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2016 Poetry Prize

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  • #46
    Reading what you guys have done inspired me I am a rapper and a short story writer who almost gave up because of my age reading what you guys have done really helped me through a difficult time also please note that my poem is not something that happened to me I literally made it up as I went allowing so I hope you enjoy. (Sorry for the run on sentence. Lmao)


    • #47

      Representatives of my group yet do not portray me
      A bunch of like minded people whom constantly betray me
      Society of men whom ask me to change
      Say the way i live my life i must rearrange
      They are a group many have demonized
      For they are a group of men chosen to be feminized
      They scream pride and equality yet i am left unequal
      I do not fit in to the beginning or the sequel
      I am not feminine enough and have yet been over sexualized
      Caught up in the hype im yet to be mesmerized
      All because of who i was born to love even i exiled
      For unlike my community i refuse to be defiled
      Can not give up on my values i want monogamy and love
      While every man in this circle wants sex no glove
      Not in anyway do i feel any better then they
      I just can not seem to be apart of the community that stray
      I try and try it only leads to pain and heart ache
      How much sacrifice should i make
      To be one of the gang my dreams must fade
      To be accepted by them i must come out of a shade
      Create a persona that does not fit who i am
      Live a life for acceptance that leaves me a sham
      This community they take me force me to enroll
      Forces me daily to deviate from my own ultimate goal

      Craig J. Whitfield


      • #48
        Gainesville, Florida – March 2016

        A call is made, a gun is raised,
        A desperate child, depressed and dazed
        Reaches out to his community.

        A call is made, police cars speed
        To apprehend a child in need
        Reaching out to his community.

        Surround the scene with flashing lights,
        With armed police expecting a fight
        For the safety of this community.

        Secure the area, use their training
        Just one wrong move brings bullets raining
        For the safety of this community.

        A child lies dead. His friends all weep,
        But no one saw how raw and deep
        Was the pain he felt in this community.

        “What a good boy,” they reminisce
        His family grieves and still insist
        He fit right in with this community.

        Police are blamed and trials held
        Inside the “system” and out as well.
        As hatred reigns in this community.

        Why can’t we see change must be made
        In methods used when all hope fades
        For the lost in our communities?

        We humanely subdue the angry bear
        With a dart gun aimed at being fair.
        But humanity is lacking in our community!

        Why can’t we act humanely sane
        To our own children in mental pain –
        Use darts not bullets in our community?

        Even stun guns not meant to kill
        Might be enough to bend the will
        And safely gain control in our community.

        There has to be another way
        Perhaps we just need to stop and pray
        For all the children of our community;

        And for common sense to rule the day
        And save the children who live and play
        With others in our community!


        • #49
          This is an amazing write! This is what it's all about! You have captured the essence of what so communities have become. Thank you


          • #50
            Cyril sits at Hatty’s Pantry
            Chats to shoppers and their mums
            Exchanging weathered pleasantries
            Sipping tea ‘til the PC comes

            For Cyril – allowed out to roam –
            Cannot find his way back home
            Apologises for being batty
            Comforted by kindly Hatty

            Smart in blazer and cravat
            Neat-pressed trousers, Panama hat,
            Neat-trimmed fingernails and hair
            No doubt helped to dress with care

            No wallet or bus-pass, just some keys
            Fairly sure they must be his
            But can’t recall what doors they unlock
            Quite complete the memory block

            Recalls a wife - but not her name
            Perhaps it was with her he came?
            To visit or perhaps to dwell?
            Cyril sadly cannot tell

            Dementia plays a cruel game
            Strips you of a loved one’s name
            Strips each page from memory’s tome
            Strips you of the pathway home

            Strips your past and present too
            But cannot strip the inner you
            For though his memory’s in absentia
            Cyril’s kindly in dementia

            Still he “Thank-you’s” and he “Pleases”
            Blesses Hatty when she sneezes
            Stripped of memories (for good or ill)
            Confused, befuddled, but a gentleman still

            Police enquiry – digital trace -
            Soon locates a dwelling place
            PC says, “Hop in the passenger seat!
            A chauffeur home! Now there’s a treat!”

            Hatty’s pleased the puzzle’s ended
            Declares with irony unintended,
            “Bye bye, Cyril – for the tea no cost -
            You know where to come next time you’re lost.”


            • #51
              COCKNEY CULTURE

              Dad went to the pub on a Friday night,
              On Monday Mum went to the flicks
              With the factory girls (if they was allowed)
              To get their girly kicks.

              Sometimes they’d go for a drink together
              Down Green Lane to the old Royal Oak
              While us kids stood outside with a packet of crisps
              And shared a big bottle of Coke.

              The pubs back then didn’t serve posh grub,
              No room for coq au vin.
              Just jellied eels and whelks and prawns
              From the man in the cockle-van.

              The spivs and the rogues would be out in their droves
              But one day they’ll be sorry,
              Selling the stuff that they said they had got
              “Off the back of a lorry”

              The tally-man came to collect for the sofa
              And, if he was lucky, got paid.
              And with Mrs Nextdoor (if the rumours were true)
              He might have the luck to get laid.

              Playing cards at my Gran’s on a Saturday night
              (With matches if times were hard)
              Stood by the side of my favourite uncle
              Helping him counting the cards.

              Summer nights were spent in the yard
              Throwing the darts at the board.
              I was too young to throw but not too young to know
              How many each uncle had scored.

              That’s how I learned my tables and sums,
              For me they presented no trouble;
              I’d calculate quickly if a “finish” was on,
              Remembering to end on a double.

              Holidays mostly were days at the seaside
              And my Dad drove us down in a van.
              Four kids and three cousins all packed in the back
              With the cushions from off the divan.

              Collecting up bottles to get thruppence back
              Under the pier at Southend.
              The Kursaal a palace of lights and excitement
              Where our thruppenny bits we could spend.

              There was knees-ups and parties and of course there was rows
              (No point in telling a lie)
              My Mum on the stairs having had “one too many”
              Having a jolly good cry.

              We wasn’t posh and we didn’t have much
              (Though Aunt Flo had a telly!)
              But we had clothes to wear, albeit threadbare,
              And food enough for our belly

              Being Cockney wasn’t all “apples and pears”
              And abusing your “trouble and strife”.
              It was more about family and doing your best
              And paying your way in this life.

              Looking back on those days and summing ‘em up:
              We was rich beyond measure, though poor;
              We took life as it came and we coped with it all;
              We got knocked down and came back for more.

              So if I had the chance to live over again,
              To dictate how my life would be sculptured;
              Would I be monied or snobby or posh?
              Gertcha! I’d be Cockney-cultured!


              • #52
                JE SUIS PARIS

                Detonate your hatred
                Spray your evil shards
                Terminate your tawdry lives
                In a bid to spread your terror

                We will not surrender
                The victory is ours

                We will light our candles
                We will pause to pray
                We will comfort those who grieve
                Help them face another day

                We will not surrender
                The victory is ours

                We will stroll our boulevards
                Sip our coffee at street cafes
                Order baguettes and drink cheap wine
                Pick at salty olives

                We will not surrender
                The victory is ours

                We will attend our concerts
                Opera, pop and metal thrash
                Chant aloud “Allez Les Bleus”
                Ply tourists with our escargots

                We will not surrender
                The victory is ours

                And though your hatred still persists
                In vermin-ridden, twisted knots
                Within your scum-encrusted carcass
                Its darkness will not overcome

                We will embrace our brotherhood
                Who light their skies blue, white and red
                And tolerate all those of faith
                Whose hearts are grieved by evil

                We will not surrender.
                The victory is ours


                • #53
                  Am I allowed do post yt link here, or not.


                  • graydon archer
                    graydon archer commented
                    Editing a comment
                    You are indeed. Just click "new topic" and go for it...

                • #54
                  My account is showing three messages but when I go into my message center, instead of messages I see that I have three flags which I can't access referencing a post I know nothing about. Do you know how they would get on my message list?



                  • #55
                    No, I'm sorry I don't. You can however message Administration about it.


                    • #56
                      Um… I'm confused on how to post and submit an entry for the contest. Can someone help me please? Thank you!


                      • #57
                        Just out of curiosity, why isn't the contest open to New Zealanders?


                        • #58
                          Just need some clarification... would my poem put onto my facebook pages be considered previously published?


                          • #59
                            Community Poem

                            Finding Myself Again

                            You are always there for me,

                            When there are tears shed and when I want to be free.
                            Moving away is what I thought I needed,
                            What I was looking for, I never retrieved.
                            When will there be a time,
                            When what I think is mine will be mine.
                            The world is a cold, hard place when you're all alone,
                            It's difficult to stay somewhere that doesn't feel like home.
                            It's hard to say this now,
                            Looking back on all the times I said 'Caio.'
                            I know now that that was a mistake,
                            A silly risk that I was not to take.
                            I was searching,
                            Trying to find someone I had lost a long time ago.
                            When I left I felt nothing,
                            It didn't even feel like I was leaving, or coming home.
                            Maybe coming back to where I came from,
                            The community that I used to call home.
                            Can change the kind of person this world had messed up,
                            But when I come back, "I'm sorry" doesn't feel like enough.
                            When I left, I felt lost,
                            At times, it was more than just the cost.
                            The pain that I felt,
                            When I was going through life without help.
                            Places don't feel like home,
                            Faces don't feel like family.
                            Did I lose the ones that I love,
                            I've lost hope in all that I believe.
                            I realized that I was all alone,
                            And even when I wanted a home of my own, it still didn't feel like home.
                            There's no one here who cares about a family or a friend,
                            Pushing away everyone in the end.
                            My community is the one that cares,
                            They're the only people who are going to be there.
                            They've shaped me into who I am now,
                            Everyone there in my home town.
                            People that I've know forever,
                            Others I've never met.
                            Meeting them; however,
                            Is something I'll never forget.

                            Seeing familiar faces,

                            Knowing all the places.
                            I'm returning home to the place where I can find myself,
                            Because I've got people right here, by my side, to help.
                            Last edited by Johanna Cross; 04-08-2016, 09:33 AM.


                            • #60
                              envisioning halcyon community

                              reporting growing synergy
                              devising open source
                              boosting voluntary society
                              supporting local music

                              viewing vivid mural
                              renewing livid course
                              extending open forum
                              reviving civic poetry


                              note: my tweets @ jonchius more-or-less consistently follow a simple three word pattern: "gerund adjective noun"

                              this minimal poem follows that scheme with each line as a tweet that will appear in the next two days or so

                              while e.e.cummings influences me superficially, my style draws from several influences in unusual ways
                              Last edited by jonchius; 04-08-2016, 07:43 PM. Reason: editing twitter link