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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

    Weekly Poetry Contest (137) - Narrative Poems

    Discussion in 'Bi-Weekly Poetry Contest Archives' started by Banzai, Jan 24, 2011.

    Poetry Contest
    One Hundred and Thirty Seven

    It's that time again. Hope you're feeling poetic!

    The Rules
    • All entries must be on the set theme.
    • Only one entry per member.
    • No editing of entries once posted without my express permission (i.e. PM me and ask).
    • Poems must be titled
    • Poems must be at least seven lines in length.
    • Entries must not have previously posted on the forums, and are not permitted to be posted for critique until AFTER the contest is completed.
    • Any violation of these rules will result in disqualification of entries, and possibly infraction.

    The entry stage will be open for six days, closing on Monday 31st January 2011.

    The voting stage will begin immediately, and will be open for three days, ending on Thursday 3rd February 2011.

    And this week's theme is: Narrative Poems

    Any poem which tells a narrative story will be alright.

    The next (138th) contest's theme will be: Light Reflected in Water, and it will be opened on Monday 31st January 2011.

    Be imaginative, have fun, and get writing.


    PS: If you have any questions, please feel free to PM me. I don't bite (much).
  2. InnerBeauty

    InnerBeauty New Member

    Jan 28, 2011
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    Champion of Shame

    I have seen her, standing in the midst
    Of scornful spectators,
    Sharp driven stares succeed in stabbing
    At every crevice of her heart

    Shame was her garment, where as,
    Scorn was her gift,
    Reality raced through her blood,
    So strong so swift

    There was no smile and no tears,
    Just pure blankness,
    Not a shake or a shiver, so still,
    So sadly motionless

    She, so innocent, was branded
    As the outcome of deceit,
    She became a target for harsh words,
    And spittle at her feet

    She has no parents, no friends,
    In this her own home town (without treason),
    Where she should accepted,
    She was made an outcast (for poor reasons)

    Standing there, we pondered her next move,
    Stone cold eyes dared her to stay,
    Knowing they’d have her further crucified,
    With words so very evil as they.

    Then in a moment, a very slow second,
    My eyes held hers and I saw her pain.
    I perceived hope in those eyes and too,
    I alone understood her shame.

    It was then that she turned and ran,
    Her feet plodding the streets that hated her,
    She left the irate family behind and delved
    Into the unknown to find a better future

    To find hope, leaving one lonely state for another,
    She escaped what was her life long companion.
    Twas the disgrace that never left her side,
    She bore it and to me, she was a champion.
  3. Kmonty

    Kmonty New Member

    Jan 31, 2011
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    Hope is Dying

    “My heart was enormous in its greed,”
    said Old Lady Hope, as she lay paying for her deeds.
    At sixty and twenty, Hope was at her due.
    “She lived a full life,” said a few,
    “The hag finally died,” said the rest.
    Hope was vengeful and very easy to test.
    At the age of nine and four,
    Little Hope knocked at Death’s door.
    He answered with a half-moon smile,
    And asked if she’d like to stay awhile.
    Young Hope was stubborn and vain,
    So she curtsied and said, “I’ve been in enough pain.”
    Death’s smile faltered then came again true.
    “You’ve still got life haven’t you?
    Don’t worry girl, we’ll meet again.”
    And with that Hope was thrown into a world of sin.
    At ten and ten she married John Leslie,
    but this time Hope was loss fairly.
    Death had turned her bitter and cold,
    and now she was paying for her will to hold.
    Her father died when she was fourteen,
    Causing her mother to turn oddly mean.
    Hope’s like was bleak and sorrowful,
    As her mother grew more and more awful.
    Hope succumbed to to mental torture with flesh and bone,
    And yet her mother still threw stones.
    At sixteen she was bruised and battered,
    So she decided to correct the matter.
    Her mother was found with a broken neck,
    and thus began Hope’s disastrous trek.
    She cursed and hit, and yelled and screamed.
    Rejecting the only way to vent her dark dreams. .
    Hope went from town to town
    And let her havoc rain down
    She made enemies galore,
    but soon she began to abhor,
    the life she live and people she knew,
    so she left out of the blue.
    Years later she could be found
    With lots of tiny babies around.
    Three years after that, she buried her last child,
    and so Death made Hope so wild.
    She mourned her short-lived happiness
    Thoroughly convinced that she would never find bliss.
    At forty and seven John said ‘good-bye’
    Leaving Hope with not a teary eye.
    After that, neighbors were quick to meet,
    The ‘new hag’ of Phillips street.
    The neighbors all tried to make her feel cheer,
    Instead the old woman instilled fear.
    Her collected riches were spent openly,
    While to towns-folk suffered in poverty.

    And so when Old Hope was hit with flu,
    The street of Phillip didn’t know what to do.
    Do they help the old hag,
    or leave her to the bag?
    Five and two days into her sickness,
    Death came to be Hope’s Witness.

    “My heart was enormous in its greed!”

    And Death smiled his half-moon grin.

    “You’ll come with me now.”
  4. FrankABlissett

    FrankABlissett Active Member

    Nov 29, 2008
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    Sault, Michigan
    Witch's Brew

    As a child we called her "witch",
    Whispering the word while hidden behind mountains of hay.

    Jenny said the Witch could cast spells and had a real cauldron.
    I told of grandfather's brother,
    Who did bad things I wasn't aloud to hear about.
    She had charmed him.
    Mabel had seen her up close once -
    Witch's warts and all.

    Not long after, mother and I called on her for a visit,
    And there in her yard for all to see
    Was a giant pot.
    It was warm too -
    Not "Hell Hot", as pappy would say,
    But I could imagine Hell all the same.

    As mother walked back to the wagon,
    Two strong, gnarled hands lifted me.
    The cauldron was half filled with blood red,
    Thick and slick on top.
    "It's good today," the witch croaked.
    I was too frightened to struggle.
    "You can see it crawl the sides -
    Haven't seen anything that perfect in years."

    I closed my eyes and prayed,
    Then felt my body being lowered.
    I expected the hot sting of witch's brew,
    But kept sliding till curled toes touched ground.

    There stood mother.
    In her arms a new bolt of muslin,
    That she slid into the cauldron.
    She and the Witch talked a spell,
    While the pot was stirred.

    After a half hour or so I saw my first magic ever.
    With a groan, mother and the Witch reached big sticks into the pot,
    And the muslin was now deep, deep wine red.
    The cauldron's contents, I was shown, had expired to clear water.

    The bolt was washed in a trough,
    Laid out to dry,
    And after a few days returned to us.

    A dyer's work, it goes without saying,
    Is ever and anon fading,
    And replaced with newly dyed bolts and skeins and bags of wool.
    It is a living work,
    Forever changing till the dyer herself has expired.

    While I am not a dyer,
    There is one thing I can give to you granddaughter,
    And your newborn child.
    This quilt will not last forever,
    But will outlive me.

    I trust its memories will last still longer,
    And for many years your family will find comfort
    Under a checkerboard of baby blue linen
    And faded pink cotton.
    1 person likes this.
  5. vcnefarious

    vcnefarious New Member

    Jan 31, 2011
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    It was never supposed to be like this...

    "It was never supposed to be like this" he said,
    in a low tone electric mumble right above my resting head.

    What it was supposed to mean I couldn't say,
    his essence was obscured by the cloud of alcohol swarming my way.
    He'd been dumping himself into empty bottles all day.

    I haven't seen truth in his eyes for some time now,
    except for little glimpses of light that tell me he's in there,
    searching for a way out.

    I wish didn't have to force myself to feel this for him.
    That kind of empathy always makes my shine go dim,
    but that quick communication from somewhere deep inside
    lets me know he wants to be free,
    and at one point, he tried.

    I can imagine him locked in a tall tower.
    sending morse code messages with a flashlight losing power,
    and I wish like hell I could save him.

    I think back on all the examples and words of wisdom I gave him
    and wonder "was it enough?"

    That kind of life never stops being tough and I know that fight all too well.
    I find myself re-living it, ready to jump into his human hell.
    Armed with the wizardry of word.
    A verbal revolutionary to help his heart be heard and revolt against his minds
    oppressive tyrany,
    and I pray that, somewhere down the line, he'll see me,
    and let me launch a sneak attack from the forest of his memory
    and remember that he's not alone.
    Maybe he'll see that there's a silent army waiting to help him fight his way back home,
    that we've been with him since day one,
    even before he built that tower to hide from the sun.

    My soul is screaming for the day that he comes back whole.
    Free from the debt of all he thought he stole.

    I remember the way he'd shine,
    the way his sentences would begin by finishing the ends of mine.
    How we could dream all day and imagine the world our way
    without guilt or questions asked.

    I hope he stays strong long enough to build the courage to begin his task.

    I just want to tell him to tie a rope with sheets from all the bed's he's made,
    that he doesn't have to lie in them anymore,
    then climb right out of that tower and retrace his footsteps until he reaches the shining shore,
    then I'd promise I'd be waiting.

    But these words have all fallen silent.

    Victims of a tower guard, short tempered and defiant
    reeking of the sweet but violent smell of comfort clothed in misery.
    The instant gratification of procrastination brought to you by your friendly local brewery.
    So instead I sleep with fingers crossed.
    Hoping that my brother won't have to be another one lost to a world that so often places things ahead of feelings.
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