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Rated: E · Poetry · Contest Entry · #2157547
A compilation of contest entries
A short poem about compassion, written for The Daily Poem.
Poetry form - Double tetractys: Two 5-line verses, with syllable count 1, 2, 3, 4, 10, 10, 4, 3, 2, 1

for those
who don’t smile
because they find
nothing in their sad lives to smile about.

Try to understand their pain, and give them
your support and
Help them

An ode to Spring, written for The Poet's Place.
Poetry form - Con-Verse. Rhyme scheme: aa,bb,cc,dd,ee; syllable count: 7,7,8,8,9,9,10,10,11,11

April sun warms heart and soul,
but cool air spoils morning stroll.

Crocus, hyacinth, daffodil,
pansy, primrose ignore the chill.

Spring is late, again, but signs are here
that halcyon days of Spring are near.

The garden waits for eager hands to sow
the seeds of life and love in ground below.

Tender rains will come and nourish all that lives.
What Father Winter took, Mother Nature gives.

Noises in the Dark
Poery about a nocturnal disturbance in the wall. Written for the Poetic Traditions Poetry Contest..
Poetry form - Terza rima. The second line of each stanza rhymes with the first and third lines of the next stanza (aba bcb cdc etc.)

Sounds of scratching in the night
wake me from a joyous dream.
Restful sleep has taken flight.

Prowling rodent, it would seem,
in the space behind the wall.
“Go away," I want to scream.

Closer to the sound I crawl,
fearing not the critter there.
I’m much larger, after all.

Tiptoeing with hope to scare,
blinded in the moonless dark,
I trip over bedroom chair.

Table lamp will leave a mark
where it hit me in the face.
Crash to floor invites dog’s bark.

Groping slowly, just in case
something else is in my way,
I return to rodent chase.

Stalking my elusive prey,
daring it to stand and fight,
banging wall, I join the fray.

Learning to Fly
A boy wakes to find he has sprouted wings
I hope today to soar on high,
to swoop and climb o’er hills and trees,
to see the Earth from azure sky,
to sail among the birds and bees.

I know not how I sprouted wings,
nor whether they can lift my weight.
But glorious excitement sings
within my heart to test my fate.

They feel so light I can’t be sure,
but I must try or never know.
Sheer persistence must endure
so to the forest I will go.

I’ll climb up to the lowest limb
and launch myself into the blue.
And should my escapade turn grim,
no painful mishap will ensue.

But if I harmlessly alight,
I’ll hoist myself straight to the top,
and spring into elated flight.
and flap like hell so I don’t drop.

Seven lines, seven words per line, one poem about one sin.
He envies those whose lives he sees
as better in some shallow, materialistic way.
Blind to his own abilities to improve
or to appreciate what he already has,
his grass is always browner, his glass
half empty, his world unequal, unfair, shallow.
He wants, but not because he needs.

Honoring the October Tradition
Spooky figures on my doorstep,
eerie in the crescent moonlight,
waiting for my gifts of candy,
bad for health, but oh so sweet.

Every year, this strange occurrence
haunts the night in late October.
Grubby fingers grabbing handouts,
craving bad stuff they can eat.

Following a long tradition,
kids dress up in strange attire,
venture into night to beg from
houses up and down the street.

I remember my own childhood,
dressing up as superheros,
hobos, bandits, painted ladies,
people you’d be scared to meet.

Careful planning, sheer persistence
earned me tasty piles of booty.
All that chewy, gooey garbage
made my Halloweens complete.

Closing Time
Ottava rima: 8 11-syllable lines, abababcc.
One by one, neon pub lights flicker and die.
Vibrant city life disappears into black.
Drunken patrons sing off key and stagger by,
seeking open diner serving late-night snack.
Sliver moon goes unnoticed in crystal sky.
Lone street light endures incessant moth attack.
Early morning hours tick slowly away
as if resisting the dawn of the new day.

They Watch
Minute poem: 3 stanzas of 8,4,4,4 syllables each, with rhyme scheme aabb, ccdd, eeff, written in strict iambic meter.
They watch us from light years away,
and then some day
they’ll pierce our skies
to colonize.

Their riches gone, they’ll need a source.
It’s us, of course.
Our world will fall.
They’ll take it all.

But if they wait too long, they’ll find
that humankind
met that same fate,
and they’re too late.

I sit alone inside my cell and
curse you for your heinous crime.
They found me guilty even though it’s
you who should be doing time.

Your act that day was dastardly, and
why you framed me, I don’t know.
You threw aside those happy times when
we were best friends, long ago.

You sat watching in the courtroom,
never flinching, looking smug.
That day saw a grave injustice,
freedom for a two-bit thug.

Maybe someday I’ll be pardoned.
Maybe you’ll rot in this cell.
Maybe justice will prevail and
you’ll endure a life in Hell.

It Doesn't Always Last
A LaCharta poem: 3 or more 6-line stanzas, each line with 8 syllables (emphasized da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM), and with rhyme scheme aaaabb ccccdd eeeeff, etc.
She took the car and left for good,
just like she often said she would.
But first she told the neighborhood
and made sure our friends understood
she felt no animosity,
and blamed herself instead of me.

It’s natural to wonder why
a bond so deep can wilt and die.
But people change and love goes dry,
so our hello became goodbye.
I’d like to think it’s for the best,
but future days will be the test.

We made mistakes along the way
and both knew there might come a day
when one would go and one would stay
and that would be the price we’d pay
for jumping into love too soon
while singing a discordant tune.

Finding a Dead Mouse
Mittens has brought us a present again,
a cute little rodent so dear.
The last one was lucky and met a quick death,
but this one’s still with us, I fear.

The cat wants to show me the gift she has brought
and graciously dropped on my chest.
I have to confess that when I saw it move,
I didn’t exactly feel blessed.

It didn’t look hurt, just a wee bit confused,
but Mittens was ready for more.
Her tail thrashed the air as she thrust out a paw
and swatted the mouse to the floor.

I grabbed for my flashlight and hopped out of bed,
but I could not find cat nor prey.
So I went back to bed, knowing what fun we’ll have
when the cat’s “toy” begins to decay.

Enjoying the Honeymoon
My bride and I lay on the sand
one fine day in July,
until the sun gave up its stand
'gainst grey clouds in the sky.

Suddenly, a strong gust wailed,
and we ran toward our car,
from which a parking ticket sailed
to unknown lands afar.

We crawled inside and shut the door,
and ate the Chinese food
we’d bought in town the night before
with spare change we’d accrued.

We shared some wedding photos and
reception pics as well.
We laughed at pictures of the band,
and our folks raising hell.

The caterers made one mistake,
and we have evidence.
Pictures of a wedding cake
with “Happy Birthday, Spence.”

Regardless, we enjoyed that day
and all the fun we’d had
until decorum went astray
when her mom slugged my dad.

She’d said some things he didn’t like,
about his drunkenness.
So he got quite unsportsmanlike
and threw up on her dress.

Our honeymoon went really well,
except those days it rained.
Our hotel room began to smell
with odors unexplained.

It must have been the leaky roof
that stained the old wallpaper.
But our romance was waterproof,
and we ignored the vapor.

We’ve now been married near a week,
and love is strong as ever.
We’ll dance through turmoils, cheek to cheek,
and meet each new endeavor.

Facing Life
A meteor fell last night, but it missed me.
The girl who once ignored me can’t resist me.
I no longer need a mentor to assist me.
I think my life is going well at last.

I used to worry that I couldn’t take it.
To reach success these days I’d have to fake it.
But I’ve learned I have what it takes to make it.
My future looks much brighter than my past.

Time's Up
You’ve had your way too long,
and what you’ve done is wrong.
I’m giving you the gong.
This all will end today.

You always think you’re right.
You’ve never felt contrite.
But now you’ve lost the fight,
and you’ll be put away.

You thought they’d never know
that you might sink so low.
You sunk, so you must go.
No one wants you to stay.

Much pain lies in your wake.
You’re but a lowly snake.
You don’t deserve a break.
A bitter price you’ll pay.

Almost Spring
The garden's bare, but I don't care.
I'm going to plant some flowers there.
It's winter still, but not long 'til
Spring's fragrant whispers fill the air.

Croci sprout, snowdrops come out,
and daffodils will burst about.
A little snow won't stop the show,
as tulip stems grow tall and stout.

The garden bed will soon be spread
with seedlings from the potting shed.
They're still green now, but shortly, pow!
A wondrous spectrum lies ahead.

Fingers crossed there's no more frost,
for tender plantings might be lost.
But have no fear, leaf piles lie near
like blankets waiting to be tossed.

Each new year brings life and cheer,
as floral rainbows shoo the drear.
My love and I are standing by
for yet another Spring premiere.

Mittens and Paws
Cats have paws, and paws have claws,
and that's a big concern because
we have three kittens who tear our mittens.
And that's the way it always was.

They've ripped my shirt and my wife's skirt.
They've too much vigor, I assert.
They rarely nap on bed or lap.
One or two are e'er alert.

I love them all 'cept when they brawl,
or when they act like little brats.
But come one day, I know I'll say
that life is richer having cats.

Morning Rime
Villanelle: a 19-line poem with two rhymes throughout, consisting of five tercets and a quatrain, with the first and third lines of the opening tercet recurring alternately at the end of the other tercets and with both repeated at the close of the concluding quatrain.

Grass is glistening with rime.
What was dreary comes alive.
Subtlety becomes sublime.

Magic disappears with time.
But ‘til the rays of sun arrive,
Grass is glistening with rime.

Morning dew and crisp air chime,
and plot with nature to contrive.
Subtlety becomes sublime.

Frigid temperature will climb,
though crystal frost for now will thrive.
Grass is glistening with rime.

Sunlight slowly reaches prime,
but after dark, day’s heat will dive.
Subtlety becomes sublime.

Sun melts frost, a daily crime,
but new morn chill will not deprive.
Grass is glistening with rime,
Subtlety becomes sublime.
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