Young Writers Society

13.
Curse of the Swan's Pirouette

moonbeams plié upon the
midsummer waters
bows to the raven shadow and
illuminates the dance of the
fireflies in tempo
of my heart's allegro
tickled by your breath
a whisper in the night
lifting me to the glittering
tinsel chanting the ballad
of your body's adagio
bewitching the swan's pirouette
twirling and twirling
and twirling in swirling
mists of fate's dying magic
fluid sweeps and daring leaps
caught in the arms of the fowl
left swiftly to rot in the
feathers of the patriarch
broken and useless
painfully worthless
alone in the spotlight
where everyone can see
where no one should be

14.
Center of the Universe

master of the skies
marks my naked body
in a flurry of flaming flares,
forever damaged by his rays
radiating an unbreakable hypnosis
which lingers in my soul,
calls me his own,
designates a place for me
for all creation to see what
they cannot have.
his blazing whispers
lick my skin with hunger,
his touch fire to my senses,
a solar beam burrowing into
the core of my heart,
embracing my chest with a
heated passion for more.

king of the stars
flaunts his majesty with pride,
knows he always wins,
the jewels on his fingers
rivaling the rings of saturn,
a glistening cluster of stars
in the pupils of his eye.
his gravity pulls me in, but
my inertia freezes me in place,
laying claim to his venus
with a comet's kiss,
astronomical bliss,
a fascination in sync
with the cosmos, forever
the center of the universe.

15.
Said Is Dead

There once was an author named Fred
who refused to write dialogue with "said."
He "added," "replied,"
"flabbergasted," and "cried,"
but then realized perhaps "said" was not dead.

Ahaha, I love! C:

I also really enjoyed 'Curse of the Swan's Pirouette'!

16.
Author's Fantasy

dance of the fairy fire
candlewick burning in the
blanket of midnight,
illuminating my heart
scripted across pages of
loving aggression,
enchanting depression,
strategic confession for
mystical obsession
of cryptic magic dusted 
over the eyes of the dragon,
carved by sword upon
yellowed paper,
penning the monarchy
overthrown by the elements
bowing to nature's wrath,
leaving knightful watch a 
myth, dying in time to the
tune of the dancing fairy upon
the dimming candlelight.

17.
Emotional Unity

bittersweet tears
smile at the memory,
sob at the thought as
dread and love 
twist together,
bones cracking,
skin peeling and
folding into extravagant
origami castles
defending a heart
flooded with cheap
wine consumed
from a plastic cup.

18a.
Judas

the patient lion waits near mouth of devil's cave,
scouring barren fields for his next victim's heart.
the prophet had spoken, for the price of a slave,
the traitor of all would, in history, take part.

greed pilfered the one for whom honor was meant
as you criticized the faithful woman knelt on the floor,
questioned the worth of the precious perfume's scent,
masking your selfish query with concern for the poor.

you took the bread dipped in the dish we all shared,
and ate the last supper with the man you betrayed,
but you saw him broken, bloody, scorned, and ensnared,
your pockets singing tunes of your thirty coins paid.

you fled from the priests, broken heart shunned with shame,
temple grounds scattered with silver and desperate plea,
tainted money spent on cursed land in your name
where your body hung limply for anyone to see.

and there your form fell with an echoing thud,
your bowels gushed out in the field of blood.


18b.
Here in the Field of Blood

Jeremiah's words are proven to be true
with thirty silver coins of labor's wages due.
The Son of Man betrayed as Scripture foretold,
the Son of God redeemed and saved us tenfold.
The prophecy fulfilled here in the Field of Blood.

She washed His feet with perfume's delight,
honoring the One of God's eternal might,
but all you could see was its earthly worth,
and dared to halt worship of virgin birth.
Man's greed earns death here in the Field of Blood.

We broke this bread, His own body true,
and drank the wine, His righteous blood, too,
as friends and fraud feel something is odd--
with haste, he dismisses the traitor of God!
The dipped bread rots here in the Field of Blood.

The Son of Man, betrayed with a kiss,
led away by man's ignorant bliss;
scorned and stricken, flogged and beaten--
you fled the sight a remorseful cretin.
Your sins laid bare here in the Field of Blood.

You tossed aside your silver reward,
your desperate pleas promptly ignored.
You hanged yourself dry of sins, guilt, and shame,
while the body of Christ died for your name.
Sin's reign is dead here in the Field of Blood.

19a.
Did You Know You Bore the Cross of Christ?

Did you know you bore the cross of Christ,
the son of God and man?
When you trudged ahead, back worn and sliced,
did you know this was His plan?

Did you hear the jeering crowds nearby,
scorning His own name?
When you dragged your feet with heave and sigh,
did you hear Him take the blame?

Did you see the hatred in their eyes,
disgust and sinful wrath?
When you slacked and stumbled 'neath red skies,
did you see Him walk the path?

Did you taste the bitterness of doubt,
call Him the King of Jews?
When you gasped for air amidst their shouts,
did you taste the blood accused?

Did you feel the weight of guilty sin,
the debt we all must owe?
When you gripped the cross piercing your skin,
did you feel Christ's stinging woe?

Did you know you bore the cross of Christ,
our Savior's final stand?
When you walked the path which paid the price,
did you know this was His plan?

19b.
You saw Messiah

You saw Messiah on the shore
a growing crowd He freely taught,
and when He said to fish no more,
you dropped your net, for Him you sought.

                You were with Him all the way,
                and knew Him better than our lot;
                yet you'd still say without a thought,
                "I know Him not, I know Him not."

You saw Messiah heal the sick,
including fam'ly, head so hot.
The acts of God were no mere tricks,
no strings, illusions, or evil plots.

                You were with Him all the way,
                and knew Him better than our lot;
                yet you'd still say without a thought,
                "I know Him not, I know Him not!"

You saw Messiah raise the dead,
a little girl left there to rot.
He touched her hand. "Get up!" He said,
and she breathed air she once had not.

                You were with Him all the way,
                and knew Him better than our lot;
                yet you'd still say without a thought,
                "I know Him not, I know Him not!"

You saw Messiah walk on water
amidst a storm you all had fought;
you joined Him while the boat did totter--
fell right in at first distraught.

                You were with Him all the way,
                and knew Him better than our lot;
                yet you'd still say without a thought,
                "I know Him not, I know Him not!"

You saw Messiah glow like the sun
upon the mount, His clothes white hot,
with Moses, Elijah, James, and John,
and heard a voice -- the voice of God!

                You were with Him all the way,
                and knew Him better than our lot;
                yet you'd still say without a thought,
                "I know Him not, I know Him not!"

You ate the bread, His body true,
and drank the wine, no second thought,
consuming blood spilled just for you,
denied that you'd deny Him, too.

                You were with Him all the way,
                and knew Him better than our lot;
                yet you'd still say without a thought,
                "I know Him not, I know Him not!"

You saw Messiah kissed on the cheek,
led away betrayed and bought,
denied Him thrice, and you grew meek,
for rooster crowed and you were caught.

                You were with Him all the way,
                and knew Him better than our lot;
                yet you'd still say without a thought,
                "I know Him not, I know Him not!"

You saw Messiah dead and buried,
beaten, scorned, and left to rot.
Three days later, in all His glory,
He stood before you, scarred and wrought.

                You were with him all the way,
                and knew him better than our lot;
                yet you'd still say without a thought,
                "I know him not, I know him not!"

You saw Messiah with the crowds,
starting a ministry well-taught,
and rise again among the clouds
'til His return, without a doubt.

                You were with Him all the way,
                and knew Him better than our lot;
                then on, you'd say without a thought,
                "I doubt Him not, I doubt Him not!"

20a.
Joseph of Arimathea

A man of wealth from out of town
worked with council behind this plan.
With faith, he served the Holy Crown
and refused to kill the Son of Man.

He went to Pilate with heart so bold
to request the body of God's own Son.
With shock to hear what he was told,
the gov'nor verified the deed was done.

With Nicodemus, they wrapped the dead
in linen and mix of aloe and myrrh,
then in the garden was carved his bed
carved fresh from stone, fully secure. 

But Pilate placed a guard outside,
for he was warned of what Christ said.
"In three days' time, from death I'll rise."
He didn't want that word to spread.

A man of wealth, a man of faith,
a man of fear of council's strife.
He sought for life at heaven's gate,
and fought his best to save Christ's life.

20b.
Joseph of Arimathea

From Arimathea, Joseph did ride
that fateful Good Friday when Jesus Christ died.
He hated the plan
to kill Son of Man
and provided the tomb they laid him inside.

20c.
Noontime's Midnight Hour

Their faiths will shake when earth shall quake
at noontime's midnight hour.
They'll pierce his skin, no bones will break
this darkened midday hour.

The cloth will tear when death lays bare
at noontime's midnight hour.
They'll lay him in a stone tomb lair
this darkened midday hour.

The dead will rise when Jesus dies
at noontime's midnight hour.
"He's surely God!" We'll hear their cries
this darkened midday hour.

21.
Pressure

when you run to the door
with this sense of duty,
arms overflowing with
the spices of your service,
the devotion to your work,
the instruments of your music.
you map out your plan to
finish the job quickly,
honoring the one you admire,
perform your very best,
hearing your breath
quicken
every 
gasp,
but when all is said and done,
when you walk away,
your arms are slack.
you feel nothing, despite the 
weight you carry back,
besides the rush of emotions
going through your head, 
your heart.
how is it that a plan so perfect,
so calculated,
could go so differently,
as if the grave you wished to honor
was suddenly overturned,
the body suddenly alive
and standing before you.
why is it
that shock 
sends you spiraling so quickly
and mushes reality into fiction,
and why must my brain dwell on it
for far too long?

Oh! Just got caught up on reading your thread @JabberHut, and I must say after Holy Week, reading through those last religious ones was very powerful. I love the repetition in 19b "I know him not/I know him not".

18b about Judas, is also really strong, and then I think the sound of 20c is nearly perfect - especially with that ending scripture "He's surely God!"

Good Friday/Maundy Thursday themes make for good poetry, because there's just so much imagery and symbolism one can draw from - and you do a good job of getting those little imagery/symbol bits in there, while still letting the narrative tell it's story and getting out different themes by how you put them together. Well done! Looking forward to the rest of your NaPo thread! (We're almost to the finish line!)

22.
Gospel's Sunrise

The red-golden hues of Israel's skies
blanketed earth with gospel's sunrise.
Unbeknownst to the children nearby,
a miracle took place by rooster's first cry.

The women had seen Christ crucified,
his body wrapped up and laid inside.
But when the earth shook, it all made sense
when two white angels were sitting there hence.

"Why do you look for living among dead?
Christ is not here!" the angels had said.
"Come and see where he once lay.
He is risen this Easter day!"

And surely enough, before she ran off,
the grad'ner saw Mary admist tearful coughs.
"If you took my Lord, tell me where he lay,"
Mary cried to him without delay.

But a single word was all He needed
to convince her His rebirth had succeeded.
"Mary," He said in that familiar voice tone,
for she knew it belonged to Christ Jesus alone.

She bowed before her teacher so dear,
crying tears of engulfing shock and cheer.
Though no one believed her words to be true,
"He's risen indeed!" She witnessed and knew.

That fateful morning, day three after death,
Magdalene felt the son of man's breath.
The gospel's sunrise gleams brightly to say,
"He is risen indeed on this Easter day!"

23a.
The Guard was a Witness

The guard was a witness that early Easter morn,
when the stone rolled away and he fainted with scorn.
The women, the angels, and disciples ran by,
nothing could wake the guard from slumber nearby.

The guard was a witness, as was his soldier friend,
and to the chief priests, their reports they did send.
They felt the earth shook, saw the angels appear,
despite passing out from sheer terror and fear.

The guard was a witness and told his true tale
but was bribed to stay hush, instead lie without fail.
"The disciples returned, and they stole Him away.
No one shall know of what you saw that day."

The guard was a witness that early Easter morn
despite being paid to remain silent, he'd sworn,
but the angels were there, he knew what he saw,
and wondered if truly Christ was Son of God.

23b.
Doubting Thomas

Doubting Thomas was a critic of sorts
who doubted the witnesses' reports.
But he saw Him there
with his wounds laid bare--
the Resurrection he now fully supports.

24a.
Fred's Heartfelt Solo

It's funny, in a way,
how butterflies sing folk tunes
every Tuesday morning over the
berating buzzing of toneless melodies
humming in Fred's rhythmic loops and dotted curls,
scratching every cringing ear in his wake.
For whom does Fred sing his tune when the
butterflies' chorus satisfies the
creek's unnerving silence?

It's funny, really,
how the butterflies grace nature's lips
with the careful kiss of musical bliss,
easing the quakes and shakes of the earth;
but the canine mutt swiping from the deck below,
growling a bass purr as he jumps madly about,
his ruff on edge every leap off the ground,
attempts to tear down Fred's heartfelt solo.

It's funny, though,
how Fred doesn't seem to care what the rattled rascal thinks.

***Rated for minor language.

24b.
Empress of the North

one of these towers holds my princess,
my mistress of beauty and grace,
in these endless fields of castles
fit for working-class peasants
crowding all six rooms with
generations of family
sharing five tiny beds--
two belonging to mama and papa
for their special nights without the
children begging for age-old cheese
and meaningless hugs.

within this bustling kingdom
waits my fair lady rose,
where rows of chateaux
line side by side,
each home topped with
spires of evenly-spaced panels
towering above their left-hand
stained glass windows as a
charcoal-gray pointed hat
crowning years of mystical wisdom
and the long-grown silver beard of wizardry,
protected by bolted wooden doors
and layers of stone and mortar.

somewhere down these cobblestone streets,
my lover-to-be is detained in her tower,
locked away from the public eye
in the house with the bolted portcullis door,
the twisting charcoal spire,
and the left-hand stained glass window,
but whose idea was it to
paint onto every window a gleaming red rose?
magenta silhouettes of nested misshapen circles
cast upon the dirt-covered road
in the dead of summer's humid nights,
the occasional glittering ruby admist piles of
smeared horse shit and forgotten hay stalks,
somehow a symbol of unity in a broken utopia.

I will find my dearest empress of the north,
battle the red flarestone dragon hiding
behind any one of these portcullis doors,
send him back to the eastern bay of solace
with an emerald green thorn thrust in each eye--
all three of them decorated with chipped glass--
with each webbed wing shredded and splintered
by the wood of the bolted front doors,
with each of his claws ripped from their cuticles and
replaced with a chipped shingle of the spire's rooftop.
the letter handwritten in the neatest calligraphy
of a century-old dragon's calloused hand
practiced in the art of the peacock quill pen,
compels me to find her amidst this sea of grayscale
houses for the one rose of my heart's devotion.

but how foolish I was to never have guessed
that it was you who wrote the letter,
baiting me through the inevitable portcullis door,
fed to the shackled dragon of your captured soul
as the wizard's spell is finally broken
by a fool's errand lost in love and desire,
setting you free from the confines of a much darker spell,
leaving me a pile of crisped ash and bone
and a melted heart of wounded pride
beneath the rosy silhouette of oddly-sculpted circles
cast upon the dusty worn floors
in the moonbeams of summer's humid nights
as you run away heartless and driven
for the future of my coldest empress of the north.

25.
Pride's Desertion

smiles glued together
with tears and wine,
drawing rifts beyond 
time with a single
moment of clarity
listening to the voice
of reason be dethroned 
by the heart of dread 
whispering sensible lies
believed only by the
ignorant, the
lonely,
empty shells 
trying far too hard
to simply see the
light of hope overcome 
the night of despair. 

chest burns with a
guilt buried
beneath the ashes
of a Phoenix dead to
sin, frozen in the 
fires of fear black
as the robes of the priest
drunk on the sabbath
singing hymns of 
lustful greed and 
wrathful envy;
for nothing can save
the dead from a fate 
worse than 
pride's desertion.