The Poetry Marathon

Door Open

Wild, wild…

Used to be when it was you and me,

Where are you now?

Mental breakdown? In some forgotten town?

Seem to have an affinity with people with ‘psychological issues’

A term so often misused

For creatives,

Imaginarium Natives,

Why don’t I collect tissues any more?

Like I used to

When it was me and you?

Maybe because I don’t cry so much now,

Not like I used to anyhow,

More likely to be laughing you see,

Which reminds me…

That comment about laughing – just in passing?

Or does he have a double life to cope with his strife?

Door open,

Going to get broken or snapped

Or something might get trapped

Inside,

Back to the wild,

Wild open spaces, no more faces, looking back at me,

A cacophony of misunderstood signals,

I don’t get them, not in the way they’re used,

It just leaves me confused,

My mind abused,

Why don’t people just say what they mean?

And be what they seem?

I can’t be bothered to read between the lines,

It’s just another way of deciphering lies,

To which I’m allergic

In a kind of knee jerk

Fashion –

They kill all my passion

For life.

(c) Gemma Hinton

Peasantry Beyond the Wall

She stared at the stone arch for hours after he left.
At the field beyond, and the tree.

The single tree where he first stole her kiss,
Her heart, and her sainthood.

The single, innocent tree
About to be murdered by her husband.

“I shall burn it until the flames light the dungeons of hell!”
He screamed.

Her husband. Her old, worn out husband,
With the breath of a dragon and the heart of a wasp.

Her husband. The one who paid for her in gold, five stones,
Before she got too old.

Her husband. Who could no more give her a child than could
A cuke left too long in the sun.

“He’s not coming back, wench.” he screamed. “he’s on to the next
Ripe fruit, to lay bare and pluck.

She stood, barely listening to his feeble rage. His voice,
Hardly a whisper of the bellowing old goat he once was,
Rattled like a bat in a cage.

There was a child in her womb. Not her husbands, but his.
She stared at the distant gate, beyond which lay her peace
In a welcome grave of peasantry.

He said he would meet her there. She had to believe.

Freefall

Sleep is elusive, and will probably
strike when least expected – or welcome.
It’s past ten o’clock at night, and only civil twilight.
The red tint still touches the sky.

Speakers buzz, unused. Turn them off.
Sore arms already, how will I keep this up?
Drinking water by the litre, still dry and queazy.
Bodily needs clamour; an aesthete I am not.

There should have been a fête today,
but no-one came, rain prevented play.

The timer ticks at double speed,
multiplying the seconds.
So much poetry has me
Thinking in rhythm.

Hope this is coming out OK,
I’m not looking at the screen.

Touch tells me when fingers are correctly positioned.
Index fingers swirl in little circles, seeking confirmation,
assurance that my words will be readable.

Typos slink in, like neighbours’ cats,
making themselves at home,
scratching at my spelling,
shedding on my prosody.

Eyes averted, typing blind.
Engrossed in the view from my window.
Night sky so clear, curtains must be
open, and the lights low.

---

Prompt: Free-write
Form: Free-form

The edit consisted mostly of deleting excess words, trimming phrases and placing the line-breaks. An interesting exercise, and an indication of how nine hours of poetry has affected my thinking.

POEM 9-Champion spirit

Sunny weather finally in town,

Long strolls are back again,

Choruses of thoughts echo in my mind

and I want to conquer the world!

Who joins me in this quest?

 

a few questions

to do it over,
to begin again,
i have to say that
i would need a lot more
information.
i would want to know if
you felt loved by your parents.
if you voted for bill clinton,
both times.
if you made a mistake
would you come forward, raise your
hand, pay your taxes, keep up
with child support.

what do you do when you’re angry,
afraid,
at the end of your rope.

would you stand up for me.
could i wake you in the dead of night
for help.
would you listen until your ears
went numb. talk until there was nothing
left to say.

could you ask for forgiveness.
would you forgive.

could you stay,
even if there was nowhere to
lay your head,
no room at the inn,
no courage in your heart.

Sun (Hour Nine)

I strike out on my own because I need to,

Yet always, the looking back and feeling alone,

Wherever I am is not where I should be.

There is a cure for this.

 

Get closer to the center,

The inner sun.

All these orbiting planets,

In constant flux,

Often frozen…

The sun is warmed by its own identity.

 

Get your head out of the Oort Cloud,

You are the Sun.

Earth

Mountains high

with glaciers white

sparkling like twilight.

 

Volcanic fire

with ash and soot

seep into rock and root.

 

Crystal lakes

gleaming blue and green

hiding riches unseen.

 

Cross vast deserts

through emerald forests

Back through time before us.

 

See the world that could be.

Streams (of Consciousness)

I have been clacking black
spor
-adic(t)
-ally all the live long day,
trying to find a way to spill my
self to page without throwing in
the (white) towel. I have indulged
in a third cup of coffee and a quiet room;
fed myself a bagel and a handful of phrase.

I’ve coughed. I’ve played.

I’ve splayed my fingers loose
and wondered if they’d wander off
on their own
(they tried, but got a bit lost.)

I’ve tossed 16 lines out the window
and fed them to the mocking birds
taunting me from their leafy places.
I’ve left traces of myself all over this house

– an empty cup here, a dang
-ling participle there. I’ve stared
at these walls
(which, by the way, need painting),
and walled myself upstairs in hopes
of just.one.more.moment alone.

I’ve stoned my own path. I’ve tripped and fallen.
I’ve stalled for time. I’ve rhymed, and un.
I’ve had fun. I’ve watched the sun
s t r e t c h    across the sky
and asked it not to set too soon.
I’ve longed for moon. I’ve swooned
at someone else’s lines and bided
my time and staggered my own sway.

I’ve dipped a toe in
and tasted the day.

 

 

Ooey Gooey

chocolate chip and vanilla ice cream drips onto

ice caps are melting and chocolate chips

ooey gooey

right out of the oven and mixed in vanilla ice cream

strings of chocolate hot and rich and the icebergs

ooey gooey

and glaciers melt like vanilla ice cream

they pool and puddle near my feet smooth as glass

ooey gooey

on the concrete and I am melting in the sun

cars speed by and exhaust fills my iceberg lungs

(Hour 09) 6.30-7.30am — #38 “Christmas cake”

#38

living in Oz
where Christmas
is in summer
& the temps are
usually in the high 30’s
i don’t think we’ve
ever had a special
Christmas Cake

Wikipedia tells me
a favourite of many
is the traditional Scottish
Christmas cake
the Whisky Dundee
— apparently the cake
originated in Dundee/

no need to go on
you had me at whisky

*****

as much as i like this one, I feel it is a bit cheeky, given I finished it in the first 9 minutes of the hour. so presenting a bonus poem on the same theme.

*****

Christmas Cake: or how to survive the festive season
a poetic recipe

Servings 10 (I have a large family, so this won’t be enough, I’ll be doubling the recipe)
Time 4 days approx (it won’t take that long, seriously: not the way I make it)
Difficulty moderate

Christmas cake is a fruitcake traditionally served around Christmas in the UK, especially after long walks to be had with tea. (Hahaha, yeah right.)

Ingredients
To make a round 10-inch diameter cake.  (20-inch, we’re doubling remember)

The fruit
600 g currants
400 g sultanas
400 g glacé cherries, quartered
200 g raisins
100 g cut candied peel
200 ml sherry
100 ml brandy
50 ml kirsch (or rum)

The cake mixture
4 medium eggs
300 g lightly salted soft margarine
300 g dark brown sugar
100 g self-raising flour
200 g plain flour
100 g finely-chopped almonds
2 teaspoons of ground mixed spice
2 tablespoons of black treacle

Method
The fruit
Throw the fruit & cake mixture away. It’s an unnecessary distraction. Consume all the sherry, brandy & rum. (Remember we needed to double the recipe, possibly triple it, just to be safe.)  Some people like to pour all three into a tall glass & drink as one, just to make it feel a bit more Christmassy, but separately is fine too.

The cake mixture
Did you not read above? Seriously!

Cooking
If you’re not cooked after this, make your way onto whatever remains in the bottles. You’re welcome. If this doesn’t help you survive the Silly Season, I really don’t think you’re trying hard enough.

#20. Not too bad. Three choices.