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Poetry Competitions UK
27 Apr 2012

Top Five Poems for April 2012

Oh To Be A Child Again...

Oh to be a child again

Oh to dance with glee

Oh to have no worries

And live a life carefree

To see fun in the shadows

A rainbow in the rain

A light amongst the darkness

And not to feel the pain.

To live with total innocence

And not know how to lie

To love with all your being

Until your time to die

To smile at every person

Whether rich or poor

To play out in the open

And not to close the door

To speak without the fear

Of saying something wrong

To sing without the worry

Of not knowing the song.

To live life to the fullest

To give each day its best

No worry of the future

Or failing in life’s test

See wonder in the smallest being

Beauty in a tree

Oh to be a child again

And live a life carefree.

© Jacinta Zechariah

 

Grandad

He hobbled, like a mountain goat,

On a hillside, full of stones.

He picked his way, carefully

So, not to break his brittle bones.

He had a stoop as I recall

And looked like the letter r.

He couldn’t pass the bookies

Less first he passed a bar.

A pint of bitter, he would have

Or a glass of warm Milk Stout.

It took me and all my brothers

To drag the bugger out.

He told us old war stories

Of men in dirty holes.

He also told us, look under bridges

For they hid dirty trolls.

He sang old songs, so sad

'bout places he had seen

But we all knew it, not true

We knew he’d never been.

He would tell us off and swing his arm

To clip us round the ear.

But later he would bring us sweets

His breath all full of beer.

He would mutter under his breath

And Nan would shake her head.

She would call him, silly arse

And send him off to bed.

Does this sound at all

Like your very own grandad?

The truth is, I didn’t know mine

It doesn’t make me sad.

I just imagined what he was like

And put it down as rhyme

Mostly to remind me

What to be like at 89!

© John Howe

 

Sempiternal Love Memory

When did I first love you, millions of years ago?

When the quantum energy was clean and in full flow

Then we could embrace, kiss with the passion of true love

Then we could create by pure thought, we were above.

When did we move down from that sempiternal space?

When did we lose our touch with your sempiternal face?

Then we could see through your eyes the herbs and rivers

Then we, too, felt the breath of your and our arrows and quivers.

When did we experience the first pain of separational grain?

When did we start sowing this seed of grief to sprinkle with rain?

Then we harvested swathes of sorrow every day plus tomorrow

Then we chafed with anger at what we thought we could not follow.

When did we sow wars in our anger, to camouflage our sadness?

When did we trample on our neighbour’s creative Blake compass?

Then we found power to stand in our ivory tower spouting sex

Then we created hundreds of gods/esses to console our empty texts.

When are we going to awaken to these eagle - less remonstrations?

When will we discover our souls' needs are not in demonstrations?

Then we will discover that all the love we need is within us

Then we have to find our soul beach and escape the disintegration.

When on this beach the memories will flow, to remind us we are home

When the quantum energy floats us high above St Paul’s and Peter’s Dome

Then we will breathe in our conscious breath of the divine inspirational

Then knowing we are together like the oil that protects the angels' feathers.

Now again we can create by pure thought, again we are above.

Now we embrace, kiss with the passion of one true love

Now the quantum energy is awake and in full flow below and above

Now our unity is consciously caressed by our passion and the dove.

© Ron Atkin

 

Wood Anemone

There is a legend that says

Venus wandered through

woodlands weeping

for the loss of her lover, Adonis

and wherever her tepid tears had fallen

the wind-flower grows


how delightful

the ferny leafed, wind-flower grows

peaking above the ground

like earth-bound

stars, on the woodland floor


how fragile

those nodding, little flowers

of spring

that sparkle, like star clusters

when the sun shines

through the windows of woodlands

and sleeps when clouds

obscure the sun

© Ron Larter

 

Cave

The bear sits on the left

I sit on the right.

We take up our places daily

at the mouth of the cave,

looking out over the plains.


The snow is almost gone,

just a few hard crevices to empty now.

Weeks ago my eyes

were sore with the whiteness of it.


The map is stuck to the roof of the cave.

It is low, I lie under it at night.

It is a map with no names and where

the ceiling bumps and dips the map complies.


The words fell off when I shook it like a tablecloth

at the door, Montana, Badlands, Missouri, together into the snow,

drained into the deep earth with the thaw.

The last to slide away were Coeur d’Alene, Indian Res.

They clung and slid, reluctant, from the edge.


It looked good without words, the map.

Borders got shaken up too.

The day I stuck it up with mud

the bear slept on indifferently.

©  Nicolette Golding


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