Weekly Contest

No contests this week.

Classic poem of the day

Is there aught you need that my hands withhold,
Rich gifts of raiment or grain or gold?
Lo! I have flung to the East and West
Priceless treasures torn from my breast,
And yielded the sons of my stricken womb
To the drum-beats of duty, the sabres of doom.

Gathered like pearls in their alien gravès
Silent they sleep by the Persian waves,
Scattered like shells on Egyptian sands,
They lie with pale brows and brave, broken hands,
They are strewn like blossoms mown down by chance
On the blood-brown meadows of Flanders and France.

Can ye measure the grief of the tears I weep
Or compass the woe of the watch I keep?
Or the pride that thrills thro' my heart's despair
And the hope that comforts the anguish of prayer?
And the far sad glorious vision I see
Of the torn red banners of Victory?

When the terror and tumult of hate shall cease
And life be refashioned on anvils of peace,
And your love shall offer memorial thanks
To the comrades who fought in your dauntless ranks,
And you honour the deeds of the deathless ones,
Remember the blood of my martyred sons!

Latest Contest Winner

member poem of the day

gossamer flames
lace the oak
church pew
cracking varnish
not yet worn off
by a thousand pious
asses stretching time

my neighbor worships
football as I worship

little suns
on earth
my heart

my knuckles
crack over
the ashes
of archaim
tracing portraits:
children yet
to be born
stars long
since expired
crude cartoons

lit by flares
pipe torches
burning the last
no longer
there’s so much
of society left
to burn –
this global warming
will leave no one
in the cold

First published in On The Verge - http://otvmagazine.com/2016/02/01/global-warming-initiative-2016/