Poem -

Sore Loser

It was story time
 
and I shared mine
 
I did not win
 
and that was fine
 
but kind of not
 
I wipe my snot
 
 
Their entries I thought

rather shallow,

like forget-me-nots

upon the fallow

My tale was tilled

its grains well-milled
 
 
Over the fires

my grey did sweat

to incubate

a precious pet

a narrative

comparatively
 
superior
 
It read a mix
 
of politics,
 
merged history
 
with interior
 
 
T'was a personal

compilation
 
with widest application
 
Could the judges not tell--
 
not even smell--
 
the "winning" submissions
 
were so ever obviously
 
inferior?
  
For what did they
 
convey
 
but emotion alone;
 
a passing sentiment;
 
a wisp of cloud;
 
nothing in stone
 
 
Yet mine had meaning
 
It had a point!
 
I lick my wounds
 
I smoke a joint
 
Does no one care
 
'bout social ills...

No conviction
 
Just cheap thrills?
 
 
Civilisation
 
continues to crumble
 
My screams for change
 
muffled to a mumble,
 
while privileged nannies
 
knit pleasantries on hangers,
 
drop no clangers
  
into sweet baked pie,
  
seed only words
 
of minutiae
 
 
While people hurt
 
and life is pain
 
among the poor
 
upon this train
 
of a humanity
 
that's gone insane
 
A reality that jarrs
 
with incongruity
 
and bruises my pituitary

 
I can't refrain
 
  
And that is why
 
my myth didn't fly
 
my nightmare didn't wash:
 
no one wants to wade
 
through defecated slosh
 
 
We flush our sins away
 
drown our sibling's tears
 
to yesterday:
  
the oppressed lay behind us
 
never before
 
Their cries are history
 
they are no more
 
 
What injustice we thrusted
 
just a moment ago
 
lies in the past
 
and on we go
 
 
Iron and salt
 
bleed into a stream no longer
 
tangible,
 
they flow into
 
a tip
 
no longer manageable
 
of garbage
 
cindering upon the altar
 
of trashy unreal Media
 
 
The shock is too much
 
for duck-down babies to take
 
We must keep the toddlers sleeping
 
But my entry could not fake
 
Instead,
 
it pried their eyes awake
 
just enough for them

to judge my rant

as deviant
 
and not the kind of word
 
worth a reward--
 
only censure,
 
to maintain
 
this civil dementia

 

 

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Comments

author
Cherie Sumner-Taylor

Hi Al...I understand the frustration vented in this poem...It seems the world does not really care about what matters....and I am disheartened by what I see as well.  As writers, we write of what we see of the world that needs expression, even if the world does not listen.  It is a sad fact.  I never understand the qualifications of poetry contests and rarely agree on who judges pick as winners...sometimes even insulted as well.  Great theme to write about. xo ;) 

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