Weekly Contest
Classic poem of the day
The wind in the ash-tree sounds like surf on the shore at Truro.
I will shut my eyes . . . hush, be still with your silly bleating, sheep on Shillingstone Hill . . .
They said: Come along! They said: Leave your pebbles on the sand and come along, it's long after sunset!
The mosquitoes will be thick in the pine-woods along by Long Nook, the wind's died down!
They said: Leave your pebbles on the sand, and your shells, too, and come along, we'll find you another beach like the beach at Truro.
Let me listen to wind in the ash . . . it sounds like surf on the shore.
member poem of the day
A Soldier’s Soul A drifter of forgotten wars Once a soldier with golden bullets for honor and love Now an old man lost in a foreign land Crawling through the icy plane A trail of frozen blood paints the newborn snow behind him like a stoned out demon with artistic ambition. His memories rise and fall like the waves of enemies he killed Crashing through an ocean of sorrowful greed The corporate giant buried his foes in an avalanche of sinful transgression “If only I could be a child again and runaway with angels sprinting towards the light” the old man whispered. In the night owls forest he continues to crawl His wounds won’t heal for the pain is all this old soldier needs to keep going There’s a cave in the distance with smoke coming from it Summoning a smile fit for a dead man he closed his eyes knowing the savior he seeks isn’t inside Its in that boy who died long ago Before the Soldier Before the war Before life took his soul. © 2017 Randle Allshouse Jr.
