The Poetry Marathon

Nightly Games

With all our efforts,
we fight our aged, tired eyes
to be together,
to clench our childhood ties.

In soft moonlight,
we stay out after hours
exploring this city’s dwindling fires
or the neighbor’s bed of flowers.

I love your company
when we play pretend;
like restless children
playing Muppet Treasure Island.

Like cabin fever,
we wait to take each other on
in Tag, Hide and Seek, or both.
We’ll stay up until the night is gone.

We hide our insecurities
when we galavant like this.
Never thinking to imagine
we would ever miss a kiss.

You keep me young,
my love of many names.
May we never grow old,
too old to play our nightly games.

Hour two

#2 (a tanka)

……..

Melted into thoughts that have consumed my whole life, I wait…

For an epiphany

An idea

A gut feeling

Maybe message of clarity.

Still, nothing.

V.Sky

Treasure Island: A Memo

Treasure Island: A Memo

Sail to work, dock at your cubicle, and salute your colleagues with a friendly, “Good morning.”

Continue your intimate relationship with your computer screen, answer every overseas e-mail, and help your clients navigate their bank accounts.

Lunch at your desk. Swallow your tuna-salad-on-white-bread sandwich.

Work into the soft moonlight — no after-hours fun.

Be captain of your ship.

Before you leave tonight, don’t forget to submit your quarterly Self-Evaluation. Be honest.

Regards,

CFO

“Skeletal Sailor”

I awoke under the silvery, soft moonlight.

To be honest I was clueless as to where I was.

I slowly surveyed my surroundings.

I was on a sandy beach with spikey palm trees to the right of me and spikey palm trees to the left of me.

Before me lay the black sea.

Behind me lay the bones of some misfortunate sailor.

The skeletal arms shone pale in the silvery, soft moonlight.

It was then that I noticed that the skeletal sailor was holding a worn, ancient chest brimming with shiny gold.

Somehow I had washed ashore the legendary Treasure Island.

Hour 2: Ablution of Autumn

The sky, a single cloud unsundered

Casts desire over leafy crowns

Which grace the head of Mother’s matrons

And gild the brows of Gaea’s patrons

A longing to undress

 

Their summer clothes so lately lush

Grow itchy ‘gainst their knotty skins

To alleviate the inflammation

A wondrous curse of transformation

Leaves modesty forgot

 

The ornaments once cherished so

First grow jaundiced, then

Burning with a fever fall

Shedding ‘til they’re naked all

No longer vain and proud

 

The metamorphosis complete

They feel the bite of frigid air

Huddling together bare

And balling fists of woody digits at

The sky, a single cloud unsundered

Sunshine Assassin

Be honest,

There really isn’t such a thing as a good morning

When it comes at the behest

Of a violent sun dawning,

And drawing

(With a beaming spite

and a golden knife)

Blood from the soft moonlight,

That had provided such a gentle spotlight

For the stars of your dreams,

As they played out their scenes.

Even so, it seems

Everyone prefers the sun

And its blazing rays

And its violent ways.

 

There isn’t such a thing as a good morning –

When the soft moonlight disappears

The only things left in the spotlight

Are my fears.

(c) Gemma Hinton 13/06/15

After Hours

Thanatos came in an old-time Black Maria

and parked with one wheel on the curb.

“No need to drive carefully”

He laughed.

 

“Be honest, you’re happy to see me.”

 

Am I?

 

In the soft moonlight,

in the held-breath stillness

before the brightly looming stars

cede the sky to dawn

I stroll, hands in pockets,

down the darkened streets of home.

 

Strange, when my ride appears,

I realize how much I like to walk.

RE-GIFTING

HOUR TWO

POEM # 2

24 HOUR

POEM

MARATHON

RE-GIFTING

Last Christmas my Aunt Mabel,

Gave me a three legged table.

I looked with great surprise,

She said “It was quite a prize”.

And a highly collected piece,

Why not give it to your niece?

I quickly packed it in a box,

Thinkly I was sly as a fox.

This table has been all around,

Where will it next be found?

I may give it to my brother Bill,

No, its going to my sister Jill.

Last I saw the table was E- Bay!

Tha auctioneer had a lot to say!

My sister has money to re-tire,

While I just sit and perspire.

All because my Aunt Mabel,

Gave me a three legged table!

Written by Carl Mann

The kurlman

6-13-2015