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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 (227) - Old Man Winter

    Discussion in 'Bi-Weekly Poetry Contest Archives' started by Banzai, Feb 18, 2013.

    Poetry Contest
    Two Hundred and Twenty Seven

    Even after all of these years, our contests are the best writing resources around.

    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
    • 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 seven days, closing on Monday 25th February 2013.

    The voting stage will begin immediately and will be open for three days, ending on Thursday 28th February 2013.

    And this week's theme is: (courtesy of Darkkin) Old Man Winter

    The next (228th) contest's theme will be (courtesy of Roxie): A Moment in Time and it will be opened on Monday 25th February 2013.

    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. seelifein69

    seelifein69 Active Member

    Jun 20, 2011
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    SW Florida

    He who kneels beyond where wanderers go,
    North of the Forest, in his realm to outgrow
    Taking each precious life to smother below
    Gasping hard for the breath of a cold wind blow

    When you’re dying, you feel warm
    Just so you know….
  3. jae shorts

    jae shorts Member

    Jan 21, 2013
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    An old man's wisdom senryu

    A wound is poked raw
    Until winter wisdom states
    Stop poking it prick
    1 person likes this.
  4. Darkkin

    Darkkin Reflection of a nobody Contributor

    Jun 21, 2012
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    Following the footprints in the sand...
    The Tear

    The Tear

    It came down, swirling round
    Whispering in her ears.
    Words of wisdom
    No cynic ever hears.

    With a cloak and icy breath
    He came snow, hiding the tears.
    She with hair unbound,
    The breath of springtime in her tender years.

    Old Man howled, a frigid tantrum cast
    When that whisper he did hear.
    For it was she, this breath of spring
    She, this child, he did fear.

    Hair of flame, a sweet song of longing
    Eyes fixed upon the veil, cold and sheer.
    Snow and ice, the whole world round.
    A gentle touch, a snowflake's tear.

    Softly, deftly...A sylvan touch.
    Her herald the Zephyr's wings, she does hear.
    By drip and torrent the snows fell away.
    Leaving a brook, brimming and clear.

    Old Man Winter, a broken hold...
    He nods, surrendering for the year.
    That whisper that gave her hope.
    The murmur of wisdom in her ear.

    From the cold lips of a boy...
    Who had seen her single, speaking tear.
    Jack, the artist of the Frost...
    A gift, for the Aster he holds so dear.
  5. Monger

    Monger Member

    Jan 30, 2013
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    The Fieldmouse King

    Allow me preface what follows by saying that I've not written a poem of any sort since childhood, but I decided to give this contest a shot. Please, be gentle! D:

    The Fieldmouse King

    Under a thick blanket,
    made of cold,
    there exists a castle,
    of sorts.

    Tunnels and chambers,
    dug by tiny claws,
    attached to tiny feet,
    which are attached to a tiny furry body.
    In this castle,
    this castle of tunnels and chambers,
    painstakingly dug through the snow,
    the fieldmouse rules.
    Here, he is king.
    He has sustenance enough to feed himself,
    until the light stays longer and the roof goes away.
    He is unaware that Death stalks above him.

    Death’s name is fox,
    and she needs food.
    Food’s name is fieldmouse,
    and she knows exactly where he is.
    She doesn’t know that down there,
    he’s a king.
    She would not have cared if she had.
    Death stalks her meal for some ways,
    following him by nose,
    from above,
    as he scurries through his buried kingdom.

    the fieldmouse king’s right to his throne is challenged.
    Not my Death the fox,
    but instead by one of his own kind,
    who intends to kill him and claim his cold castle.

    Before the challenger can tear the old king's neck out,
    hungry Death makes her move.
    She pounces,
    and as if by magic,
    the thick blanket of snow that held her aloft was as a liquid,
    and she dives headfirst into the fieldmouse king’s realm.

    A piteous squeak,
    and a sharp shake of a fox’s neck,
    and the king is dead.

    The king is dead,
    Long live the king.

    Astonished by his good fortune,
    A new fieldmouse king claims his throne.
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