I Haven’t the Time

by SerenaLantha
1st place Why I Can’t Write a Poem Contest


My mind is filled with many things,

Things of peace and beauty too;

Yet with a busy day ahead of me,

There is nothing I can do

But scribble down a word or three

Describing nature’s infinity

In the margins of a page

Featuring the factoring tree.

Having to hurry to a class

I enjoy after my share of dread

Leaves me with little time

To relieve my weary head

Of words meant for and best spent

On a poem to write and post;

No, I’m too busy, unfortunately,

Learning about ships

On some foreign coast.

My mind becomes heavy

With definitions and facts

Like what makes a simile

And how laws become acts;

This knowledge stems

From used textbooks

And pictureless pages

At which I am forced to look.

Oh, how I curse them

Silently! Oh, how I despise

The strain they cause

To my squinting eyes.

These books, books, books!

They hurt my head,

My neck, back, and more-

This learning business

Has become a real chore.

I say all this with a rising guilt,

For I have not the time

To compose a verse

Or even jot down a rhyme.

I miss my metaphors

And alliterations, of course;

Listing my reasons

Makes this seem even worse.

I know learning has purpose

And is not just a pain;

But I’d rather be writing

If it’s all just the same.


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by Killerelite
2nd place Why I Can’t Write a Poem Contest


My mind a jumbling mass.
Words are there but will not come out.
Not like fishing this task of mine.
A culmination of preparation and documentation,
along with the salutation and utilization of poetic imagination
is being hindered by the immobilization and inactivation
and confounded debilitation and inebriation of the artistic cortex.
Hence the inability for demonstration or minor exemplification to create.
My only explanation having much fabrication without imagination
is one favoring lack of identification of, collaboration with, attention to,
and least of all personification with and gratification for any word, leaving me blank.
No longer having consideration for further modification of the lines on this page,
as I now possess the disinclination for the illustration of poetry.
On to relaxation!


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My brother told me once

by tlhopkinson
3rd place Why I Can’t Write a Poem Contest


“If you want to be good at something when you’re drunk, learn how to do it when you’re drunk.” This he says as he explains the appeal of combining beer and golf. I nod my head, thinking maybe I would be as passionate and patient a poet as my brother is at golf if I had only waited to write my first lines and stanzas alongside an emptied flask, stumbling feet, and spinning head. To my misfortune, I first wrote poetry with the sober hand of a child—sober, yet worry-free, relaxed, and curious. This same inspiration now only comes to my ragged, grown hands once I’ve freed my mind and filled my gullet with word inducing wine. Trying to fool my fingers into typing without my liquid muse causes nothing but a blinking cursor and treacherous boredom. Pouring into myself and out of myself in the midst of selfish inebriation turns me into Dickinson—pale and mysterious, until I read my ramblings over a cup of hangover the next morning and see Bukowski—old and dirty, looking back at me from the page. I want to glide in white, but instead, I’m swinging for a hole in one.


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Ode to the possibilities of the New Year

by summergrace
1st place New Year Ode Contest


I sit and speculate

About life, about fate

About what will happen in

The New Year


I sip champagne

And think of the months

To come- of summer in

The New Year


Midnight disapears

Time vanishing

As I’m lost in thoughts

Of the possibilities of

The New Year


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Ode to the Coming Year

by SerenaLantha
2nd place New Year Ode Contest


The time has come again, it seems,

To contemplate what the past year has wrought;

I recall the happenings like a dream,

Each broken promise and lesson self-taught.

The memories flow through my mind,

Each one acting as a stepping stone,

All as a path I must follow the next year;

Friends come and go, true ones hard to find,

Which often leaves me quite alone-

May they be bountiful in the coming year.

I hope for peace and love and joy

In winter months, and I hope for it soon;

I pray for happiness in every girl and boy

Under the rays of the sun and shine of the moon.

This coming year, I hope to see

Smiles in the spring, summer, and fall-

I pray for everything to simply be right;

As impossible as this might be,

This is my wish for one and all,

This my wish at the stroke of midnight.


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Ode to the Acorn

by tlhopkinson
3rd place New Year Ode Contest


Criss cross the calendar’s

thirty-first box, another annual

course passes like an acorn

in the gutter—drifting

and bumping along

toward the drain.


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