Poetry and Creative Writing for All

The Top 5 Poems of the Month

December 2006

	Kiani is now a Featured Poet! Read his biography and more of his poems

Buried Alive

Deadened darkness befalls my soul
and haunts the hollow caves of my being.
Within me the rivers of tears
beat violently against the banks of my heart.

The banks that have been made
from the burned ashes of the house
where love dwelled.

Echoes of the past
still ring in the mountains of my mind.
Each minute becoming
a greater mountain to climb.

I sink into the depths
of those raging waters,
willingly, though
filled with fear.

The black waters of numbness
in which I shall soon drown.
Weeping, my tears I cannot feel,
nor can I now feel
the blood that once ran through me.

That which nourished
and warmed my once beating heart,
now stopped.
Forevermore

Mr Kiani

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Here are the other four winning poems for this month.

The Sculptor's Stone

My life begins, like a block of stone,
Motionless, and quite alone,
Cold, untouched and still,
Waiting patiently until,
Through the sculptor's hands I feel,
The divine spark inside of me.
Through warm birth, to cold reality,
Then suddenly, I'm free!
Others stare to see -
No more the stone, but the living me.

Chrysalis into butterfly,
Metamorphosis now complete,
Wings spread rapidly, and heart begins to beat,
The pulse is strong, until that day,
The life-force wanes, then ebbs away,
The form that was, is no more,
From block of stone, to a dusty floor,
Even the dust will soon be gone,
Not one speck to look upon,
Just the memory will remain.

Gary Murphy

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Narbonne

In the clear sunlight of the southern day,
set down below the level of the square,
framed by a well shaped lip of polished stone
some yards of broken rock are on display.
This is Domitius’ track, the road of Rome,
two thousand years and more established there,
the consul’s path, the legion’s level way.

Around the corner, down a narrow street,
filling the sky with buttress and with tower,
stands the cathedral in the city’s heart.
Six hundred years of age, still incomplete,
but marked with wonder in each fashioned part,
a people’s tribute to God’s love and power,
a living shrine where past and present meet.

Back on the square, along the shaded side
stands the department store of Monoprix,
with clothes and pharmaceuticals and shoes,
where every day the doors are open wide.
For forty years or so, folk come to choose
the odds and ends of all their daily needs
and pass across the square their city’s pride

Bernard Fyles

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Monday Morning

Colour creeps up her neck, staining her beautiful face with a fiery red.
Tears start to fall.
Snatching her hand away slicing through my heart like a blade.
She inhales.
Viciously.
Tears and snorting.
Then silence…………
We wait……
And wait…..
It comes.
Released from the pit of her belly, from the depths of her soul.
My happy, sweet child, intemperate sobs, unable to control.
Snotty bubbles mingle with salty tears streaking, dripping.
I reach to her and she rejects.
Stamping her feet to the rhythm of her anger.
I am not what she needs or wants right now.
She is not what she needs or wants right now.
Her frenzy falls unbridled to the floor, legs splayed, dangerously whipping.
She continues to try and find a place for her passion.
Writhing and screaming, tormented and displaced.
She is alone in her frustration.
Finally the tornado subsides, leaving in its wake a lone calf, gently
mooing.
Lost,
Scared,
Forlorn.
I scoop her in my arms draining her remaining energies, replacing them with unconditional love.
Calmly we smile at our audience and leave the store.

Rachel Bee

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Umboozo The Magnificant

Umboozo yer’doodle
Cornflakken in spridle
Awail to the nightlies
Wit all that is bridal
Tufeed upon hopelings
Them ne’er do wells
Alus greet meanies
On chantings an spells

Quak! Quak! The blairies
Bringy sun down to moon
Weakened de escapers
Who uplift agloom
Tugrey blanch imposturs
Debaton bin lit
Quite quiet heardies
Rounded on split

So feather thine masters
Letty happen ‘up quick
Booblegum piccies
Little everyhtings click
Raising them magics
Expectantly few
Whezzles sed suffink
What?
I cudney constrew.

Ian Oldfield

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To submit a poem to the Online Poetry Competition, email inbox@forwardpress.co.uk (Enter Top 5 Poems of the Month in the subject line, including your name and postal address)

Or post your poems to Top 5 Poems of the Month, Forward Press Ltd, Remus House, Coltsfoot Drive, Peterborough PE2 9JX (Write your name and address on each piece of work you send)