoned the next night and suggested a ride
all the way past the mall to Belle View.
I offered to make us a picnic, but no,
he said he would be catering for two.

I squeezed a few zits and I sprayed both my ‘pits
then I listened out for his V8 -
and an hour behind schedule his Chevy rolled up
and demolished the neighbours’ front gate.

We listened to ‘Cradle of Filth’ on FM
as he fed me the dirt on his ex;
how she’d cheated and lied once she put on his ring
and ran off with some a$$-hole called Tex.

He pointed out trees that he’d climbed as a kid
and the tiny white church where they married;
that neat little field with alfalfa and clover
where Tex and Ramona were buried.

An hour or so later we parked at the shore
and he opened his trunk sort of slow.
Inside was a Marlin M four forty-four
and a top of the range Compound Bow.

As well as some boxes of buckshot and bolts
a Mossberg lay wrapped in a sheet.
“I’m saving the Mossie for special occasions;
let’s load up and get us some meat.”

I’d not eaten venison straight off the hoof,
or porcupine grilled on a fire.
I’d never drunk JD straight out of the bottle
or taken a leak ‘gainst a tyre.

He’d gone to such trouble I couldn’t say no,
a sleeping bag, Trojans and lube.
Then he starts talking dirty, and spat out his gum
so I pulled both my boobs from my tube.

He said ‘Foreplay’s for lesbians, ain’t that a fact”
and I heard my ma’s words - she’s a hooker -
“All men are the enemy…." and then I fell
under friendly fire from his bazooka.

So while he lit up, feeling pleased with himself,
I straightened my skirt in the Chevy,
reached into my purse for my Heckler & Koch
and left him for dead on the levee.

H

um, thank you Hillwalker, for joining the fray.

Stonewall Jackson

I'd been every battle we fought with the North,
Believing in the cause of my beloved South
Never took a bullet in all of that time
Though a couple came mighty darn close
The field was strown with bodies, some ours and more theirs
I thought the battle over and done
Then as I rode in victory back to our ranks
I fell from our own friendly fire
"Let us cross o're the river and rest beneath the trees"
An officer and a gentleman, may I rest in peace

Pendragon

In memory of a Southern hero who died from friendly fire. The next to last line are his final reported words

Well done, Pendragon! Of course "friendly fire" was originally a military term, and you have incorporated it quite well in your work. Thanks for joining in.

I thought I had given an ending date for this contest, but I see that I have not done so. The last day of this contest will be Monday, August 9, 2010, at noon. My thanks to all who have participated.

This contest is now closed. I will be back with the results shortly.

And now for the results.

Dark Muse wrote "Blackout," a passionate love letter, one that seemed to come to a very dark end. You wrote in a strong and resonate way about how our lives become interconnected, and not always in a good way. I could relate to this one, and almost written it.

In "A Bit of Cinematography" DanielBenoit wrote about soul-searching, an topic of never-ending interest to me. Very playful use of language as usual; I wish I had your skills, but then you bring out serious tones in a very sophisticated way.

Autolycus wrote of heartbreak, short but pithy and with no shortage of emotional impact.

hillwalker weighed in with "Dating a Redneck." Now as I understand it, hill, you live in Scotland, right? But he writes like someone born and raised in Texas. Good job. And it is funny.

Pendragon wrote a fine poem about Stonewall Jackson. And interestingly, he is the only one who uses the idea of "friendly fire" in it's original sense.

And you know I wanted to give the honor to someone who wrote about "friendly fire" in a more novel way, but this time Pendragon is the winner. It is a fine, almost perfect poem in form, tone and pitch. Congratulations, Pendragon. And now you get to choose the next subject.