The Poetry Marathon

Ant Trap

Do you remember that time

we were picking blackberries by the side of the road

and you said you would still try to save her

if you had the chance, even knowing

that she was half-crazy, and one quarter mean,

because she was oh-so tragic

and completely hot?

 

I don’t say all the things I think to say

nor can I think of all the things I want to say

in a moment like that, when you are fixing to sleep with me

but still banging on and on about the one who got away.

 

Got away? You dodged a bullet, when

she didn’t give you herpes and screw all

your friends and accuse you of rape and

break your things and make fun of you

behind your back, but still, you are so wistful

that you never got to fuck her.

 

And I think, but do not say

that all men must be fools

because, like a trail of ants to a trap

you march on eagerly where other have fallen

and think the safe one sour

and the poison one sweet,

and that, anyways, the same fare will always be there

for you to come back to.

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