The Poetry Marathon

The left hand only

For handling contraband

And anything unholy,

If you please –

It just keeps me at ease:

Sinistro,

Sinister,

Visitor,

Prisoner.

The right is for right-doing:

Things that save me from ruin:

Not for wiping the ejaculate from the mirror,

Not for stabbing myself with the scissors,

Certainly not for squeezing the life out of someone until they wither,

The right hand is not the hand of a killer.

Not for seventy percent of them who would have recommended

That for those responsible for a series of lives being ended,

Left is most definitely the best – they’ve put it to the test:

Sinistro,

Sinister,

Visitor,

Prisoner.

(c) Gemma Hinton 13/06/15

An encounter with an extra terrestrial:

My intellectual burial.

An entire dictionary ahead,

A thesaurus with a blend

Of colours and sensations,

All the precise evocations

Of things that within our lexical limitations

We cannot comprehend

With our basic communications…

And all the frustrations,

Because of the half-truths they send,

Would come to an end

If only we could master – through diplomatic negotiations –

The languages spoken in intergalactic nations

Imagine:

The liberalisation

And diversification

Of thought

If we only knew the concepts denoted by words

Coined in other worlds –

For issues we’ve never even encountered

And the means by which they are surmounted.

Cast a line and see where it falls,

Because it’s the unknown that really enthrals

You – admit it,

You don’t want a’ hook, line and sinker’ –

You want more of a freethinker

So you’ll need the right bait –

You’ll need to create

The thrill of the chase,

An unsolved case

For her to investigate,

So she’ll reciprocate

With grace.

But don’t spin her a line,

Because it’s only a very fine

One between playing games

And causing untold pains,

And once you’ve caught her

She’ll lose all appeal,

And you’ll be back to reel

Another one in,

Promising safety from sharks with hidden fins

Offering acceptance of all of their sins,

Then using them like needles and pins

To pierce the surface and damage what’s within.

(c) Gemma Hinton 13/06/15

.

Be honest,

There really isn’t such a thing as a good morning

When it comes at the behest

Of a violent sun dawning,

And drawing

(With a beaming spite

and a golden knife)

Blood from the soft moonlight,

That had provided such a gentle spotlight

For the stars of your dreams,

As they played out their scenes.

Even so, it seems

Everyone prefers the sun

And its blazing rays

And its violent ways.

There isn’t such a thing as a good morning –

When the soft moonlight disappears

The only things left in the spotlight

Are my fears.

(c) Gemma Hinton 13/06/15

Baptised into a new religion;
You’re the minister – I’m under supervision,
Soaked in holy oblivion,

You balance the weight of my thoughts

And the burden of all the ‘oughts-ta’

As you pour on more water,

And try to imagine some names

To whom we could dedicate the ceremony –

Some that would stick in our memory

When we remember you rescuing me

From tedium

Through the medium

Of laughter
And this ritual at the bath tub

And everything that came after.

Oh yes!
I believe!

And you never deceive.

(c) Gemma Hinton 13/06/15

I’m so excited for this! I love the sense of community and challenge it will generate and if I complete the whole Marathon, the final poem will also be my 100th!