Which 2 poems merit your vote?

You can't win them all
8 (26.7%)
Yggdrasil and the Celestial Engine
3 (10%)
You're Never Going to Believe This
2 (6.7%)
The Battle
4 (13.3%)
7 (23.3%)
3 (10%)
She Always Says No
3 (10%)

Total Members Voted: 16

Voting closed: January 30, 2012, 07:11:33 PM

Author Topic: Now Closed: Gyppo wins Voting #56 Poetry Challenge  (Read 1036 times)

Offline 510bhan

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Now Closed: Gyppo wins Voting #56 Poetry Challenge
« on: January 23, 2012, 07:11:33 PM »
This was the brief for this challenge:
Twelfth Night has just passed – write What You Will on something fantastical.

What would lead up to, or have passed when the end of the world comes, hell has frozen over, pigs fly and the moon has turned blue? Whatever your interpretation of those expressions and why someone might use them in response to an event – write a poem about it. Why might those thoughts cross someone’s mind? You don’t have to use the words – just the ponder the idea. Any style – what you will . . .

You have 2 votes to use to determine a winner within this fine collection.


You can't win them all.

When the moon turned blue
I assumed it was trouble with my eyes.

When the cows came home I fed them
and went to bed.  No problem.

When one of the cows jumped over the moon
I figured drink was involved, and
either me or the cow had a skinful.

When I reached the bottom of the glass
I poured another one

When pigs flew
I shot bacon on the wing.

When hell froze over
I strapped on my skates.

When the world ended
I died.  (You can't win 'em all.)


Yggdrasil and the Celestial Engine

Massive shudder of the out-of-whack
cogs whock, whir,
whirligigs wind, grind, the very
air turns black, the vastness of
the shutting down renders
mummers speechless on the stair
with nothing more to say--
Kings and queens vacate their thrones,
the throngs take to the streets.
The great world tree
chewed through by worms at last
is toppled:
thunders, crashes coming down.
Then silence
(barely audible to human ear)
can be heard
the far off
of flying horses.


You're Never Going to Believe This

The squeal of rotor-blades and the aroma
of helmeted Pancetta
heralded the arrival of the police chopper –

they'd come to arrest the crapulent Smurf
for flashing his arse at the lawyer,
who dressed in rags,
     sat in the gutter begging for pennies.

Beelzebub himself,
meek, vulnerable, and belching
     clouds of fragrant peppermint,
performed a stylish double axel

just as I entered the kingdom of heaven.


The Battle

When there’s nothing left to eat
but words
I’ll poach a few
For breakfast -
And watch them scramble
To get away.

ESCAPE and HATCH will both team up
And help
slip out.
I’ll corral the rest (in parenthesis)
and kill off all the gerunds.

ON and STRIKE will threaten
as will WRITER’s,  
Nearly dinnertime , I’ll counter
and bang the soup pot for effect.

At last I’ll wear them down,
poor words.
Some cut,
some forced to stay.
I’ll display them on Review My Work
While I hide behind USER NAME.



We’re stocking up ready for Ragnarok;
we’ve sent out for candles and gin.
Mrs Horne on the corner has cancelled her papers,
the parson has penned a new hymn.

No tofu, no yoghurt, no balsamic vinegar,
not even pizza to spare,
no junk food, no ketchup, no nouvelle cuisine,
just some crumbs from a mouldy Lord’s Prayer.

No fuel at the pumps and no beer at the pubs,
widespread rumours of flooding and drought;
bottled water and toilet rolls triple in price
and the Prozac’s already run out.

Jamie Oliver pontificating once more
on the trendiest way we can diet,
while the Army have taken to manning the streets
with the nation expected to riot.

We kneel at the altar of HDTV,
keeping tabs on events through the night,
all those loonies assembled at Stonehenge to watch
pagan gods squaring up for a fight.

There’s Jupiter arm-wrestling Zeus with the Muses
high-fiving at sixes and sevens,
and Jehovah and Thor have declared outright war
as their lightning bolts light up the heavens.

The score at half-time is 3-2 to the Titans
with Hercules held in reserve,
every crack in the crust widening hour by hour.
Is the government losing its nerve?

After Stock Market meltdown, all futures suspended,
the bankers are suffering angina,
but God save the Queen – she’s just sent her condolences
out to the people of China.

Every cat, dog and pigeon is now on the menu
as Britain attempts to stay fed,
and there’s talk of an outbreak of cannibalism
in Croydon as anarchy spreads,

In my cabin I cower as ‘News on the Hour’
records what may be our last twilight;
with mankind defeated, our food-stocks depleted,
I’m down to the last jar of Marmite.



waited to see if anyone else had made it to the end
untouched by the spectacle that had unfolded
when the heavens split and spilled the stars
to end the debate about how it all began
by showing how it all could be undone
in the blink of the proverbial eye, or some other
audacious metaphor thought up for such a time
and kept in reserve so it could not become facetious.

Saw no one, at least not a one that I knew
and began to wonder if these were the saved and holy
or the doomed others so many preached and ranted
about not wanting to be in the midst of
when we all came to that ignominious end
that this now seemed to be, since the sun
does not seem to be rising in a new morning dawn
to give the birds something pleasant to sing about.


She always says no  

Leaf on leaf slide underfoot,
decaying pages of a forgotten tome,
moist still, the drying dead,
oiled by the sex of others.

He stops at the clearing,
genuflects as he bends
to untie shoelaces.
She’s waiting…

Hairs twist a dance on walnut skin
between his legs.
Lying down naked beside her,
the night is moon-broken.

Her features, submerged, scented,
and mist captured,
almond flesh, sometimes visible
when her movements upset the veil,
sending evaporated signals…

Even in dreams
he can sense her words

‘when hell freezes over’
« Last Edit: January 30, 2012, 07:14:40 PM by 510bhan »