poetrypulse poetry competitions uk

free monthly competition - August 2018 
(11 entries)
Final Chapter
I lay over clouds
My being almost merged
With the one above-
My eyes close on their own
Hoping to never open again.

The end is near, I sense,
But not at my doorstep yet,
A peculiar feeling- this wait
I'm restless, wasting the energy
I never knew I had.

Death: a pleasure I'm denied,
For my senses betray me
By being alive, as is my body.
A blink, and I'm back
To reality, the clouds clear-
I am still on mortal Earth
And below me, the wooden bed
I while away my days on.

© Ashma Pandya 2018  India

Salute to the Indian Soldiers
Salute to the Indian Soldier,
who can't break their order,
for the country, whole day & night,
they're never lose their sight,

Salute to the Indian Soldier,
who can't break their order,
for us they're on border,
because they follows only order,

Salute to the Indian Soldier,
who can't break their order,
why their festivals are bullets & bombs?
why not they got happiness' tombs?

Salute to the Indian Soldier,
who can't break their order,
why their favorite color is blood?
why their duties are gone to mud?

Salute to the Indian Soldier,
who can't break their order,
for the country, whole day & night,
they're never lose their sight,

Salute to the Indian Soldier,
who can't break their order,
because of them we're alive,
as honey is safe behind the hive,

Salute to the Indian Soldier,
who can't break their order,
why they don't have respect?
as politicians want, as they expect,

Salute to the Indian Soldier,
who can't break their order,
wake up all & give respect,
as we want, as we expect,

Salute to the Indian Soldier,
who can't break their order,
I'll give salute again & again,
because, for soldiers I've no complain,

Salute to the Indian Soldier,
who can't break their order,
for the country, whole day & night,
they're never lose their sight,

© Amit Kumar Dhiman 2018  India

A Ladies Prayer of old
Lord, give me a return to my dignity,
Prayed a lady to her Lord,
For I hath no hand of substance,
I which my life to hold.

My autumn days now upon me,
A no monies to behold,
With only fears of poverty,
As my coffers hold no gold.

I plead to you for mercy,
Your protection and nought else,
Pray, let me wait in comfort now,
Until my winter days take hold.

The good Lord smiled on this lady,
For a blameless life she had thus led,
He sent to her his blessings, and,
she slept content within her bed.

In peace now she was thankful,
As towards the heavens she did smile,
For certain within her heart,
The Good Lord provided her with bread.

© JULIE ACHILLES 2018  England

My eyes are ever on the sea's horizon
My eyes are ever on the sea's horizon-
Lately I have been so low..
Grey-blue meets blue-green and jade is made.
A thin silver line marks the horizon's cloudbank
And diminishes with the rising sun.
Early morning mood dissipates and I take the
Track back to the cliff cottage.
Earth melts in the heat of the day.
All around is a shimmer- gulls scream, ocean hisses.
In the abyss below
Unintelligible, whispered words drift up..
What are they saying?
O that the sea would sing me a song of content!
Like the one the sailors chant about
The mer-people and seals that play in
The flickering eastern twilights of dawn and dusk.
I laugh away the happy sentiments
And recall your face when we met.
You were perched on the sea wall,
A mermaid, face alive as a painted shell,
The expression on those red lips that
Moved to show pearly-white teeth!
Why my love did you take the early ferry
A few mornings ago?
What was it that you called out to me that day?
An evening breeze calms my thoughts and cools my brow.
In the harbour lights the far stacks glimmer.
Sea and sky merge and a grey horizon turns
To blue-green and jade is made.
My horizon is the same as yesterday-
The same deep, calm, untroubled ocean.
Sea airs stir up the waters, and on
Each lying, lyrical wave, my heart rises and founders
In the muck of existence that is my life.

© brendan bacon 2018  England

My life knows no bound,
For death is not all,
Not all treasures are found,
In this journey so small,
But nevertheless I live,
For time just proceeds,
But my motive is to give,
Catering to their needs,
My love is not a limit,
But an endless ocean to drown,
An eternal hearty seat,
Of soul's true lown,
Where infinity can fit.

© Medha Mitra 2018  India

Washing My Hair in the Sink
I let my hair down and dip my
Head into the sink.
I see the worn porcelain and
The stains that were scrubbed
Bare but never left.
I let the cold water spill over my head,
Fusing my hair into a thick dripping mass.
I work soap into my hair,
Kneading it as deep as it would go.
It stung my eyes and I washed it out:
It smelled sour and vile,
It filtered out of my hair, taking with it oils
And dirt and earthiness- texture,
Leaving a sickly sour smell.
I emerge from the sink and my
Hair slaps onto my back. The
Cold water trickles down the groove
In my back and makes me shiver.
Even after the soap and smells and
The white porcelain, I feel the need
To wash again and again.
But I left, and when the night
Rushed at me, I shivered again.

© Rachel Shin 2018  United States

Lily of the Nile
The sun rises up by my windowsill.
I can hear the monotonous chirping of sparrows.
I locate the flock with my cataract clad eyes.
They have food to forage, little ones to feed, nests to build.
For them it’s a busy day.
And for me? I chuckle. I envy them.
After the strokes and the partial paralysis,
and the accident that cracked my pelvis,
I have the right to envy them.

Right after my first stroke, when my flaccid limbs looked like withered artichoke,
and my jaws resembled droopy daisies on a scalding summer day,
my darling son who called once a month
offered to take me to the doctor’s appointment.

I rested in my wheelchair dressed up in cotton, and watched him ram the faulty elevator button.
“Mom I’ll have to lift you,” he said with a groan,
and I wondered why I wasn’t wound by the vexation in his tone.
And when he heaved me up bridal style,
I thought I saw his father in his profile.
I pictured his chiseled face, his bewitching smile,
and marveled how half a century ago
he had similarly raised me and called me, Lily of the Nile.

And when the home nurse was away on a week’s vacation,
they sent in my granddaughter to her exasperation.
On the first day she appeared ebullient- bathed me, dressed me,
and said my white hair was brilliant.
She fed me my lunch plain rice and tuna,
and asked me about the time when I first met her grandpa.

But after two days when her patience was wearing thin,
she could barely lift her eyes off her cell phone screen.
I felt my lentil soup trickle down the corners of my lips,
and waited for her to notice and wipe it off with one of those corn yellow flannel bibs.
And when she couldn’t hide her repugnance emptying my bedpan,
I recalled how I used to feign amusement cleaning her pink potty
while she told me her stories of Superman.
At the end of the week when it was time for her to leave,
she embraced me and kissed my cheek.
The broad smile couldn’t hide her delight of freedom from my putrid self.

Now that I’m sitting at the corner of the front right pew by the choir,
I’m finally free form the horrid block that lies in the coffin up front on display.
The church is teeming with men and women clad in black.
It is hilarious that I can’t recognize the plump woman ostentatiously wiping her eyes,
or the man with the questionably runny nose vigorously shaking his head from side to side.
But I am listening to my granddaughter sobbing into the mike.
She is telling a story of how she once braided my hair in astonishing details.
I still believe she’ll succeed in the literary career she craves to pursue.
My son follows next.
“She felt like a feather in my arms…”
I can’t concentrate on his muffled voice any longer.
Amid the wreath of white tulips engulfing the pecan brown coffin,
there lay a single amethyst purple Lily of the Nile.

© Sophea Urbi Biswas 2018  Bangladesh

How he walked away had everything to do with everything.
How she held her breath without knowing as he left,
the view through the window off color somehow, more green than blue,
a haze over the mountains, the door closing,
the sudden nervous smell of concern and worry.
One day everything will be made clear,
a bird perhaps, a dog, maybe a giraffe.
The landscape will no longer be layered.
The light before the thunderstorm will make her brave.
Her hands will cease to open and close when she thinks of him.
She will know he was not the right tune hummed in the night lights..
She will understand the hypothesis did not favor the result.

© Michael H. Brownstein 2018  United States

Let grass grow
The span of 'I' and 'we'
Till the bridge between
'You' and 'me ',are all the roots
Of horizon betwixt 'human' and 'being '.

I dream for the day
I'm looking at the world ,breathlessly,
No one to 'eat' ; if one this way
Then they'll send humanity away
And we will never meet
with no chance for, again.

I don't want it to be a dream ,
I dream not only to dream
But to make it seen.
The Wrong shall fail,
The Right prevail,
With peace on earth that shall be.

Imagine there're no terrorists ,
No race to choose,
Nothing to kill or die for
And no religion, too

Imagine all the people
Living life in peace and
All air green, not red,
None ;(less) eating 'meat'
Of terror ,inhuman, like bread.

Let the earth win, let the sea sing,
Let us all decide to become a HUMAN.
Let the blood not flow,
let grass to grow, let grass grow.

© Kanishka Gupta 2018  India

A Kiss on the Forehead
It was a kind winter, and everyone was feeling festive.
When the dreaded time would come when we had to part, and to go our separate ways.
To go and live our parallel lives.
Then to my suprise, he held out his arms wide.
Like he was inviting me into his life.
We held each other a while and the time stopped, if only for a moment.
Our bodies fitted together like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
Our hearts and minds connected, and I felt an electric current running through my fulfilled soul.
As we naturally pulled apart, he kissed me on the forehead.
His warm lips scarred my skin for life.
It was at this precise moment, when I internally admitted that I was madly in love with him.
This is my favourite memory of us, but I keep it locked inside as long as it needs to be.

© Natasha Maddox 2018  England

Evening Time
Never knew what man meant by journey
Sojourn for long but surely you'll come back home
Never knew life was just a visiting market place
But when evening comes you must hurry home

Tarry not or linger on the way to life
But seeing many lost engraving for lustful desires
Pleasures for flesh and losing the eternal
An everlasting home where they ought to rest after all

Evening time surely comes for all
When your sun set for an eventful great day
Will you and I be ready for that eternal home?
Lost in death or awakened in a glorious dawn?

© Henry Ayodele 2018  Nigeria

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