#5 Neighbor
Clean up that yard for heaven’s sake!
Don’t you even own a rake?
It’s a useful activity, so do some weed-wacking.
But no! You take off and go back-packing.
Pay someone to do it. You could, you know.
Just don’t let those weeds grow!
Flaming Edge
Poem Five for the Hour Five
he invented the pendulum of change
welcomes each difference to create
kaleidoscope of men’s healing grounds
he is a matchstick lighting candles
of small words of the small worlds
he is a street corner of philosophy
son of S.A.P.-Socrates, Aristotle and Plato
S. who didn’t write books but gave
a rise to teacher’s teachings
A. for his long walk to the Golden Mean
a counsel in moderating things
P. with his great physique
who believed in pre-existence
and immortality of the soul
he is a Father of all fathers
not a demigod who spits feign
his mind soars the infinite horizons
his flame goes beyond
truth of all truths
he is the timeless ageless warrior
like Vulcan’s undefeated fire
(c) Ceri Naz
photo credit: http://www.mythencyclopedia.com/Tr-Wa/Vulcan.html
Panic Poem 5
Nameless
Unforeseen, sudden,
fear
heartbeat increases suddenly
breathlessness
I can’t breathe
I…can’t…breathe
Gasping, gasping for breath
Hypervigilant
Watching, watching my surroundings
I can’t move…
Nerves thrumming like guitar strings
Silver, a taste of metal in the back of my throat
Am I going crazy?
Big Talk
(Sorry, this one says some not-nice stuff. It’s about a not-nice person, and in no way reflects the views of the author. If you are uncomfortable with strong abusive language, keep scrolling.)
You know what I said, girl?
I told the sons-of-bitches they could all fuck off!
But they’re still out there, spreading lies about us, kid.
Got to circle the wagons
until all this talk dies down.
Yes, I say“nigger” if I want to,
because I sing the blues.
Even B. B. King said I was a white nigger.
Anyway there ain’t no dirty words, kid,
only hurtin’ words
and they only hurt if you listen.
No one’s making you listen.
Don’t walk away when I’m talking to you.
Call me a bastard?
Call me a son-of-a-bitch?
I could shoot you where you stand, girl.
You don’t talk about a man’s mother
unless you are ready to die.
You know I won’t cheat on your mother-
don’t roll your goddamn eyes at me!
I’m not a cheating man.
You can’t understand it but
a man’s word is his bond, his honor;
aside from whiskey, it’s all he’s got.
Hour 5
I am Grief
I am grief, forever grieving
Desolate, unwanted, but of course, mischieving
Born to Fate and misery
My job is vocationally dreary
I will grow and cause uproar
I will let your fears upsoar
But I am not entirely to blame
You give me all my fame
Writer’s Getaway
I am making a lovely writer’s getaway
On the back lanai
There are palm trees and green grass
And our broken Christmas Amaryllis
Lost to the wind
I pull out the big brown vinyl chairs
Using a towel to clean them
The towel turns dirt red
It’s been awhile
The bougainvillea greet me
They dance in deep purple and
cheery red, and dainty orange
I clean off a spot for a computer and notebook
I smell the fresh morning air
Just a hint of ocean, flora
Plumeria and papaya
This will be amazing.
I finish my task
Excited
I recheck everything,
repositioning chairs
wiping a missed spot
the true beauty around me takes my breath away
I cannot understand why I
stay inside
A large carpenter bee appears
Dive bombs at me
I duck and weave
He buzzes my ear
Hissing a warning
Reminds he has friends
Lots of them
I slither inside
Writer’s getaway abandoned
I hope the bee enjoys his retreat.
for jessica (and all my other acting buds)
time is money or so they say
so i stay on the grind…..becoming….
9 shows a week where i get to shine
make-up and wardrobe-
hustle then flow-
blocking, then lights-
tech rehearsals all go!
stay on the grind….becoming-
one show to the next
i do what i love-
fly through scripts-
rehearse out loud makes people wonder if you’ve lost your mind-
always becoming…..
peering into the depths of every character’s mind-
step onto the stage and make the audience mine-
always becoming…..
and whoever I am it always becomes me.
Good Morning? Seriously?
Not a good morning was this one –
Just to be honest.
A late night at my treasure island of a job
Had me staring through miles of brake lights
In the soft moonlight of
After hours freeway construction.
And then…
And then!
After filling two tanks,
Both mine and the car’s,
Three hours later,
Yes, THREE, two in the
Soft moonlight of construction,
Nearly home, within minutes, of my front door,
Driving through a welcome mist
Called rain here in the drought,
Flashing lights.
Caution cones.
Police cars in the soft mist of hallelujah
Water from the sky!
No moonlight.
DUI checkpoint ahead.
No one’s dead.
Hallelujah!
“Good morning, Ma’am.”
Oh, yea…. I did leave the office at ten.
It’s nearly one in the moonless misty morning.
“Any alcohol tonight?”
By now, don’t I wish!
Slowed by providence another ten minutes,
To ensure a triple commute.
Thou shalt not save time
Playing hooky
Just to clean the house!
Teens at the curb
Wear smirking smiles
Of mischief
Waiting for Daddy
In pajamas.
Could have been worse.
I’m home!
Left is Best – Persona Poem
The left hand only
For handling contraband
And anything unholy,
If you please –
It just keeps me at ease:
Sinistro,
Sinister,
Visitor,
Prisoner.
The right is for right-doing:
Things that save me from ruin:
Not for wiping the ejaculate from the mirror,
Not for stabbing myself with the scissors,
Certainly not for squeezing the life out of someone until they wither,
The right hand is not the hand of a killer.
Not for seventy percent of them who would have recommended
That for those responsible for a series of lives being ended,
Left is most definitely the best – they’ve put it to the test:
Sinistro,
Sinister,
Visitor,
Prisoner.
(c) Gemma Hinton 13/06/15