24 Poems ~ 24 Hours
Come with me…
wherever we may end up.
Plant a garden,
hang a hammock,
take a nap.
We will take walks
and talk of things
we don’t remember.
I will cook your dinner
and you will build a fire.
We will spend our evenings
reading, holding each other.
The years will go by
and we will grow old together.
Eve Remillard
6/13/2015
I kissed Midas
and with that, my lips are gold-
I tried to love Medusa,
and now my heart is stone
Steadily, I stole pearls from Poseidon’s throne,
but Boreas took them – my hands, now froze
then I slept with Hades, he burnt my perfect skin-
he caressed me in his oven and taught me how to sin.
I thought I loved Atlas so I touched her tired face,
and with that she gave me
the weight of the entire human race
I was wrong in all of this – in my thievery and love
and wrong for right reasons
to make space for
the one
Your red hair
Your yellow dress
Your joy from the heart
Dancing all night long
Your delight to be
One of them
When you could have fled
That night you inspire
So many to just dance and have fun
You deserve a prize
To reignite the whole city
Yellow dress
You made my night
I’ll never forget that night
And your smile
When you dance
Your heart off
All night long
Red hair
Yellow dress
Joy from the heart
Dancing all night long
Delight to be
One of them
When you could have fled
Creative Writing Basics
When I was an undergrad
writing my candid poems
under the tutelage of minds
well-versed in the creative
process of expressing
personal experiences
of relevance
of weight.
I learned to create
tension in a scene.
The young woman stood
with wind blown hair
her makeup running down
the hollowed cheeks
behind her opened mouth
that quivered silently
under shattered eyes
full of blame
for someone
already gone.
Day has dawned.
There is comfort in this, somehow.
The cat is looking for breakfast.
He is early and gently enthusiastic.
The diurnal world will now come to life.
I will slowly take my place in it,
Slowly,
In as many hours as I can avoid it,
Because it is still the hour for yogis.
And though I aspire endlessly to be one,
I will not appear to be one this morning.
I would be happy to be a poet-saint instead,
Even just a little bit.
You are my favorite
food group. Thank you for
your brewing,
brooding ways,
your dark deep
stirrings, your
faithful
dry roasted boost.
No matter how many
lumps I take, no matter
how low the day goes,
there is always a
mermaid mug
of Joe.
**hour 14, written off-site and posting late**
The will to move. To sweat.
To feel the breath of my life
Cough forth from my lungs
Escapes me, like a fly.
In the kitchen I forget
The need to feel the strife
Of movement as my tongue
Tastes fat and sugar for my thigh.
“Oh honey, you’re too pretty
To be so fat. You need to lose
Some weight!” Said the bigot
Who hates all those unlike herself.
Had I the will to move… A pity
To blame it all upon the booze.
If only I could close the spigot
And live a life more like an elf.
So gracefully I’d move and play
And sing and dance each lovely day.
When considering colours, remember: regrettably,the most common is magnolia
When considering honesty, remember: most people, given the choice, would prefer a dose of amnesia
When considering imagination, remember: despite it’s superiority, it’s widely considered an affront to academia
When considering ambitions, remember: that although you protest, if you continue to write, you might, no you must include bibliomania
When considering people, remember: your theory about the destruction of DNA – your immortality depends on avoiding bacteria
When considering a destination, remember: take the scenic route always but ultimately, head to bohemia
(c) Gemma Hinton 14/6/15
did I ever tell you,
how proud you have made me,
for a time
you seemed to lose your way;
and how could you not
after life treated you in such a way;
yet, here you stand
bruised and battered,
once again
you have picked yourself up;
one thing
you must remember
when life is coming,
always stand tall
By: KMH 2015
Twin Lights
He cannot see the end of the road.
All the water has gone dry, tasting bitter.
Filthy, pitiful hands scratch on the parchment,
Plying at words forsaken and accident.
At his neck hang thy lock and thy persimmon,
Resuming constant delay without permission,
As the earth moves beneath and behind,
And he is conveyed forward as if on a belt.
For merely pondering a single inquiry
Thrown into the deepest ditch at the side of the road,
He asks roundabout for his destination,
Haplessly finding no such abode.
Why did you leave the keys on the table?
Because I did not think I was able
To keep myself alive
Long enough, to turn the key and drive.
The wind blows the question along;
Deserts of blizzards whistle sheer,
Playing an empty cadenza of a song,
And a single car passing disrupts all this only for a moment.
Tassels of icicles are suspended on branches, and the fire—
It is crying, aching, dying out
Within his heart, smoldering on the route,
Given the circumstance that no telegram can wire.
And in his pocket, wrinkled and worn,
Lies the parchment with one last sentence:
Irritably the finality of frozen desire, edges torn,
In penmanship expressed with such calm clairvoyance.
At his side glimmers in transience
A steel lustre in sombre fluorescence
Handled so delicately, mirrored with existence,
Trudging along with reminiscent persistence.
And plunged into his very heart, this steel lustre
After an echoing silence he cries out, without audience,
“Teacher, I’ve finally the Answer!”
And scenery fades—twin lights returning to incidence.