The following collection of poems are the winners and runners up from our “Escape” micro fiction vs poetry contest (Sept-Oct 2012).  Competition entrants were asked to write no more than 150 words with the theme of “escape”.

For more details about our current and past contests, visit our Competitions Page.

The winners from the micro fiction category can be viewed HERE.

 

 

 

 

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1st Place

 

Drive

By Rich Mather

 

Let us drive, you and I,

to a hotel in the city.

Turn the radio on and let the landscape fly.

Let the apple boughs sway in the sun if they want to.

If the wind stirs the lilacs,

what’s that to you?

Why camp out by the lake,

when we can drink brandy in a bar,

stay awake all night,

sip whisky on the bed,

whistle to strangers on the street below.

Let’s go, you and I,

to a hotel in the city.

There’s nothing here but fields of grass and open sky.

Let the others sit in chairs and fall asleep if they want to.

Tell them that we intend

to take a different point of view.

Why wait another second,

when we can be together,

just us and the lonely road,

let us go right now

and see the world from a hotel window.

 

 

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Runners Up

 

Escape

By Rebecca J. Crompton

 

I slipped away one night to my bedroom up above

For I harbour a secret to escaping the mundane

My body was the vessel, my soul the passenger and my yearning was the fuel

I charged my body till I couldn’t stand any more

It spilled out off my hands and leaked from my toes

Scents of delicious fruits and Sensations of velvet ran down my limbs

I opened my eyes and I looked at my room, raised my hand

Where upon my finger touched the wall

Like a painters brush my finger marked the walls

With colours the rainforest of Brazil would look upon and envy

I span around the room smearing where my desire pulled me

But all too soon my power drained and I looked upon my work

It faded and I sighed, the blank canvas of life returned

But I would also return again,

Tomorrow.

 

Mars in the Midlands

By Cathy Bryant

 

Bruising thighs on table corners

racing to get to the bathroom

before the others in the morning

– a tangle scramble of limbs voices

arguing radios playing cosy house

full to bursting point look what

a mess a massive pile of dirty

dishes schoolbags coats shoes

all simple stuff jamming with

coughs clothes movements

 

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– later, in a rare moment, she

revels in the sense of quiet,

luxuriating in the delicious fragile

solitude. She can hear a faint

rustle as she turns a page. She

sighs inside at Bradbury’s vision

of bleak Martian wastes, wonders

why he keeps using the word

‘lonely’ when it sounds so perfect,

is wistful for sad spreading planets.