Weekly Poetry Contest

[Avernoth]

Hey everyone, because I haven't seen it on here, I decided to make a thread for all those poetry nuts out there.

The rules are simple, write in any style, in any length, it just has to be about the week's theme. At the end of the week, (next monday if all goes well) I, along with a few other judges, will judge the entries and I will post by the end of the week. So, is anyone ready?

This week's theme: Life

[Avernoth]

No, the end-product is death, which can also be a theme. But fine, the theme's still Life though.

[Avernoth]

Alright, I'll start it off then!

A gift and a blessing,
that's what life is to me.
It brings joy to this earth,
to every bird, plant, and tree.

It opens new doors
new windows and things,
and makes room for poems
about cabbages and kings!

Though all this is silly,
yet still fun to write,
there will be a time,
when death fills the night.

It is then when death
seems to grip the cold air,
with fingers that kill
that takes ev'ry heir.

Around and around
that cycle does spin,
repeating forever,
restarting again.

Its the way things go,
to be made and then die,
and just as things live,
they must say, good-bye.

Eh, it was cruddy, but better than nothing!

[Amour]

Really great idea. :) I'll do a quick one.

(not) birth

I was born blue,
under skulking moons
in May,

and mother's womb
tightly sewn around
my baby legs

became an awful
infant tomb.

[pockyfreak]

my suckie quickie:P

What is light made of?
particles i trust?
but maybe hope it plays a role?
and dust is not just dust?
But maybe life is fleeting further than the stars?
and the void of death is not just black?
I hope my hope it plays a role.
and my ash is not just ash.

[Silver_Poet]

The rabbit in the meadow,
The faun upon the hill,
The maiden singing in the glade,
The lark on tree branch still.

The throbbing of a heartbeat,
The flutter of a wing,
The steamy sighs of entwined love,
The prick of hornet's sting.

The beating of a Life so pure,
Connected to its core,
The strings that bind all those who live,
So they desire more.

The births of generations,
Of species, branching out,
The hidden drive, one never filled,
Like thirst in driest drought.

The need to be eternal,
To live vicariously,
To never succumb to the unknown, Death,
Through reproduction, or technology.

So has been our mission,
Since first the cells took form,
And though we now hold countless shapes,
'Tis is Life we each are born.

[Spacepirate]

Like fires imprinted on our skin, burning
tattoos that we got when we were young,
young and reckless, the charred remains now smoking sag;
the s of a snake drooping poison, grey, down onto the nails
that once clutched the cold skin of a gun,
shed quick automatic and the hiss, the bite
died silent from then on. Gave it all up.
All up for clothes, threads for grandchildren
and the hick hack of knitting needles still
sound like the rattle drums in her ear machine,
--all turned into a type of fable. A story
that couldn't possibly ever itch to be true.

[Avernoth]

Thank you all who participated, and look forward to next week's theme! Since I will be gone next week, Lykaios will be taking over for the time being! Now for the results!

As our Second Runner-up, Silver_Poet!

The rabbit in the meadow,
The faun upon the hill,
The maiden singing in the glade,
The lark on tree branch still.

The throbbing of a heartbeat,
The flutter of a wing,
The steamy sighs of entwined love,
The prick of hornet's sting.

The beating of a Life so pure,
Connected to its core,
The strings that bind all those who live,
So they desire more.

The births of generations,
Of species, branching out,
The hidden drive, one never filled,
Like thirst in driest drought.

The need to be eternal,
To live vicariously,
To never succumb to the unknown, Death,
Through reproduction, or technology.

So has been our mission,
Since first the cells took form,
And though we now hold countless shapes,
'Tis is Life we each are born.


And the runner up is: Spacepirate!

Like fires imprinted on our skin, burning
tattoos that we got when we were young,
young and reckless, the charred remains now smoking sag;
the s of a snake drooping poison, grey, down onto the nails
that once clutched the cold skin of a gun,
shed quick automatic and the hiss, the bite
died silent from then on. Gave it all up.
All up for clothes, threads for grandchildren
and the hick hack of knitting needles still
sound like the rattle drums in her ear machine,
--all turned into a type of fable. A story
that couldn't possibly ever itch to be true.


And the winner is: Amour!

I was born blue,
under skulking moons
in May,

and mother's womb
tightly sewn around
my baby legs

became an awful
infant tomb.

Thank you all for competing and we'll see you next week!

[Spacepirate]

NEW CONTEST LYK.

Come on guys. And prizes. We need prizes.

:3

[Lykaios]

Oops, sorry, I forgot I was supposed to do this . . . :3

New theme is: Old Age

Uhh, and what kind of prizes would you suggest?

[Peppermental]

more ramblings from the blazed.

Your wrinkled folds
papyrus envelopes cracking
from the Egyptian heat in Texas

that withered
and wilted
like handsewn creases

Your darling
full of eathworms
covered in flowers

You're a puppet of you
sock puppet, ripped and stained
each fiber gray and rotting
disheveled with all four winds

Its okay to quit

[Alice Glitterhorn]

We will live in reverse,
rewinding the skies
so the sun comes
last,

and we will rise from
our tombs, spell out the
epitaphs on our faces

written in river-beds
for saline solutions.

When the stars expose us
in our fall from Athena’s grace,
we can jump
upwards, and clasp
our age-dried hands

to the crumbling rim
of everlasting elders.

[jdsncb23]

Here's my entry.

Dark holes seen,
Seen as traumas lingering.
Lingering shadows indented on her wrinkled face,
Face full of worries refusing to be forgotten.

Hair oblique,
Oblique remnants of a wrong path long forgotten.
Forgotten, arthritic-ridden fingers,
Fingers remembering the magic of an enchanting instrument.

She looks off into the distance of time,
Time spent with no one.
One photo captures her memory,
Memory of the golden days.

Slowly, but surely,
Surely she’ll fade to dust.
Dust obscures her as she waits and watches,
Watches for the young age that will never come.

Her time here is finished.
Finished with mistakes and passions.

A simple chair is left,
Left cracked under the weight of her regrets.

[Spacepirate]

creeps
brittle webs;
yellowin winds

[pockyfreak]

I am rusty rusty rusty. and stil learning learning learning. but having a topic to write by given by another person helps me write alot easier and learn alot faster so here--> even though its poor form and bad <3

In my age i have grown
spiderweb veins enclosing the fly buzzing of my pulse
My skin has melted into cracked concrete with twisted
sinew trees
the light in my eyes once a sun, now only fade to a star
the youth laugh and i sigh remembering my long ago sky

In my age i have grown
slow to anger,
slower still to get up off this prison bench
and walk to were id like to go
but thats ok because i see now
how beautifully the flowers grow

In my age i have grown three children.
filled with youth and trust
they will cry, i pray, in selfishness
when my bones are making dust

In my age i have grown the knowledge of old oaks
the steadfastness of brass clasps
the softness of worn silk in childrens hands
and the aged smile of a women worn by time
In my age, i fear, i have grown old.

[Spacepirate]

*cough* judge *cough*

[SoggyPoptart]

I was there, still a young sprout
when the first pyramid was built;

Oh, how I pof climbing
it,and reaping my rewards.

I was there, middle aged when
England and U.S parted ways,

All moved to the promised
land, all except for me.

But now I'm old and weak,
swaying like a fallen leaf.

I sit in my rocking chair,
forward, back, forward.

In my years, I've experienced
much; somehow never dying.

Now, I'm like a broken twig,
swinging between life and death.

When my friend Death comes,
I'll greet him gladly, walking off.

Me and Death, we'll be best
friends. Me and Death.

[incisron]

I don't understand.

I came into a world that I did not know-

Weak, helpless, unable to change, or to fight.

And yet I did know it - for it was the world

That God sent me to. He knew what I was. And

I knew, somehow, that I was a Person, that

I was hungry, I was cold, I was frightened - here

Was my mother - though I could not say who she was.

That she was the one who gave me food, held me

When I cried. Often, though, she would be occupied

With Chores - with things my baby- mind could not - did

Not want to understand. My tearstained face would turn

Crimson with enraged screams, with helpless sadness, and

Finally, despondency would seize me ; it

Did not matter that she came minutes later, crooning

Fondling me to her; I knew that when I

Was most hungry, coldest, most afraid, I would

Not find her at my side. I knew she was my

Mother, and yet I did not know. When I was

A mother, I knew I was a mother. But

I thought of myself as not "Mommy" but as

Me. The same me who had been the crying baby

Who had been the maddening toddler child, the

Rebellious youth. When I arrived at the

Mother's club, I would see the sign on the door

Listing me amongst the "mothers" who were members

And I would smile bitterly. I had become

Not Emily, not me, but only Mommy

When I stood beside the cradle, listening

Helpless, to the maddening screams, I knew, then,

Why, when I was as small as this baby, my

Mother - not only my mother, but Elizabeth,

Had turned her back to my cries, had walked on

While I screamed - helpless, angry, self centered

-Knowing, and not knowing - demanding that the

World should pause for my hunger, my fear - and now

I turned my back to my baby, thinking of

Her infant selfishness - unlike my Mother

I never returned to fondle her to sleep.

I sat in another room, relishing, hating

The sounds of her cries - heartrending, maddening

Giving her the wrath I wished I had received

When I was her - The Baby - self-centered, weak.

Yet, while lying abed at night, I would crumble

Into tears of remorse. They would tell me, "You're

a mother. All mothers shed these tears. You're normal. "

That was what The Mother wanted to hear, it

Was not what Emily wanted to hear ; it only took

Me back into my bitterness, what had made

Me turn my back to my baby, crying, helpless.

Today, fifty years later, I wonder if

I ever really changed from that baby, crying

Maddening, self-centered, screaming, demanding

I know, in any case, I am that baby

Now. Weak, helpless, still no longer Emily

Only The Old Lady, to be pampered, waited

On, and yet ignored. I know I am Emily

But I despair, would be ashamed to proclaim

I am Emily - for I can do nothing that

Proves me to be anyone but Old Lady.

Weak, helpless, waited on, and yet alone - I

Rave, quarrel, watch with increasing rage, the face of

My daughter, still, placating, patronizing

Somehow. She is no longer a baby. Nor a

Child. Nor a girl, led by my advice, I am

The child now. Yes, I am the baby, crying

Self-centered, maddening, maddened, helpless, I

Am also the adolescent, furious

At but the thought of my guardians talking

About me in the next room - the adolescent,

Raging at specters. I am the baby. I

Scream, but am not heard. The world has a different

Childhood, a different youth, and I hate it. I

Scream, but am not heard. I have experience

But cannot use it to help, for I cannot

Talk smoothly, I can only scream. No one hears

A screamer. I scream, helpless, maddening, demanding

A baby, and I know it. Helpless, when I crave strength.

What am I good for?

[Alice Glitterhorn]

Hon, this thread has been dead for a year. Check the date on threads before bringing them up.

[Mia Cook]

Sunlight
Sunlight pours down on me,
A hot steamy breath.
It glows its shiny colours.

So frightening to watch.
It burns our eyes with bright yellow
Barely ten seconds can blind.

From dawn till dusk
It glares at us.
Waiting...
Waiting...
Waiting...

By Mia Cook, age 10.

[lostbookworm]

See Alice's post above. Although, I would like to revive this competition.

[Charlie333]

Just a quick one not very good;

An elderly shell
Hiding whats beneath
Inside is a child
A younge spirit
Waiting to be free

We do not relise
That they themselves
Are wise.
If you wish to see it
Just look into
Their eyes.

[AndromedaWilliamson]

Here's my entry.

The light of the candle
Flickered and fell
The rocker creaked in shadowy light
And the old man snored
Hands folded in his lap
Head tucked against his chest
The rocker creaked
And the old man slept
The flickering shadows watched
As mysterious things took place
The old man's hands fell apart
And there was a sudden peace on his face
The light of the candle
Flickered and fell
And danced against the wall
The rocker creaked in shadowy light
The old man wasn't there anymore.

[Isis]

This contest is closed. Lalodragon is running new, biweekly contests. Can someone please lock this?