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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 (231) - Puddles

    Discussion in 'Monthly Poetry Contest Archives' started by Banzai, Mar 18, 2013.

    Poetry Contest
    Two Hundred and Thirty One

    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 six days, closing on Monday 25th March 2013.

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

    And this week's theme is: (courtesy of SwampDog) Puddles

    The next (232nd) contest's theme will be (courtesy of Nee): Abandonment and it will be opened on Monday 25th March 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. Darkkin

    Darkkin Reflection of a nobody Contributor

    Jun 21, 2012
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    Following the footprints in the sand...
    Guardian of Puddle Great

    Guardian of Puddle Great

    Night Galleon sails unfurled,
    High and proud and tight.
    A slender form breaches the sea,
    Silver and cobalt and raven's night.

    Sea spray and mist whirling.
    Overhead clouds and stars,
    Wheeling and twirling.
    Up from the depths she comes.

    Night dark velvet, a curtain of hair,
    A course flowing down her back.
    Cobalt eyes shining like a deep sea star,
    Chart the course, set the track.

    In the wake of the waves,
    Before the leeward side of the gale,
    The albatross, her herald, drifts,
    Weaving in and out of the Night Galleon's sail.

    Finned yet not of the fish or beast,
    A breather of both sea and sky,
    A daughter of Triton, a child of myth,
    In a sleek, long leap, silhouetted, about to fly.

    The eagle ray, the dolphin, and seal, barking,
    Along the shore and between the stones,
    With the tide and with the surge,
    She swims, the song of the sea in her bones.

    Amidst the spray and above the cheer,
    Comes the her voice, a legend, spoken.
    Sweet and bright and clear.
    Some call her the Siren, others a Guardian.

    A Guardian and Keeper of Things.
    Things Lost and Things Found.
    Some Things Forgotten by all, but a Legend
    Long gone into hiding deep in the Ground.

    Breach and splash, the seals bay...
    Night Galleon, hard to Starboard,
    Draw sail. Quickly now! She is the Way.
    Silver fins and shimmering scales.

    Upon the land, Snow White,
    Some have called her in stories, Lost,
    But in the Sea she a Rose, a Compass, true.
    Her knowledge gained by a duck, a Pearl of priceless cost.

    Marianna of the Fathoms Deep,
    Guardian of Puddle Great.
    Such are the secrets of Things Lost and Things Found, she does keep,
    A Navigator of the Strangeways to Nowhere.
  3. mbinks89

    mbinks89 Active Member

    Nov 14, 2012
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    Gasoline Rainbows

    Cars zipped along the road, like buzzing
    prehistoric insects, dome-eyed and gigantic,
    their grilles: teeth, their headlights: eyes,
    yellow with vicious hunger.

    On the road, gasoline rainbows.
    Iridescent mirrors reflecting
    the pedestrians walking past.
    Girls, in dresses, lithe and pretty,
    wore black sunglasses, and chatted idly
    about this that and the other.
    Boys walked by too, dressed in striped rugby shirts,
    telling crass jokes in good humour.
    Roughhousing and fraternal punches.

    A car hit the puddle and it became
    and everything changed.
    It turned into an ocean of flint,
    all jagged waves,
    stormy and dark.
    Ships whaling in the Atlantic
    under gunmetal skies and clouds black as hearts.
    Seas teeming with sharks, blue and white and
    with black beads for eyes and maws like caves studded with teeth
    that were alabaster stalagmites.

    The boys were no longer brothers, no longer comrades and chums.
    Primates in an uneasy alliance, the faces snarling,
    The girls, like statues of gold under Helios,
    Had become, in the garbled water: ugly, vain. Shallow.
    Talking about a thousand things but saying nothing.
    Two island nations readying for war,
    battleships and fighter jets and missile cruisers
    getting oiled up. Espionage-in-action as lies
    mixed with truth came shooting like bullets
    From the between the red lips of the propaganda machine.
    At any second, tensions might burst.
    Tempers might mushroom up like A-bomb clouds.
    No tolerance for faux pas.

    Their faces: twisted and ugly,
    French gargoyles leering at a sleeping cobblestone
    city. They were not lithe and skinny but anorexic.
    Skeletons. Minds warped by a society that spewed trash.
    TVs that blared like loud drunken idiots,
    vomiting up soundbites and laughtracks,
    that wore stoles by broadcasting close-ups of starving children.
    Yes, shove that camera in their face, they want to see its black, glass eye.
    This lens is perfect for capturing the xylophone ribcage,
    But there’s no rice to spare, sorry!

    The sun, angry eye of Ouranos,
    grilled all the stupid things dawdling by.
    Then, a red light.
    And the swarm of meganeurae obliged.

    The puddle slick with gasoline became still once more.
    And the chimp-men were boys, laughing, horseplaying,
    and the skeletons, the Aztec goddesses all bone and tombstone teeth
    hungry for sacrifice of a screaming man’s blood
    Were girls once again.
    1 person likes this.
  4. Nee

    Nee Member

    Feb 22, 2013
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    A Thought Between

    Like the surface of some blackened alien moon
    A myriad of puddles crater across the open parking lot
    Reflect a hundred views of the sky hung with that same moon
    Although surface ripples, if to venture, I still may yet fall through.

    Like doors left wide open onto inverted worlds
    Are they only liquid mirrors depicting the sky above?
    Passing clouds, in puddle and sky, puts my head into a whirl
    As I ponder, should I risk a toe? "If you will,” whispers the moon.

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