Well, someone who’s already voted may want to change their vote once they see they have new choices, so that doesn’t seem to be a problem to me. If you’re serious about a poll, you want to collect the candidates before polling begins, no?
Well, someone who’s already voted may want to change their vote once they see they have new choices, so that doesn’t seem to be a problem to me. If you’re serious about a poll, you want to collect the candidates before polling begins, no?[/quote]
Cool. Suggestions for a time-frame?
Ten days sounds fine.
It didn’t take me long to write mine.
Erm . . . Some people might feel slighted if they submit a poem but aren’t included in the poll. :neutral:
What rhymes with jimi?
Gimme rimmy
How do people feel about submitting more than one poem? I’m going to change my original entry.
Uh, I feel like I’ve already done my work, but some
might need a few tries to match my brilliance.
(Note: I’m currently winning with 100% of all votes tallied! 
)
OK. As Moderator of the GREAT POETRY SHOWDOWN, I have amended the rules. Don’t ask WHY. Just live with my omnipotence.
First Amendment: Only one poem per poster.
Second Amendment: You may edit/replace your poem at any time before November 14th, 12PM Taipei MEAN time.
Third Amendment: Votes will only be valid if cast after this deadline.
Fourth Amendment: Wake up, slackers. You have nine days to cast your pearls. Do so wisely.
The cat
Sat
On the mat.
[quote=“Chris”]The cat
Sat
On the mat.[/quote]
Cheating. Plagiarism. Take two weeks out to contemplate what you’ve done.
That’s a fucking fruitbowl, man. Not as severe an indiscretion as Mr Chris’ so I’ll allow you a haiku.
Its NOT the Great Pottery Showdown?
Blue-glazed ceramic fruitbowl
Chills the heart’s cockles
And ends the quest
Undone I am.
Here’s an oldie for you Jimi. Is that cheating?
Plus I don’t really know if it qualifies as a poem.
Luck
They call it night rain;
the hushed nocturnal clatter of
mahjong tiles being shuffled.
At 2am, it’s the final remnants of the cacophony;
the muffled sound of souls fishing for luck.
It floats in through my window
from the surrounding apartment blocks.
They’ll need that luck tomorrow
when they spill out onto the streets
devoid of footpaths.
Here you enter the world
like you entered life;
right smack bang in the middle
of all the action.
Luck is your armor;
a thin force-field of good fortune
that can rot, leak and even invite mishap
if not charmed by audaciousness.
It can’t be cornered or even netted;
and a river of woe flows through those who try,
for luck is a treacherous bitch of a master
that thrives on the bait and switch.
Yet thus charmed by those of bold vision,
should their minds remain open
and their will remain their own,
luck turns serendipitous –
a left field source of love and discovery
with answers to questions not yet asked,
a wormhole into the unknown unknowns.
So be brave, daring, intrepid and audacious.
Yes, charm that mother madly.
Step out into the world of no footpaths.
Make your own way.
Good luck.
Mr Fox enters the fray! Game on! :bravo:
[quote=“sandman”]Its NOT the Great Pottery Showdown?
Blue-glazed ceramic fruitbowl
Chills the heart’s cockles
And ends the quest
Undone I am.[/quote]
I was going to put up a picture of a tree, but nobody would believe I made it.
[quote=“Dr. McCoy”]
I was going to put up a picture of a tree, but nobody would believe I made it.[/quote]
Post a poem. I know you have some.
Punch the monkey
The flatulence should remain blazed
I ask why?
[quote=“jimipresley”][quote=“Dr. McCoy”]
I was going to put up a picture of a tree, but nobody would believe I made it.[/quote]
Post a poem. I know you have some.[/quote]
I don’t have any poems. But I have some exquisite modern art that I offered to let a Forumosan purchase, any Forumosan, and didn’t have any takers. So the offer was rescinded.
Kiss your pockmarked, centuries-old face,
Your smacked-out junkie lips
In the bone-chilling cold of the subterranean cast concrete,
Bastardized by the profane ineptitude of the disadvantaged
With still the hard cold skag-cash that could not have been
Better spent.
Still I get a hardon and my mind swoons.
Your goose-pimpled thighs run rough under my chapped hands,
But I care not.
I’m getting my hole. I can feel it. I can taste it. Smell.
The last night’s hair gel and mascara run down my cheeks
And I taste it like a bitter miasma of things I should have done
(Had I heeded my parents’ advice)
And I revel in the utter revulsion,
The utter awareness that I’m in the
Moment
And you’re not.