The Poetry Marathon

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.

 

Haiku

pink and white blossoms

floating gently to the ground,

like fresh falling snow.

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

 

 

Hour Five: The Fishing Hole

We called it Joe Pond
for the neighbor who owned it.
Never laid eyes on him
but his pond was full of bass,
carp, and catfish big as Siamese.

I have photos of three generations –
mama, little brother, his little girl –
each perched on the edge of nowhere,
disappearing, thrown back into the universe.

Into the Kyoto Night

they see me, and yet; I am invisible

to be pulled, stretched, and used

like a worn but beautiful canvas

each new day, the same ritual

tucked, painted, squeezed,

but that is the way.

I am to serve, and to hold court.

I push my spirit and hide it deep within

so it cannot see

what lies before me,

but that is the way.

I repeat the rituals day after day

in preparation,

because that is the way.

Before each night falls, I ready myself.

I wash, I dress, and I shuffle into the night

because that is the way.

By: KMH 2015

To Celia

What would happen if you died and I did not hear of it?

Nothing.

I did not even hear if you had gone on living.

 

Outside, the poppies are nodding their heads in agreement.

They are docile creatures.

That is easy – they know the seeds they came from.

 

Inside, we will have rice on the table.  Always rice.

Even when we go out, I do my best

to order rice.  It was rice that fed our togetherness.

 

Now, we are joined by nothing, not even our names.

In the beginning, it was hard

to live without a name.  Now, my name is of my own making.

 

Today, I have been thinking of you.  Not in an unkind way

but almost as a total stranger

would shake the hand of another at the end of a war.

 

(c) Ella Wagemakers, 19.30 Dutch time (= 13.33 EST in the US)