PRESSURES TO CONFORM-:-
particularly
intense
imitators
awe-struck
respect
set APART
pitting
wits
skill
repeated
competition
in CLOSER TERMS
spurred
manifesto
envisage
aesthetic
beliefs
Contest Title: Long Shadows Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Craig Cornish
Deadline: Wednesday, October 29, 2025
Poem Title: The Surveyor of Dusk
Late Texas summer, wet heat and mosquitos,
running each evening, preparing for boot.
Past the few houses in my small country town,
past the people, past the sound,
running my past into the graveled ground.
The sun was low, a blood-red fruit in the sky,
casting my lunging shadow before me
on the dusty gravel finger of road.
I and my companion shadow strode
to Richland Creek where I would rest my load.
Each day I ran through the silent shadows,
alone and relishing my strength and youth,
pitting myself against my own best time,
enjoying the heat, sweat, and even the grime
of the dusty shadowed gravel road rime.
My shadow was joined in silent watch
one evening as I pushed my youthful endurance
by a heart-faced barn owl with glowing eyes
who brought a stutter to my steps
and a shock to my eyes.
Silently staring with shadow of his own,
his golden eyes still keep me company
in dreams and shadow memory
reminding me of a youth so temporary.
When the veracity is really sparse,
the world affairs are left on the backburner.
Pitting a status dog against an orange poodle
(the latter dropped his noodle a long time ago)
there is no honour in winning the debate
in this farce we rate a mere pie-in-the-sky.
Chasing this into that, chasing that into this.
Chasing silhouettes into a half-assed crevasse.
Echoing, "Boy, what is your purpose on this good earth?"
Poking the dark for a piece of velvet, a note from a harp.
A claw pokes at the skin of the soul.
A change of direction is needed again... pronto.
Mamma was right. Nothing good comes out of the dark.
Eating the light like a greasy moth.
Pitting parched lips against brightness.
Just another false prophet holding an empty Bic pen.
In the cul-de-sac of middle-class wish.
At least it was an honest attempt to find a grain of meaning.
In the dusk of my breath, the same silhouette yaps...
"Man, what is your purpose on this planet"?
April 5—Get a sport into a poem!
Make Baseball Great Again!
It is time
to make American baseball
Great again
starting with creating a worldwide
baseball competition
with each season
with the national champions
competing in a World Cup World Series
with the final round pitting the
North American Champions
against the winners of Africa,
Asian, Europe, and South America
with the final rounds
best of seven
always held in the U.S.
The other things to do
include rapid expansion plans
including the MLB teams
adopting local schools and colleges
fully funding baseball programs
and only hiring college graduates.
as players.
and making tickets affordable
no more than ten dollars per game!
if they do this,
we can make baseball
once again the best sport
in the U.S.
Let’s all join together
to make baseball great again!
HOPE
World has changed with a deafening sound,
All in upheaval here and around,
Some fight for causes that are trivial and trite,
My hope is they see what’s worthy and what’s right,
The madness needs to stop, the planet is broken,
Think what your saying before a word is spoken,
We all live here, there’s nowhere else to go,
Stuck in this bubble, no to and fro,
We all have rights, this should be no bother,
Stop taking the power from each other.
The greedy above want total control,
Their almost there, it’s taking its toll,
They sit back watching their plan unfold,
Pitting us against each other, that’s the mould,
So many agendas all playing a part,
Like sheep to the slaughter, it breaks my heart,
The big reset is happening, it’s almost here,
Doomsday clock is not for war, that is clear,
It’s nice to dream us all getting on,
But a nightmare it is, complete with a Con!
The future is gloomy, not many will cope,
The one thing they can’t take from us is the feeling of..
HOPE.
We all collect something
it is natural to collect
the greater one's purse
the more varied and
abundant his verse. So~
even divine poets literally
not immune
a puddle, a shallow indentation
gathers
a sea, a basin of immense fill
greater renown – we all collect something
drips and drops, torrents of collecting!
Everywhere bloating affections abound –
stamps, vehicles, baubles of glitter~lightning
to wear and flash around
God and the Devil
competing for souls
everything collects something
even collections seeming magnets
for thieves
and dust
pitting and rust
polishing of sorts
affixed to all our lust
we all collect
stuffing our hearts full
until finite hearts bust
the final verse
a new universe
free from collection
my hope
Can't you see their master plan?
The one true enemy of man.
It always comes right from the top,
They all rise while we all drop.
Empty hearts with lack of shame,
Pointing at the ones to blame.
Telling us with eyes that glisten,
Money speaks and people listen.
Pulling all from left to right,
Hoping that we all will fight.
Casting doubt on one another,
Pitting us against our brother.
Playing all of us for fools,
Using all of us like tools.
The ending now will now begin,
Divide and conquer wins again.
i’ve been s-coffing quite a lot lately ~ i think perhaps i’ve got a s-cold
said menippean to the rhymester ~ s-pitting out helios as he s-trolled
—————————————
a fair straightforward non rotating ~ syllable counted monoku
#. #. #
even the maggots are important ~ grow wings and persevere with life
By
David Kavanagh
young fearless daredevil surfers appear at costa de prata in the winter
pitting their skills against the colossal waves that break off Praia do Norte
confident they will be the one who survives, they are invincible right?
I stand on this beach, clutching my heart and my throat, danger aware.
Whitest world with cold and ice,
storming, sleeting, nothing nice.
Temperature sinks once, then twice.
Stay inside! the best advice.
Dropping crinkly like rock pink salt,
graupels fall with pelting assault.
No sign the wintry weather will halt,
night falls hard like a vestral vault.
She left for her home, not wise.
Pellets pitting the road, she cries.
Reports of frigid cold held no lies.
In her car, frozen solid, she dies.
*Inspired by, but not entered in, Pick-A-Title, Vol 33 Poetry Contest sponsored by Edward Ibeh.
Based on painting by Bev Doolittle: Woodland Encounter
American West in Camouflage
Two Indians* hide, in the birch forest,
and ride their pintos, hooves pitting the snow.
Conspicuous - red fox in clearing - sights
quiet stride of hide and seek…trenchant ears
at peak performance in centralized cope
…sentient sentinel highlights canvas.
3/28/2022
Bite Size Poem #41
Sponsor: Line Gauthier
*Native Americans
Do I have to scold you and remind
you that time is too precious
to be wasted on silly games?
Laugh pitiful, fool, laugh...
not a single line of any attempted
conquest can change this awareness!
Do I ever get annoyed and top my ears
not listening, just pitting your silliness,
but being the center of attention...
you find it hard to be let down!
Laugh, pitiful fool, laugh...nothing
can change your perspective on life
and the insincerity you hide;
laugh, pitiful fool, laugh...everything
has consequences and losses,
and this chance you toss for pride!
Scorpio and Aquarius aren't a match,
there are no beautiful stars to catch;
one extremely quiet, the other too wild...
one very warm, the other completely cold!
Laugh, pitiful fool, laugh...nobody
can do evil and not be punished;
laugh, pitiful fool, laugh...everybody
is aware of your craft to be deceived
and not be loved with sincerity!
Never smile and hold hands or run wild,
never listen to the pelting rhythm of the rain,
never hear the loud cry of the howling wind;
isn't it better to be on a getaway train?
I remember watching
all those women
desperately trying to catch
their dripping youth.
Tapping, smudging, massaging
all kinds of miraculous liquids
advertised by grinning ladies
with blocked face nerves.
I would smirk,
grab a bar of chocolate
and go outside
with no cream on, no hat,
no gloves, no worries,
pitting them a little.
Those lazy women,
who stopped and overslept.
I think of karma
now that I stand naked in front of a mirror
with my face glowing from rose oil,
stretching my cheeks as if it could stop them
from falling into the arms of time.
Funny, how the older you get
the more interest gravity takes in you.
He gave her a Rose what else could he do
her bands so tied a one way avenue
though not Red nor White or hard to find Blue
a token to hide from kin’s retinue.
He gives her a smile to bridge hyper space
he’s let her down his prowess a disgrace
longs for Lilac eyes that match her face
oozing memories of lasting the pace.
Everything was blue in the sky at dawn
pitting his mood being one with the thorn
a stone cold kiss for love he feels sawn
in reality this his life borne.
© Harry J Horsman 2016
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