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ABOUT THE CONTEST
Many poets who have been published by the Society of Classical Poets have had their poems linked to, and therefore promoted, by the news aggregator Whatfinger over the years. The people who put this grass-roots site together are genuinely interested in truth and justice despite being in a world that seems increasingly at odds with traditional values. In appreciation, we are hosting a contest here for the best poem dedicated to Whatfinger. It could directly be about Whatfinger or it could just be dedicated to Whatfinger.
Read more about Whatfinger and the people behind it by clicking here.
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SUBMIT
Post your poem (one poem per entrant) dedicated to Whatfinger directly in the comments section below. It’s easy. Just scroll down and post. Only one poem per entrant. (If you posted more than one, let us know which one you would like to keep and we will erase the others.)
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PRIZE
$100 and publication on Whatfinger.
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DEADLINE
April 1. Winner and honorable mentions announced April 10.
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SUBMISSION FEE
None
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WHO
Anyone anywhere may enter, with the exception of Mike’s own family who are not allowed to enter.
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JUDGE
Mike Bryant, SCP Moderator
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So, once again I’m talking with my wife
And she says “Did you hear about….can you believe it?”
Once again I say “Yeah, I heard about that 6 months ago.”
“How in the world do you have your finger on all this stuff?” she asked
I just couldn’t resist
“Whatfinger?” I said
Can you turn that into a poem?
Mike, as a published poet – this is one – while many write with pen or keyboard, I write mine with a sledgehammer
Here’s one from 2016
I’m reading a book about the history and future of genetics
I’ve made progress but not yet reached the central plates de rigueur
The kind of book a dilettante reads in order to be one
And the author has explained that most genes don’t do just one thing
but many, at different times in different combinations, cascades
genes manipulating proteins manipulating genes manipulating proteins
And since I know, dear reader, that you’ve studied my other work
it’s no surprise to you that this, to me, might be another proof of God
that I am explaining to my wife and she says
“Then you live in a snowglobe.”
Which reminded me of a short story by Philip K. Dick
and It’s probably not anything like this but here’s how I remember it:
The fifth grade project was to make a universe and the boy was real proud of his, it was beautiful and whimsical, the peoples peaceful and happy. He took it to school but it didn’t fit the political agenda – the teachers chastised and belittled him and the kids jeered. On the way home, the other boys and a girl made fun of him some more and made him cry and, all alone, he smashed his universe on the sidewalk.
And I wonder:
Would I do that?
Would He?
We are the race called man
We boast of our purpose at hand
The good we do for a brother
The deed we do for the other
The pains we take to right a mistake
When indeed we are making another
Tarnished Star
The Outlaws They Rode into Town
and Shot the Sheriff Down
A Stray Bullet did Mark a Pretty Young Heart
and now She lay Dead on the Ground
His one true Love is no More
for She Died by the Hands of the Men that he Searched for
and his Heart that was Filled with Love
is Now Driven by the Hate for the Man with the Gun in his Hand
There’s a Man with a Gun in his Hand
and He Rides the Deserts of the Western Bad Lands
Riding the Outlaw Trail
to Find these Badmen and Send’em to Hell
In the Desert He found a Man
Half Buried in the Sand
and There Upon his Chest
a Tarnished Starr was Pinned to his Vest
and He realized with Shame
That him and the Outlaws were one and the Same
and Wished that He was Through
with what he Had to Do
There’s a Man with a Gun in his Hand
and He Rides the Deserts of the Western Bad Lands
Riding the Outlaw Trail
to Find these Badmen and Send’em to Hell
He found them on that night
and the moon was shinning bright
He drew his 44 and told them they would kill no more.
He heard the shotgun blast
and knew he breathed his last
My love i’ll see you soon
and died by the light of the moon.
and the man with the gun in his hand
let the tarnish star slip from his hand
Vance M. Gilbreath
My son broke his neck when he was 16 and wrote the following poem after he came home from the hospital 6 months later, pretty good for a 16 year old that is a qaud:
HALO
By Adrian West, 1993
They screw it in, I scream and shout,
I’m in pain without a doubt.
Cuss and swear but cannot fight,
It is for my own good,
To a Halo what a fool.
Cannot move accept my eyes,
Doctor, please tell no lies.
No more Halo, it has been taken off,
Nothing man can do is enough.
Full of pain without a doubt,
Have become spiritual and more devout.
The natural body full of strife,
The spiritual body is eternal life.
For my good and in my fear,
A spiritual Halo given me this year.
No more faking, no more games,
Beginning to focus and use my brains.
All I see, unseen before,
That invisible force no longer a chore.
My heart, my love so deep within,
Has conquered the physical of Adam’s sin.
Skate Lives
A young boarder is angry
With his local skate scene
Always chased by security
They’re always so mean
What did I do?
Why do I run?
Just trying to have
Some boarding fun
Never occurring was the thought
That I’m not in my place
Maybe that’s why security
Is all up in my face
Grinding the mall fountain
Keeps bringing the heat
Day after angry day
Grind, run, repeat
Knowing not what to do
Because he’s just a young man
Skate Lives on the concrete
With an angry spray can
I am tired of running
I just want to ride
These words that I wrote
Will restore my pride
After this first public sign
The old boarders unite
All boarders have stories
This just isn’t right
The boarders decide
To clean up the blight
And then they go do
What we all know is right
They find the young boarder
To make it well known
Put down the spray can
We take care of our own
If you’re looking to fight me
My fists make me clear!
Whoa bro, go slow
That’s not why we’re here
We’ll show you what it means
To be who you are
You’re a boarder, be proud
Boards can carry you far
Just free your mind
We’ll do all the rest
We want you to meet
Who you are at your best
Come out on my boat
Said the boarder from wake
Bring all the skills
That you learn when you skate
Bring switch for blind landings
And landing with speed
What to do with the handle
Is all that you’ll need
Whirlybirds and back rolls
Let’s get productive
Out here your tantrums
Are much less destructive
When you get bored with your inverts
I’ll teach you some grabs
Wake wipeouts hurt much less
No road rash or scabs
Our boats are filled
With friend after new friend
We will wake surf the river
From end to end
And when we are done
With our day full of laughing
The tricks that we stuck
And ones we went crashing
You will leave my wake scene
With your eyes open wide
To what being a boarder means
Deep down inside
Now go ride
Come up to the slopes
Said the boarder from snow
Powder days are here
So get ready to go
Up here we all share
As we ride up the chair
Both skiers and boarders
And others who care
At the top we part ways
With new skiers we found
As they head for their moguls
To bump their way down
He looked at his board
The lesson was plain
I’m not built to follow them
Not without considerable pain
I’m a boarder I see
The path I’m to ride
I’ll meet my new skier friends
After I slide
We teach all young boarders
Who think only one board can matter
Strap your feet into my bindings
And that idea will shatter
Ride a day in my terrain park
Huge launch ramps we own
And our railslides are faster
Than any you’ve known
Steep drops and back bowls
And overnight snow drifts
Waist deep, can’t sleep
Right back to the chair lift
As a boarder my job
Is to help riders who fall
And sometimes help youngsters
Who think they know it all
Strap on your brain bucket
Let’s get out and about
Hitting the pow pow
Before it all gets tracked out
Try not to rag doll
On your way down
Yard sales on YouTube
Make you look like a clown
Rodeos and Mistys
All fully tweaked
McTwists and Shiftys
Adrenaline peaked
And when we are done
With our day full of laughing
The tricks that we stuck
And ones we went crashing
You will leave my snow scene
With your eyes open wide
To what being a boarder means
Deep down inside
Now go ride
Come out to the beach
Said the boarder from kite
I’ll show you a way
For you to fly right
The wind is kicking up
We are gonna fly high
Today you will learn how to
Ride your board in the sky
These boards are longer
Than the longest board you ride
But don’t be afraid
I’ll be right by your side
Send it into the power zone
Edge as fast as you might
Then flick your board back
When you boost your kite
With your board on your feet
Up up and away
Believe you can fly
It’s the only way
And when we are done
With our day full of laughing
The tricks that we stuck
And ones we went crashing
You will leave my kite scene
With your eyes open wide
To what being a boarder means
Deep down inside
Now go ride
All these boarders
made their point
Said the old surfer
smoking a joint
For one final lesson
Come out to the surf break
Reset your priorities
And peace you shall make
Out here we respect
Our ocean and tide
Our planet, our world
For our children to ride
If you question the wisdom
Of this crusty old boarder
Watch as I show you
Life’s pecking order
On a way outside roller
The longboarder rode proud
He had toes on his nose
Before he even got to the crowd
As he shot through the young bucks
None even dared
To drop in on this master
They just sat still and stared
A cross stepping boss
He rode his own way
Tucked into the barrel
He did not come to play
He owned that ride
And the whole crowd too
He was a proud old boarder
Through and through
Respect in this world
Is only commanded
Respect is not something
That can be demanded
So when you decide
You have something to say
Make the world hear you scream
By the course that you stay
Speak with your actions
Not only your words
And just like my barrel
Your voice will be heard
And when we are done
With our day full of laughing
The tricks that we stuck
And ones we went crashing
You will leave my surf scene
With your eyes open wide
To what being a boarder means
Deep down inside
Now go ride with pride
A Knock at the Door
Some bright day, when I have gone,
Perhaps you’ll think and speak of me with
Sadness on the tongue,
Trying to picture the man who wasn’t your pick.
But truly – it was just too late and too young,
All in all,
And foolish of us to take on chores of Spring
In the thick of the Fall.
But what of these two, fine children, you say –
And how do they measure ‘gainst the order of the day?
And how will they make our sad excuse
For what’s been and been elusive, after all?
Some dark night, thirty years on, when you are feeling old,
When you’re tired and your children are grown,
You’ll hear someone calling at the door as you retire,
Interrupting the corrupted song.
You will answer the door, sure that he is there.
But he will be gone.
And one can’t retrieve what one’s flung casually to the stars,
Nor can love be had for even a montain of gold.
On Whatfinger and America
Truth unfolds where circumspectly
evidence is viewed directly.
Thus Whatfinger rose to being
certain wisdom came from seeing
but for earnest aggregation
“news” becomes indoctrination
blatant as intimidation
— blazing hell of conflagration —
melting down our nation’s treasure,
liberty in lawful measure,
precious by articulation
progress knows as innovation
springing from so well respected
moral courage resurrected
liffted from its cemeteries
where the prayerful conscience tarries
holding sacred what is hallowed —
truths eternal never fallowed.
Mike —
If you leave this up, please remove the period after “seeing” in L4.
Thanks,
PB
Echoes of a Lost Companion
In a land of weary beasts, on a day most ill-fated,
Sat I by the ebbing embers, whilst singing a song ill-stated
As the gloaming, most maleficent, chased away the meridian hours,
A mutation indolent crept in, of which to thee I impart
Akin to one of a werewolf exposed to the lunar powers
Autumnal leaves fall to the earth,
A chill doth breeze, a mournful mirth.
The setting sun casts its final rays,
As the night descends, my heart doth stray
To memories of yore, a life now confined
In the dim light, I spy my companion’s visage,
A reminder of a life now lost to ravage.
I take a needle from my hand, marred by sores
And use a magical potion, to keep him nigh, though far
I converse with him, but the memories are obscure
We discourse of days long passed, of joy and woes,
Of the camaraderie we shared, that naught could oppose.
We reminisce of our youth, and the torment we bore,
And how we turned to magic, to flee and find a new shore
But as the effects wane, my companion vanishes, my eyes turning sore
I reach for more, to keep him by my side,
To keep the memories alive, to keep the pain aside.
But as I take more, my mind becomes hazy,
And I’m lost in the oblivion, my mind becomes lazy.
I query my companion, why he leaves me every morn,
And only returns when the night is born.
But he doesn’t answer, he just smiles and fades,
Leaving me alone, in a daze.
I strive to hold on, but my wits can’t bear the weight,
And I slip into unconsciousness, my mind sealed in a state.
In the morn I wake, with a head full of pain,
And the memories of my companion, driving me insane.
But forsooth, I’ll keep speaking with thee, as I age.
As the night falls once more, I grasp for the magic powder
Hoping to gaze upon thee again, despite the tragic end
But I know deep within, this is not the path,
To mend my shattered heart, or bring thee back from death’s wrath.
But forsooth, I’ll keep searching for thee, in my mind,
Hoping that one day, I’ll leave this cycle behind.
The memories fade, but my heart still aches
And I’ll keep taking the enchanted concoctions, for my mind’s sake
But the memory of the cold room, and the silence that ensued, forever will remain
But I know, deep down, this is not the way,
To mend my broken heart and find a new day.
I’ll break this cycle, and seek a new path,
To move on from the past, and find a brighter aftermath.
And though I’ll never forget the tragic end,
I’ll find solace in knowing we’ll meet again
The Door of Time
I.
Carry the weight of time
Like a sleepy child in arms
Too strong for such a priceless gram of gold.
Bend the verge of desire
Around the place you are,
Until you stir the flower in its fold.
Flush the quail of thought
Out of the bushy brain.
Aim for what real nourishment is there.
Bare the trembling wick
Of what would burn in you,
As long as there is flesh to feed the fire.
Give your face away
To another’s eyes,
And let the ghost within you dance above.
Talk to who you will be
When the world is gone,
And all that you can keep is how you love.
II.
There is a dark, dark doorway,
A cave within the sun,
Through which the ancient builders,
Returning one by one,
Have left a trail behind them,
An alphabet of weeds
Besieging mental sidewalks
With artillery of seeds.
Hear the forest laughter
Dancing in the gloom.
Hear the brilliant moments
Sing a childlike tune.
Read the deftly curling
Writing on the wall:
“Those who would go with the seed
Must let the flower fall.”
See the pitch black doorway
Open in the brain.
Step into electric
Storms of spirit rain.
Curl into magnetic
Lines of serpent power.
Feel the slivered second
Strike the rounded hour.
After grace and breakfast,
Begins the work again.
After death and taxes,
What is left at hand?
Alphabets of fire?
Artillery of clay?
And the dark, dark door of time
Through which the lovers play.
III.
In summer when the moon is full
She teaches me to love again.
She is the spirit of the corn.
Of gentle rain and soothing wind.
In winter when the moon is new,
Beneath the quilt of snow and dark,
She teaches me to penetrate
Her delicate and wondrous art.
She revives my heart with love,
Then thrills my soul with mystery.
Doubly she confounds me, for
Each half of her has history.
Her summer half, so sweet and warm,
Is sometimes lotus, sometimes rose,
The Virgin first, then Magdalene,
Agape dancing with eros.
First, she is a lotus flower,
A Kwan Yin of inclusive grace,
As I am one with all that lives
When I behold her soothing face.
But then she slips her other mien
Of wild, rapturous ecstasy
Into my heart, and I’m a man
Brimful of pride and certainty.
Thus she becomes my fearless guide
To all the arts of love’s embrace.
Our bodies fuse in joyous warmth
When I behold her ardent face.
Then her winter half provides relief
From kinds of love that haven’t been defined.
But this is no vacation for, as she
Awakens me, she blows my gobsmacked mind!
As muse, she’s always happy to impart
Her experience of fulfilling goals.
As sweet reason’s germ of science and art,
She comes with dreams and is, through dreams, made whole.
For it was she that men claimed as their own,
Then burned her at the stake to hide the deed.
They made a world of marvels from her bones.
A sterile world, alas, without her seed.
Still she engenders life and gauges well.
She has no care for triumph or revenge.
She is the gyroscopic hub of truth
That shows how every excess countertends.
So as she leads me stepwise through the spheres,
While orchestrating countless harmonies,
Her cunning face assures me of my part
Among the tiny, vital subtleties.
Then, as I finally somewhat comprehend
The intricate demonstrations of her thought,
She turns her staggering depths on me again,
And all my proud philosophy comes to naught,
When I behold her mystic face.
Hello, I know I passed the due date, but I would still like to support this contest and so here are my few lines:
The American ideal of freedom they caught,
As Whatfinger let people discern dark from light,
To let people know the truth would be good, they thought.
Both sides listened to, the true story they got,
Since freedom of speech is the American’s right,
The American ideal of freedom they caught.
Criticism with the blade of a pen they fought,
Amidst this, they did not disdain to show their might.
To let people know the truth would be good, they thought.
Unlike the others, not by China where they bought,
Supported by those who they helped through the dark night,
The American ideal of freedom they caught.
To get to the bottom of things, they work a lot,
But they do it with the ease of flying a kite.
To let people know the truth would be good, they thought.
Important it is, to have truth in every jot,
May those who support truth no longer need to fight.
The American ideal of freedom they caught.
To let people know the truth would be good, they thought.