I jumped on the train, feeling bad.
It cost me all the money I had.
Is that seat empty, tell me bub?
I asked, clutching my ticket stub.
I knew not where it was going.
The man across from me looked knowing.
Will it take me to a safe haven?
Through the window, I saw a raven.
The man marked down one more tally
as the train bogged down in a valley.
The low sun cast a shadow dark
as I was forced to disembark.
The knowing man, he would not talk,
but I was going to have to walk.
I felt I would not be afraid,
as I looked to the sky and prayed -
and breathed my last earthly breath,
in the valley's shadow of death.
tucked in the attic’s yawning mouth
a box breathes dust and echoes time
its edges worn, its ribbon frayed
a tomb for moments left behind
inside, the scent of paper ghosts
of letters inked with trembling hands
photographs curled like autumn leaves
pressed in the weight of lost demands
a locket, dull with tarnished love
a ticket stub from laughter past
a wilted rose, its petals cracked
all whispering we couldn’t last
the lid creaks shut, a sigh of dusk
some things are best left locked away
but even dust, in golden light
remembers where the shadows lay
Dusty Box Of Memories Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
Quote:"True nostalgia is an ephemeral composition of disjointed memories."--
Florence King
In the quiet folds of memory's embrace,
Where whispers of the past find their place,
There lies a fragment, ephemeral, yet profound,
A cherished relic in life's intricate mound.
Old aerogrammes, yellowed with age's flight,
Postage stamps, memories in paper light.
In their fleeting touch, a nostalgic sight,
Ephemeral relics, lost in time's might.
Or perhaps it's a ticket stub, worn and frayed,
From a concert where melodies forever played.
In the echo of music, I find solace sweet,
As notes of joy and sorrow gracefully meet.
There's a photograph, yellowed with age,
Capturing a moment, frozen on life's stage.
Smiles preserved in sepia, a snapshot in time,
A treasure trove of emotions, bittersweet and sublime.
These ephemeral fragments, fleeting and frail,
Are threads in the tapestry of life's tale.
Though transient they seem, they hold memories dear,
Anchoring us to moments, both far and near.
I've heard of the Circus Of The Damned;
By all accounts the rumors are true;
The graffiti makes it seem so grande;
Filled with copper and turquoise blue
billboards have you longing to attend;
In the French Quarter stories continue;
St. Louis boasts a fantasy alive and well;
Vampires perform in this fiendish hub,
gothic striptease mixed with a carnival;
More intense energy than any club,
blood will surely soak your ticket stub.
Poetry and popcorn.
I'll take mine warm,
popping over a slow burner,
not with hot air.
Buttered up,
salty and full of fat.
Poetry and chocolate.
I'll take mine sweet,
not sugar-coated.
100% cacao.
No artificial flavors,
no artificial sweeteners, please.
Poetry and a picture show.
I'll take mine free,
with lines that keep moving
for a reason,
for a rhyme.
I'll take mine simple
in black and white.
Torn pages, a ticket stub
in my book
of memorable scraps ...
They got too high to come back down
And journeyed beyond the sky
Too many pills can make you drown
And we are left asking, why?
Her big song was "Piece of my Heart"
Which was a big hit on the charts
But Janice Joplin took a trip
With a one way ticket on a needle's tip
Hendrix knew how to play a guitar
Strumming away, rocking the stars
But he took that 'stairway to heaven'
When he was just twenty seven
Many more were like " Riders of the Storm"
A song Jim Morrison used to perform
But he too turned in his ticket stub
And joined the ever deadly, 27 club
8-27-2022
The 27 Club Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Anthony Biaanco
They tell you what to love,
and who to hate
Their EM waves
dictate
when to have feelings of
disdain cut-rate
Callousness is the mental diss-ease
that permeates the air —
Pharaoh moans ...
toxic fumes of vapor crossbones,
they Caesar Palace dicey sell
Mood marketers
always swill toga do,
owe so pyramid scheme well
Create your con-sumer reality
with jingo slogans
as the purchase item guide
Ad hocking violent buy-products,
guaranteed to keep
your gunpowder tears dry
Sob heavy metal tales
of forged wails
is the pitchfork tongue cry
They tell you what to hate,
and who to love
Bend the knee,
profess unwavering loyalty
To the money sign satellite
passing up above
Feel free to
empty inventory please
those remote control, Mood marketers
Let the gold chain ticket stub
be the glass ceiling snub
worth of
your commercial existence
Nil grieve to
never promissory leave
the debt dole, repo soul carpetbaggers
She gave the man her ticket stub
To see the 'Doors' perform
She always liked to hear them sing
'Riders on the Storm'
She got lost in the melody
As the music took her higher
The rhythms ignited her passion
As they played 'Light my Fire'
She loved lead singer Jim Morrison
His poetry kept the music alive
The band then took her for a musical ride
With 'Moonlight Drive'
Then the music reached a fever pitch
As rhythms began to spew
She went wild when she heard
'Hello I Love You'
Then the concert ended....the music, died,
Some weeks later, she heard the news....she cried
Jim Morrison had given the Reaper his ticket stub
And joined the infamous '27 club'
He went away on a Crystal Ship with silver wings
Sailing on waves of guitars strings
In the distance, dark clouds began to form
And Jim soon became, a 'Rider on the Storm'.....
4-28-19
Writers On The Storm Contest
Sponsor: Chantelle Anne Cooke
See that vessel back there
Just claimed by the storm
The whole crew is expired
Some had not yet been born
There’s no sense parsing gestures
Or mincing words this day
Times like these, the best you can do
Is bundle up and walk away
I know you’ve heard the story
The news rolls on and on
The pulse of irritation
Grips you some time around dawn
And your fingers are like drumsticks
But there is no tune to play
Moments like these, you seal up your beat
And start to walk away
The curtain has been lowering
For quite a while by now
Generations pass in grief
As the eras will allow
It all blurs into one façade
One miniature shadow play
Shows like these, you grab your coat
And your ticket stub and walk away
I don’t know if I’ll make much sense
I’m pretty sure I won’t
On the fields of isolation,
Some break the fence and some don’t
I hope your crop grows sky-high
May fertile winds go your way
As for the rest of us in the bowl of dust,
Let us pack up and walk away.
All you can eat Stellar Buffet
Location: Lumera 3 in the Andromeda Galaxy
Sector: 377.21
Come all or come one
But don’t forget your ticket stub
The only place in our Galaxy
You can get Klingon grub
We have Vulcans to serve you
If you want, yes with a tray
We have the latest replicators
So you eat hyper hardy all day
The Borg will defend you
With “Q” as our master cook
The Ferengi will take your payment
While the Romulans give you a dirty look
So come one or come all
To The Galactic Gorge your Stellar buffet
Soon to be opening in
The Galaxy called the Milky Way.
Sept.07.2016
My imaginary restaurant - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Silent One
Creation
way of creativity
Some how - strange
I feel
Destroys In me
surrounding
Peace
Those, strong hold (friends)
when
I feel creative - fear
The end
First:
let me explain
of Time
my Time
Relation to…
the object and the turn
Return (trade)
My youth
truth is;
I do escape
from this dimension
indulge (hate)
Fantasy
Love, but real
Love,
has a number
ticket, stub
still, to the point
creative sparks
must retain
the lonely
dark Spark known - (seen)
contrasting
only shown
when
darkness
known