Competition Winners

Announcing the Winners of the 1st People's Poetry Competition!

1st place    Dashboard drawing board (by Steven Harz)
2nd place   In Synch (by Emily Axelrod)
3rd place   Acknowledge the Fall (by KWP)

The runners up are:

Right Here And Now (by Emma Lee)
World Traveller (by Lynn Tait)
Shingle Beach (by 80206)

Based on the total prize pool of £200 the final prize break down will be as folloews:

1st Prize   =  £100
2nd Prize  =   £50
3rd Prize  =    £25

The runners up will each receive £10. 

All winners will be notified by email to congratulate them for their achievement and to arrange payment of prize monies.

Congratulations to you all and thank you all for your support.

People's Poetry Competition Shortlist

Here is the shortlist of the 10 most popular entries into the 1st People's Poetry Competition.

Please take the time to read the entries by following the links below then cast your vote for your favourite in the poll located in the righthand side bar. 

Thank you.

49. Acknowledge the Fall
20. Arles
3. Dashboard drawing board
6. In Synch
36. My Bag
47. Right Here And Now
82. Serenade of the Wind Chimes
21. Shingle Beach
37. Who is She?
81. World Traveller

Note: Due to the faint text in the results table your vote may not appear to register until total votes for an entry reach 5-10. Do not be discouraged - every vote counts!

People's Poetry Competition closes.

As of midnight the People's Poetry Competition is now closed to new entries.

The Competition page will remain open to comments and 'likes' for a period of 1 week to allow people to read the latest entries. At that time the page will be temporarily taken down while the short-list is compiled. The final short-list will then be posted across the People's Poetry pages and Blog to allow the People to pick their favourite.

Here is a link to the final list of all Competition Entries. Please take a moment to take a look and like those you like :)

https://www.facebook.com/notes/peoples-poetry-competition/poem-index/202395376579418

Thank you to all who have entered the Competition or otherwise shown your support and good luck to all Entrants!

84. The Knock

84.
The Knock

Death met his match
at my father's door today.
He was welcomed as if an old friend.

You're not afraid of me? Death asked
What a silly question, Dad's response
as he put on a Beethoven symphony.

Most folks shudder when I come knocking,
their hands covering their faces.
I've lived a long time and am ready for you.
I've had a good life.

I like that, Death said
I need to think on it some
as he turned to leave.
You're not taking me with you?

Not just yet - maybe never.
You will change me, make me smile.
I'll be listening to music
and become joyful.

83. Leap of Faith

83.
Leap of Faith

No song can be sung by the mute
No wind can be heard by the deaf

Yet it is us who despair
Yet it is us who salute

the laws stripping others of rights
the laws telling others they're wrong

Still it is us who are blind
to the 'Yeses' among the 'Nos'.



The inability to follow our noses
leads us right to the brink of the world

where we stand still and look down
like a flock of half-suicidal lemmings.



Now, I really do hope we'll jump...

Surely, there is something on the other side 
or not...

It just takes one leap of faith

One leap of Faith. 
Not two,not three, not four, 
not five, not six, not seven

Just one.
One Leap of Faith
to change it all; to follow the heart into an abyss

Yea, it's not even that grand.
it's just a leap of faith

Hop, hop...

82. Serenade of the Wind Chimes

82.
Serenade of the Wind Chimes

Hello and goodbye was all he had 
time to say.
Life just seems so unfair when 
things turn out this way.

God thought he was too special 
for this troubled place of 
strife.

So he took him without 
explanation, and gave him a 
better life.

I know your heart is broken, and 
your eyes are filled with tears.
Thoughts of your baby boy will 
flood your heart for many many 
years.

Please take this little gift, 
and hang it in a tree.
It will play a serenade as you 
soon will see.

A gentle breeze is blowing. 
Look to heaven past sky blue.
And when you hear its serenade, 
he is thinking of you too.

81. World Traveller

81.
World Traveller

Gonna rise up
find my direction magnetically...
from "Rise" by Eddie Vedder
You have gone on a journey without us
without me -
taken the high road.
Inside jewellery close to my heart -
small pieces.
What remains, rides
shotgun on every outing,
travels to places once dreamt about.
My son, universal tourist,
now, you are everywhere,
ashes
released
in a single motion.

80. Ode to the Drunken Counselor

80.
Ode to the Drunken Counselor

You've shamed my daughter
my daughter...she cries
Limestone tears
from ancient skies...

Over the cliffs
in the land of Wold
her spirit waits
in canyons cold...

You'll wipe my people
from the earth
Paint them white
In Woldish dirt...

Murderous shame
Skeleton peaks
Abraham's altar
Where God won't speak...

She lie so still
in the silence of God
Tangled black hair
in bloody sod...

Absalom...Absalom
How I wish't I were there
for my heart is old
and yours still fair...

The new moon rose
the new moon died
in the canyons of Wold
where her shame fed your pride...

And when the last blood is spilt
from the last you can give
Hewn by the reaper
The Earth may forgive...

Then the spirits will rise
and weep at their fame
as they climb the cliffs
you’ve built of shame...

79. Death in Venice on the Half Shell

79.
Death in Venice on the Half Shell

Foot-sore and 'mazed on Venetian streets, my Clytmenestra points.
"I see the dragon's tongue... just there, beneath the Lion Gate."
"How cute," I think. Of course, she has her ax to grind;
Once more I've made her miss the monthly maenadic tryst
With the 'Women's Will to Power Club'. Just so we can wander
Aimlessly in the foul Doge's breath of these Stygian canals.

I'm searching for the Tintoretto of my dreams; all brown shadows
And tawny light and sweet baby Jesus smiling on meae culpae...
I'm listening for a sigh of Casanova's, deep in his cell,
Recalling, atumble, all his vacant pleasures...
I'm watching for the Turkish fleet, scimitars and cannons poised
To destroy every gondolier, every marble balustrade, every hope..

"Fuck these tourists," she says. Only an old fool would trust
That leering smile. "Let's go back to the hotel and do it up
Against that cheap armoire. Let's do it, me on top, 
Inside that faux-Baroque tub with the little lion's feet."

What can I say? She knows too well my tastes. I nod and make
A mental note: When she starts her downswing, duck.

78. Here In The Life Of An Unknown Poet

78.
Here In The Life Of An Unknown Poet

I am not a woman people envy for her confident, got-it-all-together stride.
I am not the person who is called to offer prayer in a gathering of Christians.
I do not sing like an angel, or paint beauty into hungry and inspired artists’ minds.
I am not that woman. I’m not destined for dizzy fame or breathless stolen kisses.

I am a woman who smiles at grasshoppers, and lifts her face to smell rain.
I am a woman standing in the middle of a muddy pasture with hay in her hair.
I am a woman who loses her giggles in quiet corners of inappropriate places.
I am the one who wants to chance wearing purple with green, but chooses black.

I am the mother who knows a special child is always on stage, and should dress accordingly.
I am the desperate daughter and sister who kneels to confess pain before cold headstones.
I am a jealous lover of time, and all things I missed before heaven thrust me 
wet, screaming, and angry into the unprepared arms of my religious mother.

I am not someone you would remember meeting on a sidewalk in Paris.
I am a woman who drops her papers in the crowded hallways of life.
I leave bits of myself to be sorted for future generations to read and wonder; 
“Who was she, to find herself deserving of a legacy in love and words?”

77. arms

77.
arms

I imagine what it's like to be held
someone's arms
holding me up
folding me in
until I am weightless
in a downy nest
of feathers and bits of hair
and the sadnesses I exhale
float up like smoke
and the sadnesses on my skin
evaporate in wisps of cloudy air
and the sadnesses in my heart
rise up out of my chest
and I am finally ready 
to lift my arms
to hug someone back. 

Then I realize 
I'm alone
and there will be 
no one's arms
holding nothing up
folding no one in
and the sadnesses come
skulking back
holding only their shame
that they even exist.

76. This And That

76.
This And That

Things I wish I said and did,
things I wish I hadn’t,
why can’t I keep my big mouth shut,
or sometimes open wider?

I have a tongue inside my mouth,
it’s been in other people’s,
I was born a catholic, no doubt,
I walked by church steeples.

I held hands and this and that
and sometimes a bit of the other,
I am a miracle of birth,
a credit to my mother.

Is talking just a waste of time,
who turns water into wine,
can words ever change a thing,
who turns winter into spring?

Enjoy yourself, I did, I know,
sometimes a bit of quick, quick, slow,
oh come outside, enjoy the ride,
forever after, laughter.

What I’m trying to say is this,
is a word better than a kiss
or a necessary prelude?
I could say more, encore, encore,
but that would be rude.

75. Voice

75.
Voice

I’m an old voice and a new voice, am I a true voice?

If a thing is worth saying its worth saying well,
if its not worth saying, go to Hell.

What am I, who am I, what do I know?
My birth certificate tells me so.

I have a tongue in my mouth, I speak.
If I was born in Greece I would be Greek.
A mouse may squeak.

What gives me the right to speak the truth, or not to?
That is something many know, but they forgot to.

Once I was like you, younger, for example.
These words are a free sample.

74. Good Try

74.
Good Try

I’ll try to be less offensive, it will be hard,
I am Irish, I’m a poet, I’m a bard.
I use words and phrases I have heard,
here and there and everywhere,
some of them absurd.
I am made of what I come from, what I am,
If you find me offensive, I don’t give a damn!

73. Music

73.
Music

Balm of the soul.
Your truth is whole.
You come, you go,
how, I don’t know.
I love, you come,
oh moon, oh sun.
Bring my heart ease,
flowers, trees.
In tune with these,
a summer breeze.
Robin, wren,
singing, then.
Butterfly, before I die.
Golden note,
thrush’s throat.
Goodbye, hello.
I love you so.

72. Mad

72.
Mad

Why do the Irish go mad? Because we feel.
Must we be ground beneath another’s heel?
Must we live and must we die, must we laugh and must we cry?
Oh yes, we talk the hind legs off a donkey, and often act the monkey.
We kill, we love, we play the fiddle, and muddle along in the middle.
Our worst is hate, our best is great, we sing, we soar, we give more.
Do you want a story told? Ask Paddy, pure gold.
Heaven, Hell and Purgatory are there for everyone to see.
Including me.
The Irish may be mad.
But they’re not bad.
Indifference is what gets you most.
Oh God, come back, oh Holy Ghost!
Still, at our best we do so well, tell the begrudgers to go to Hell!
We talk out of both sides, you know.
It only goes to show.
We like to have it both ways.
All our days.
Will we never get things straight? All things come when you wait.
It rains a lot, it makes grass green. The greenest grass I’ve ever seen.
We’re not as green as we’re cabbage looking.
Emigrating, ticket booking.
Would you like to be in our good books? 
Then don’t give us dirty looks.
We write good books, do you know that?
The cat sat on the mat.
That’s a bit of writing there, it came out of the air.
My dark Rosaleen, Kathleen mavourneen, Finnegan’s Wake.
I’ll tell you a story, how long will it take?
Once upon a time, in a land far away, a man said, I haven’t got all day.
I have a year, or more or less, wait ‘till I tell you, you’ll never guess.
This story goes on until the end of time, it goes around in circles, I tell it in rhyme.
There is no rhyme or reason to what I have to say, one thing is for sure, gossoon, it will take all day.
That’s all I have to say.
Until another day.
Irish people, pub, Pope, church steeple, throw me a rope!
Anyway, I’ve got to say I love it here.
With or without green beer.
Breathes there a man with soul so dead who never to himself has said, this is my own, my native land.
Robbie Burns said that. That’s grand.
It’ll do to be going on with, until the real thing comes along.
I end my song.
Music, love, laughter, wine.
Have a good time!

71. Wild Flowers

71.
Wild Flowers

Give me wild flowers any day, 
Instead of fancy blooms for which you have to pay,
A bluebell or a daisy to me has more to say,
Far more than hybrid plants in a big bouquet, 

Give me wild flowers any day, 
Buttercups and clover where i kneel to pray,
Woodbine, poppies and dandelions to me say,
God is in his heaven and everything's okay, 

Give me wild flowers any day, 
They don't need your compost throw the watering can away, 
Let forget me not's, heather and snowdrops mark your way, 
They'll bring a smile to your dark days as in your mind they stay,

You can keep your Chelsea flower show and Alan Titchmarsh to,
I'm sending cherry blossom and this poem from me to you.

70. Break Out

70.
Break Out

My voice broke at the same time as my heart.
I left childhood things behind, let song and music start!
Oh, where is love and where are girls and what am I for?
Am I meant to kiss a girl or go to die in war?
Must I be brave and ask a girl, can I have this dance?
I have itchy feet and hands, what’s that in my pants?
Why am I in this world?
Where is the perfect girl?
Loving, fighting, laughing, joking, talking, holding hands and smoking.
Pursuing, wooing, making a mistake.
Lots of talking over, music at the wake.
Drinking, thinking, laughing, crying, loving living, fearing dying, always hoping, sometimes trying.
Life will be the death of me.
I was born to be free.
Do I ever get it right?
Am I too old to fight?
May I say one word here?
Love.
I whisper in your ear!

69. They Say

69.

They Say People say I’m not a poet, I only write a rhyme. I write in the language of my life, I write for all time. I was young and I am old, transmute base metals into gold. Such was the goal of the alchemist, his work is shrouded in the mist. Who am I sorry for? The girls I never kissed!

68. Manifesto

68.
Manifesto

I hate you because you don’t love me, so I’m going to kill you.
I hate you because you’re not like me, so I’m going to kill you.
I hate you because you ignore me, so I’m going to kill you.
I hate you because you’re happy and I’m not, so I’m going to kill you.
I hate you because you’re indifferent to me, so I’m going to kill you.
I hate you because you exclude me, so I’m going to kill you.
I hate you because you don’t love me so I hate you so I will kill you.
Hate kills.
I hate you because you disprove my theory that hate is best.
I love me. You don’t love me.
Self love kills. I kill.
Ignore me at your peril.
Love turns to hate.
I hate.
Self love is the seed from which hate grows.
Love others and your love is returned.
So said my neighbour, him I burned.
I love myself, that is the cause.
Because, because, because, because.
I don’t believe in loving, except from you.
That’s why I’m going to kill you.
That’s what I plan to do.
I hate you.
If you were like me, you would hate me too.
The problem is, you do.
Me too.

67. Moon

67.
Moon

You give me the truth.
I love it.
Others say, shove it.

Dare I mention war and hate,
people who won’t pay,
those who torture children
when they don’t get their way?

Oh God, I don’t know what to do,
I only know that I love you.
Truth is God and so is love,
Hell below, Heaven above.

This from a misbegotten poet
who knows the truth but does not know it.

The truth is all around, that is where it may be found.
Look around, speak from the heart, that’s a start.

I wish to write the perfect poem and to be one.
Do you know a poet when you see one?

66. Imperfect Poet

66.
Imperfect Poet

Sqeezed from me by pain and sorrow comes the truth.
Eternal essence, joy of my youth!
Will there be a glad tomorrow?
I lie on my torture rack, will you knife me in the back?
Oh thou, oh greatest One of these, who lives in rivers, flowers, trees, in the smile of a young child, 
am I by the other one beguiled?
Who may free me from this Hell except myself, oh well, oh well.
Oh well of water, fresh and pure, I bathe in thee, may thou endure.
My tears I cry. Before I die may I not be a living lie.
I ask myself, I wonder why, oh who and what and where am I?
Reunite once more with truth. Joy of joys, come hither youth!
A passing glance, a girl, a dance, oh innocence, oh chance, my chance!
May I choose life, choose love, choose hope, this life is my rescue rope.
I take a step, I stumble, falter, oh truth, my truth, you are my altar.
You are my one, my only goal, you are the truth, you make me whole.
Tomorrow and today be one! Be not like me, eternal son!
You may laugh and you may sneer, I say, I sing, the truth is here!
This is at once a plea, a prayer to the man who isn’t there.
The man is me, the man is you, let us pray, be true, be true!
True for you, they say in Cork, and so I say, in talk, just talk.
The truth is buried deep inside, in this life I laugh, I cried.
So may the truth be born again and once more walk among men.
Man embraces woman, the word, the thing, must I say that, must I sing?
I love music, birds and flowers, I enjoy happy hours.
Jesus Christ, must I spell it out?
We were born, without a doubt.
I’m not much good, I know that too.
Should I say, the same to you?
Good is all, oh let it be! Who said the truth shall set you free?
It wasn’t me.
I will say it one more time.
Love is no crime.
It is against man’s law to love.
Heaven’s above!
Should I say, Hell below?
Goodbye, I really have to go.
However, I am always here.
Enjoy your beer.
I am the man who doesn’t know.
I told you so.

65. Fuck Politeness

65.
Fuck Politeness

Politeness is fake feeling.
Hypocrisy.
It has no meaning.
It’s not the real thing.
Would you like a polite kiss?
Give it a miss.
Get real.
Feel.
Feelings are true.
They are you.
Laughter, fun, love, these are real.
Unless perverted.
So is a smile.
Be real.
Be true.
Be you.

64. Wonderful

64.
Wonderful

A woman goes to a dying soldier’s side, facing down a man with bloodied hands, a knife, a gun. Why?
Why did he have to die?
Why did she go?
I know.
Hate and love met on that street.
Who do you want to meet?
People forget.
I don’t.
I won’t.
They met.

63. Perfecting A Poem

63.
Perfecting A Poem

I look, I say, does that feel right? No, not quite.
Does it say exactly what I want to say and how I want to say it too?
Would you like it if I was you?
Should that word be changed or those lines rearranged?
Move them around, move them back.
I cannot say white is black.
When there’s nothing even slightly strange I say, that’s it, no change.
It may take a day or two, sometimes much less,
you think its right, you say yes,
but no, a nagging doubt remains,
genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains.
Does it sound right when I speak?
I always know a line is weak.
Sometimes, just remove or change a word,
simplify, a thought occurred.
Here a comma, make that end there,
above all, care, care, care.
Feeling is right, thinking wrong,
last the singer, first the song.
Do the words feel right in my mouth?
Oh poem, glass of the warm south!
Like wine, a poem must mature.
Else, the lines do not endure.
A poem is a growing thing, responding to tender, loving care.
It must feel and be as free as air.

Art is of the heart.
The end is the hard part.

Nothing is ever about anything, it’s about everything, do you know what I’m trying to say?
Should I say it another way?

Broken heart!
When will love start?

Caring and sharing is what it’s all about.

I’ve said it all.
I’ve nothing else to say, at all, at all, at all.

62. Words And Numbers

62.
Words And Numbers

Numbers are words but words are not numbers.
When we realise this we may awake from our slumbers.

What do I mean? Exactly what I say.
Should I mean anything else on this, or any day?

You may say I make a joke.
Am I sorry I spoke?

Not half. Laugh.

Cry and you cry alone, the saying goes.
There sure is a lot of crying, and it shows.

Pardon, I must blow my nose.

So, okay, back to square one again.
What does it all mean, then?

This numbers thing, words, you know the ropes.
Please don’t treat us like silly dopes.

Yeah, well, okay, numbers count things, words are names of things, numbers are not, so which counts most?
The Father the Son or the Holy Ghost?

There you have me, I hear you say, as you turn to go away.

Numbers don’t count, that’s what I’m saying to you.
That, for what it’s worth, is my point of view.

Numbers don’t count sounds funny.
Things are worth more than money.

What of life and love and happiness?
Are they worth everything or more or less?

Don’t guess.
Say yes.

61. The Beggar Boy

61.
The Beggar Boy

“Spare a thought, as you go on your way
for the one in front of you today.
Every day, you spend a penny,
spare one, for one who hasn’t any.”

Craig sat outside Drury Street car park, a cardboard cup in his hand.
I spoke to him, he spoke to me, we spoke to one and other (this is like a Chuck Berry song).
He said it was his first time there, he usually sat at the Molly Malone statue, where he wrote his poems on the ground.
He recited one of his poems.
It was good, he has a good vocabulary, it was poetic.
“Don’t only write about being poor”, said I.
“I write about anything”, he said.

I asked him did he write down his poems, he said no, he has them all in his head.
I said he might forget them.

“I write poems”, I said, “but I haven’t written very many, I might write more.”
I spoke my Metaphor poem.
(He called them poems, I call them verses or rhymes). He liked my poem.

He said the rain washed his poems off the street.
(He could write a poem about that – “Written in tears and washed away by rain,” or whatever).

I said I could write a poem for him, it would be rude, and spoke the words first spoken here.
He said, did you make that up just now? I said yes.
He said he spends hours on his poems (his are longer).

“Did you like that bit about spending a penny?” I asked.
“When I was young, you used to have to spend a penny, it cost you something, now it is free.
That is one of the good things about today that is better than the old days”.

“They took them all away,” he said.
I said “The good news is they are free, the bad news is they aren’t there any more”.

“You should write your poems down and send them to The Big Issue,” I said.
“They want poems from people like you, to prove you are human beings”.

Writing his poems on the street, what could be more poetic?

60. Remember Love

60.
Remember Love

Encroaching
Fears,
Reluctant
Tears,
Question
Why,
Permissible
Cry,
Seek
Silence,
Self
Reliance,
Practice
Strong,
Like
King Kong,
Guiding
Heart,
Fresh
Start,
Moment
Anew,
Gifting
You,
Inhale
Breath,
Embrace
Death,
Relish
Being,
Eternally
Seeing,
All
Above,
Remember
Love.