January Challenge: "Bow"

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Thread: January Challenge: "Bow"

  1. #1

    January Challenge: "Bow"


    The prompt for this month's challenge, as chosen by Phil Istine is: Bow

    ou 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 secure 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 January at 7pm EST.

  2. #2
    There is no life I know
    To compare with pure imagination.
    Living there you’ll be free
    If you truly wish to be.~ Willy Wonka

  3. #3


    The challenge mistress sighed a heartfelt sigh
    “where are my poets?” arose her plaintive cry.
    “They’re bowing low, sincere in admiration
    because the prompt is strong in obfuscation
    and language is their game—one did protest
    ‘so, Phil is Time a factor in this contest?’
    I told him that a scary Daughter would send
    late poems to hell, take note-- she would not bend
    for poets late, she had no ear to lend.

    Some poets disdaining the rigors of schedule
    forget that this Daughter has borrowed a tool—
    a pip of a stick with a point fiercely sharp,
    which she aims with an aim that is always on mark!

    But one contestant, known for sneering pride,
    was quick to condescend and to deride
    the chances of his peers a win to pen:
    “Ha! Ha! I am a global Master of the Zen!
    my skill is with the oaken bow so bent,
    my highest arrows seem from heaven sent.
    And you should know this, I achieved my Nirvana
    when firing my bow from the bow of The Hannah,
    (a 40-foot sloop commandeered by Suzanna
    who wore bows in her hair while trading bananas).”

    Their sneering peer made some poets feel low
    some even decided to not draw their bows
    nor lounge in the bows of their boats tying bows.
    So some of the females went off to their beaus
    and some of the males to The Arrow And Bow
    where they quaffed lots of ale and ate chili-by-bowl

    The moral of this tangled tale, if indeed there is one:
    never let your beau string his bow in the bow of your boat
    unless he’s wearing a bow tie and bowler and bows to no
    man, but is wary of Daughters with pointy sticks running
    around unsupervised.

    clark cook
    Last edited by clark; January 12th, 2019 at 04:09 AM.


    "I believe in nothing but the holiness of the heart's affections and the Truth of the imagination". Keats, ​Letters

    "No man is an island entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main . . . any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind. And therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls -- it tolls for thee. " John Donne, Meditation XVII

  4. #4

    Velvet Revenge (Very Mature Content)

    Two red satin bows adorned her hair
    but they belonged to another
    who was no longer there.

    Her girl had been found
    gagged and bound
    with her flesh savaged
    by starving carnivores
    and her nether regions ravaged
    by something far more sinister
    which boasted but two legs.

    A ferocious February held the child
    in its frigid embrace;
    draped in moldy lace
    and denied both life and decay,
    with her captive spirit
    by injustice still held sway,
    she waited in frozen earth
    suffering each second
    in an undeserved wooden dungeon.

    Mother played hide and seek
    with mourning’s razor-sharp beak
    as she sought the depraved biped
    who had fed his true flock.
    She watched the wolves
    who for their dinner
    used growls to knock
    at a well-known door
    by weather and claws
    both worn and pocked.

    She had never favored the village vicar
    who cared more for ladies and liquor
    than he did the Word.
    There was no surprise in her eyes
    when she realized
    that he wore the look
    of forest critters during wildfire
    any and each time she neared.
    Conviction via fear.

    She used loss as a ploy
    to capture her prey.
    “Oh dear vicar, I feel so low today
    will you stop by so we can pray?”
    knowing full well he could ne’er say nay.

    She prepared a toddy
    of her strongest port
    heavily laced
    with St. John’s Wort
    of which he greedily gulped.
    She smiled when he slumped
    in his chair
    and pulled one bow from her hair
    to pin it to his pupil;
    alas, he was too intoxicated to care.

    Once roused,
    he found himself bound
    to a four poster
    with his eye a screaming demon
    as his eager hostess with the mostest
    prepared his next course.

    She took a red velvet sash
    from a child’s Yuletide dress,
    which had never been blessed
    by her daughter’s flesh,
    and with it tied a tight bow
    down below
    to staunch
    most of his blood flow.
    For hours,
    he whimpered and pled
    as she caressed the second red
    satin bow.

    Left tied for days,
    gangrene had its way,
    sepsis forever stilling filth
    via its venous highway.
    As the magistrate banged his gavel
    while proclaiming she’d hang,
    a lullaby she sang
    and then twice bent
    her body in a bow
    as happiness eased
    her long-furrowed brow.

    Soon after the seventh sunrise
    spotlit the gallows,
    Mother was hung.
    Red threads peeked from between
    the digits of her death grip,
    and as her lifeless shell swung,
    her little girl came to collect her.

    Justice for all
    had duly been done.

  5. #5
    My submission

    Terrance of Gor

    In Bexel Hollow, yearly contest held
    for marksmen one and all to come.
    A cask of Bexel’s best and purse of gold.
    Many came to make their strings thrum.

    Earl of Flynn and Bill of Tell
    Alec O’Lightwood and Clint of Barton
    Terrance was a fop, true and through.
    He who was anything but spartan.

    Terrance of Gor, with locks bright red.
    A bow in hand and one across his back
    with another around his neck.
    To the frau from last night in bed, he bowed.

    The crowed cheered for contestants all
    Panache with ladies this archer from Gor.
    The ladies pined for Terrance’s sign
    With style and a smile, he’d won them all before.

    The final round was coming
    Earl and Alec’s arrow’s all hit center
    Terrance laughed and aimed with closed eyes
    He wasn’t concerned, though they were contenders.

    His flights were straight on the target
    the arrows of others all through were split
    Time was close the sun soon to set
    so the judges said a tie they’d admit

    Terrance offered a final test
    On heads to be spit was placed an apple
    Judges were stuck and consented
    All agreed, this final they would grapple.

    Alec was first true were his shots
    Earl was next and he left juice on their head
    Terrance was hit between his eyes
    Be careful whose wife that you take to bed.
    "Illegitimi non carborundum " Vinegar' Joe Stilwell

    "Faith is taking the first step, even when you don't see the whole staircase." Martin Luther King Jr.

    What you learn in life is important, those you help learn, are more important.

    "They can because they think they can."

    "Wise men speak because they have something to say; Fools will speak to say something." Plato

    "The only difference between reality and fiction is that fiction needs to be credible."
    ​ Mark Twain

    "To those of you who received honors, awards and distinctions, I say well done. And to the C students, I say you, too, can be president of the United States." George W. Bush

  6. #6
    WF Veteran apple's Avatar
    Join Date
    May 2007
    California to Pennsylvania
    Bow Wowwow Woof

    Ruff, ruff,
    Woof. Ruff.
    Arf. Bow wow wow,
    arf arf, arf, bow wow.

    Bowwowwowwowwow; Woof

    AaoooAaooo, roo roo roo
    Aaooo. Aaooo.
    Aaooo roo roo roo.


    Woof, woofwoof. Bow wow wow wow wow wow.

    (Translation from dog to human)

    Beautiful Night

    and the night sifts through my fur;
    soft breeze inside moonlight.
    I raise my head to the sweetness.
    The earth seems holy.

    A frail, finger of sound shivers in the distance.
    My senses prickle to something familial,
    the scent of musk, rust, and feral tangle.
    I remember a certain moon.

    Urged toward the sound, I search for that moon
    and in exhilaration, I answer again,
    and again and again.

  7. #7

  8. #8

    Penance of the Lesser Lion

    Penance of the Lesser Lion

    Upon the bare bones of the Belle he stood,
    a beast maned, chained, shoulders bowed,
    the Lion Rampant—stone bowed to wood.

    Paws penitent for a right instead of should,
    a lesson learned—from a kindness showed.
    Upon the cold bones of the Belle he stood.

    Nine, now Lesser, a choice made for good,
    of the many, for each constellation known,
    the Lion Rampant—head bowed to wood.

    Prayer of a Lesser Lion, a prison of would,
    could, should—certainty now an unknown,
    as upon the bones of the Belle, Nine stood.

    Bound to the Belle’s bow, his eyes hooded,
    Nine forgave the crime of a Sock Fox sewn.
    The Lesser Lion bowed, stone upon wood.

    Keeper of the Belle’s bones he now stood—
    a leash, jellyfish tentacles in a dapper bow
    tethered him to a wreak of bitterest should.
    The Lion Rampant, stone bowed by wood.

  9. #9

    My pride fleeted away,
    with my esteem in tow.
    In a daze of your sway,
    at your feet I bow.
    Calloused knees,
    nary a shrug.
    I basked in your gaze,
    and missed the glint in your eyes.
    -that devious glaze-
    when you spin your lies.
    I’m trapped in your maze,
    captive to your charm.
    Relief would be a feat,
    but you keep my belly warm,
    when you feed me another treat.
    I purr to you touch,
    even when it burns.
    “Be still, don’t flinch”,
    I will myself at times.
    My mind is sedated,
    and those who are for me,
    they go unheeded.
    They don’t understand me,
    -they have never basked,
    where I once tanned gold.
    Sometimes I rue the day,
    I lust after your parlour.
    Other times I wish I may,
    recoup my squalor.
    My little sphere;
    that lacked in wealth,
    and unyielding fear.
    At least in my little world,
    Life was profuse,
    with each unfettered breath.

  10. #10


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