The Poetry Marathon

Oy

Aside from 2 and 3am, I’ve kept up with the Poetry Marathon. Getting them put up while working 17 hours…well, that’s another story. They’ll go up once it’s technically over.

Prompt for Hour Twenty One

Write a poem inspired by a writer that you admire. The poem should mention the name of the writer explicitly at least once. The writer’s influence should be seen in the content or the tone of the poem.

Tender Kisses

His tender kisses

Melts me into.

His soft tender caress.

On my velvet skin.

Into his love.

Jack

A month ago, he’d had enough, poor Jack,

and wondered how to end it all without

upsetting the delicate status quo.

 

He couldn’t wait for daylight.  He couldn’t

wait till everyone was gone.  Up he ran,

quick as he could, before anyone

 

had a chance.  There it lay, the crossbow,

strung up and ready to go, and so he pointed

it at himself and fired

 

in such a way that first it pierced his chin.

His blood spattered in all directions, sorry,

no apologies, but it had to be

 

this way.  Someone would mop it up later,

someone else always did, and, sure enough,

there she stood, ordering him

 

not to move, screaming at him not to pull

that bloody arrow out, but oh what did she

know about it all, what did she

 

know, as she called the amb?  They sent the

heli but before it came he decided he’d had

enough, poor Jack, enough,

 

and pulled it out before he himself could

have changed his mind.  And there he lay, his

life spilled by his own hand.

 

©  Ella Wagemakers, 10.59 Dutch time (=  4.59 EST in the US)

After the rain run dry

A magnificent Red Cardinal stop by,to cheer me up while clearing the sky.

hoping the rain will go away,as I glanced the sky.

wishing a beautiful rainbow will show up behind the floppy clouds

promising that the rain won’t come back another day.

O’ what a beautiful to start my day, bright,sunny and gay.

 

 

 

Hour 20–Return

last moments on Earth

this is what Norm heard

music

earphones speaking to the space between ears

unconscious they said

morphine finally earning its pay

buoyed on fluid energy

worn vessel releases its hold

rising in Nature

music found in the space between stars

the opposite of alone

one

home

 

 

A Story Not Yet Told

Tentative notes

Emerge from your throat

A song like a lullaby

To help say goodbye

To the cruel day

 

A break of rhythm

That you were given

To alter the sound

As your tears hit the ground

So it wasn’t the same old same old

And this became a story that had not yet been told

 

A melody

Not quite ready

To have the lyrics inflicted

In a way that’s unrestricted

Because this is a story not yet told

And you can’t come at it cold

 

And there’s no ending yet

Just a simple refrain

Because you’ll want to hear it again

When you notice the sound of rain

Is hidden in the frame

Of the story not yet told

 

Eventually

A harmony

As things come together

Just when you could have been at the end of your tether

And you realise this story untold

Won’t have to be finished alone.

(c) Gemma Hinton 14/6/15

Strawberry Picking

Light upon two children crouching,
Bellies full to bust and juice dried on finger tips,
The expert of discovery.
I am a botanist.
Turning leaves and making notes.

“It’s the smallest shrubs that house the biggest fruit.”
Laughing as we roll down aisles,
And parental guidance falls away.
Run hard – faces like the fruit we find; We are still so young and ripe.
We eat them whole the leaves and all and smile through strawberry covered teeth.
We then played cards all afternoon and in the darkness fell asleep.

Poem 20/24 – Explosions

 

Need

Barely noticeable

but beyond significance.

Five frail fingers

tiny and scared

needing me so.

Your hand in mine.