The Poetry Marathon

(Hour 18) 3.30-4.30pm — #11 “Legs Eleven”

This was a poem which presented many choices. Yet, surprising myself, I went a different way than I thought. (One of those out of nowhere experiences.)

#11
Legs’s Eleven.

for the first time in a decade
i am remembering Harry Mulroney

nicknamed Legs because his were short
a fresh faced boy as he remains to me

though when i knew him, of course
i was about that young too

played cricket in the same team
as head-in-the-cloud teenagers

he was the wildly talented captain
whereas, i, was just wild

good friends, only semi-close in the way
boys often must stay, not best mates

yet we talked of renting a place
in the city, when we went there to study

two country kids planning for uni
most around us had no such goal

we’d talk about it for hours, at training
in the car to away games, making the idea safe

yet as he was a few years younger
i went before him & we slipped apart

another precious thing lost
for reasons i still don’t understand

#87. Dammit, one off the other call I really wanted 🙂

Hobbies

cross stitching pictures
in a quiet afternoon sun
takes time to count right

 

 

Life’s final journey

Life’s final journey

Today,

sky in darkness,

grieving the life’s final destination,

knowing the days of reckoning will be,

A warning!

Expecting the unexpected,

on final judgement vow,

we don’t know how,

When will it happen,

Now!

 

 

Beggars Can’t Be Choosers

Beggars can’t be choosers

When they’re manipulative users,

So while you’ve still got a choice

Don’t use your voice

To whine and plead –

Don’t beg,

Take the lead –

Go ahead

Make it happen,

Do what you need for your own satisfaction,

Then bask

In never having to ask

When everything you wanted is right within grasp –

It really is a simple task

To take off that pathetic mask,

And put in some real effort on your own behalf,

And stand back and admire the changing view

And have the last laugh at those who doubted you.

(c) Gemma Hinton 14/6/15

 

 

hour 14 poem

the Garden in full bloom
the tables empty
the smell of hot chocolate
filling the house
with No children
from the neighbour s party
birthdays
turn children
into adults
now and then

Two wrongs don’t make a right.

A Drifter and a traveler,

were always solider of fortune,

travelling on trail of time,

sinking in their experiences,

of burning and bruises,

of marks on skin which weren’t enough to bleed,

of fire which was still alive with air they breathe,

seeking their way out of hit,

They meet on a path,

they share little magic but they knew,

Two wrongs don’t make a right,

even if they want to…

 

Sixteen…

 I need some time

some tiiime

some tiiimmme

(sometime)

 

She screamed into the night

from the corners of her mind

softly

so softly it hurt

hurt her heart

hurt her heart deep

(no time for sestina)

*weep*

Let Go, Or Be Dragged….A Zen Proverb

Daylight spills over the edges of the mountain.

It is morning and I have not slept yet.

Seems I should let go, or be dragged.

This pen pieces prose, or poems almost by rote.

I struggle to determine it’s value or valor.

Seems I should let go, or be dragged.

What part of my human brain is responsible

for this stubbornness to sleep before

this deed is done?

Seems I should let go or be dragged.

The Voyage

He left his village for another, there was simply too much blood.

It coloured his mornings red, his nights, too, and poisoned

all the in-between hours.  He knew that if he lingered he

would hear their fists on his door, see their fingers pry open

his windows, feel their voices in his lungs.

 

So much noise.  Can’t one just live in quiet peace?

Did the holy one shout his way to the sky?  Who heard him?

Does one always need to be heard this way?

 

In the fourth village many weeks later, he still had enough legs

to hit the road again.  So many legs, but you are given only two.

You are also only given one head.  He had left father, mother,

sisters.  Perhaps everyone had gone away by now.  In his pocket,

he felt a key but there was nothing left for it to open.  He felt

useless, keeping something useless, for nothing.

 

Finally, the sea, the wide open sea.  He wanted the sea.  Now,

anything was better than land, especially his land.  He took

out of his pocket his own clenched fist, tight with money.

The boat was waiting to take him far away, he didn’t much care

where as long as it was away.

 

Too late for phone calls.  Too late for breakfast.  Too late for sleep.

But not too late for the sea.  Not too late for his tired feet.  Not

too late for his head.

 

The boat was full of people such as he.  Everyone wet with the

waves, wet with fear, wet with cold, wet with keys that no longer

opened doors.

 

[This poem promises to be a lot longer than what I can write for the marathon, so, for now, this will have to do.]

 

 

©  Ella Wagemakers, 08.51 Dutch time (= 2.51 EST in the US)

ONCE A MAN TWICE A CHILD

HOUR SEVENTEEN

POEM # 17

24 HOUR

POEM MARATHON

ONCE A MAN TWICE A CHILD

I learned to walk,

Before I could talk.

Easy to use fork and spoon,

Cow jumped over the moon.

Tied my shoes, button my shirt,

Played in the sand and dirt.

Taught to read and to spell.

Bounced back when I fell.

Twenty years boy, now a man,

Will fate come with a plan?

Fifty years man, now a boy.

Will fate bring a different toy?

Hard to read and to spell,

Thoughts don’t seem to jell.

Slip on shoes, slip on shirt,

Trying so hard to stay alert.

I eat with straw and spoon,

Sit and stare the afternoon.

Need a cane when I walk,

Words garbled when I talk.

Written by Carl Mann

The kurlman

6-14-2015