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  1. Banzai

    Banzai One-time Mod, but on the road to recovery Contributor

    Mar 31, 2007
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    Reading, UK

    nomadpenguin and Darkkin - Joint Weekly Poetry Contest (199) Winners

    Discussion in 'Bi-Weekly Poetry Contest Archives' started by Banzai, Jul 12, 2012.

    Sitting on My Bed on a Summer Afternoon
    By nomadpenguin

    It is summer,
    very close to the day that our nation clambered
    out from under her father’s coat
    and pointed a gun at his face.

    Later, millions of men will
    light their grills,
    and dream of a time when
    there was no work,
    no money,
    no telephone
    to keep their wives locked indoors,
    a time when all a man needed to be happy
    was to kill an animal and
    watch it blacken over a fire.

    Even later, millions of fiery blossoms
    will festoon our skies,
    and as children marvel at
    the lights and the sounds,
    some of us will quietly slip inside
    because the memory of anti-aircraft fire
    is too terrible and frightening
    to bear.

    But for now, there is nothing for me to do
    but sit in my bed,
    pleading the grey skies to bestow us with
    a drop of rain to ease our suffering,
    watching young people make the long trek
    to the pool, towels slung over their shoulders,
    wondering where my pen, like
    a holy man wandering in the desert will lead me next.

    Perhaps it will decipher the secretive
    whisper of the ceiling fan,
    or tell of our intrepid forefathers,
    or perhaps, if I plead and
    whine and cajole enough,
    it will lead me to you,
    sitting in your bed, wondering
    where your pen will take you next.

    By Darkkin

    In the heat of the day.
    Away from the light...
    Here in the high midsummer.
    Eyes, watchful, ever bright...

    A shimmer of water...
    A sprinkler...on.
    Laundry flapping upon the line.
    A flicker, a whisper...gone...

    Bloody sky and cobalt rags...
    The air, a hot bath, gone cold.
    Between the trees, the grass, unmowed...
    A shadow...a something...that story...told...

    The high midsummer's fading light...
    Provides a cloak, allowing dreams to form...
    A ripple, spreading on the reflection of night.
    Curling flame, glowing eyes, gleeful...the coming storm.

    Laundry fluttering, butterfly wings...
    A child, pauses amid billowing sheets.
    Banners of war, the storm wind sings...
    Betwixt the white, above the black,

    A pair of eyes...Peers right back.

    The Waif...A pixie lost...Guardian of pools,
    Of cool, damp glades...
    Best friend of the child, with no one to play.
    Found in the the end of the midsummer's day.
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