Odetta
04-20-2009, 06:31 AM
OK, time to vote for your favorite! The theme is COLOR
1st place 1000 BeamBucks
2nd place 500 BeamBucks
3rd place 250 BeamBucks
All participants will receive 75 BeamBucks just for submitting a poem!
1. Armand St. Pierre...
Dorthy's Spell
This depth
which performs for me
during moments of arcane obliviousness
and calls to some who dream
Is not mine but serves as my home
Their rainbow
showcasing from red to violet
stars who give little hint
to those who dream
of something beyond
That Possibility
seemingly limited by probability
plays nervously for the observant to hear
for the sighted to see
It's Unification
2. Jon...
...And The Hits Keep on Coming!
Harriet Tubman, John Brown
Two humans, now of great renown.
Metacom, Pontiac, Tecumseh, and Cuauhtemoc and Sitting Bull
Saw a battle for their peoples’ soul
Martin Luther King Jr, John F. Kennedy and Abraham Lincoln
Stories of demise to America’s chagrin.
Nelson Mandela and Anne Frank
Torture, with bigotry to thank.
All victims, in a round about way, of the almighty Dollar.
But, truth will reveal them martyrs for the sake of COLOR!
3. BROWNING'S CHILDE...
Bend of Oblivion
Venomous orb
Murderous, pulsating eye
Oily, dark bile within
Maerlyn's black thirteen
Odious, gaping abyss
Down the rabbits hole
We go.......
War and pestilence
Plague of human existence
Rotting, putrid souls
Revolting secrets
Unspeakable sins are told
Deadly lies unfold
Mothers drown their own
Sinister, murky waters
Depth of which, unknown
Hateful dream of death
Walk with Walter O' the Dim
Come and stay awhile
Sanity undone
Unraveling and threadbare
Laughing and screaming
Forever
4. CPU...
Calling Out Loudly On Rooftops
Look down to the neon street
tubes glow with anger there
others flicker come-hither come-ons like, Girls! Girls! Girls!
in their electron-excited glowing lust
Blazing auto eyes cut through the darkness
The traffic lamps choreograph the dance
...it's cool, pass on through
...little warmer now best slow it down
....HOT! you best come to a stop
At night the sin shines
the barely clothed girls stand beneath the bulbs
the hot illumination bathes them in constant blush
by morning they'll regain a virginal glow
A monochromatic priest wastes his time handing out tracts
his stark contrast disrupts the flow
he is an eddy in the current of the brightly and dangerously clad
Look down until the dark runs away
and the sin no longer shines
the tubes calm
the lust dissapates
5.flaggwalkstheline...
The White Crayon
Here I go again
Falsely inspired by this and that
I'll be a botox prophet yet
Writing of things wrtten of a thousand times before
News of more impending death
Comes more and more frequently as I get older
I'm learning this now at the over-ripe veritable rotten vegatable age of 19
An exponentially increasin math equation
Growing into too many numbers to comprehend as anything but statistics
Reaching for that fabled event horizon across the sky and at the edge of space
Everybody's an astronaut in some way
Me?
Oh well me head's fulla helium floating high above my shoulders
The great mystery is I don't know who's holding the string
And as I grab the instrument with which I would like to demolish minds
Scribbling like a man doused in gasoline who knows he'll be burnt soon
I realize I grabbed the white crayon
And thus said
Nothing
6. LadyHitchhiker...
Coloring Ghosts
Soft and sweet
were the days
when I was allowed to be an innocent.
Sitting at the dining table,
crayons in fists
as I swung my feet
from a chair that I would say -
in fact insist -
was too tall for me.
I liked to color
in between the lines on notebook paper.
Over and over and over again.
I said that they were ghosts.
The crayons were too soon locked away.
Saved for other days.
Then as time passed
and I became a mother
my own mother allowed me
to use those same crayons - they passed
from her hands to mine - with my daughter.
Her favorite first was purple then blue, yellow, and pink.
I see those colors in the sunrises, and think
of her
and all the time we’ve been forbidden.
Now the crayons are locked away
at another place.
No one colors with them anymore.
I consider sending them to a better place
another place
to children that may need them.
But who will actually appreciate our old crayons
and what they had meant to my mom
and me as a mom
and ultimately just to me?
Now they are locked away.
I guess that knowledge only hurts me.
Something I never knew I would get to share
and now I have no one else to share
this with; how soft and sweet
and fleeting
life can be.
Just like those moments
coloring ghosts
at the dining table
frantically coloring ghosts
perhaps to color away my bad dreams
7. Aaron...
Stella's Breasts
Wondrous things were Stella's breasts to me,
Great swelling enigmas, coffee-
colored and swinging
In nakedness.
They were full enough to nurse me
When Mother fell ill--
still full from Bobo,
The baby that they buried
on a Thursday morning.
I remember him sometimes, just barely;
Like recalling a story
told long ago.
Cold dead newborn eyes;
irises so black.
He stared into forever
From his pretty white crib,
and the baby blue
walls
Reflected in his eyes.
Stella cried while she fed me,
Stroking my head with her nipple
in my mouth.
"Six days," she would whisper,
"Six goddamn days..."
Babies should probably live longer,
their bones would surely be stronger.
But 'tis good that his days were not seven,
for the milk is far sweeter in heaven.
8. Gaberax...
White
Or gray
A thread-bare, sun-bleached flag
Flips lazily in a painfully blue sky
And I close my eyes
But the voracious sun
Soaks through my eyelids
And through my blood’s
Meager protection
To create roiling amber clouds
That only I can see
Till my arm comes up
To block the insatiable sun
And I plunge into deeper grays
Where colorless images arise
Unbidden
And your face
With all of its expressions
Of love and happiness, anger and pain
Forms and floats
Inside my internal visions
And as I listen to the quiet sonic booms
Of the restless flag
And register the sun’s burning kiss
On the crows-feet around my sealed eyes
I am frozen by the now of the moment
Till consciousness
Evaporates.
1st place 1000 BeamBucks
2nd place 500 BeamBucks
3rd place 250 BeamBucks
All participants will receive 75 BeamBucks just for submitting a poem!
1. Armand St. Pierre...
Dorthy's Spell
This depth
which performs for me
during moments of arcane obliviousness
and calls to some who dream
Is not mine but serves as my home
Their rainbow
showcasing from red to violet
stars who give little hint
to those who dream
of something beyond
That Possibility
seemingly limited by probability
plays nervously for the observant to hear
for the sighted to see
It's Unification
2. Jon...
...And The Hits Keep on Coming!
Harriet Tubman, John Brown
Two humans, now of great renown.
Metacom, Pontiac, Tecumseh, and Cuauhtemoc and Sitting Bull
Saw a battle for their peoples’ soul
Martin Luther King Jr, John F. Kennedy and Abraham Lincoln
Stories of demise to America’s chagrin.
Nelson Mandela and Anne Frank
Torture, with bigotry to thank.
All victims, in a round about way, of the almighty Dollar.
But, truth will reveal them martyrs for the sake of COLOR!
3. BROWNING'S CHILDE...
Bend of Oblivion
Venomous orb
Murderous, pulsating eye
Oily, dark bile within
Maerlyn's black thirteen
Odious, gaping abyss
Down the rabbits hole
We go.......
War and pestilence
Plague of human existence
Rotting, putrid souls
Revolting secrets
Unspeakable sins are told
Deadly lies unfold
Mothers drown their own
Sinister, murky waters
Depth of which, unknown
Hateful dream of death
Walk with Walter O' the Dim
Come and stay awhile
Sanity undone
Unraveling and threadbare
Laughing and screaming
Forever
4. CPU...
Calling Out Loudly On Rooftops
Look down to the neon street
tubes glow with anger there
others flicker come-hither come-ons like, Girls! Girls! Girls!
in their electron-excited glowing lust
Blazing auto eyes cut through the darkness
The traffic lamps choreograph the dance
...it's cool, pass on through
...little warmer now best slow it down
....HOT! you best come to a stop
At night the sin shines
the barely clothed girls stand beneath the bulbs
the hot illumination bathes them in constant blush
by morning they'll regain a virginal glow
A monochromatic priest wastes his time handing out tracts
his stark contrast disrupts the flow
he is an eddy in the current of the brightly and dangerously clad
Look down until the dark runs away
and the sin no longer shines
the tubes calm
the lust dissapates
5.flaggwalkstheline...
The White Crayon
Here I go again
Falsely inspired by this and that
I'll be a botox prophet yet
Writing of things wrtten of a thousand times before
News of more impending death
Comes more and more frequently as I get older
I'm learning this now at the over-ripe veritable rotten vegatable age of 19
An exponentially increasin math equation
Growing into too many numbers to comprehend as anything but statistics
Reaching for that fabled event horizon across the sky and at the edge of space
Everybody's an astronaut in some way
Me?
Oh well me head's fulla helium floating high above my shoulders
The great mystery is I don't know who's holding the string
And as I grab the instrument with which I would like to demolish minds
Scribbling like a man doused in gasoline who knows he'll be burnt soon
I realize I grabbed the white crayon
And thus said
Nothing
6. LadyHitchhiker...
Coloring Ghosts
Soft and sweet
were the days
when I was allowed to be an innocent.
Sitting at the dining table,
crayons in fists
as I swung my feet
from a chair that I would say -
in fact insist -
was too tall for me.
I liked to color
in between the lines on notebook paper.
Over and over and over again.
I said that they were ghosts.
The crayons were too soon locked away.
Saved for other days.
Then as time passed
and I became a mother
my own mother allowed me
to use those same crayons - they passed
from her hands to mine - with my daughter.
Her favorite first was purple then blue, yellow, and pink.
I see those colors in the sunrises, and think
of her
and all the time we’ve been forbidden.
Now the crayons are locked away
at another place.
No one colors with them anymore.
I consider sending them to a better place
another place
to children that may need them.
But who will actually appreciate our old crayons
and what they had meant to my mom
and me as a mom
and ultimately just to me?
Now they are locked away.
I guess that knowledge only hurts me.
Something I never knew I would get to share
and now I have no one else to share
this with; how soft and sweet
and fleeting
life can be.
Just like those moments
coloring ghosts
at the dining table
frantically coloring ghosts
perhaps to color away my bad dreams
7. Aaron...
Stella's Breasts
Wondrous things were Stella's breasts to me,
Great swelling enigmas, coffee-
colored and swinging
In nakedness.
They were full enough to nurse me
When Mother fell ill--
still full from Bobo,
The baby that they buried
on a Thursday morning.
I remember him sometimes, just barely;
Like recalling a story
told long ago.
Cold dead newborn eyes;
irises so black.
He stared into forever
From his pretty white crib,
and the baby blue
walls
Reflected in his eyes.
Stella cried while she fed me,
Stroking my head with her nipple
in my mouth.
"Six days," she would whisper,
"Six goddamn days..."
Babies should probably live longer,
their bones would surely be stronger.
But 'tis good that his days were not seven,
for the milk is far sweeter in heaven.
8. Gaberax...
White
Or gray
A thread-bare, sun-bleached flag
Flips lazily in a painfully blue sky
And I close my eyes
But the voracious sun
Soaks through my eyelids
And through my blood’s
Meager protection
To create roiling amber clouds
That only I can see
Till my arm comes up
To block the insatiable sun
And I plunge into deeper grays
Where colorless images arise
Unbidden
And your face
With all of its expressions
Of love and happiness, anger and pain
Forms and floats
Inside my internal visions
And as I listen to the quiet sonic booms
Of the restless flag
And register the sun’s burning kiss
On the crows-feet around my sealed eyes
I am frozen by the now of the moment
Till consciousness
Evaporates.