Poetry competition CLOSED 30th April 2024 5:12pm
A public vote has been requested
2024 Official DUP NaPoWriMo Challenge
23/30
EQUIVALENT MARK
The sun made a mark on my troubled soul
and I thought “so strange…, why-how can this be?”
then the devil changed the story — and took a stroll
‘it’s all about careless complicity’
said a voice that I might have recognised
and I thought “how strange that this can be”
‘get ready my friend, who knows what is prized
when stretched elastic finally fires? …’
was a voice that maybe I recognised
THE WAY supports what the heart requires:
a banner of faith and heralded high
when the stretched elastic finally fires
‘You think you can do it, all on your own? Oh my
even I’ said the moon ‘learnt that lesson well
with a banner of faith, heralded high’
A civilisation’s self-tale might tell
when the devil changed the story — and took a stroll
‘even I’ said the moon ‘learnt my lesson well
when the sun made that mark on my troubled soul’.
EQUIVALENT MARK
The sun made a mark on my troubled soul
and I thought “so strange…, why-how can this be?”
then the devil changed the story — and took a stroll
‘it’s all about careless complicity’
said a voice that I might have recognised
and I thought “how strange that this can be”
‘get ready my friend, who knows what is prized
when stretched elastic finally fires? …’
was a voice that maybe I recognised
THE WAY supports what the heart requires:
a banner of faith and heralded high
when the stretched elastic finally fires
‘You think you can do it, all on your own? Oh my
even I’ said the moon ‘learnt that lesson well
with a banner of faith, heralded high’
A civilisation’s self-tale might tell
when the devil changed the story — and took a stroll
‘even I’ said the moon ‘learnt my lesson well
when the sun made that mark on my troubled soul’.
23/30
Cycles
so much time has gone by,
the years spent in perpetual cycles
slightly altered but pretty much
the same day, the same weekend,
refreshed versions of themselves
ever sporting rapid growth and
slowly evolving personal dynamics,
reflecting in the ever-changing
backdrops of countless photos
taken as her boys grew into men,
and then, within a blink
her babies had babies of their own
Cycles
so much time has gone by,
the years spent in perpetual cycles
slightly altered but pretty much
the same day, the same weekend,
refreshed versions of themselves
ever sporting rapid growth and
slowly evolving personal dynamics,
reflecting in the ever-changing
backdrops of countless photos
taken as her boys grew into men,
and then, within a blink
her babies had babies of their own
#23
Winning
This whole world is my personal playground
And I get to choose how I play
I’m climbing a’top the chimney stacks
To better view this oh so glorious day
I’m sliding through these decrepit streets
Whizzing fast as I go by
Just let me fly up way way high and
I’ll tell you when to slow down
Only when you change your entire perspective
Can you really realise the truth of it all
That age is yet but a number
We’re forever in our youth
That you see
But this world keeps on spinning
I’m lost but I’m winning
Yes we can all take some solace from that
Unique word count: 84
Winning
This whole world is my personal playground
And I get to choose how I play
I’m climbing a’top the chimney stacks
To better view this oh so glorious day
I’m sliding through these decrepit streets
Whizzing fast as I go by
Just let me fly up way way high and
I’ll tell you when to slow down
Only when you change your entire perspective
Can you really realise the truth of it all
That age is yet but a number
We’re forever in our youth
That you see
But this world keeps on spinning
I’m lost but I’m winning
Yes we can all take some solace from that
Unique word count: 84
xxiii
Untitled
Survival isn’t surrender
to the swamps
of serene soliloquy
Even the Lotus
stretches upward
refusing to be buried
in muddy sediment
Dew becomes water
on the elephant leaf
runs freely and dives
off the chin
when drank
condenses on the skin
gloats over its escape
then evaporates
into no thing
Poets walk on
through a desert
knowing nothing
is as it seems
There’s a bouquet
of origami roses
without aroma
in some cafe
that will never bow
to the honey bee
It tangibly exists
as a mirage
something real
from a distance
as an oasis
We are upset dreamers
in this silent place
disciplined by the whip
of wrong decisions
made and witnessed
But in the heart of life
there is Poetry
for that we survive
we live, and we write
Untitled
Survival isn’t surrender
to the swamps
of serene soliloquy
Even the Lotus
stretches upward
refusing to be buried
in muddy sediment
Dew becomes water
on the elephant leaf
runs freely and dives
off the chin
when drank
condenses on the skin
gloats over its escape
then evaporates
into no thing
Poets walk on
through a desert
knowing nothing
is as it seems
There’s a bouquet
of origami roses
without aroma
in some cafe
that will never bow
to the honey bee
It tangibly exists
as a mirage
something real
from a distance
as an oasis
We are upset dreamers
in this silent place
disciplined by the whip
of wrong decisions
made and witnessed
But in the heart of life
there is Poetry
for that we survive
we live, and we write
23/30
Choosers of the slain
I filled my pockets with our stories
emptied them across your bed,
we waited for the moon to read them.
Morning came to the lake,
a gentle rise and fall of your shores,
dipped a hand on your dry lips.
Go quietly now, take your army of one
to fall as a warrior in the great hall,
there is much work to be done.
At dusk I'll set the pyre alight,
stumble on his pebbled beach
closed my eyes to the heat.
And so I'll wait for these waters to rise,
to see you again at the end of days,
surely we have battled enough.
Choosers of the slain
I filled my pockets with our stories
emptied them across your bed,
we waited for the moon to read them.
Morning came to the lake,
a gentle rise and fall of your shores,
dipped a hand on your dry lips.
Go quietly now, take your army of one
to fall as a warrior in the great hall,
there is much work to be done.
At dusk I'll set the pyre alight,
stumble on his pebbled beach
closed my eyes to the heat.
And so I'll wait for these waters to rise,
to see you again at the end of days,
surely we have battled enough.
23/30
Ode for the Parents Breaking Generational Curses
I often wonder what it means – the fight
to break ancestral violence and find
a way to be the soft and warm, despite
the lingering and foul as rot unkind
ideals that still hold tight to mind and bones.
We swap our hand for natural consequence
and let our children learn to trust. Postpone
the world’s desire to shred their confidence,
and build them up with gentle strength. For foes
will come some other time, some other place,
and I want them to be a force that grows,
that knows their fist does not belong. Their grace,
their heart, may be mistaken for a flaw,
but I want truth and love to be their law.
Ode for the Parents Breaking Generational Curses
I often wonder what it means – the fight
to break ancestral violence and find
a way to be the soft and warm, despite
the lingering and foul as rot unkind
ideals that still hold tight to mind and bones.
We swap our hand for natural consequence
and let our children learn to trust. Postpone
the world’s desire to shred their confidence,
and build them up with gentle strength. For foes
will come some other time, some other place,
and I want them to be a force that grows,
that knows their fist does not belong. Their grace,
their heart, may be mistaken for a flaw,
but I want truth and love to be their law.
#23/30
Making a Choice
If you want to achieve something
You have to make a choice
Indecision will not get you
To that place you want to be
You have to get out
Of your comfort zone
When you feel comfortable
In one place you will be stuck
In a life of mediocrity
And will not grow fully
You will miss many opportunities
That could develop your potential
To its fullness
Making a choice is not easy
You have to sacrifice something
For the life you want
But I guarantee you
It is worth the sacrifice
Once you live and enjoy
The kind of life
You have always wanted
Making a Choice
If you want to achieve something
You have to make a choice
Indecision will not get you
To that place you want to be
You have to get out
Of your comfort zone
When you feel comfortable
In one place you will be stuck
In a life of mediocrity
And will not grow fully
You will miss many opportunities
That could develop your potential
To its fullness
Making a choice is not easy
You have to sacrifice something
For the life you want
But I guarantee you
It is worth the sacrifice
Once you live and enjoy
The kind of life
You have always wanted
23/30
oh, brad
You don't usually go to the Atomic Wrangler for the entertainment.
For a particular kind of entertainment, sure, but
Other than that –
The Aces at The Tops,
It definitely was not.
So there we were onstage –
Big Dog and I.
He
Mentioned once
That he used to play the guitar, long ago –
And after one too
Many drinks and the high
Off of our perpetual Wasteland hijinks –
There we were.
A bit drunk,
A lot silly,
The usual suspects at the Wrangler in a certain mood –
Singing along, swaying –
Big Dog playing the strings expertly, but
I wasn't really surprised.
I knew those fingers well.
“PLAY THE GUITAR,
PLAY IT AGAIN,
MY JOHNNYYY”
A gambler started to sing
As one song ended.
“His name isn't Johnny, fuckin' dumbass!”
A hulking merc yelled, clearly very inebriated,
Raspy voice standing out
From the crowd’s jeers and cheers.
Big Dog looked at me.
I looked at him.
We shrugged and restarted the music.
And it was a glorious chorus –
Of people drunk, sad, mad, horny –
Mad horny (it was still the Atomic Wrangler)
Or just simply happy –
People who made a home of the Wastes.
Good, bad, ugly.
Just like me,
Just like him.
This one
Ridiculous
Moment that will glow in
My mind
For a long time like an extra
Irradiated ghoul –
This one time I got extra
Drunk and
Extra emo-
-tio-
-nal – And
I was there for the words.
And he was there for the melody.
(all together now)
“THERE WAS NEVER A MAN LIKE MY JOHNNY
LIKE THE ONE THEY CALL JOHNNY GUITAAAAR”
His name is Brad, but okay.
oh, brad
You don't usually go to the Atomic Wrangler for the entertainment.
For a particular kind of entertainment, sure, but
Other than that –
The Aces at The Tops,
It definitely was not.
So there we were onstage –
Big Dog and I.
He
Mentioned once
That he used to play the guitar, long ago –
And after one too
Many drinks and the high
Off of our perpetual Wasteland hijinks –
There we were.
A bit drunk,
A lot silly,
The usual suspects at the Wrangler in a certain mood –
Singing along, swaying –
Big Dog playing the strings expertly, but
I wasn't really surprised.
I knew those fingers well.
“PLAY THE GUITAR,
PLAY IT AGAIN,
MY JOHNNYYY”
A gambler started to sing
As one song ended.
“His name isn't Johnny, fuckin' dumbass!”
A hulking merc yelled, clearly very inebriated,
Raspy voice standing out
From the crowd’s jeers and cheers.
Big Dog looked at me.
I looked at him.
We shrugged and restarted the music.
And it was a glorious chorus –
Of people drunk, sad, mad, horny –
Mad horny (it was still the Atomic Wrangler)
Or just simply happy –
People who made a home of the Wastes.
Good, bad, ugly.
Just like me,
Just like him.
This one
Ridiculous
Moment that will glow in
My mind
For a long time like an extra
Irradiated ghoul –
This one time I got extra
Drunk and
Extra emo-
-tio-
-nal – And
I was there for the words.
And he was there for the melody.
(all together now)
“THERE WAS NEVER A MAN LIKE MY JOHNNY
LIKE THE ONE THEY CALL JOHNNY GUITAAAAR”
His name is Brad, but okay.
23/30
The Walking Dead
Too many tombs are filled with people
Who were never themselves
Too many illnesses are diagnosed with
Prescriptions that only mask
What truly ailes
Our bodies become graves
Of our lack of understanding
What are to become of the children
That are not taught that
They are their own saviors
Our false perception comes as clouds
That dim the light between us
We are not alive to be consumed again
We are alive to become more than
When we began
Is healing ourselves more terrifying
Than what the world will become
If we do not?
{62 unique words}
The Walking Dead
Too many tombs are filled with people
Who were never themselves
Too many illnesses are diagnosed with
Prescriptions that only mask
What truly ailes
Our bodies become graves
Of our lack of understanding
What are to become of the children
That are not taught that
They are their own saviors
Our false perception comes as clouds
That dim the light between us
We are not alive to be consumed again
We are alive to become more than
When we began
Is healing ourselves more terrifying
Than what the world will become
If we do not?
{62 unique words}
23/30
My Hot Rod
My pink bike
Complete
with banana seat
And wicker basket
adorned with
colorful
plastic flowers
was the best
mode of
transportation
I ever
owned
Wind billowing
through my hair
bell bottomed
right leg secured
by the rubber band
from a news paper
I could pedal
like a demon
around the block
There was
no getting
breathless
No aches
and pains
or fanny fatigue
It was all go
from morning
til night
Or
until mom
called me in
for dinner
67 u/w
My Hot Rod
My pink bike
Complete
with banana seat
And wicker basket
adorned with
colorful
plastic flowers
was the best
mode of
transportation
I ever
owned
Wind billowing
through my hair
bell bottomed
right leg secured
by the rubber band
from a news paper
I could pedal
like a demon
around the block
There was
no getting
breathless
No aches
and pains
or fanny fatigue
It was all go
from morning
til night
Or
until mom
called me in
for dinner
67 u/w
23/30
evening
every day there is
a blue evening,
sometimes there
is a yellow evening too
which is not according
to my wish,
but I accept it,
I do not avoid it,
but I do not embrace it either
words get disappear
in the dominance of words,
but without entering
into them the history
can't be understood,
gardener plucks the flowers
from the garden but cannot
steal their fragrance
The thorns prick
body but still the flower
has not stopped blooming
The displeasure on
some faces is not visible
in the mirror,
I wipe away those in
which I do not see my picture,
I let them remain as they are
I never insist someone walking
in my procession...
evening
every day there is
a blue evening,
sometimes there
is a yellow evening too
which is not according
to my wish,
but I accept it,
I do not avoid it,
but I do not embrace it either
words get disappear
in the dominance of words,
but without entering
into them the history
can't be understood,
gardener plucks the flowers
from the garden but cannot
steal their fragrance
The thorns prick
body but still the flower
has not stopped blooming
The displeasure on
some faces is not visible
in the mirror,
I wipe away those in
which I do not see my picture,
I let them remain as they are
I never insist someone walking
in my procession...
23/30
hypolimnion hymn
i
in homophony:
nip nippily, nippy ninny;
honk honkily, homily hominy.
kink kinkily, kinky kin;
pink pinkly, pinky pin.
loop loopily, loony loon;
moo moonily, moony moon.
jump jumpily, junky junk;
pulp pulpily, punky punk.
ii
in polyphony:
minimum minion, illy illinium
opium opinion, pili pollinium.
oily noily, hoopy hoop;
jollily hollily, loopy loop.
jillion million, pipkin pumpkin
pillion nonillion, limpkin lumpkin;
pokily polypi, plump plummy plum;
minikin minimum, mump mummy mum,
pompom!
hypolimnion hymn
i
in homophony:
nip nippily, nippy ninny;
honk honkily, homily hominy.
kink kinkily, kinky kin;
pink pinkly, pinky pin.
loop loopily, loony loon;
moo moonily, moony moon.
jump jumpily, junky junk;
pulp pulpily, punky punk.
ii
in polyphony:
minimum minion, illy illinium
opium opinion, pili pollinium.
oily noily, hoopy hoop;
jollily hollily, loopy loop.
jillion million, pipkin pumpkin
pillion nonillion, limpkin lumpkin;
pokily polypi, plump plummy plum;
minikin minimum, mump mummy mum,
pompom!
23/30
New Growth
Maybe I don’t hate myself anymore…
I used to be consumed
By a deep self-loathing
But I’m learning now
How to be self-forgiving
I used to be burdened
By traumatic memories
But the memories are fading
And being replaced
With notions of fortitude
With newfound grace
Growing in self-love
Growing in strength
No longer disturbed
By tragic past times
I have finally returned
To my rhythm and rhyme
New Growth
Maybe I don’t hate myself anymore…
I used to be consumed
By a deep self-loathing
But I’m learning now
How to be self-forgiving
I used to be burdened
By traumatic memories
But the memories are fading
And being replaced
With notions of fortitude
With newfound grace
Growing in self-love
Growing in strength
No longer disturbed
By tragic past times
I have finally returned
To my rhythm and rhyme
#23 of 30
For ye shall have nought to dread upon the waves
She was a behemoth of steel
from her forecastle to the keel
a fighting battleship like no other
born from necessity as mother,
She was
HMS Dreadnought.
Well armed in her vow
and armoured in her bow
she undid two nation's fleet
as all others became obsolete,
She was
HMS Dreadnought.
She changed the face of war
casting opposition to old yore
a revolution upon the sea
heralding a changing decree,
She was
HMS Dreadnought.
(Unique Words: 51)
For ye shall have nought to dread upon the waves
She was a behemoth of steel
from her forecastle to the keel
a fighting battleship like no other
born from necessity as mother,
She was
HMS Dreadnought.
Well armed in her vow
and armoured in her bow
she undid two nation's fleet
as all others became obsolete,
She was
HMS Dreadnought.
She changed the face of war
casting opposition to old yore
a revolution upon the sea
heralding a changing decree,
She was
HMS Dreadnought.
(Unique Words: 51)
23 of 30
Approaching.
Between the waxy glaze of bi coloured leaves,
The darker staves of needles,
Softer buds are breaking closer.
It seems as if,
A mere matter of unmarked minutes,
Till they awake.
Unfurling their velvetine shrouds,
To a burst of lighter hues,
Amongst the evergreens.
Pitching faces skywards
Drawing upon the shifting scenes.
The dancing buzzards,
In instinctual displays,
Higher clouds,
Skimming the surface of days.
Shifting their way,
Giving to the breaking flight of smaller birds,
The secrets of a bough wrought sanctuary.
All the while,
Counseling the turn of life.
Approaching.
Between the waxy glaze of bi coloured leaves,
The darker staves of needles,
Softer buds are breaking closer.
It seems as if,
A mere matter of unmarked minutes,
Till they awake.
Unfurling their velvetine shrouds,
To a burst of lighter hues,
Amongst the evergreens.
Pitching faces skywards
Drawing upon the shifting scenes.
The dancing buzzards,
In instinctual displays,
Higher clouds,
Skimming the surface of days.
Shifting their way,
Giving to the breaking flight of smaller birds,
The secrets of a bough wrought sanctuary.
All the while,
Counseling the turn of life.
