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Thread: August Challenge: "Secret Treasure"

  1. #1

    August Challenge: "Secret Treasure"

    The prompt for this month's challenge, as chosen by midnightpoet is: Secret Treasure

    You are free to interpret the prompt in any way you wish, though of course, site rules apply. If you are unsure of the challenge rules please read the 'stickies' at the top of the board. Please note that all entries are eligible to receive critique in the voting thread.

    The inclusion of explanatory text or links of any kind within an entrant's challenge entry is prohibited and will be immediately removed upon discovery. As always, only one entry per member is permitted.

    As previously announced, anonymous entries have been abolished, therefore, entrants must post their own entries in this thread, or if you desire to protect first rights, please post your entry in the workshop thread, and then post a link to it here in the public thread. Failure to do so runs the risk of your entry being disqualified, so if you require assistance with the task, please PM me, and I will gladly help you.

    If your entry contains strong language or mature content, please include a disclaimer in your title.

    Kindly make sure your entry is properly formatted and error free before you submit. You have a ten minute grace period to edit your piece, but anything edited after that will likely see your entry excluded from the challenge.

    Do not post comments in this thread. Any discussion related to the challenge can take place in the Bards' Bistro.

    Everyone may now use the "Like" function whenever they so choose.



    This challenge will close on the 15th of August at 7pm EST.





  2. #2

    Postmaster of Dead Letters from the Ocean's End

    Postmaster of Dead Letters from the Ocean’s End


    Follow the dragon’s spine, the rapture of glass-cast earth—
    a place, only reached by way of a terrified Dodo’s flight.
    And you will find him there, Memoreo, bird of quiet worth.

    An improbable flight logic says to a place that cannot be!
    This is the time, the place when truth and wonder diverge,
    so dare to follow that Dodo as he makes for a westerly sea.

    Ride terror’s wake, consciousness cleaves to sleep. Let go—
    and break free of strings unseen as gravity forfeits its sway.
    Now is the time, not a place but a time, too few truly know.

    Dodo, a postmaster marching, stunted wings a cadence kept,
    as he dipped and wove through deep midnight’s fresh bloom,
    a flightless bird soaring, away, home to where lost stars wept.

    It was the place end and beginning merge, cycles unfettered—
    high waters, an escape from hell to a haven of faded things.
    And it was here he presided, postmaster of the dead letters.

    Messages and thoughts, words in bottles dimmed by brine.
    These precious dreams lost to the tides and sands of time
    were placed in the keeping of a Dodo: Recipient declined.

    So each night as the courses of terror billow against sleep,
    Postmaster of the Dead Letters, Memoreo, takes to wing,
    bound by two rucksacks of salty bottles from waters deep.

    His duty to deliver broken echoes and memories few keep.


  3. #3
    There I’ve heard of secret treasure
    That no one had the chance to find
    It was one to peer with spry measure

    The scavenging from sand, rocks, weeds,
    A pirate once said, “The bounty finds itself.”
    What does that mean from all that composure?

    What can this man find that scalawags cannot see?
    The worth from expedition has it all to hear
    Sounds of creaking chests dreamed, palms tortured

    What will the pirates do once they find this bounty?
    Will be the sincerity of their wealth shared to all
    Or eating the cheese? Do they even like kosher?

    Or the captain simply walks the plank with his head
    Devious to conspire a plot to bring the crew off his ship
    It would work? He can’t be so sure!

    For his men are bound to answers of his sea
    One where the man dares to do what he desires
    Now he cannot! For he is conqueror of his heard!
    www.yonathanasefaw.com - under contruction
    twitter.com/yonathanasefaw

  4. #4

    Designs (Mature Content/Language)

    He adores the homeless.
    Each contains a vein
    of his favored
    newfangled amber
    oh so easily harvested.

    He leans upon a lamppost
    spying a live mine;
    filth equipped with eyes
    chugging a bottle
    of cheap moonshine.
    The lower its level,
    the better the revel,
    and sleepy prey
    always
    makes his day.

    Once chin hits chest,
    he sashays
    into the alleyway.
    A passing couple catch
    a snippet of his ditty,
    sung loud and giddy,
    "...I'd hammer in the evening
    all over this man..."
    Giggling at an apparent
    drunkard's concert,
    they miss the first thuds
    and muffled grunts.

    His gloved hand
    yanks matted hair
    upturning the cave
    to see what can be saved,
    and out come the pliers.
    This promising prospect
    fails to deliver pay dirt,
    only sixteen to attack
    and half have gone black.
    He hopes it's sufficient.

    He fancies himself
    Hillbilly Blass,
    only venturing into the city
    to browse skid row
    for supplies,
    collecting samples
    from "volunteers"
    (most of whom
    subsequently die)
    then it's back to the fleabag
    to apply his prize.

    With the last piece
    finally affixed
    to the chocolate hued vest,
    his best work yet,
    he caresses
    his snakeskin belt
    adorned with amber accents;
    delirious digits
    finger fossilized chic.
    A gift from her,
    his shoulda been wife,
    who prefers city life
    and her fancy fashion classes.

    A hoedown is planned
    to honor her return,
    and he imagines her smile
    when she learns
    he's conquered the art
    of accessorizing.

    The returning chorus
    of cicadas
    heralds her homecoming
    in about a month,
    so it's down to the desk
    to arrange an extended stay
    in his shitty city digs.
    Such a wee price to pay
    to ply her with style.

    It's a blessing the row
    is less than a mile.
    Draped over an open drawer
    lies a pair
    of chocolate hued pants,
    both boring and bare,
    and blinging them out
    will take awhile.


  5. #5
    taciturn mentor
    seldom praises any work
    treasure his regard
    thisWomanCodes
    A twice-weekly programming blog
    Infield Singles: Baseball Poems myFoodWeek.com
    A weekly menu for a family of four
    Eclectica: Genre Poetry



  6. #6

    Dust Balls

    Learn to love dust balls
    that wrap innocence in awe,
    before all become ordinary,
    passed by, or brushed aside—

    those things
    close to the ground, magnified
    by young eyes into treasures
    hidden underneath, to dream upon . . .

    half of a sea shell held in a pail;
    a rock to paint a face on; an empty
    perfume bottle to inhale what’s left
    of grown-up air . . .

    (smells from a fryer; bleach in a wash tub;
    sweat in a work shirt)

    With those countless breaths
    that follow, dust balls hold
    only each other—there, beneath
    burdened beds.


    .

  7. #7
    Member
    Join Date
    Aug 2007
    Location
    London
    Posts
    120

    The Butcher's Wife (Mature Content)

    Frosty mornings she'd pull me
    into that bed still warm
    from her husband's flesh;
    his heat and scent slumbering
    in those sheets,
    lingering long after his mortal meat
    had hauled him off to market.

    We romped, but with an ear cocked
    listening out for the vicious slash
    of his cold blade
    against the sharpening steel;
    the consequence of his early return
    never voiced between us.

    She'd twitch and writhe,
    grind herself into my greedy mouth,
    and as she closed in on that moment
    I’d wrestle her around
    with all my strength,
    throw myself into the toil
    until her body sucked me dry
    and spat me, like a husk,
    into the morning air

    Then just one kiss and we would part.
    I’d leave her in that bed,
    womb filled with secret seed,
    nipples aching for another touch,
    her womanhood restored.

    And me? I had it all.
    A warm spot between her ample thighs
    and every day
    fresh liver for breakfast.

  8. #8
    Valentine lover
    kisses, crosses on paper
    treasured yet pointless
    Check Out Our Members' Creative Works on <FLASHES of BRILLIANCE>



  9. #9

    before the river had a name

    .
    as if in a dream...

    hang on to the coattails of a swallow
    and follow
    the river upstream

    above the mudflat estuary,
    a muddle of creeks and cracks
    where solitary buffalo wallow
    with minor birds
    perched on their backs

    onward and forward and backward
    in time
    when the forest swallowed mankind,
    finding the ancient course,
    deep and slow and wide

    below, the caterwaul of fowl,
    love song and growl
    and from the tallest tree,
    the lonesome call
    of a howler monkey

    then we spiral low,
    gather speed
    'neath the green canopy
    following a narrow feeder stream

    to reach a hollow and the cool
    of a crystal pool
    that under a sun
    of dappled beams,

    dazzles like a jewel.
    To find the sublime within the murk
    then throw in a rhyme to make it work

  10. #10

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