The Pensive Poet Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Written 1 August 2026
Pensive and faltering, The words, the dead, I write. by Walt Whitman
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I sit engulfed in silence. I lie alone in the immutable dark. Despondent or merely lazy? Just what am I? Poetic ideas are empty, my pen is still, I try to write about my emotions. Nothing emerges. There’s only emptiness. For all around is hushed and all is dead. How oft have I yearned for poetry? How oft had I dreamt I am wallowing In perfect tranquillity? Sleep brings with it a ghastly dream, Going through a portal grey Into a swirling, ugly, evil fog Of another time, another world. Hush, sirens sing a ghastly lyric. My mind is roped against a mast. I pass into a shadowy glade And walk upon a pebbled path, No footstep resounds back to me No living thing is seen around. Lightening snakes amongst the clouds I expect thunder but hear none, I see the water fall o'er the brink No roar registers in my mind. I wake, I sweat from brow to toe, I try to rhyme; I try free verse. I shiver in the heat of muted night. I wander around my chambers, Noiseless rooms, devoid of life. I roam amongst my memories, Pain grips fast my mourning soul, Then, unashamed, I weep And yearn...... Just for an epic poetry. Placed 2
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