Thread: The early May challenge.

It is only three-quarters of the way through April and TheFehurer02 is back to me with a new prompt for what should be the May challenge. Here is a subject that should be close to the heart of every member here, poet or not.

Words

Will be the subject of the next challenge, please post all entries in the thread below.


Now I think I might have something to fit that, scurries off ....


Thanks to the Ox, who has pointed out that I have not put a time limit on this challenge. The normal two week period would run out on the 3rd of May, however as we have caught up so much, and because someone may be working on something unaware, I shall let it run a couple of extra days and close on Friday the 6th.

Words tumbling.

Words tumbling, spilling, fast overflowing
Describing the shining, the positive glowing.
Dredging the misery, the depths of despair
Laughing and howling, like you were there.

Words uncontainable, have to come out
Sometimes whispers, other times shout,
Recounting feelings, and all the emotions,
Wild, crazy ideas and impossible notions.

Words stuck in the mind, the back of the brain
Twisting, circling, spinning; again and again.
Words to conceive, use, loose or save
Words for an epitaph over the grave.
Just the empty cadaver; the poet is heard,
His soul stays behind, caught up in the words.

There's Never a Dirty Diaper So Let the Birthing Begin


I can never coax them forth,
oh hell no.
They develop in secrecy,
softly whispering to each other
while I remain oblivious.
My offspring assemble
in my right cerebral cortex,
(some armed and dangerous)
drooling with anticipation
and desperately eager
to be translated
into binary code.
Once the belly of my brain
is overburdened,
contractions begin.

This Mom-to-be,
unsuspecting I'm expecting,
feels the tantalizing tickle
that heralds their arrival.
I rush to the marble hospital
grabbing the birth canal
graciously provided by Cross
as undulations bring them
to fingers stiff from disuse
and they are born via gold nub.
Little newborns
dressed in lilac or blue
lovingly placed
side by side
on a crisp white sheet.

They remain in the nursery
gathering strength to greet the world.
Cribs are switched,
and names are changed
as they gurgle and coo,
each elated at their emergence.
Finally dressed in their Sunday best,
I escort them to the keyboard
for their debut.

Swirling lilac and blue
are left behind
for the ebony attire required
for such gala events.
With a click,
a birth announcement
appears in bold
and my infants take
their proper places.
With a deep exhalation
and another click,
the curtain goes up
and you all get your first peek
at my brand new babies.

Hoping everyone abides
the rule
that even ugly infants
are adorable,
I pack up the hospital
and store it in a drawer
until another unknown pregnancy
results in an urgent delivery
and this Mama
must make room for more.

Pig Sty Mind



The scrape of nails on a chalkboard
can be easier ignored,
than the scritch, scratch, scree-
the awful things I cannot see,
which bump around inside my mind
where all the junk is stored.


God knows I try to keep it clean,
but something always comes between
my tidy, and my order.
And things I wish I'd never seen
become,
a most unwelcome boarder.


With my two hands I throw them out,
place pretty knick knacks all about.
I refresh the air with potpourri,
then, off to make a cup of tea-
when at the door I hear the sniffling
and the snuffling of their snouts.

What Can I Say?

What I say, can it
be true?

Or is it just a delusion,
that is nothing but false?

Can I be saying only my
heart and soul and not of my flesh?

is it possible to say with my will,
and not of the cells' accord?

I say, what do I say? Can I say
what I want to say?

I sigh at the thought, yet what
can I say?!

Oh Lord, may the words
say what I want them to say!

Only one saying, can I
say of it now?

I say this; "I go, I walk,
and I let the light be my way,"

for you are the one who
will bring me words to say!

so I walk and I will let say
what I always wanted to say,"

and I believe
that is all there is to say...

WORDS

I am an adult
Nervous trembles consume me
Like a child saying their first speech at school
Into my personal shell I cower
Safety from the slashing
Years of belittlement
Of being told my opinion is nothing
Nothing more than that of a silly mind

I left
Learned to find my voice again
I am an adult
Finally my words resemble that
I shielded myself from him
I found strength in the tiny syllables
A helping hand aided in the search for my missing chords
They had returned

A simple concept for so many
‘Stand up for oneself when being ill treated’
It has taken years for me to return
To a place where my words matter
Where my words defend me
Where my words make others reconsider
Where my words make a difference to a situation
My words.

The whole world
Awash. Awake. Alight!
The bits and the bytes
All abuzz. All aflight.

The words' constant zig
Their electrical zag
Coating the globe
In a coruscant bag

Borne in our minds
But now free and unfettered
The emails. The blogs. The tweets
And the letters...

A planet ensconced!
From Twilight to Illiad
Yet...how to sift
The good from the bad?

Words flit through the air
I could snatch them anew!
And offer them here
For you. And for you.

Dirty Word

All the words of love songs
seem so cliché to a world where love
has lost its tender grip - forever
has no meaning
when commitment doesn’t matter.

Once upon a time
romantic words would draw a sigh
and not a groan; romance was real –
not fantasy to read as an escape
when yet another dream
gets shattered.

Once making love
had meaning.
Now it’s just a fickle,
fleeting feeling and the poets lose
their power as the passages they utter
speak the thoughts that drag them down
into the gutter.

Aural anthems gratify
those carnal cravings but can’t rise
to kindle aspiration or to fire
imagination to reach out
for something higher.

A child can only teach
what he’s been taught –
everything we value
comes to naught when all
that’s passed on
is disposable attachment.

No longer knowing what it means
to make a real commitment, love
becomes a dirty word - the very word
that so needs to be heard.

How to express a word?

In thoughts,
To explore the mind,
Ponder amazing things,
But stay trapped.
Never achieve anything.

On paper,
To hold secrets,
Spin tales,
But lay exposed.
Mocked and ridiculed.

Through speech,
To tell a great many jokes,
Share words of love,
But also hear words of hate.
Hide in quiet space.

Or blank the mind,
And let no words express at all,
Calm and peaceful,
But become nothing more than a shell.
No expression at all.

I wonder,
Is it just me,
Or do none of my options,
End particularly well?
My words see a negative world.

Obfuscations
They're the agnate that no one talks about,
Ignoble, abstruse and vilipended.
Descry them in the Thesaurus, no doubt,
Common useage was sadly suspended.

Their usage now would be ludibrious
To read them out loud would make you kench.
They plead with the poets, "Manumit us!"
"Save us from those who are quick to retrench!"

We've become so yemeles with our wording,
Perissology has become a taboo.
I prefer the obscure words I'm blurting,
Blow the dust off, appropriate a few.

removed at authors request.

"The word is God" he said to me, I did not listen.
"The word is truth", they said to me, I listened but did not understand.
"The word is Love" she said to me, I listened and understood but did not know.

Words are a language, a place in space, a moment in time.
They are a person, a pet, a thing and an experience.
Words are a first kiss from a new love and the last kiss from an old one.
They are a happy hello and a tragic goodbye.

I sit here now and words fail me, my wife has passed, my children grown up.
The words are in my head but there is nobody here to tell them to.

I breathed out silently, realising I no longer mattered to the world.
My words echo through my children, my words are my legacy,
I no longer have any new words to say.

"Words are life" I said to myself. Without them, we cease to exist.

The lectern cups the paper;
the paper cups the words.
And somewhere between them both
understanding changes.
The scanning eye perceives the fact
but misinterprets the meaning.

The lectern trembles;
the paper whispers.
And somewhere the words go unheard.
The reader, having started,
admits not to the possibility
that a page may have blown away.

Alexander overpowered with cavalry,
Aristotle stands fundamental philosophy.
Attila's conquests established fame,
Dionysius himself changes time.
Napoleon reigned with force,
Shakespeare moves with prose.
Caesar lost him empire,
yet on lives his writing.
No sword, or bow, or gun,
missile, nor any weapon,
Has the immortal power
to make men cower,
when words they devour
and by such are inspired.
The battle is over,
conquered is the world,
for Writers have won
the War of the Words.

The World of Words
(A Tribute to Language)


Since long have men boasted of deluding
fated demise through the passage of time,
Thus they nobly abide by eluding
death through their words and powerful rhyme.


Through this World of Words do men seek to shine
by evading and trying Time to tame;
Within this , eternal love they confine,
Courting and trifling with immortal fame.


The Lady of Shalott, Shakespeare's mistress,
Ancient Mariner, a Lock of hair,
The road not taken and Browning's Duchess,
Nightingale, West Wind and Milton's despair:


Only live till kingdom come, then unheard,
But forever'n after – this World of Words.