Some of them are living ghosts,
they have buried their roots
under newer foundations,
or they still live anonymously
under a rock of poverty.
If you asked me to name them
I could not, for they all had names
too similar to mine.
The whole street,
all its doors and windows,
its narrow-broken pavements
have been obliterated by the nazis
or the iron booted rent collectors.
Postwar postmen have no addresses
to slot through.
In my mind
is a diorama of a history
that I missed by being born late,
yet the street knew me before I knew it.
Now the ghosts are dying one by one.
Those that left the street
to become pink and abundant
were happy to be alive for a while,
as I was,
until inevitably
the diorama turned into a carousel
of long gray sunsets.
We entered twenty-twenty-four
in vain hope it will be postwar;
one government will not deplore;
politics, rotten to the core,
despite the oath to us they swore.
In truth, the poor will get more poor;
the one percent will gain much more.
Some countries will wipe out a score;
innocents will pay dearly for.
We live in nineteen eighty-four,
the man knows us so much, much more
so fairness, we can whistle for;
sold wishes from a candy store.
The lie, all’s fair in love and war;
is such an utter total bore.
Will someone, God’s sake, take the floor
and f***ing sanity restore!
The Mystery Be
Mistral freedom o'er stakes waged before,
destined mortal souls their reposed earth,
spent sepulchers clips tales from postwar,
nonetheless, facts become one back door,
proves everywhere their tribute got worth,
bestill main doors naught their mailboxes,
the rumors naught onshore, farther berth,
winds from war, peace checks, paradoxes.
*Rhyme Scheme abaabcbc
2020 October 02
*Honorable Mention*
COMPLETELY YOUR CHOICE (31)any form any theme
~~Brian Strand
*5th Place*
IN PRAISE OF THE ODE
~~nette onclaud
#5
In your mind will remain this spore
In your mind will remain this spore
In your mind will remain this spore
Together we shall soar
In your mind will remain this spore
In your mind will remain this spore
In your mind will remain this spore
From this weeping heart love shall pour
In your mind will remain this spore
In your mind will remain this spore
In your mind will remain this spore
Somehow I am now something to ignore
In your mind will remain this spore
In your mind will remain this spore
In your mind will remain this spore
Now comes the dreaded rebuild of postwar
In your mind will remain this spore
In your mind will remain this spore
In your mind will remain this spore
Woke in the blissful cold
As my body was being shivered
Had dreamed of a warm bright light
And see it rise in the dark night
Missed the light that came in the night
When waking up from a timber sleep
Having dreams of futuristic buildings
And technology, sometimes postwar
But every now and then,
While waking my tiring eyes and dried tears,
Feel a warm light dazzing upon my face
Same warmth of bumping energy
When these tiring eyes lay to rest,
And dreams becoming to begin,
Tomorrow's light will wait for me
So the rechargable energy could be awoken
putrid rascal was a real truant
and also a junkie
and a somnambulist too
and wicked gourmet bought a new guillotine
then the rascal walked dizzily
like a mechanic dancer
around the cinnamon circle
right under the scythe
and underwent a severance
the staggering truth was quite vague
then a postwar prelude under the lurid sky
piccolo semitone
sacrament
orchids
silhouettes on a merry-go-round
the jetty broke up
and a castaway went away
right before dawning
beforethe stellar equinox
but journey was a humdrum
with nautical nausea
just a medley of flukes
so we hit the road
on the roof of a magic bus
not just figurative
really peculiar
and finally let behind
all the cold sensations
a marble queen visits
with a priest with no faith
and start gentle mutiny
the celestial journey
is over at ten p.m.
and all we got left
is a sobering lethargy
i miss the softness of her touch
cut short by Lehman brothers’ harsh
collapse
i miss kindness of time before the crash
economy in relative peace
living off fumes of postwar boom
before post-traumatic stress of recession-plagued world
robbed me of ability to fulfill my dreams
and fully reveal my inner self
thanks to din of private property
and rumble of greed
world is psychotic, denial laden
- where love can be a marketplace
humans commodified to the extreme -
i yearn for a world
where people can be people
judged on the merits of their person
not their circumstance
for in such a world
there would be no need to worry
for inherent goodness in every human being
is a guarantee
someday that world will be realized
this i know for sure
this poem a dedication
and an affirmation
of that truth.