I guess this was STUPID and not as easy as I thought. I doubt TPS will fix the contest results - Poet Destroyer A 's Blog

Tiptoeing towards the edge of the towering cliff I flap my wounded wings and fly over tall two hundred year old oak trees up to the top of the highest of mountains scanning a never ending sovereign sky I glide effortlessly in the strong southern trade winds watching the fawn and her doe in the wilderness My heart starts to beat, and I write I write of the fragrant fancy free daisies growing unrestrained of the sun smiling down reflecting in the fast flowing babbling brook of the doe munching on the savory green and yellow grasses oblivious to her surroundings , the fawn firmly within her sight I hear the songs coming from the red breasted baby Robin calling to her mother wondering when she'll return with dinner my heart beats lovingly and I write I soar higher and higher heading for the heavens past the mammoth yellowish orange coloured moon through the mysteries of the milky way all along thinking of the mysteries lying inside you I open my eyes, imagine I'm with you and I write

.

           
        
            To Chan "Archaic" Hurst


            I see you —in a way— caught
            held captive from escaping
                              from inside
                              a broken mirror.
            Beyond curse or superstition
            to stare at yourself:      fractured, fragmented
            and your need to unfold artistry  
            no further tricked by optical pills.

            I see you —in a way— laying awake 
            to count cracks when pain pierced the air or
            kicking in amniotic fluid:
                              a mirror breaker
            who throws crystal's shards in all directions

            Torch confined to lead light in
            technicolor, through pentagrams
            within flamboyant kaleidoscopes or
            stained glass windows. Unsolved
            puzzle on the verge of your own Walden 
            where nothing will be enough
            where you will never belong.

            I see you —in a way— a dreamer
            who fosters fantasy with nesting habits to
            discover Tolkien in Star Wars pajamas and
            races a Nimbus 2000 over Gotham city.
            Child-brother sharing Hakuna Matatas.

            Yet, there you stand: 
            Who's the best rhymer in the land?
            cause it's all just Greek to us
            to mock the geeks, perhaps
            we rolled our eyes

            Today, a guitar grieves and revives
            euphoric notes.  We know 
                                   there is no stage five life
            and although its knots seem to be untied

            I see you —in a way— still alive

A paramount flame enraptures to rule,
unearthing the spicy array of my senses,
the reverie of Spring cautiously subdued,
a syncopated beat, three steps beyond pretentious.
Longing for that vision seen only in glimpses,
beyond the tide of what is still becoming real,
as passion burns its slow decay upon my defenses,
Baby, you make me feel!

I close my eyes to a thousand stars,
on a velvet curtain of the night,
and the Braille pathways of my heart,
submerge discreetly into your river of light.
I become caught and raptured in utter delight,
throwing open the soul of all that is real,
as your image dominates my inner sight,
Baby, you make me feel!

Blowing holes through the canopy of night,
touching your lips, meeting your gaze,
stormy passions toss apprehension aside,
restless abandon ventures beyond the haze.
Violet, in subjection to your silky ways,
smokey, the thoughts that make time stand still,
wistful and fervent this fire flames,
Baby, you make me feel!

As distant, sultry fires tax us,
two single spokes on an ever spinning wheel,
the Earth resumes spinning on it's axis,
but Baby, you make me feel!

I am standing outside my bedroom, on the precipice of lost innocence.
Wide eyed, and barefoot on cold hardwood.
Someone is hammering on our front door.
My father, looking a bit annoyed, shuffles anxiously down the stairs.
Tussled hair, a bewildered vein bulging in his forehead,
wearing his old, blue plaid robe, (one with a woven rope belt),
he frowns like a lightweight boxer, ready to enter the ring.

There are two grim faced policemen waiting on the front porch.
My mother, at the top of the stairs, clutches the neck of her gown.
She looks as if she might choke herself.
Confused alarm, reflects in sleep-swollen eyes.

They ask my father,  “How well do you know those folks across the road?”
As they notice me standing on the stairs, they quickly lower their voices.
In a hushed, rather husky monotone, they whisper to my father... 
something about a boy who has taken a shotgun into the hillls...
and into the chill of the night… 
He has taken his own life…and has been identified as the boy..., 
the teenager, who lives kitty-corner across  our road.
The same kid who mowed our grass when Dad was sick for a spell last summer.
The one who bags Mom’s groceries at the local A & P.
They think I don’t hear them            ……but I do…
and I hear them ask my father, 
      would he,  please, come along to help them break the news?

My father, glazed eyes, and head low, steps away a moment, to quickly dress.
I remember hearing my mother gasp, then suck in a  sob,..
But then is right behind me, pulling me towards her…..
and I can feel her heart pounding, through flannel of my pajamas.
She is squeezing my shoulders..so hard that it hurts,.... somehow I don’t mind.
I look up seeking reassurance,.... her eyes are huge, …
                      and she knows that I have heard…. 
And we both know,...that nothing will ever be the same. 
After this day is over,  the childhood of yesterday, will wear a different face…

Father pulls a coat over his pajama tops, …he gives my mother a touch on the arm.
With a desolate look at me, he touches my head.
He steps out into the darkness of a not quite dawn.
And through the window,  I can see the line of shadows on the lawn.
Three men, like hunched over soldiers, walking slowly into the wounds of a new day.

.............................................
(Sadly,  this is based on a true story)

100 in a ROW contest #1 - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by P.D.

“Stardust is falling!” I heard my son cry, his small precious face looking up at the sky. “Stardust?” I echoed, and thought how my son had such a vivid imagination. “Yes, Mommy. Look!” he said, taking my hand. He led me outside; the sky I then scanned. I felt an enchantment, for what did I see? Myriads of stars shone down brightly at me. And the harder I stared, the more that it seemed the heaven above was like something we dreamed. The sky was a forest, and each star - a tree - was blazing in splendor against ebony. A celestial wildfire spread there overhead. “See, Mommy, see?” my dear child then said. No dust falling down from those stars did I see, but his eyes now looked downward ecstatically. When I followed his gaze, my shock was so sweet. A blanket of stardust I found at our feet! For PD's 100 in a Row Poetry Contest #1

You know me as a poet and writer of poems rhythmic,
I take poetic license, violating rules and conventions;
Telling a story using figurative language to share,
     My life's journey and sorrows in beautiful words.
     Few beyond this safe harbour have read my poems,
     I write with raw emotion and I lay my soul bare;
     My poems are my treasures that I keep hidden,
                              Fathomless the pain.
        My view on life is somewhat sadly fatalism,
          What will be will be, it is already written by God.
There are many facets to me that I share with few,
Classical music moves me to write my poetry and words;
Chopin, the poet of the piano, Mozart, oh the lyrical charmer.

And I am a lover of art, going to the art gallery weekly,
I love Van Gogh, Degas, Pissario, Bernini and Botticello;
Leonardo and of course, Michelangio, I could go on and on,
     I am fascinated in the architecture in my city.
     Often I just walk the streets looking for beauty,
     Admiring gothic revival with its arches and vaults;
     And I love the Victorian building where I reside,
                              With my two cats.
        A small garden created with a love for nature,
          A tribute to my mother's great fondness of flowers;
Other things you may not imagine about me are many,
Adore vintage jewellery and clothes and antique anything,
A collector of books, reference, dictionaries, all in a clutter.
     
And one last thing that I find so very odd and strange,
Is that although since childhood I have walked with death;
How death haunts me, I take a job in nursing to help people die,
                                And God weeps.

__________________________
July 30, 2015

Verse

Submitted to the contest, 100 In A Row #1
Sponsor, PD

When no one sleeps yet few keep watch,
a blueness hides night’s ticking clock.
A single actor fills the sky.
In costume blue he airs his sigh,
that none can hear except the few
who care to know night’s lonely hue.
The role he plays is dusk that fades
to rows of homes with blinds or shades,
that will not lift for night’s first act,
but wait for eve’s familiar black,
so folks may point to stars they know,
or set their clocks to moonlight glow.

The chorus members of the night,
are stars that enter carrying light,
And one by one they form the cast
of constellations staging vast.
And though their lines are long and dark,
not one’s delivered without spark.

But what of dusk whose set is blue?
No props of sun or cloud will do.
His monologue can run past eight,
if stars and moon are cued too late.
And those who watch, though they are few,
can say they’ve seen A Night Sky Blue.

for 100 in a ROW contest #1 Poetry Contest
July 3, 2016

     Hidden Echoes

                      On mountain top
                      none made a stop.
            Sublime solitude was all around.
                     Hard hearted rock
                     the rigid block
                    with wild grasses
                    and all dry masses
              prayed for noise and sound.

                 Peak was left abandoned
              No stone was even turned
    Neither animals nor humans were found.

       Gentle breeze touching in gay,
      Sun greeting with bright ray
      can’t console hard rock.
   It longed for sound to knock
    Its tiring monotony knew no bound.

      A team of mountaineers came to trek.
           Jubilant guys shout and break
              peace and calmness
             over all silence,
             perfect and profound

        Their laughter, yells yielded echo all around.
         Hard heart of rigid rock melts in pleasure
           discovering great glorious treasure:
          Instant responsive hidden echo in its surround

   Tail Rhyme

     12/12/15
                 
    100 contests in a row # 1
  Sponsor  Poet Destroyer A
  

      
      

        Ill Wind
Ill westerly winds were blowing today
Carrying the past to my open door
And moving old dreams that got in it's way
Blowing swept ashes around on the floor
Hints of sweet aromas filling the air
Swirling boldly with a sharp biting chill
Reminding my heart that love is not fair
Teasing and testing the mind of it's will
It's proclivity for leaving messes
Rearranging the dust on old photos
Going through boxes from old addresses
A front row seat to a rerun floor show
Why can't I learn to keep the front door closed
One never knows when the west wind will blow


__________________________________

       On Second Thought
Unannounced, she walked right in the front door
Cool westerly winds blowing the past in
Stirring spent ashes and heartache again
And memories of once tender rapport
Familiar aromas, the scent of yore
At first, it seemed a chill was to begin
After a few barbs we talked like old friends
Going through some boxes she'd left before
Bitterness still lives in both of our hearts
Harsh words and actions remain fresh and raw
We both concluded that kindness was best
It was obvious we had grown apart
Once gone, I sat in silence and recalled
The first time we met and how she impressed



 
     For contest  July 2 2016

Such precious gemstones Morning dew shines like diamonds God’s tears from heaven Written on 18th February Entered in 100 in a row #1 contest sponsored by PD Posted 22nd February 2015