30 for 30 Winning Poem

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The voting is in and Diane Park’s “Night” has garnered the most votes with a total of 89. Congratulations Diane!

Diane will receive a copy of my novella The Appointment.

Thank you again to all who participated.

Stay tuned to this web site for upcoming creative challenges

Mike

 

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Time To Vote For Your Favorite Poem

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It’s now time to vote for your favorite wildest poem.

If you have not had a chance to read all the poems posted in this year’s 30 for 30, please take some time to do so. We had some very wild poems from some very wild poets, so read through them, choose one and vote by selecting the radial button beside the poem of your choice and clicking on vote.

The poet whose poems garners the most votes will receive a signed copy of my new novella, The Appointment, scheduled for release on May 8.

Please spread the word. And thank you to all the poets who participated this year, to everyone who came by and read and to those individuals who shared their comments.

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Diane Wilbon Parks

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Night

She stood as dark as ever, waiting for me to follow.
I chose her canopy for covering
and faded into her like clouds.
She sleepwalks in my skin,
questioning the sound of my moods.
We’ve been here before.

Our souls crossed, as she tucks the moon in my hair.
We’ve lain on the subtle hills of her slanted cliffs
and mountain tops, trimmed in heavy kohl,
sprinkling dust over pitched blue moons and pillows,
while craving the intractable lips of her rivers.

My eyes quickly fold, then flow through her mouth,
kissing the banks of her salty lips,
as she stands stronger and darker than ever,
glistening like diamonds, peeking out of shadows.

She eagerly plucks the soul of wild children,
leaving their flesh to become
lifeless sentences of old intellect.
She wears truth like sandals.

I’m left; bald, with the heartbeat of a wind,
I can’t convince any longer.
She drags me into the string of songs that a sandman carries.
I go into her, eagerly.  Night.

© 2017 Diane Wilbon Parks

Diane Wilbon Parks is the author and publisher of two poetry collections, Rearview Thoughts; and most recently, The Wisdom of Blue Apples. Her poems have appeared in American Poet’s Society’s Anthology, Expressions, Great Poems of the Western World; Echoes: Voices from Prince George’s County Poets. Diane has shared and inspired high school and college students with the visual imagery and use of metaphors and personifications in her poetry. She is a Senior IT Program Manager, a PMP, an United States Air Force Veteran and UMUC Graduate. She’s a member of University of Maryland’s Honor Society: Phi Kappa Phi, and University of Maryland, University College’s Honor Society: Alpha Sigma Lambda. Diane resides in Maryland with her husband, Eric and two adult children, Sean and Shelby, and dog, Cooper.


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Who Says April Only Has 30 Days?

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This year, April has 32 and so I’m adding two extra poems, one today and one tomorrow. Well let’s be honest — I screwed up, but what better way to screw up than to have more poetry! So National Poetry Month is hereby officially extended for two more days.

Please stay tuned. On May third, it will be time to start voting for your favorite poem, So in the meantime, please review all the wild poems and be ready to cast your vote.

I do want to take the time to thank all of those wonderful poets who participated in this year’s 30 for 30 and to all of you — the readers — who came by every day to check out WILD poetry.

Until next year…

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Marian Shapiro

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This poem is available as a PDF to preserve formatting. Please click on the link:

Intervention

© 20170 Marian Shapiro

Marian Kaplun Shapiro loves Poetry Month – all those unique unknown works to discover! Marian is the author of a professional book, Second Childhood (Norton, 1988), a poetry book, Players In The Dream, Dreamers In The Play (Plain View Press, 2007) and  two chapbooks: Your Third Wish, (Finishing Line, 2007); and The End Of The World, Announced On Wednesday (Pudding House, 2007). A Quaker and a psychologist, her poetry often embeds the topics of peace and violence by addressing one within the context of the other. A resident of Lexington, she is a five-time Senior Poet Laureate of Massachusetts. She was nominated for the Pushcart Prize in 2012.

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Scott Davis Howard

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This poem is available as a PDF to preserve formatting. Please click on the link:

The Post Hole Digger

© 2017 Scott Davis Howard

Scott holds an MA in British literature from the University of Montana, Missoula (2008), is an Agnes Meyer Teacher of the Year nominee, and is an author of a novel and short stories. He spends his days regaling his 12th grade students with thrilling tales about Beowulf, Sir Gawain, Macbeth, and Dorian Gray, and his nights ferrying his offspring between the soccer field and Cub Scout meetings. In his rare moments of quiet (when the children are eating snacks in the van, spilling crumbs all over the carpet), he wonders when and how he became a soccer mom. He wrote the original
draft of his debut novel, Three Days and Two Knights, on an outdated laptop, standing in his kitchen with an infant strapped to his chest.

His newest short story can be found here: http://www.piedmontjpf.com/oneknight

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Tawanda E. Prince

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Haunted House

Ghosts and goblins
Monsters and ghouls
My house is haunted
Cause I’ve been a fool
Skeletons in my closet
Bones on my floor
Remnants and fragments
Of a life that is no more

Black cat in the window
Witches brew in the pot
Spooks in the alley
Trying to get what I got
And I gave of myself
When the fire got hot

Jack was no lantern
And the monster didn’t mash
The noise that was heard
Was my heart as it crashed
When the mummy came walking
With his crystal balls
My house wasn’t ready
Cob webs on my walls
He slipped in beside me
And troubled my head
My house became haunted
When he got in my bed

Rats and rattlesnakes
Spiders and worms
Taunting and teasing
Each one took a turn
This vampire was thirst
For a taste of my blood
Each kiss was more deadly
Each time we made love

Then he just vanished
Before one early dawn
Blood on my carpet
Tombstone on my lawn
Now my house is haunted
There is no doubt
I can’t escape it
My secret is out
Skeletons in my closet
Bones on my floor
Remnants and fragments
Of a life that is no more.

©1998 Tawanda E. Prince

Tawanda Prince, a native New Yorker, earned a Bachelor of Arts degree in English, from Hunter College; and a Master of Arts in Teaching, from Bowie State University.

Tawanda Prince, “The Good Life Coach”, is a published author, dynamic conference and retreat speaker, knowledgeable teacher, and compassionate mentor and life coach. Her professional profile includes a diverse background of teaching, writing, leadership and communication.  She also conducts personal, spiritual and professional development workshops across the country.

Tawanda has written and produced two gospel stage plays; Timeless: A Soulful Christmas Musical, and Put a ring On It. Additionally, she is the author of three empowering books, Wonderful Words of Life, Nouns, Verbs and Other Words and Thunder Knocking at My Heart.  Tawanda’s creative talents as a poet, singer, songwriter, drummer and actress have been widely showcased and she has various television, radio, stage and performing credits to add to her list of accomplishments. You may contact her at CoachTawandaprince@gmail.com or www.Thegoodlifecoach.net.

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Valeri Beers

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In My Wildest Dreams

I’m moving
to
Croatia
to be
a poet
on
Youtube

I’m the
Queen.
Lord Edward
of
Lincoln
Lady Rachel
of
the Ridge.

My
wildest dreams
are dreamed
on a
rural ridge
where wildlife
lives.

Unpheasant
the patridge
checks in
a
couple times
a
season.
Woodpeckers tapping
for
dominance
in
my backyard.
The
dead deer
in
the road,
white car smoking,
wind ruffling
the
brown fur
on
it’s neck.
Even
my cat
is described as
a
“little wild creature”
by the internet.

Ok Google,
how do  you say
poet
in Croatian?

© 2017 Valeri Beers

Valeri Beers is a poet from Bangor, Maine. She has been published in many online and print journals. Her poetry site is www.wordsoftheval2000.wordpress.com.

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Dave Lego

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Big Yellow Now

They sell merchandise
an unbending juggernaut
with a cartel formula sleek
and a winning HOT blog

Don’t the ways seen be known
you don’t know what you want to own
they sell merchandise
an unyielding juggernaut

oooohhh buy bye buy bye
oooohhh bye buy bye buy

They took all the people
put ’em in a people museum
then they charged all the robots
a bitcoin over cost just to be them

Don’t the ways seen be known
you don’t know what you want or own
they sell merchandise
an unending juggernaut

oooohhh chop-chop chop-chop!
oooohhh chop-chop chop-chop!

Hey charmer charmer
put away those tea leaves now
sell me lots of crap
but leave me the parks and the breeze
Please!

Don’t the ways seen be known
you don’t know what you need to own
they sell merchandise
an unyielding juggernaut

oooohhh stop stop stop stop!
oooohhh stop stop stop stop!

Late last night
I saw the screen hologram
and the Big Yellow Now
well, it took away our old plan

Don’t the ways seen be known
you don’t know what to want or own
roll-out a bargain price
buying more stuff for what

oooohhh buy bye buy bye

Don’t the ways seen be known
we don’t know what we want or own
the people hypnotized
an undreamt of juggernaut

oooohhh bye buy bye buy

They roll loaded dice
and squeeze out another shot

oooohhh buy bye buy bye

We pay for paradise
and put up with more parking – LOTS!

A ha ha ha ha ha ha haaa!

© Dave Lego 2017-04-09

Bio: Make something up!

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Nicole A Yurcaba

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Final Confession

My grandmother flirted with the
priest who visited her at home
each week, about Wednesday,
to hear her confession.

I can’t, in reality, blame her:
my grandfather, nine or ten
years gone; my grandmother,
frank and feisty, a woman who
refused the labels “canner” and
“cutter” despite her knee-length
skirt, her tissues carefully tucked
in her watch’s silver wristband.

Those afternoons, from where I sat
on the stairwell adjacent to the room
where she sat knee-to-knee with the Father,
I saw her, on more than one occasion,
take his hand and demand
Father, I know you’ve told me before,
but tell me again, please,
that I am forgiven.

© 2016 Nicole A Yurcaba

Nicole Yurcaba is a Gothic subculture member, a Ukrainian-American, and an English instructor at Bridgewater College in Bridgewater, VA. Her chapbook Hollow Bottles, ​which reflects on music and human futility, is available on Amazon.

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