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

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    Weekly Poetry Contest (98) - [image]

    Discussion in 'Bi-Weekly Poetry Contest Archives' started by Banzai, Sep 27, 2009.

    Weekly
    Poetry Contest
    Ninety Eight






    Number 98!


    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 last five days, meaning it will close on Friday 2nd October 2009.

    The voting stage will begin immediately, and will be open for three days, ending on Monday 5th October 2009.


    And this week's theme is (courtesy of Poecilia Wingei):
    [​IMG]

    Be imaginative, have fun, and get writing


    Banzai


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

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    Sailing With Granddad

    "Now fold it there, make sure it's straight.

    Then that bit, too. You're doing great"

    "Did you sail, Granddad, in the war?"

    "I sailed the seven seas, and more!"


    "The oceans wide, the oceans blue.

    Then tuck that in - we don't need glue."

    "Is that it finished?"

    "Yep, well done. Now let's go sail. Come on my son."


    It's many years though I recall

    With warmth the time the ships were tall.

    We sailed the seas, the Spanish Main

    I'll sail with Granddad once again.
     
  3. sophie.
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    sophie. Contributing Member

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    Location:
    England
    Daydreaming

    A sky-boat with coloured sails
    dips and weaves through still air.
    I want to join it, to brush the flags
    with my finger-tips and sigh
    my sadness away. Flying high.

    From my vantage point, it has no
    anchor. Like me. Pulled and
    pummelled every which way
    by the whim of the winds,
    it’s the currents’ toy curiosity.

    Perhaps it will land and
    take passengers, crew. I could hand
    around drinks to the clouds
    like a real air stewardess.

    I’m sick of being down-to-earth.
    I’d sell my soul to be away in the skies
    for real, this time.
    No more dreams. I must fly.
     
  4. TheHedgehog
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    TheHedgehog Contributing Member Contributor

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    between here and there
    Pixie Dust

    Connected dots, out of order,
    tracing paths with blurry eyes
    and dry quills.
    Imagination perishing in rust:
    it’s all so trivial to the citizens
    who have a scathing need for Pixie Dust.

    A sprinkle or two on their heads,
    and a replacement of spectacles,
    or an exchange of quills
    so they find their way to open windowsills,
    soar off the ground and into a sleepy
    overlooked world, a ship off the ocean,
    something so much more.
     
  5. Rdthmn
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    Rdthmn New Member

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    Sky Captain's Prayer

    Sunlight blankets our skin,
    Wind fills our sails.
    The heavens above
    Clouds settled below.

    We traverse the eternal blue
    Through treacherous skies.
    Against our mortal enemy,
    That which threatens all.

    My men work restlessly
    Polishing armour and sharpening blades.
    And my ship still floats
    Such is the respect I command.

    Onwards we go
    To the Ends of the Earth.
    For our pride and our glory
    And the honour of our fellow man.
     
  6. Drdoggerel
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    Drdoggerel New Member

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    HMS Kite

    You buck and billow, gaudy galleon, cruising through the cirrus surf.

    Spooling out into the heavens; feet placed firmly on the earth,

    in place of first mate, crew and captain at your helm, a puppeteer.

    In sole control, he navigates this brightly-coloured buccaneer.

    Your guy-ropes creak, your topsail crackles, guided by terrestrial hand

    manoeuvred through a strange flotilla, celestial majesty unmanned.

    Ribboned rhomboids, streamered serpents loop and arc around your mizzen.

    To port a sea of upturned faces, to starboard blue with no horizon.


    But, winds of mutiny take purchase, your admiral is set adrift

    and floating loose without a purpose your freedom is a deadly gift.

    Your anchor lines become entangled, receding at a rate of knots

    until a branch at awkward angle splits through your bow like cannon-shot.

    You limply hang in plastic tatters, an allegory for life unchecked,

    for with no firm hand at the rudder we could all as soon be wrecked.
     
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