Voting: Poet Laureate Contest, 10/19 Oct 17, 2019 10:08:36 GMT -5
Post by Ministry of Labor on Oct 17, 2019 10:08:36 GMT -5
Welcome to the October Poet Laureate Contest, on the theme of fright. Below are the poems I received, ordered randomly by RANDOM.org. Anyone may vote in this contest, and the poem with the most votes earns its author the title of Poet Laureate! Remember, still do NOT share the authorship of any entry with anyone but me until the contest is over (5:00 P.M. Pacific, Thursday, October 24th).
Please give the poets their due courtesy and read over all the poems before voting.
Good luck to everyone, and may the best poet win!
As darkness, like a curtain, falls,
I need a place to hide,
Before the waves of horror come,
They'll flow in like the tide.
I'm all alone and miles from home,
In lands I do not know.
The forest fills my soul with dread,
Yet through it I must go.
A moan escapes from rotting lips,
So close that I could scream,
Oh how I pray that I could wake,
And find it was a dream.
The rattling of fleshless bones,
An arrow, past me, flies,
And just emerging from the mist,
I see their haunted eyes.
I take off running, through the trees,
in blind and frenzied flight.
I realize I've lost my sword,
So how now can I fight?
For hours through the brush I run,
Yet still they're just behind,
Adrenaline is wearing off,
And terror fills my mind.
There, ahead, the village, yes!!
My friends will shelter me.
Yet as the distance I do close,
No lights in town I see.
I hear a scream, so hideous,
So loud, and filled with pain,
Now Farmer Brown, my once dear friend,
Just wants to eat my brain.
I rush into the village church,
I close and lock the door,
I climb the ladder to the top,
My arms and legs now sore.
Then glorious, my eyes behold
The breaking of sunrise.
I watch as monsters writhe and burn,
Like bacon when it fries.
A man walks alone and turns not his head;
for fear of what in his wake does tread.
To honor Hallowe'en!
In one glad hour of joyous song
Forget your sorrow and your wrong,
So join the swelling choral throng,
All hailing Folly Queen;
From myriads of straining throats,
The air resounds with tuneful notes
Unto the Hunter's Moon.
And lift their strident voices high
Speed here and yonder in the sky,
And witches on their broomsticks spry
With flashes filched from noon;
The will-o'-wisps the forests fill
The beacon light shines on the hill,
As in the ancient days.
And again they walk the ways of earth
In one glad moment of rebirth,
And, full of song and ringing mirth,
That hid them from our gaze,
Emerging from the mist and shade,
The ghosts of all things past parade,
Parade, parade, parade.