Wrapping Up The Contest

Well, The Great $100 Poetry Contest is winding its way down to a dull fizzle. First of all, I would like to thank everybody who entered. Without your participation, the contest would have failed miserably. As it was we had sixty-two entrants. Not everybody followed the rules by subscribing to the blog but I have no way of checking who did. 

The winner Fred McIlmoyle has been paid via Pay Pal and I have asked him to post an acknowledgment of that. He lives in England so the money was converted to pounds. 

Congratulations go out to Bill Cushing for his poem "Two Stairways." His poem was the one that received the most hits. For a prize, I have offered him hard copies of a couple of my poetry books or audio recordings. This depends on where he lives as well.

I am contemplating doing another contest with an entry fee and larger cash prize. I think it would be best to find a judge other than myself for such a contest. I have several people in mind already. The fee would most likely be only a couple of dollars per poem.

Finally, I think that I am going to be conducting a poetry school. The long-range goal of such an effort would be to create a book teaching others how to write poetry. It would take a lot of work on my part but I think it would be very profitable to my writing. I already have lots of thoughts and ideas. There would be no charge for the poetry school but we would be posting the poems with criticisms and suggestions online. If anybody has an interest shoot me a note at peacepoems@mail.com 

While you're here check out my books by clicking below. 

John's Books. 

The Great $100 Poetry Contest First Place Winner "APOCALYPSE 1914-18" by Fred McIlmoyle

Here is the winner of The Great $100 Poetry Contest!

First of all I must say that it exhibits both rhyming and meter. Using these two elements elevate a poem to a higher height as it is much more challenging to do so. Also, it adds a pleasantness to the sound when read out loud.

The topic is about war, in particular World War 1. It talks about the horrors war inflicted upon both the civilians and the soldiers. It is a relevant message to the state of the ‘endless’ war our world is plunged into. This universal message is reflected in the final line.

APOCALYPSE 1914-18

I have heard the soldiers singing,
Pure young voices strong and true.
I have heard them speak of valour,
Each man the others must outdo.

I have watched them march to battle
With final thoughts of home and wives,
Realising - for the first time,
They now are fighting for their lives. 

I have seen life standing – leering
While death fondled his barbarous knife;
Watched Apocalyptic horsemen thunder,
savagly through fading halls of night.
I have watched the victims stiffen,
Petrified by loathsome scenes
Sheering through this realm of terror
A figment of evil, demented dreams.

I have wept for souls returning,
Floundering relics of mankind,
Condemned to a living hell they wander 
Seeking a peace they cannot find.

And on.. and on.. time after time.


Fred McIlmoyle

Part of the rules of the contest was to subscribe to the blog. I have no way of checking who in particular did so. But I know from the grand total that less than half of those who entered the contest did subscribe.

So please Fred send me an email at peacepoems@mail.com with your Pay Pal email address so I can send you the prize of one hundred dollars. If you neglected to subscribe I will then reach out to you to get an address to send you the prize. 

Second Place "Weighing Two Feathers on the Soul Scale" by Joanie HF Zosike

For second prize there is another free verse poem. The poem is organized into couplets and there is again a sense of rhythm. Certainly, some form of control is exhibited by Joanie in her use of syllables.

The poem works well on a very elemental level of communicating a story. Joanie then uses the story to bring in broader elements of life. The social elements are much to be desired as in the lesson that is taught.

I like the word choice of using descriptive words but those in most people’s vocabulary.

Finally, there is the brevity of the poem. Poems work best with the minimum amount of lines needed to accomplish what the artist intends to do. 

Weighing Two Feathers on the Soul Scale

January 28, 2017

Joanie HF Zosike

For the Dreamers

Swiped my card to enter the subway—

(Oh, come on, cut me some slack)

Heard a woman's plaintive voice

"Will somebody please let me in!”

She stood on the outside of the gate

I cringed, then went to see what was up

"Will you please help me?" she pled.

(I can, but we might get busted)

“Here goes nothin’," I pushed gingerly

And Lo! The door alarm kept silent

With hurried thanks, she flew downstairs,

Hurled an explanation over her shoulder

"I got a deeply bad feeling," she wept

"I'm worried my baby's in trouble."

She took off like a Syria-bound US drone

Punctuated her sprint with beads of worry

Was she concerned over a child?

A lover? A former version of herself?

I'll never know. I only know this:

When someone knocks urgently

At the door, asking for help,

The thing to do is,

                                    let her in

Third Place "Mimicking Amy" by Levie Marilao

In the next two days, I will be posting the second place and then the first place winner. I’d like to congratulate Levie Marialao for Mimicking Amy.

Though written in free verse this poem exhibits a rhythm of control. Each line is measured, not with a perfect beat but close.  

Also, the meaning of the poem is clearly communicated. The experiences portrayed build up to the point of the punchline of ‘begging’ her parents to go to rehab. We can see the agony and suffering in the poem. Like in all good art the message is clearly conveyed yet under scrutinization subtle nuances come out.

Mimicking Amy

by Levie Marilao

When I was out of blue gel
and canned sticky spray,
I began using paper glue
for an old bouffant style
looking like an untidy nest
emptied by birds long ago
when I still climbed trees.

The fair glow of my skin
turning dull, yellow-pale,
I smoked a pack each day
burning the itchy bruises
and the red bumpy boils
I wanted to scab then pick
while puffing on the patio.

I got tattoos not for the art
or the edgy-cool ink images
my friends would talk about
in between cold gulps of beer
or glass pipe hits or snorts
of knife-fined pure cocaine
at the house parties I hosted.

Once the pin-pulsated pain
no longer made me cringe,
I bought lancets and razors
and tried their sharp edges
on my consenting thighs
and arms that welcomed
the blades without tremor.

After pulling most of my hairs
on the head, skin, and groin
and my fingernails with pliers,
I stared at the broken mirror;
bald, gaunt, and all wounds,
I begged my mom and dad:
Please make me go to rehab.

The Great $100 Poetry Contest - Update

Hello poets,

I hope everybody is well.

I went through the poems and I narrowed them down to eight finalists. I will not list the eight, at this time. I read the rules and I see that I have given the poets until June 1 to get their 100 hits on their poems. So please share your posts to get to that number. It would be a shame to be the best poem and lose because you lack 100 hits.

When I announce the winners and probably the top three I will give specific reasons why these poems were chosen.

The poem that gets the most hit will receive a special prize. That prize will be in the form of several of my own poetry books.

Also by that time, I think I will begin my exercise of creating a poetry school. I invite everybody to participate, especially our young poets. We will begin with what exactly is poetry and then move on to sonnets.

Thank you for making this contest a great success.

John Kaniecki (the management)

"TWO STAIRWAYS" by Bill Cushing - Contest Entry

TWO STAIRWAYS

by  Bill Cushing

The first greets those who promenade

through the foyer to a sunken

living room; its steps—wide with

carpeted tread—ease beneath gilded panels

lined with portraits of staid patriarchs

long dead. Bright red lips brush fair cheeks,

besitos de cultura alto,

as these elegant guests parade

through the living room past a massive

dining table and walls affixed

with innocuous ceramic buttons,

doorbell fixtures to summon the help

from the kitchen hiding a second staircase:

steep, jagged, and above all concrete.

Servants—rough hands wrapped in skin darker

than the mahogany furniture

they rub to a high shine—trudge between floors

carrying the weight of meals, loads of laundry,

flutes of lemon water, and whispered curses,

triggered by constant buzzing commands.

Meanwhile, quiet worms of hate burrow, deep

yet imperceptible, into their hearts.

"DOG DAYS" by by Kiarra Lynn Smith - Contest Entry

DOG DAYS

by Kiarra Lynn Smith

All of these animals on the streets:

something must be done.

I will build my empire around you to feel

your whiskers on my cheek.

I'll do anything for the bark

that brings childhood back to me.

Let's go to the park, let's play frisbee all day.

I'll shelter you from December winds

as we walk past tents downtown.

You'll find refuge in my arms.

Fur against skin, the natural way,

the way it has always been.

You and I in August.

Taking a different bicycle trail to avoid

those protesters and their rhetoric

of police sticks, bruising blue on melanin.

Blue as the eyes I saw when 

you gazed at me through the shelter bars.

Here's a treat, you'll never go hungry.

We frolic past the food stamp line.

You and I, fur against skin.

The way it has always been.

"An Empty Room" by Whitney Wiley - Contest Entry

An Empty Room

by Whitney Wile

I laid there at night, looking up at the ceiling, gazing with hollow eyes.

My thoughts rocked back and forth, back and forth, through invisible planes of anatomy not mine.

Untruth stabbing the truth,

real colliding with the fake,

A war of pretending raged on in my mind, ticking hours through the night.

Till slumber crawled down and kissed my cheeks with hot breath.

I slept in this moment like a brown grizzly.

While in my sleeper’s utopia you started stirring.

You're strong and ferocious, a soulless bastard you are.

Running in and out of me like a train in the night, charging to that oh so familiar destination.

You splashed down my leg onto the top layer of the mattress.

Like a proud Indian with his bow and arrow, marking the target the pride and precision.

Marinating there, whilst I slept, the aroma filled the room like songs from Marian.

And as the morning painted the night with its brush, I awoke to find you laying under me.

I sat up crying “No Justice!”, for you're in my room without a mutual consent.

I knew exactly what had taken place, because you, dear vileness, ceaselessly haunt me.

Without graciousness or hope, you have frequented this bedroom, attacking my body and all that I love.

Not a friend or companion can stand your stench, so they slide past here, with smiles and adieu.

All who know me, know you are here to stay.

I have no dignity as the liquid lays on the fabric,

So here we sit, you and I,

You’ll never go away, I won’t escape the curse.

Nothingness is all around me.

"Chornaya" by Domonique Wilson - Contest Entry

Chornaya

by Domonique Wilson 

My skin color signifies a heavy burden- are you sure you wanna be like me?

My skin color won’t hide behind or in colorblindness- are you sure this is possible?

Your skin whitewashes my existence

I still look through and beyond the glass ceiling above my head in my own home.

My skin color is shackled with my gender, making it twice a hard for me to success, but best believe black won’t crack under pressure- just gleam and memorized in the light.

Are you sure you didn't see me cry?

Please don’t make me share as to you why.

I swear I’ll jump ship, just like my ancestors did, if this is how’ll we die.

You saw me swallow the pain, skip the part where I explain, and then have the audacity to ask that I rise?

And I am.

Aren’t you the one who fell from glory heavens ago?

So I stand on my feet, skin made to glow and beam

 I am rare and special

I'm nothing you've ever seen and nothing you’d think I’d be or even tried to see.

I'm something like your dreams, but more like your reality- wake up from your drunken fallacies.

I wanna rule beside you and use my past as proof that I can be anything I want to be- as long as it uplifts God and celebrates both you and me.

Being black is a heavy burden; are you sure you wanna fight against me? What baggage do you already carry? My grandmother’s Jesus said, my yolk is easy and my burden is light- funny how you represent truth and still not doing right.

Don't you wanna just help me? Not how you see fit, but in ways that I need it.

Trust me; I hope to enjoy the life that was given to me

Each and everyone has a story, a story of triumph and terror; Stella got her groove back in more ways than one; you already know that blackberries grow sweeter with time.

So please, if you don't stand with me, don't stand anywhere near me- I am sure that you won't like the monster that's been created, that my pain entertained, that my ancestors fought hard against, that your ancestors and predecessors tried to offer recompense that lacked common sense, and riddled with conditions- Wale told me that this would be my ambition!

My present does its best to respect you and my future sure hopes to defeat to you- better than I, better than we. EVER. COULD.

Curiosity at best, violence at worst-

I know I represent the EXTREME, but please L O O K F I R S T

Before you shoot.

Come to love me. Come to understand me. Give me time and patience- I swear I'll be everything I want and more- I know you don't like waiting.

But how dare your disrespect me in the highest form there is
and tell me that the reason I'm not successful is because of our undoing over the years-

please see the error in your ways, so that I can stop resenting you.

So that I can see how Jesus has always seen you- I'll be damned if I said he didn't love you, too.

I am my brother's keeper- I am my church's choir- I am the color purple- I am Idlewild. I am Maya, Faye, Phyllis, Mary, and some many more- I am Garvey, Pushkin, Thomas, McKay, and Hughes- and I bet they would be a friend on social media, possibly surpassing your views.

I am bold, bossy- made to show it can be done- not by my own hands, but yours, His, Hers, anywhere, anyone.

If not me, who, if not now, when?

- history repeats itself and here we are again.

losing focus, looking hopeless, and behaving like we don't know shit

- the universe will bless us with the answers we are looking for

that's how this post- I'm not for the boast, but rather the preserving of the soul-

I am not looking to your religion, your way of life, your truths to make me whole.

I AM SEARCHING FOR THEM ACTIVELY.

I am responsible for the passively- the aggressive and the apathy- the path for those who come after me.

I am black and I am proud- surely there was no other way- that's why Jesus is my father and I trust what he has made.

He respects my rights to choose, he loves me when I don't-

 you'd think he seek his revenge- he's promised that he won't.

Their eyes were watching God cause his will is sufficient-

even when you hid our God the first time, that didn't stop his glory- now did it?

He has to change his plan to fit our needs, why not the other way- seldom felt, and seldom accepted the price since has had to pay. I have seen the error in my ways and commit my ways unto the Lord, for this day, I rejoice. Today I am free.

So I am here this moment, representing the change I want to see-

I am black, I am different I am love- stand with me.

Be the anomaly. 

"Song of the Broken Toys" by Qianqian Subbiah - Contest Entry

Song of the Broken Toys

by Qianqian Subbiah

A doll’s severed head

Collects dust on the curbside,

Mud on her ear from a car that drove too close,

Eyes forever glued open

To see the sad state

That she has become.

Four china plates

Decorated with a web of swirling blue

Stood proudly in the curio cabinet for years and years.

One day, they slipped and

Shattered on the floor

Like a million little galaxies

What were you before?

A toddler’s most prized possession?

Rubber from a spacesuit that saw the moon?

The emperor’s finest robes?

You used to be something great—

You used to have a story to tell.

Now you are nothing;

Old, forgotten, abandoned.

You have a story, but no one will listen;

You had a story, but no one will care—

Your story is over.

And then—a miracle!

Some soul sees you,

Holds you up like a

Single, flawless emerald.

To him, you are something—

To him, you are perfect.

He sees life where others see death;

He sees stories where others see just cracks

You go with those

Just as broken as you,

And somehow, together, you are

Not broken but

Wonderful.

Now you are something.

People stare when they pass you by.

You are not pretty anymore—

You do not gleam with the polish of the brand new,

You do not float on the cusp of the latest trends.

But you are unique,

Beautiful.

You are not who you used to be,

But you create new stories,

And you live

Forever.

"Mimicking Amy" by Levie Marilao - Contest Entry

Mimicking Amy

by Levie Marilao

When I was out of blue gel
and canned sticky spray,
I began using paper glue
for an old bouffant style
looking like an untidy nest
emptied by birds long ago
when I still climbed trees.

The fair glow of my skin
turning dull, yellow-pale,
I smoked a pack each day
burning the itchy bruises
and the red bumpy boils
I wanted to scab then pick
while puffing on the patio.

I got tattoos not for the art
or the edgy-cool ink images
my friends would talk about
in between cold gulps of beer
or glass pipe hits or snorts
of knife-fined pure cocaine
at the house parties I hosted.

Once the pin-pulsated pain
no longer made me cringe,
I bought lancets and razors
and tried their sharp edges
on my consenting thighs
and arms that welcomed
the blades without tremor.

After pulling most of my hairs
on the head, skin, and groin
and my fingernails with pliers,
I stared at the broken mirror;
bald, gaunt, and all wounds,
I begged my mom and dad:
Please make me go to rehab.

"McDonalds and Disneyland in Baghdad" by Shawn Hamilton - Contest Entry

"McDonalds and Disneyland in Baghdad"

by Shawn Hamilton

A critical strike--
Locusts swarm Baghdad.
Hands on general watch point north;

We know the hour.

Onerous change--oppressors change.
And we who walk the valley of the Shadow of Debt, shall fear,

No Skull and Bones,

Though a president's brain be splayed

Over Grassy Knolls.

History's violent melody replays
With variations.

From sea to shining sea, We the People lull
On soporific sofas watching oligarchy opera.
Dan Rather serves US polite Pepsi perspectives,
Big Mac American arrogance,
News Cheetos!
We lick orange agent from our limp lips,
O tranquil frenzy!
As embedded recorders with the Pentagon
Daily News,
Laud the 3-7th Cav "mopping up"
Post-nocturnal engagement.

Back home in the Heartland
SUV super tanks hump bumpers, want to run you
Into a ditch. Dodge Ram you!
They'll Custer you out.
They'll show you stars and bloody stripes!
"God, Guts, and Guns"--American Justice.
V-8 diesel and United States flag,
Mud flap silver sex dolls and "The Power of Pride."
Inside the cool cab Limbaugh wipes the Greasy Grass from his chinny chin.
He hardens,
And repeatedly violates Hillary.

God bless our Disney World dynasty!
We sow seedy embryos and reap
Sanitary solace in Fantasyland.
When Minnie minds
The Superstore,
Watergate McBurglars and Enronald McDonalds loot tills
Prevaricate with Goofy excuses,
Blame matronly Mickey Mouse Marthas.

O Dumbo Democracy!
Our Pinocchio president can barely reach
The end of his nose to scratch it.
"Rule by the People"
With money and power?
Plutocracy! In thin disguise.
Who dispatch fighting forces to dominate the globe as burning oil wells rain
Petroleum drops on dead jarheads in deserts;
The dumb grunts die
To advance
Elitist empire.

And We, The Petty Perfect People back on Main Street,
Huff and cower before TV altars
Eating Freedom Fries,
Supersized.
Waving Wal-Mart flags, we cheer the new Grand Opening:
McDonalds and Disneyland in Baghdad.

 

"My Father, at 92" by Anne Higgins - Contest Entry

My Father, at 92

by Anne Higgins

At two o’clock today he declared

“Well, it’s time to go.”

Where?” I asked

Where?” my blind and deaf mother asked.

“Home.”

”But you are home.” we said.

“You’ve been living here eight years,” I said.

“since you were eighty-four.”

My father, now unsteady on your feet,

you don’t remember your location, your wallet, your keys,

but you do remember

when I ran out in front of

oncoming traffic one day,

after kindergarten.

You were on the other side of the street.

You said it was because I was

already nearsighted

and no one knew it yet.

I recall

it was because

I didn’t notice the oncoming traffic –

All I saw was you,

YOU, I saw clearly,

and still do,

standing on the other side of the street,

waiting for me.

"death, outrage, repeat" by Danae Templeton - contest entry

death, outrage, repeat

by   Danae Templeton

January 27, 1945: Aushwitz prisoners liberated

November 13, 2015: 130 killed in Paris

1945

ground shook,
pebbles
dancing on strings.
the tanks arrived, and the soldiers
trying not to gape,
hearts shattering, seeping
at the edges.
Eyes, hollow.
Souls, loosened.
Bodies, destroyed.

Death may not have a sickle and cape,
we’ll all know someday.
Until then, I see her
veiled,

cold,
hardened
from the work she must do. 

Not so much from her patients, mind.
Many pass into glory,
more blessed than those of us here.
(except for the good people who don’t)
it’s the ones left behind…
We claimed that it would never happen again. 

2015

screams ripped from throats,
chaos bleeding,
city ripped to shreds.
reporters arrived, proclaiming tragedy.
we all announced
our support, our shared pain
for a city outraged.
Wives gone,
Fathers lost,
Sons murdered.

And yet,
are we really surprised?
The world is broken and
fractured at the seams.
There is no safe place, really.

We all run Death into the ground.
She curses us, yet blesses our race
we could do so much
(except when we don’t)
do what we can to beat back the fog…
Don’t let it happen again.
(not without a fight)

Fight.
fight pain with hope,
fight death with music,
fight terror with diligence. 

Today
fight with furious brush strokes,
bring glory to shine through the cracks.
joining together in brokenness,
choosing to See
beauty

in chaos.
Heal hearts,
Touch souls,
Speak life.

trust
that no matter the pain,
if i can mend
one sparrow’s splintered wing,
lift one ailing spirit
out of agonizing fear,
bless one lonely stranger
in my path
(even one i never see again),
Life is worth it.

http://www.glassraindrops.com/

"That Bird" by by Luke Knutson - Contest

That Bird

by Luke Knutson

I look at the sparrow, its

brown wings snuggled

beak opening only for the occasional chirp

sitting plainly on the dying autumn tree above me

and think

“damn,

that bird

doesn’t need to worry about the SAT

or its significant other

or its social status

or its parents

or its weight

or its grades

or its clubs

or its face”.

And I

keep on walking.

The coming winter

I see

that bird

on the ground,

still.

dead of hypothermia.