April is National Poetry Month. And I thought I'd get us warmed up with a little poetry contest. So, be crafty and creative and win some cool prizes. Like a complete crafting package, filled with a cross-stitch kit, yarn, knitting needles, autographed books and more. Also, there will be many books to give away. The winners will be able to choose between some of the following choices:
The 2009 Writer's Market, 88th Annual Edition with over 3,500 listings of where and how to sell what you write
An autographed book of Cleopatra-Egypt's Last and Greatest Queen,
An Autographed edition of the grahic novel for kids: Babymouse, Beach Babe,
An Autographed edition of Heart of a Shepherd,
An Autographed Edition of the Award winning book by Carmen Bernier-Grand Frida, the art of Frida Kahlo; and
The Last Lecture, an inspirational story
Let's get ready for April by posting a poem in the comments section. Try to keep it to 10 lines or less. It can be any style, format and form.
I'm going to pick the winners on Sunday, April 5th. So, you'll have to come back on Sunday to see if you win. But take a chance, post a poem, and have a little fun.
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YOU ARE HERE EDUCATOR’S GUIDE
3 months ago
26 comments:
Okay...First, I am no good at poetry...but since I'm high on chocolate, I thought I would give it a try...
There once was a season called Spring
A time of the year when birds sing...
When the flower buds are a burstin'
And your hayfever is a worsenin'...
When leaves on trees turn green
And you get out your mop to clean...
When you spring forward and lose an hour
And then get rained on with April Showers...
There once was a season called Spring
A time of year we fall in love with everything
You are sooo wonderful to play along. Thanks Brenda!
Here's a haiku.
The sky was cloudy
but I paused to look at it
and now it is clear
Great Bish: Thanks for joining the poetry party.
Oh, I wish I was good at this stuff, but I'm not.
Birdie, birdie
In the yard
Birdie, birdie
Hit so hard
Birdie, birdie
Are you okay?
Birdie, birdie
You flew away!
Bahahaha -- see what I mean? ;)
I love it Rena especially since you're a bird rescuer.
Can't write poetry to save my life. But I'll read what others have written. That would save you all from cringing.
Hi Kim,
Here's a simple Haiku. It matches my book, sort of!
Goodbye sweet swallow,
Fly free past the equator,
Back again next spring.
Thanks for inviting me to participate!
I don't consider myself to be a poet. But I find that attempting to write poetry is a great creative warmup exercise for me. Here is one of my attemtps.
Blessings, Kim.
Jean
Listening
In the quiet of the midnight
Hear the breathing cross the hall
Tiny inhale
Tiny exhale
Tiny rhythm rise and fall.
All can’t be bad,
I can’t be sad
When I pause to recall
The rhythm of your breathing
When you were very small.
Jean: Thanks for playing.
I figure I'd drop a poem as well.
a bed of flowers
unawares a single rose
catches my fancy
You are evil to drag me over here for this... Poetry scares me.
Iridescent colours cavort in the Cynic's garden,
gossamer wings beating purple and orange
above the stalks of abandoned summer.
Free in the air above sodden ground they tease;
as heavy boots slip in mood,
dislodging the last remaining rose petals.
How brief their summer?
A riotous fortnight
before eternal sleep in a glass case.
But first, to the catcher's net.
Jake and Catherine: Thanks for joining in the fun!
I found some time
to write a rhyme
so in this contest
I could chime
The rhyme I wrote
Is this note
I surely hope
It gets your vote
Fun, fun, Kim! Thanks for getting us started on the write foot (ha ha ha--write, foot, meter...okay, I'm leaving now...)
Awesome contest idea. Here's my entry:
As the doctor writes, he listens to the scracthing -
like an animal trapped inside a crate.
The doctor writes in sloppy
indescript script that translates his death.
He takes the form and all he sees is a myriad of broken polygons—
a handwriting like
cliffs and ragged angles,
as crooked as the backbones of devils that never learned to stand.
QUESTION
You do not get to pick your eyes,
hazel, brown or blue.
You're stuck with the eyes you're born with.
And yet they're right for you.
You do not get to pick your chin,
your fingers or your toes.
So tell me why should it be true
you get to pick your nose?
Hi Kim,
Thanks for hosting this fun contest! Here's my limerick:
There once was a man from Eau Claire
Who took his friends up on a dare
They asked him to spread
Depilatory cream on his head
And now he has lost all his hair
Rebecca
Here's another sign of spring, in haiku:
two ducks drift and bob
soaking up the good life in
the neighborhood pool
Thanks for a fun contest, Kim. There's some great stuff posted. Some are hilarious.
Today at the Museum
It’s the square head,
squiggle hair,
eye here,
eye there,
two noses
in a row,
crooked mouth,
Picasso show.
Oh boy -- I've got dozens of these lying around and NO ONE ever wants to hear them! (This one has British-isms because I submitted it to a competition in the U.K. It sadly did not win...)
PICKY EATER
I don’t want my chicken, potatoes or peas
What I like is donkey brains broasted, with fleas.
Spaghetti with meatballs? No thanks, not for me --
I’m having boiled boogers and cobwebs for tea.
Baked beans on toast? Yuck! I’m not touching that
When I can have snake-guts and worms a la rat.
And pizza? No way – put it back in the box!
I’d rather have bat wings and slug slime on rocks.
I won’t eat your carrots, your mushrooms, your eggs --
Bring me fried cockroaches, steamed lizards’s legs!
And take back your fish fingers, take back your roast --
‘Cause I want fresh centipedes, crushed up, on toast
Hey Kim--Happy Poetry Month!
Here's one I call "Now I Lay":
Sounds of darkness gather ‘round
I hear you, I won’t make a sound
Tick…tock…tick…
Whistle softly gentle breeze
Shimmy, shimmy stirring leaves
Back and forth
Waiting, fading, floating high
On a cloud that’s soft and white
Wrapped in warmth
Colors, vivid, swirling past
Pictures moving slow, then faster,
Going, going…gone
Sounds of life and sounds of grace
I hear, as light shines on my face
One more day
Day’s Eyes
Today we are brought to a house on a hill,
we sit in the bedroom perfectly still
It’s quiet in here for the owner is ill
so we sit and wait on the windowsill.
Outside, clouds float in the sky,
the world drifts past and blackbirds fly
whilst we sit here as time ticks by,
watching him watching us - quietly die.
Today we die a little more,
become less lovely than before,
we try to drink but cannot draw.
We scatter petals on the floor.
Pollen sheds from us today,
a man in black stops by to pray,
Our owner quiet, still, and grey,
his wife says ‘take those things away’.
Today we are brought to the tip on the hill,
fragrant in the rotting spill,
we lie with the rubbish, perfectly still,
but making seed with all our will
to blow and grow on many hills.
This is actually a shape/concrete poem - when it is formatted so as to be centred - it forms the shape of a flower vase. I couldn't get the comments system to accept the html to do that though - sorry.
Only a couple more days . . . I can't wait!!!
In the night they come.
They creep! They crawl. Jump and hop! They slither and sneak. They slink! They slide! They glide! Off to the Monster Ball!
Some tiptoe and others stomp.
Some trudge and others tromp.
There are those that creep and those that leap!
Off to the Monster Ball!
This one strolls. This one rolls.
Off to the Monster Ball!
They come from under your bed.
They come back from the dead.
They come from under the ground
Where only worms and dirt are found.
They come to the Monster Ball!
And at the Monster Ball, in Monstropolis Hall,
They dance! They prance! All at the magnificent Monster Ball!
And when the night is through,
And when the day is new,
They creep! They crawl. Jump and hop! They slither and sneak. They slink! They slide! They glide! Off to bed.
A cinquain poem for you!
Troubled
economy.
Worry, lay-offs, closings.
With coupons in hand, I wait and
I hope...
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