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
hour 13 poem
the road i knew
from last spring
but did No longer know
this summer
and which i ignored
in the forest
with No fairytales
but just gossips