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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 (202) - Footprints

    Discussion in 'Monthly Poetry Contest Archives' started by Banzai, Jul 23, 2012.

    Poetry Contest
    Two Hundred and Two

    Dust off your rhyming dictionaries! Fill your pens! It's poetry time!

    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 30th July 2012.

    The voting stage will begin immediately, and will be open for three days, ending on Thursday 2nd August 2012.

    And this week's theme is: (courtesy of Darkkin) Footprints

    The next (203rd) contest's theme will be (courtesy of handknitbandit): Poems for Children, and it will be opened on Monday 30th July 2012.

    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. Darkkin

    Darkkin Reflection of a nobody Contributor

    Jun 21, 2012
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    Following the footprints in the sand...
    Footprints of the Puppet

    Footprints of the Puppet

    Strings broken and dangling,
    Painstakingly, tenderly gathered.
    Tracing through fingers, slim and calloused.
    Deftly, those same fingers fly,
    Weaving a web, intricate and strong.
    A cloak of strength, a net to break a fall.
    From those strings broken and dangling,
    Strings that once held the puppet,
    Bound and strangling.

    Free of strings and stings,
    Of words, weighted and barbed.
    One step, cautious and teetering.
    Unaided and reaching, a wobbling fall.
    The ground rushing up to kiss her chin.
    Iron paints her tongue, gravel dots her hands.
    Fire lights her eyes, not an easy journey,
    Making a path, forging through the dark.
    Learning to walk, discovering one's own wings.

    With a cloak woven of the pasts broken strings,
    A heart echoing in her ears,
    The puppet pushes up from the stones,
    Dashes away the salty, stinging tears.
    Gravel tore her hands, iron taints her tongue,
    But for this fallen puppet, her journey has only just begun.
    Another step, head held high,
    There is no stopping, her soul crying, begging her to try.
    Wobble and teeter, arms flailing about.
    Down again, stones biting, tear and scrapes stinging.

    The puppet, handprints become footprints, pressed into the sand,
    As the rain begins to fall, clouds pressing into a scowl.
    Upon a shore strewn with sea glass formed of broken dreams.
    She takes another unsure step, eyes upon the sky.
    The weeping virga brushes a cheek, still damp from a recent cry.
    This is the cold dark place, where it all began, when she fell,
    Those damned strings cut and dangling.
    Alone, but for the song of sea, the whisper of an owl.
    The storm hides the stars, her compass on this course.
    So the puppet, patient and learning, folds slim, cold hands.

    Even here in this cold dark place,
    A gentle light is found, traced by lantern's breath,
    Eyes alight with hope, an inner bright fire,
    The reflection of a far off star, shining in the puppet's face.
    The edges, sharp and cutting, of broken glass...
    These treasures of the sea, are softened by the waves, the raw stripped away.
    Upon the cobalt sea, floats of glass, blown and bound by net,
    Shimmer in the night as the clouds break, the breeze freshening.
    And from the shadows comes the puppet, clad in a mantle of trembling, coltish grace.

    Her feet beneath her, moonshadows stretch ahead...
    Reaching out beyond the end of sight, rounding an unseen bend.
    There is a softness to the breeze, a touch hovers in the air.
    The merest hush of sound ruffles her windswept hair.
    This is no goblin, no ghoul from the dark.
    It is a verse, the song of a lark,
    Possessed of a broken wing, she who is learning to pray.
    A hand, torn and hesitant, reaches out...
    Plucking the wayfarer from the shore near a faery, who lies dead.

    The fallen litter the shore as the puppet passes by.
    Floats and sea glass reflecting constellations,
    Light a course amidst the water, sand and stone.
    The remnants of a battle, a tale carved into the echo of a bone.
    The waves, of tide and time, have washed away the gore.
    But she, this puppet, knows the lores of those that came before.
    Of the Last. Of the Lost. Of the Legends, gone.
    She, this puppet, though she knows it not, is a Keeper,
    Of a most curious place, pathways and byways, a Keeper of the Strangeways.

    This puppet, a dreamer, once fallen on her face,
    Glances back at her footprints in the sand.
    She has come long way, often in the dark without a star.
    The lark, pressed close, singing upon this foreign shore.
    A pathway along a desolate stretch now shows the way.
    But for this Keeper, her journey on this beach is done.
    The net woven from those tattered strings from beneath her cloak is drawn.
    The moon now sinks, swallowed by the sea, patient, still as stone she waits...
    Until the Phoenix, a comet in the sky, comes streaking into the net, whisking the Keeper to a far flung place.
  3. Agatha Christie

    Agatha Christie New Member

    Jan 19, 2012
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    Cats and dogs and ducks and birds
    Pigs and hens and horses too
    Sheep and foxes and goat herds
    Men who wear a size ten shoe

    Children playing out of doors
    Policemen looking out for crime
    Soldiers fighting in the wars
    Office workers at lunchtime

    Old men sitting on a bench
    Postmen walking up the path
    Foreign ladies speaking French
    Muddy school kids in the bath

    Gymnasts standing on their hands
    Fishermen who rise early
    Obese girls with tight waistbands
    Ticket collectors looking surly

    Ballet dancers on their toes
    Mothers chatting at the gate
    Nasty thieves who no-one knows
    Prostitutes who stay up late

    No matter if they walk or run
    No matter if they come or go
    No matter if they just have fun
    They all leave footprints in the snow
  4. seelifein69

    seelifein69 Active Member

    Jun 20, 2011
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    SW Florida
    Washed Away

    We once walked on jade colored sand
    Together we journeyed, hand in hand
    One grounds that we have never stood
    In a far off and distant land

    Once tasting a sweetness known as bliss
    A tormenting memory that I’ll miss
    For even the heartiest milk does turn
    I know we were not meant for this

    Alone on these sands, I watch the dawn
    The picket fence vanishing on my lawn
    These footprints that were walked together
    Are long washed away and gone
  5. ddoll

    ddoll New Member

    Jul 22, 2012
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    My Father's Footprints

    Like father, like daughter
    Like lambs to the slaughter
    We were all just one man in a hall full of mirrors
    Just a branch on a family tree
    All these people inside of me
    I'm an eternity of ansestry running with scissors

    I'm not sure my genes were placed together too carefully
    Just thrown at the walls and the ones that stuck there, well they were me
    Through gambles and sleights of the hand, then I could breathe
    Hello, may I introduce you to me and my family

    We all thought we'd be different
    We thought we'd make our own decisions
    But we're spreading into that mould that our parents left behind
    I have my father's eyes and his feet
    His alcoholic tendancies
    And more and more lately I can't help but find

    That I'm growing into someone that I don't want to be
    That my father's footprints now fit me perfectly
    And these days my daughter's fit right into mine it seems
    Hello, may I introduce you to me
  6. nomadpenguin

    nomadpenguin Member

    Jun 24, 2012
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    My heart is filled
    with footprints,
    ghosts of soft earth.

    Clouds brew
    promises of rain,
    but there is
    nothing but drought
    baking memory in clay.

    So now, a librarian,
    I count and catalogue
    each gash in the ground,

    A letter,
    A smile,
    A touch,

    Footprints leading
    into the distance.
    1 person likes this.
  7. BFGuru

    BFGuru Active Member

    Aug 14, 2011
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    Somewhere in insomiaville
    A Mother’s Journey

    Your cries were heard before I first held you
    They pressed your toes onto the pad
    A tiny footprint no bigger than my palm
    Was pressed to the page before we first touched

    I counted your fingers, I counted your toes.
    A lifetime of promises from my soul exposed.
    A year has passed and your toes are now covered
    As frosting filled footprints now cover my floor.

    Another year passes as you run through the door
    Your feet set to dancing as a song fills your soul
    You’re growing each day, each minute draws closer
    To the day you walk from here to the world

    How fast the days fly and how you’ve grown tall
    You march proudly before all who adore you
    Your cap sails high as you toss it in the air
    My heart is exploding with pride for you, Dear.

    I blink and see rose petals covering a floor
    You gleam dressed in white for all once more
    Each time you step presses pink into your path
    I watch you through tears ignoring the rest.

    It’s lonely this year without you here
    I stand in your room and relive our years
    I pick up the phone to tell you hello.
    We talk of our memories and tales long ago

    A few more years pass and I’m sleeping one night
    A phone call wakes me and sends me to flight
    I get there in time to stand near the side
    He holds your hand whispering he loves you tonight

    You strain and you try. You are ever so strong.
    And it is so hard, but soon it is over.
    A cry and I’m brought back to that first moment.
    I watch as she gasps her first breath.

    And suddenly I watch my life in your eyes.
    I see you dream, fear and worry at once.
    They place her in your arms with little black feet.
    The love in your eyes is astounding

    The cycle is complete from footprint to footprint
    I’ll glory in watching you grow again.
    But this time it won’t be tiny toes that grow.
    This time you will grow deep in your soul.

    Years from now you will repeat this tale.
    I hope to still be here to see it.
    If not I will still watch over and guide you,
    I’m your mother. I’ll never stop watching your steps.
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