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The Second Cup, Poetry by Michael Westcombe

Genre: #Family, #Kids, #Life, #Love & #Relationships.

—

How sweet this brew, unsugared, blended tea,
Infused with my love for you, and yours for me!
So blessed, from rich estates, and Darjeeling,
Expressing so much of us, our mutual feeling.

And as the pungent liquor slowly pours,
I reflect on this love of mine, and of yours.
Our children, like the issue from the spout
Are sometimes here, but much more often, out.

So much survived, and much more shared
Leaves both of us with nerve ends bared;
And this, the gentle ritual of brewing tea,
Provides for me, an essential sheltering lea:

Because your welcome presence lifts me up,
I always pour for you, the second cup!

* * * * *

Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
http://www.wildsound.ca/poetrycontest.html

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In Memory of 2016, Poetry by Felicia L. Smith

Genre: TRAGEDIES

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Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
http://www.wildsound.ca/poetrycontest.html

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A jumbled up mess, Poetry by Krystle Nicole Martin

Genre: Life
—

I haven’t written much in a long while and since it’s almost the new year I figured I would try something for a bit.

I’m scared.
I don’t know what tomorrow will hold.
I’m not even sure if there will even be a tomorrow.
I don’t want my hard work to lead me nowhere.
I don’t think I thought this through.

I’m a jumbled up mess.
I’m either here nor there.
I’m a wandering soul.

My feet stay planted.
My eyes have wandered what could lie in the horizon.
My mind races.
My body is numb.

Is this what faith is like?
Is this the way it’s supposed to feel?
Is this what trust is like?
Is this the way I’m supposed to go?

I can’t write eloquently.
I can’t write to save my life.
I can’t write to understand.

Where am I going?
Where is my resting place?

I know, I’ll go Home.

* * * * *

Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
http://www.wildsound.ca/poetrycontest.html

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Missing Home, Poetry by Anyasi Ray

Genre: Hope, Hurt, Rhyme, Sad, Society and Kids
—-

Home is gone, stolen by our enemy.
Home is broken, and nothing left for me.
Now I live in the wreck of an old van,
And my pillow is a soiled baking pan.
Sweet home, can I find another one new?

Home is not a place there is an army.
Home is where there is daddy and mommy.
Daddy is not here because of a gunman.
Mommy is not here because of a masked man.
The gunman and the masked man, shame on you.

Home is where all my friends are around me.
Home is where I can play with Salami.
I saw a pretty boy in a turban,
I tried to play with him here but he ran.
Why his mom won’t let him, I never knew.

Home is where I always fill my tummy.
Home is where my hunger makes me happy.
I can’t follow mommy’s nutrition plan,
When my meal is from the Bantus’ trash can.
Taste and hunger, my companions anew.

Home is where the cold will never catch me.
Home is where the insects will not bite me.
The sun has given me more than a tan,
And blisters I wear like a cardigan.
A pain more than this is only a few.

* * * * *

Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
http://www.wildsound.ca/poetrycontest.html

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Lament for Cill Àirne, Poetry by Tom Roche

Genre: Save Nature
—-

(this is a modern-day adaptation by a non-poet of the sixteenth century poem Cill Chais)

Now what will we do for trees, with the last of the oaks laid low? There’s no talk of Cill Airne or its households and it’s cathedral bell will be struck no more.

That dwelling where lived the generous couple most honoured but neglected by State. Overtaken by crippling species its woodlands and visitors will be seen no more. Duck’s voices nor geese do I hear there, nor the Eagle’s cry over the lakes, nor even the bees at their labour bringing honey and wax to us all. No birdsong there, sweet and delightful, as we watch the sun go down, nor cuckoo on top of the branches setting the world to rest.

A stain on the boughs of CillAirne is descending neither daylight nor sun can clear. No hazel nor holly nor berry no dances or bon-fires nor wood for the violin.

I call upon Hazel and Enda to send the army our way: that CillAirne, the townsland of our fathers; will rise handsome on high once more and till doom – or the deluge – returns – we’ll see our woodlands no more laid low.

* * * * *

Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
http://www.wildsound.ca/poetrycontest.html

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Welcome to Hell, My Son, Poetry by Justan Acre

Genre: Life

You didn’t need to summon me; I was always close by. I have been with you since the first day you told me you wanted them to die. You hate the world for the way it has treated you blaming others for all you lack. Every step you take forward they push you two steps back. You hate because they hate you each and every one. “It is time to make them pay”, I whispered to you, then you bought the gun.

You called upon me then and I wished you well – “kill them all and look upon them as you stand next to me at the gates of hell” “If you do this there will be no turning back but remember they stole from you, they are responsible for all you lack.” ” Their names you do not know only the faces you see. The faces laughing, taunting, looking away, yes, alive no more will they be.”

I saw a brief hesitation in your eyes, “use the Gun!” I commanded “You hate them each and every one! Do not hear their cries, do not listen to their lies.” “And you will watch them pass through the gates as you stand next to me, stand next to me at the gates of hell.”

And I watched with so much pride as you stole their life the way they stole from you. Your rage gunned down each and every one, no mercy you did show You killed nameless faces, maybe some you did know. It did not matter, they were numbers, you laughed as the death number did grow.

“Time for you to take your rightful place, my son, for you have served me well. For your reward, it is here with me where forever you will dwell. ” No longer will you stand next to me, now you shall pass through the gates of hell.” ” The lives you took were for me not you, why would I care about your rage?” ” Your soul I take with me forever to live like an animal in a cage. Do not look at me with eyes filled with surprise, it is your hate that made me rise. You called upon me for many years, in your youth, it was I who wiped away your tears. I filled you with hatred, you knew no fears. “You know my name now say it!! I hear your heart beating within. Yes, I have many names, my son, but the one I enjoy is Satan!”

“I must leave you now, another soul summons me, one full of more hate. So enjoy eternity with the ones you killed, for you are all together behind the gate.” ” Yes, you fool, you served me very well.”

” Welcome, my son, welcome to hell.”

* * * * *

Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
http://www.wildsound.ca/poetrycontest.html

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NO BETTER DAYS SCHOOL BOY, Poetry by Fayia Foray

Genre: Life

—-

He strived to be formal but till date poverty sleeps in his pocket

Education is key to success, is hypothetical

Same the words: education is better than silver and gold

T’s all then.

Now is money?

These are the days when economy bites deep in thy flesh and soul

With poverty smelling in the atmosphere,

You’re uselessly educated while that uneducated is usefully rich and eating fat

When he was just young, he was bitten to school.

Seeing the elders in luxuries, he anticipates for success.

Dreaming the fantasy of success

He ate cassava mixed in the red blood of the palm tree,

Took naked steps in an unchanged uniform to the room of various

During the three steps you steadily suffer

Primary, you cry

Secondary, expense starts

Tertiary, ohh!, expenditure surrounds your body and activates thy soul

You spend dozens and thousands of thousands,

Counting millions and trillions for those in that chair who dislike same for you

Out of those three worlds, there is another which is heavier…the job.

T’s hard to come by

Walking with thy brown packet of ordinary papers seeking job

And your drop out friend is busy tailoring money in his tailoring shop

The two who is poor?

Perfume walks all over him while you stink in thy unbearable sent

After the Mighty, money laughs wherever, however and whenever.

I bet, it even slaps the law.

You’re sick when poverty dances on you.

Only learn for advantage but not for riches

Riches walk thy way with hard work and smartness

None is weak it’s only effort, and not thy rush makes you achieve the archive

Somehow, thy road must be made, but not when it’s over the long unabridged river

Poverty smells on you old-boy while you smile richness you see not

By Fayia Foray

* * * * *

Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
http://www.wildsound.ca/poetrycontest.html

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Poetry, by James Spilman

WILDsound Festival

Genre: Life

—

There sitting beside you.

You look into his eyes and see a mirror or a bottomless well

Either way you can’t tell

Who’s there

In that chair.

* * * * *

Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
http://www.wildsound.ca/poetrycontest.html

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A Letter I’ll Never Send, by Amari James (aka Marz)

WILDsound Festival

Genre: LOVE

Love is an evil, evil thing. When you fall in love, you literally fall. You crash to the ground and every last bone in your body breaks. But you don’t notice because you have this beautiful boy whispering sweet nothings in your ear and giving you butterflies when he kisses your forehead, so nothing else matters. Then he leaves. He leaves, and you feel it. You feel every broken bone as if they’re breaking all over again. Your chest caves in and you find yourself crying hysterically in your car at 4am, desperately gasping for air that doesn’t taste like him, and trying to hold your broken bones together. But his old t-shirts don’t work as a cast; wrapping them around yourself won’t fix the craters in your ribs. Nothing will stop the aching; nothing will fix the hole in your heart that love has dug.

I always…

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Drawing, Poetry by Rebecca Behar

WILDsound Festival

Genre: Love, Relationship, Rhyme
—

These fines lines
In light strokes
Are sketched with
A trembling brush
Tears are shed
Without intention
Impermanence
A recurrent figure
In the symmetry of cycles
Where codes order
The world chaos
A touch of purple
For a blade of grass
Who knows
Where the storm comes from
Who knows
Where love will go

Dessin
Ces traits fins
Cette touche légère
Le pinceau tremble
Les larmes coulent
Où est l’intention ?
Impermanence
Un chiffre répété
Cycle ou symétrie
L’ordre des codes
Le chaos des mondes
Un brin de pourpre
Pour un brin d’herbe
Qui sait d’où vient
La tempête
Qui sait où s’en va
L’amour

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Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:
http://www.wildsound.ca/poetrycontest.html

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