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1/14/07 | The Desert (2 Viewers)

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WF Veterans
Okay, Ladies and Gents, here is your new poetry challenge. The competition will last for two weeks. Judges will be announced soon. Our topic was provided by the winner of the last competition, Baron.

Topic: The Desert

Simple as that. As a theme, as a metaphor, as a setting; you decide.

Due to a recent suggestion, it might be quite fun to include an audio recording of your poem. Host on another site, link in your post. And, please, keep the links tidy, short, and one per entry.

May the best poet win.

Submissions close on the 28th of January.

Judging volunteers, you may PM me if you are interested. If not, I'll find you, don't worry.
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WF Veteran
WF Veterans
I may edit this later to add a spoken word link, but as for now, here is the written part.

The Desert Rose

Creativity is a rose
planted, centered,
in a desert.

Withered from crossing
petals parch
dehydrate, dry
footfalls fill with
suffocating sand.

Time is a water drop
prism splitting
scorching sunlight
in four directions
the colors absorbed
in the bland
surrounding sands
of life,
and death,
and banal work.

Moisture gone, given
to the endlessly pale
bone billowed granules:
earth’s hardened, wrinkled skin

that lacks and steals
that lacks and steals
that lacks and steals
that lacks and steals
originality: the soul of creation
and sucks with vigor
the spirit from its roots.


WF Veterans

His hell bent horse
races to horizon
where dazzling stars tryst earth
in haunted, silent, knowledge.
Bisht streams behind
and snaps the air
with cerulean strikes of silk.
Hoof beats thrum resilient sand.

Asad, I’ve come back with thirst.
Impoverished of shadow and light,
I crave discipline for my eyes,
the savage vista
where you stalk hidden.
He urges flesh,
perfect, sinewy, cut,
to storm wind brushed dunes
where he declares the icy night.
Sand becomes his seed.
He licks the stars.
Banshee screams soar like kites,
then slice to perfected silence.

Asad, if I am in your gaze,
fall me now. Fill yourself within.
I’m swelled beyond teeth and talons.
I am home again.
Our blood remembers.
The rider raptures. He swallows God.
Exhilaration burns him alive.
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WF Veterans
Planting a seed.

My old man planted a seed;
threw it way out there in the desert
of his dreams.

Said: now watch that tree grow, lad.

Watering can in hand,
a newspaper to read,
his tree, painfully breaking the sand
but not the ice,
took an age to grow -
creaking, burnt by the sun;
dad, too old to know
it couldn’t work,
waited, wasted his time and mine,
throwing everything at it that he could,
left us with nine -
nine pennies in a pot.

Said: three for me, three for you
and three for the bank, leaves us with what?
Squinting through dusty spectacles,
leaves us with not a lot.

We had a lot of bad, a little good,
but still fought for our patch:
a four by four foot wood
under the hill he climbed,
and it’s only now,
after all these years
that I can finally show
some profit for watching our seed
whilst dad grows to that tree.
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A Dry Place

I've deleted this and am now posting it in the main poetry forum as I'm now one of the judges in this challenge.
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Olly Buckle

Day by night

From the stillness of high noon
Yellow death
Drops west
To leave the room

Arachnids creep from under stones
As cool of evening comes.
Then dance circles in moonlight
Rattle claws, fight.

Gazelles lick night time’s condensation
Move smoothly into action.
Racing circles under the white orb
Herd absorbed.

The fox rotates his absurd, huge ears
Realises the rodent’s fears.
Interrupting his nocturnal shuffles,
Satisfied, snuffles.

Yellow death rises in the east
Hate, feast,
Mate, fight.
Can all await the night


Senior Member
Dust Devil

Dust Devil

It begins
with the softest whistle
___of the wind
as the sigh picks up
__and the dust of the dune
_swirls back with a whisp
the effect
like a scorpion attack
___when the light
_of the moon
as the heartless sand
___gathers tempo
____and dances around
then invites all the fears
____of a tribe or a herd
where the mud brick shacks
____cannot keep out the burn
of the oncoming
____monster that’s dressed
_____in a shroud
__as it whips at the backs
___of the frightened crowd
_____who are filled with despair
_________turn and run somewhere
___that’s away from the thunderous sound
______as the dance takes a turn
______for the worse
_______when it rips up
__________the shacks
_______and the barns
___as the crops get crushed
_____with the weight of the dune
__that has flown from afar
_____to be here with it’s onslaught
______that’s not looking like
_____it will ever disappear
_______but it slows
___as the moonlight glows
_____and away to the east
______you can see
____that the dust devil
__like an ex
who has ran off

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The Block

The dried well
heaves its empty buckets
splitting thread by thread of rope
for dust, dirt, and small insects.

Cat-tales grow
next to barren ponds,
cauldrons of breeding
mosquitoes. Heaping
bighting, breeding

Muddied waters,
a boot-print deep,
bare the message
of long caravans
heading East.
The mystery unbearable
under the Arizona sun.

Streets whistle
like reeds
a song of emptiness.
Children do not laugh or
playfully beg the store-owners
for handfuls of dried pecans.

Rusted plows, wheels and barrows
haphazard in the street
outlived their usefulness
as tools for the farmer.
Not worth saving
for crops that will not grow.
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Rainbow Serpent

Tender is the tail of the night in the desert
hot is the feel of its' phosphorescent rays
clammy is the skin of the hills of the desert
vapourising technicolour with rising days.
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EDITED: By Shawn's request, I will be judging this round.
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Smoking wicks and lakes of sand

Smoking Wicks and Lakes of Sand

It seems as if i can't
produce a decent poem.

The spark is gone,
nothing remains but a
smoking wick.
When the world was once
at my hand,
it is now nothing but a memory.
an imprint of better days.

It's as if my mind was once a
vast ocean, deep with ideas and ideals,
and inspiration flowed like milk and honey.
But this time has pasted.
It has dried up to a desert.
the flowers of my better days has withered,
and I along with it.


My Heart

My Heart
Lacking capacity
the arid desolation
of a barren waste land
the sea spits out her salty quagmire
and vomits sand
Impoverished creatures, surrender
Silence grieves, indulges life
abandonment of the essential liquid that is
a wrinkled blotchy blanket
artesian spring
perpetual snow
Falls as the frozen tundra
Yields indispensible yesterdays
Unknown unwanted unloved, irrelevant
Inapt opportunities sparse amenities, no life
Yet, I live.
Persistent demons
Adapt to the desire to separate
Survival in extreme uninhabited conditions
Cold ,dead, I grieve the space
Of parched devastation
A storm center
My heart.


Staff member
The Desert God

are but
a speck of dust
a mere dot on an empty page
an insignificant afterthought
amongst this vast desert
of beauty and desolation
which I alone

have polluted
my glorious landscape
with your petty whims
obscene desires
and arrogant need
to control and manipulate
not of your domain

understanding is not
a virtue you possess
for if you did
you would then
know my

Crimson Light
Desert Night
Never again
a SpiritBright
GODS' Word was spoken
burnt and scarred
wings seared
bones broken
cast out
thrown aside
for an act of pride
I fell
Made My Hell
and devour all
Who Enter

And that means


you arrogant little bastards...

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Waiting for Wildflower Season

Sand-glass hours
whisper our secrets

Seventeen years
slid by on a
golden topaz hiss
baring bone slivers
of abandoned ghosts

a turning shoulder,
shifting flesh in a
sleepless wind

Small carnivorous hopes
sleep, paws twitching
beneath scoured rock
for evening scamper

tightly furled
mix into the surface
awaiting rains
of wildflower season.
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Ilasir Maroa

Senior Member
Sweet As Desert Breeze

In wood, on hill is n'er a sight
Nor sounds as sweet as desert breeze
When setting sun is three fourths down
And moon slips out to play

With silver eye 'gainst ebon shock
Aglow amidst a star-lit mane
A wink from darkened dust 'til dawn
When sky sees full once more

With cold light swift alighting
To dance across the dunes
A cactus waltz o'er arid floor
In frozen nighttime climes

Slow steps follow... One. Two. Three.
Through cracked and sundered stone
Needles lift in green-skin goosebumps
From Luna's farewell kiss.


WF Veterans
Submissions are now closed. Judging will begin.

This round, your judges are:

Cold Twilight
And due to shortages in judges: me.

Good luck.
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