poetrypulse poetry competitions uk

free monthly competition - September 2018 
(18 entries)
Every human wonder
Why own life is inked by a writer!
And why 'they' are somewhere
The hero of that write-up!
I too did the same
Until I lost my own game
The day I sill in teenage
From his hands of holy frame...

Nowadays children are the most tensed ,
And adults enjoy their lives
In comparison to them.
Full working of world is gifted
To understand born boy and girl.
And while they are just 2-4 years,
They are sent to variety of classes
In name of better future .
Damn! Why don't they realize
They are seizing their memories of future.

You would be wondering
I started with explaining a writer
But end up reflecting a child's life!!!
Dear reader! A writer writes
To complete those incomplete moments;
Those dispersed cases (side effects of it);
Those love stories that God fathom;
To complete those,
who'll be starting such future.

A writer is incomplete without the word
'incomplete '

That -war - that- war of completing oneself
That takes whole life ...
That 'incomplete' in 'our' language
Is called a writer; a poet.

© Kanishka Gupta 2018  India

I Recall
I recall us trekking the asphalt roads under the two o’ clock sun.
I prattled on the chances of the Lost Voice Guy winning the finals
as you nodded and smiled your Mona Lisa smile.
I never mentioned to you how vexing I found your silent responses.

The lower ends of our burgundy synthetic kameez
were too light to stand their ground against those scalding July gusts.
But we were agile enough to press our tanned hands against our thighs with every blow,
blocking the chances of the sweaty rickshaw pullers
having a well-timed peek of our bare waistlines.
You mused as I rebuked the school for picking out the most weightless of all the fabrics.

I recall forcing my laced purple umbrella over your head
as you repeatedly dodged out of it.
I knew you abhorred the idea of women striving to lighten their complexion,
deliberately sun burning your face as a silent protest to your maternal enforcements.
You never desired to be the pretty pink princess.
But it was hard to comprehend this part of your personality,
given the frequency with which you changed your modish clothes to tutoring classes.
It was only I who knew that it was another infliction of your parental authority.

I recall that chilly day in November
when I first put on my Apex ballet flats in an imperious aura to class-
the product of emerging victorious in the Snatch Up game on Sale Day.
The feeling evaporated when the hard protruding surface plunged its way to my ankle.
I had to halt after thirty minutes of walking,
biting my lips to stifle my groans.
You kneeled down on the curb to examine the red blotches forming around my bony ankles.
Your eyebrows were just as furrowed as mine.
Running off without giving me a chance to utter a word,
you left me perplexed for the next ten minutes.
And when you returned with a rickshaw
and the streak of a rivulet of sweat in your temple as an emblem of your endeavor,
I was mystified to think that your reticent self could venture to haggle with a rickshaw puller.

I recall the morning I caught you buying Listerine Cool Mint.
Your thrifty self struggled to explain its necessity in keeping out your bad breath
originating from long hours of keeping your mouth shut,
like those Norton overhead door holders.
I felt obliged to coerce you to fill the registration form for the next MUN,
teach you the 3 points and the methods of drafting out a resolution.
I lent you my ebony black suit.
And in our following trek to school,
when you finally verbalized your opinions on Simon Cowell,
I was glad that I went through the trouble.

And now when high school’s over and we embarked on different paths,
I miss our game of dodging the purple umbrella
and slapping down our burgundy synthetic kameez with every blow.
Your nodding and smiling seemed even more infuriating
in the phone calls I attempted to try to keep in touch.
And I threw in the towel in our ring of one way conversation
thinking it doesn’t matter because I’m already making new friends.
But today I comprehend how your nodding and Mona Lisa smile
conveyed more message than mere words could.

© Sophea Urbi Biswas 2018  Bangladesh

The Perfect Storm
A storm raged and would not be pacified,
Tearing angrily at everything in its path,
It showed no mercy, in its excited rage-
which served only to elate it.
An anger dispatched from the heavens,
The wind and rain, its chosen weapons.

Dark grey skies streaked with illumination, white and blue,
Lightning bolts accompany a symphony of thunder,
The sea defenceless joins forces in submission as-
waves grow higher and higher to crash noisily on shore,
Stirring rocks and battering at the fragile cliffs.

Trees bend this way and that as they fight hopelessly-
against the elements, but succumb and are plucked up-
tearing roots from the earth and are thrown about like autumn leaves.

Hours pass filled with noise, relentless in its power and strength,
It will not be calmed.

Then, just a suddenly as it had all began, all is silent,
all is still, but for the gentle rhythm of the rain,
God's anger is spent for now,
And, He is pleased with His punishment.

© JULIE ACHILLES 2018  England

These chains, they do not budge-
My first thought as I come to.
I look around but see nothing,
A frightening darkness prevails.

A faint glimmer of light, distant.
My only aid, out of my reach;
No idea how I ended up here.
Instinctively, I twist and turn
And pull, struggling to crush
The tyrants, that hurt my limbs
And now, my soul.

Soon I am tired;
These iron ropes hold me captive,
And I, like a puppet, succumb
To their torture. Strangely, though,
Their age hampers not their power,
Their cruel assault still rattles
My freedom; they shamelessly
Continue to hinder my progress.

I observe them closely.
These chains, not metal
But stronger, born from
The very heart of patriarchy itself.

Inscribed in ancient script,
Stereotypes, dictating the manner
In which a woman should behave.
Suddenly I notice: the words glow
With an eerie light.

They are even stronger than love.

I feel helpless.
Should I give up?
I look at the cuffs again-
They seem to snarl at me,
Threatening to break my spirit.
Huh, I say, making a decision.
I tug again, with renewed determination.

This time, I hear a crack.

Stupid chains,
I say to myself, smiling.
Little do they know,
I am unbreakable.

© Ashma Pandya 2018  India

Song Of Life
I hear the sound of the breathing earth
through the wind crying inside the conce shell
I see the earth's motherly care
through the child's carefree laughter
and I feel the earth's loving touch
through the cool breeze that lingers on my sunbeat skin.
my undying vision,
my beloved nightingale,
and the verses of heartfelt gratitude,
like fellow compatriots on a 27th August Hunger Marchers' Day march
as they continue to walk along with me
on this profoundly thrilling journey
I am the ever evolving creature in the passage of time
within the same old dream;

for by the spirit we live,
and in harmony we believe
for in fairness we break,
and and in humility we rejoice

© Mahesh Mayanglambam 2018  India

Atal Ji Amar Hain...
Atal Ji Atal the, Atal hain or Atal hi rahenge
Unki yaadon ki rawaniyon se sab sajenge

San 98 ka Parmanu parikshan Atal ho gaya
America or Pakistan ka man patal kho gaya

San 99 ka Kargil, Atal ji ko or Atal kar gaya
Shaheedon ki shahadat mein akshpatal kar gaya

San 99 ka Vimaan apharan, Atal ko jhakjhor gaya
191 masoomon ke badle 3 paapiyon ko chhoda gaya

San 99 ki Sada-e-Sarhad, Atal ho gayi
Do deshon ki dhadkan ki dor jud gayi

San 2002 mein Hindi bhasha ko Atal kar diya
Bharatmata ki bindi ko suryaprakash sa Atal kar diya

San 15 mein Bharat ke woh Atal Bharat Ratna mahaan
Chamak nahi koi or hain feeke anya sabhi ratna asamaan

Ab maut se than gyi Atal vicharak, Atal ki
Jannayak, Ajaatshatru or bhrikutiBharat ki

Atal amar hain, Atal ajar hain, punya-aatma woh atal hain
Bachchon mein masti, Yuva mein jyot hain, or Vriddhon ka jazba hain

Amar surya ka amar parayan, keh raha ab Alvida hai
Hindustaan ka woh paras patthar, keh raha ab Alvida hai...

© Amit Kumar Dhiman 2018  India

Long, Hard Road To Humanity
What's to be said about this human condition, all of these ideas, all of these afflictions?
We have to run like the wind and fall on our face to learn we win when we run our own race.
We have to grieve before we learn to live,
and to be in need before we learn to give.
All these vulnerabilities, it's a long hard road to humanity.

We have to lose everything to learn what's enough.
We have to find humility to rise above.
We need to teach our children from the start to live with conscience, to live with heart.
Before you judge somebody else, take a look in the mirror and redeem yourself.
All these vulnerabilities, it's a long hard road to humanity

We can't stand on one another to save ourselves.
We can make this heaven or we can make it hell.
We have to love our neighbor, lend a hand, open our minds and try to understand.
We need to all join forces to find a better way.
Today is nearly gone and tomorrow's too late.
All these vulnerabilities, it's a long hard road to humanity.

© Robbie Houck 2018  United States

Break down the strongholds everything Shatters
Pull down the spirit hills everything scatters
Nothing can be more of strength than a pillar
Which have all it can to Provide

Search for knowledge and understanding in life
Go beyond mountains and seas on earth
Nothing but the pillars which holds everything
Or, many will be out casted as waste

Life is a pillar, as it holds everything
Anything could be a pillar for anyone
Pillars can’t be disregarded as unusual
Scorned for for no useful need in life

Cast away the strong pillars of life it shall be miserable
Depend on the weak pillar life will melt you down
Pillar a vital tool in everything we see and feel
An exquisite for anyone who knows more about it

© Henry Ayodele 2018  Nigeria

A living fantasy.
To the sound of George Ezra's voice;
To the sight of your heart tracing mine;
To the touch of crisp ink on paper;
To the taste of sweet summer breeze;
To the thought of our existence;
I see what happiness is supposed to be.

© Umaima Junejo 2018  Pakistan

The Night
Shooting lights and warm flashes
Throbbing and bobbing all around
Sticky pale faces, sticky limbs
Waving and forgetting! Waving and forgetting!

There’s a sense of euphoria
A sense of delight
A sense sadness
Then we leave

Full arms and empty heart
Another face in the crowd
Another body
Another soul
Just get me through the night

© Simi Writes 2018  Saudi Arabia

Far away in hills lived a girl of glowing age,
in a hut with happy flickering light,
steaming with two bowls of rice.
The prime ray of sun lead her each morning,
through woods she took her pets to graze.
Her sweet voice swept along the breeze,
heard at distant shore by wandering leaves.

The day was just bloomed,
as the lily in still pool.
She was singing with bliss,
then a tune mingled like mist with first rain drip.

A flute decorated in tender hands,
with fingers dancing on the holes.
The tune matched as souls for body,
producing love for both.

Then days leaped on,they met everyday,
they created music of bonds by missing no day.
their tastes were similarly different,
their footsteps drawing on same plain.

It was after a month or two,
when she came singing to the familiar land.
She sung and waited,
she sung the notes flowing sad,
she waited for the melody to mingle
she waited for more friend to meet
she waited for him the whole day
she waited him for days.

Why did she waited no one knows,
why did she sit their waiting for years,
though the other never said so,
though he never promised so,
still she waited,
for the reasons knowingly unknown.

© Mansi Pund 2018  India

What is left of our Democracy?
What is left of our democracy?
When Democrats are epitomes of truthful lies,
And the elected reps; the scions of virtuous vice.
Inhered in them, as they bereaved the people of their government,
Whilst promising, they became a villianious embodiment.

What is left of our Democracy?
When electors are at the mercy of the ballot,
While godfathers sit back to grasp pleasure and cast lots.
And citizens adhere to the fraudulent imposition of the law,
Which is nonetheless a supreme rule of flaw.

As the masses hope for a thole relieve of genocide,
Only to exercise their power and vote a grantor of democide.
Even the people's government, as yet is a kleptocracy,
So tell me, what is left of our democracy?.

When tyrants come every two-square years with their maligned Creed
To clutch the frail nous of the masses for their would-be deeds.
As solons execute non interpretable rules and de jures,
Null in our courts? yet to the citizens, it injures.

When the rightful seat glorifies the ascent of the illegal candidate,
And the heavens laud the demon benign feat, be
There exist no such credible government, not even the aristocracy.
What then is left of our democracy?

© Victor Isaiah Idowu 2018  Nigeria

Rear View Mirror
A car bonnet fractures
a bike breaking
me to swerve away,
as paramedics and firemen somewhere
drive to help
crushed metal bodies left mangled.

to a creator looking over
their birth

of a snail being stepped on.

Not the man behind the wheel
of the Citroen, snorting a white slug
from the pocket in his hand,

can you guess where that is.

Doesn’t matter,

someone’s life was ended.

© Jonny Nimmons 2018  England

Switching off my music box,
I heard my heart play a
Sweet soul soundless song.
Structured symphonies sings she,
melodious silence, voiceless words.
Soft beats from the heart the ear can't hear,
sang only to the hand's ear.
Palatable Pictures the eyes can't see,
painted specially for the brain's eye.
Sits as chief over all,
dissolves after each mischief.
Travels alone in dreamlands,
brings back good and bad lucks to real life.
When I shut my ear from this song,
I found her again in my dreamland.

© Ambassador Amakor 2018  Nigeria

Part 2
look at my reflection,look into my eyes
certifiably null and void,look into my mind
hear my thought as you're filled with despise
for the hate and the pain i carry inside
all shredded and bleeding-reaching apart
sometimes i want to sleep all-day
sometimes i want to step out of this suit i'm wearing
and try a different one
sometimes i want to kill you
sometimes i wish you're dead
sometimes i get really scared but can't hide nowhere
sometimes i wish i just didn't care
Please leave me where i'm dying
don't care who stops and stares
and in my head its just beginning as i slide to the floor,
and disappear thru staring eyes without any cares
Would you bleed for my soul-or pray to a god made of wood
will you sell your soul today-hey am i getting thru
systematic decay eroding my life and splitting the pain,
of the hate that remains
systematic decay-did you feel the love that i had today
did you feel the love and wish it away
we all lost our souls along the way
i opened my mouth and my sins came to stay
i opened my heart and you jumped right in,
a dying god brought to life by sin

© neil snyman 2018  England

I enter the studio,
The glazed wood cool and familiar against my naked feet,
As my copious reflections stare monotonously at me,
Welcoming me home.

I take my place at the barre,
Bracing myself for the critique of the room's professional,
Extending an arm:
Adjusting a leg.

I take my place on the floor,
Muscle memory committing to a practiced pose.
I turn and leap in immaculate rhythm,
Absorbing the proud progression of a flow of precise movements.

The stage awaits,
An audience holding its breath in anticipation.
No hair out of place;
No pointed toe out of line.

The music commences:
I take a breath,
And leap from the arena,
Into the magic of the performance.

I do not hear the applause of the spectators.
There is a buzzing of adrenaline beneath the abundance of make-up:
I am a bird in the sky.
I am a fish in the sea.

I am free.

© Hannah Earl 2018  New Zealand

Rock End
Something of finality about its name:
as if you’re about to fall headlong
into fathoms beneath. But, no.
Just recognition that this is how
the Pennines tail away Southwards
into the Midlands, where haze and
townscapes ambush the view.
But now,
just for the here of things, it’s outcrops
of rock that matter, though how much
it matters depends on your approach.

So, climbing from the valley, it’s more
of a beginning. The sudden jutting
of stone where they quarried for houses,
and walls, those huge slabs and fragments
almost a scar. There where the rockface
shales and splinters pinky-reddish
into fingered shards, shockingly fresh
like an ulcer under microscope, as if raw
and somehow wet. Certainly, grave cold.

But from the North-East, dropping slightly
from the watery moorline horizon, down
to Robin Hill, and rounding the bend,
there’s a concession of sorts: outcrop boulders
and rocks squatting in fields, and rotundly
smooth where wind, rain, ice have buffeted
the gritstone almost to shining, with here
and there its veins graining away like
patination on gravestones.

Suppose, either way you could say
Yes, there’s a sense of completion.

And I’m reminded this place is OK
as long as you make a friend
of the landscape.

© Roger Elkin 2018  England

He is what he is
He is warmhearted and he is so cool,
to serve love and to forgive is his first rule.
He is fragile yet tough as a man,
struggle through life with no real plan.
He is not a sinner but a halo of gold,
he is an open book with secrets untold.
He is a father who acts like a child,
crazy, impatient but not easily riled.
He is an integrity and always play fair,
he has a bledding heart but he really don't care.
He is nocturnal,a creature of night,
blissfully ignorant, typically right.
His friendship never makes you feel solitude,
he has a shiny face with cute attitude.
My silent words are enough to describe you,
because to write about you is really a hard work to do.

© Sakshi Verma 2018  India

Valid XHTML 1.0 Transitional