# August Challenge: "Secret Treasure"



## Chesters Daughter (Aug 1, 2017)

The prompt for this month's challenge, as chosen by midnightpoet is: *Secret Treasure*

You are free to interpret the prompt in any way you wish, though of course, site rules apply. If you are unsure of the challenge rules please read the 'stickies' at the top of the board. *Please note that all entries* *are eligible to receive critique in the voting thread.* 

*The inclusion of explanatory text or links of any kind within an entrant's challenge entry is prohibited and will be immediately removed upon discovery. As always, only one entry per member is permitted.

*As previously announced, anonymous entries have been abolished, therefore, entrants must post their own entries in this thread, or if you desire to protect first rights, please post your entry in the *workshop thread*, and then post a link to it here in the public thread. *Failure to do so runs the risk of your entry being disqualifie**d*, so if you require assistance with the task, please PM *me*, and I will gladly help you.

If your entry contains strong language or mature content, *please include a disclaimer in your title.

*Kindly make sure your entry is properly formatted and error free before you submit. You have a *ten minute grace period* to edit your piece, but anything edited after that will likely see your entry excluded from the challenge. 
*
Do not post comments in this thread. Any discussion related to the challenge can take place in the Bards' Bistro. 

Everyone may now use the "Like" function whenever they so choose.



This challenge will close on the 15th of August at 7pm EST. **


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## Darkkin (Aug 1, 2017)

*Postmaster of Dead Letters from the Ocean's End*

Postmaster of Dead Letters from the Ocean’s End


Follow the dragon’s spine, the rapture of glass-cast earth—
a place, only reached by way of a terrified Dodo’s flight.
And you will find him there, Memoreo, bird of quiet worth.

An improbable flight logic says to a place that cannot be!
This is the time, the place when truth and wonder diverge,
so dare to follow that Dodo as he makes for a westerly sea.

Ride terror’s wake, consciousness cleaves to sleep. _ Let go—_
and break free of strings unseen as gravity forfeits its sway.
Now is the time, not a place but a time, too few truly know.

Dodo, a postmaster marching, stunted wings a cadence kept,
as he dipped and wove through deep midnight’s fresh bloom,
a flightless bird soaring, away, home to where lost stars wept.

It was the place end and beginning merge, cycles unfettered—
high waters, an escape from hell to a haven of faded things.
And it was here he presided, postmaster of the dead letters.

Messages and thoughts, words in bottles dimmed by brine.
These precious dreams lost to the tides and sands of time
were placed in the keeping of a Dodo: _Recipient declined._ 

So each night as the courses of terror billow against sleep,
Postmaster of the Dead Letters, Memoreo, takes to wing,
bound by two rucksacks of salty bottles from waters deep.

His duty to deliver broken echoes and memories few keep.


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## CrimsonAngel223 (Aug 2, 2017)

There I’ve heard of secret treasure
That no one had the chance to find
It was one to peer with spry measure

The scavenging from sand, rocks, weeds,
A pirate once said, “The bounty finds itself.”
What does that mean from all that composure?

What can this man find that scalawags cannot see?
The worth from expedition has it all to hear
Sounds of creaking chests dreamed, palms tortured

What will the pirates do once they find this bounty?
Will be the sincerity of their wealth shared to all
Or eating the cheese? Do they even like kosher?

Or the captain simply walks the plank with his head
Devious to conspire a plot to bring the crew off his ship
It would work? He can’t be so sure!

For his men are bound to answers of his sea
One where the man dares to do what he desires
Now he cannot! For he is conqueror of his heard!


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## Chesters Daughter (Aug 4, 2017)

*Designs (Mature Content/Language)*

He adores the homeless.
Each contains a vein
of his favored
newfangled amber
oh so easily harvested.

He leans upon a lamppost
spying a live mine;
filth equipped with eyes
chugging a bottle 
of cheap moonshine.
The lower its level,
the better the revel,
and sleepy prey
always
makes his day.

Once chin hits chest,
he sashays 
into the alleyway.
A passing couple catch
a snippet of his ditty,
sung loud and giddy,
"...I'd hammer in the evening
all over this man..."
Giggling at an apparent
drunkard's concert,
they miss the first thuds
and muffled grunts.

His gloved hand
yanks matted hair
upturning the cave 
to see what can be saved,
and out come the pliers.
This promising prospect
fails to deliver pay dirt,
only sixteen to attack
and half have gone black.
He hopes it's sufficient.

He fancies himself
Hillbilly Blass,
only venturing into the city
to browse skid row
for supplies,
collecting samples
from "volunteers"
(most of whom
subsequently die)
then it's back to the fleabag
to apply his prize.

With the last piece
finally affixed 
to the chocolate hued vest,
his best work yet,
he caresses
his snakeskin belt
adorned with amber accents;
delirious digits
finger fossilized chic.
A gift from her,
his shoulda been wife, 
who prefers city life
and her fancy fashion classes.

A hoedown is planned
to honor her return,
and he imagines her smile
when she learns
he's conquered the art
of accessorizing.

The returning chorus
of cicadas
heralds her homecoming
in about a month,
so it's down to the desk
to arrange an extended stay
in his shitty city digs.
Such a wee price to pay
to ply her with style.

It's a blessing the row
is less than a mile.
Draped over an open drawer
lies a pair
of chocolate hued pants,
both boring and bare,
and blinging them out
will take awhile.


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## aj47 (Aug 7, 2017)

taciturn mentor
seldom praises any work
treasure his regard


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## sas (Aug 7, 2017)

*Dust Balls*

Learn to love dust balls
that wrap innocence in awe,
before all become ordinary,
passed by, or brushed aside—

those things
close to the ground, magnified
by young eyes into treasures 
hidden underneath, to dream upon . . .

half of a sea shell held in a pail; 
a rock to paint a face on; an empty
perfume bottle to inhale what’s left
of grown-up air . . .

(smells from a fryer; bleach in a wash tub;
sweat in a work shirt) 

With those countless breaths
that follow, dust balls hold 
only each other—there, beneath
burdened beds. 


.


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## Pete_C (Aug 13, 2017)

*The Butcher's Wife (Mature Content)*

Frosty mornings she'd pull me
into that bed still warm
from her husband's flesh;
his heat and scent slumbering
in those sheets,
lingering long after his mortal meat
had hauled him off to market.

We romped, but with an ear cocked
listening out for the vicious slash
of his cold blade
against the sharpening steel;
the consequence of his early return
never voiced between us.

She'd twitch and writhe,
grind herself into my greedy mouth,
and as she closed in on that moment
I’d wrestle her around
with all my strength,
throw myself into the toil
until her body sucked me dry
and spat me, like a husk,
into the morning air

Then just one kiss and we would part.
I’d leave her in that bed,
womb filled with secret seed,
nipples aching for another touch,
her womanhood restored.

And me? I had it all.
A warm spot between her ample thighs
and every day
fresh liver for breakfast.


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## PiP (Aug 14, 2017)

Valentine lover
kisses, crosses on paper
treasured yet pointless


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## ned (Aug 15, 2017)

*before the river had a name*

.
as if in a dream...

hang on to the coattails of a swallow
and follow
the river upstream

above the mudflat estuary,
a muddle of creeks and cracks
where solitary buffalo wallow
with minor birds 
perched on their backs

onward and forward and backward 
in time
when the forest swallowed mankind,
finding the ancient course,
deep and slow and wide

below, the caterwaul of fowl,
love song and growl
and from the tallest tree,
the lonesome call 
of a howler monkey

then we spiral low,
gather speed 
'neath the green canopy
following a narrow feeder stream

to reach a hollow and the cool 
of a crystal pool
that under a sun 
of dappled beams,

dazzles like a jewel.


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## Chesters Daughter (Aug 15, 2017)

This challenge is now closed.


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