Week 12 entries and results

Saturday, 22 February 2014

We had nine  poems submitted in response to the photograph above by Ariba Ahmed, and after the anonymous reader vote all author’s names have been added and I am delighted to announce that the winning poem is Delicate Spring Flower by Anita Pinto. Many thanks and congratulations to Anita and to all the poets who bravely submitted poems this week. This was a difficult subject, sensitively  handled by all the poets who entered. In second place was Shay Crinkle’s poem Son of Atropos.


Please read the poems  below  and choose the one you like best. The authors names will be added after voting is complete. Just vote for one poem and please don’t vote for your own, it won’t be counted.

Votes to be in by Saturday 22nd February 10am please.


Poem 1

A Child Under The Stars    

You cannot hear me scream
you cannot read my thoughts
everything is falling, falling

The moon is wailing
as the camera snaps
the silence in my heart

Eileen Carney Hulme



Poem 2

Delicate spring flower

Petals trembling

In morning dew

Waiting for the noonday sun

To warm its heart

Help it grow.



An ugly black caterpillar

Climbs the stem

Eats its leaves

Destroys the petals

One by one

Taking over its soul.

O help us God

Bring back

The Paradise

That once was ours.

 Anita Pinto


Poem 3 – removed at poet’s request


Poem 4




“Mine’s bigger than yours,” Davey said

When we played in the field with our wood

And plastic guns. His was a gorgeous thing;

Polished to a shine, the barrel glinting

In the sun with promise. Accuracy and poise

In the game where you had to play dead

Till you could rejoin when someone said

Or tend a wound as long as, hurt, you turned aside,

Counted to a hundred, took no one’s side.


In Africa, in killing fields a country wide

Boys and girls can’t turn aside

From real guns; gorgeous, shining,

Polished to death and promising

In the game the Lord’s Resistance Army

Makes them play. No one to tend a wound;

Dead behind the eyes. Accuracy and poise?

The difference between us and these girls and boys

The size and cost of their toys.

Michael Docker


Poem 5

Son of Atropos

The boy still soils himself

At night

Trained to applaud violence

By day


His beautiful eyes sparkle

As they seek out fleecy animals

Regardless of what

They may be stuffed with


Fragile and small

Building strength

To grip and control

A spoon? A fork?

Perhaps one day

A pencil



He has the potential

To pull a lever

A trigger

Of a metallic death stick

The length of his body

Its power disguised by its


With fresh soil

Comes the Gardener’s true


To plant in the human skull

The seeds of ‘duty’

The bulbs of ‘delirium’

Watered by blood

Fed by the light of seduction

A Sauceror’s concoction

To create a sprout

Fresh and vigorous

Enthusiasm and vitality

Bursting at the seems

With a heart

Blackened and polished

By the blood thirsty

Mouth of its


With no option

But to thrive

To strive

To survive

And to end

The lives

Of others

And only

Through true contribution

He will fulfil his purpose

Lead them to their final fate

Continue the tradition

To poison

And reduce Earth’s population.

Shay Crinkle


Poem 6

Sweet little boy, holds on to his toy,

his little heart bursting with joy

All the grown ups look on and smile

at the lovely little boy who in a short while

will be older and bolder in the blink of an eye


with gun holder on shoulder..

preparing to die.



Poem 7


——-to live by the gun…

a poet once wrote:
“the gun that killed Hitler
was a beautiful gun.”

This is my gun,
that killed our dictator.

ADHD, Damp and Tourette
we had it all.

DAD was a military man,
a believer:
LOYALTY to royalty
know your DUTY,
your place.
ART a perversion.

This is a crime scene
with MY instrument

We take care of our own,
so our brother killed
his wife and kids too.

Reg Fallah


Poem 8

The Birthday Present

On his first birthday, not only did he take,

His first steps, he also received his first rifle.

The other kids envious, watched how

He torn the wrapped silver and blue paper.

One little girl ran over to pick up the discarded paper

Excited by its metallic colour, couldn’t see anything

Interesting in the rifle.

His mother remarks, ‘look how he puts the top

Of the rifle in his mouth and watch’, she points

With a trembling hand so dirty, with eaten finger nails

Giggling she turns to the other rebel fighters

‘His face, he doesn’t like the taste’?

Through the course of the birthday party

She marvelled, how he tripped over the rifle

Told him not to be a big baby when he cried

She had cooked a special tea after all.

Her superior son had saved them, born at the right time.


Johanna Boal


Poem 9

They were not the ones


They were not the ones

Who ordered the trees to be silent

Who gagged the spring birds

They stand in the glow of the rising sun

Worrying about what will happen

 Anna Mickiewicz