Fish

featured in the poetry forum September 30, 2014  :: 0 comments

You walked into the kitchen
I was busily occupied
With the minutiae of living
Washing dishes
I half turn to greet
Blue and green eyes meet
And that was that.
Never was an embrace
So nakedly undressed
Lips on lips pressed
As hungry bodies
Innocent of each other
Found a memory place.

©2014

editors note:

An amorous angler’s kitchen catch. – mh

Crisis

featured in the poetry forum July 12, 2014  :: 0 comments

It’s a small village hiding big lives
Aghast with colour and sound,
Red earth warms the footprint
As green arbours pour
Shelter from the rising sun.
It also rises, day by day
Perfect in structure
Oblivious to the moans of man.
Nature blesses, man curses
The unstructured mind.
The hurting, not knowing
The way to exist.
Who pays the piper?
What pays the piper?
Thirty pieces of silver?
The little person in the village
Of big lives,
Is preparing to go with
The setting sun. The shame.
They sit opposite each other
Counting coins to drink coffee
To keep that aura of sophistication.
So no one will know.
Play music. Keep clean.
Sleep longer each morning
To stay warm.
They read poetry
It is free.
They will be free
If the plan works.

editors note:

It’s no little thing to work a plan, obscured by the big shadow. – mh

The Hand of God Gloved

featured in the poetry forum April 25, 2014  :: 0 comments

A life that should have been yellow, coloured grey.
Cotton fields blazing sun and laughter
Singing in the cloisters like angels
The man swung his belt and blasted
The beauty from all time
As innocence lost its rhyme
They found a new reality.
A life that should have been yellow, coloured grey
Black skin the only sin
Eyes dark as the blood soaked earth.
As the light dimmed and died
The singing in the cloisters of demons
Rattled the chains
Of hunger and thirst
A life that should have been yellow, coloured grey
Is now black.
The hand of god gloved.

I walked into a meadow
And asked a man for gold
He said that I was ugly
And that I should be sold
For half a pint of nothing.
A life that should have been yellow, coloured grey.
I was the Devil’s Agent, he said. He took the child away.
The well is deep. How harsh the sleep
There is no anodyne for pain
The constant gnawing strain
For a life that should have been yellow, coloured grey.
The hand of god still gloved.

editors note:

Cure the color blindness of slavers; set slaves free so all can see. Gloves off! – mh

A Murder of Crows.

featured in the poetry forum February 16, 2014  :: 0 comments

We jumped into the deep well
I was looking for love
He wanted water.
Then came a murder of crows
Ready for a slaughter
Squatted round and round
Uttering inane laughter
Found the love I was after
In the madness of his lips
He praised my curving hips
Madness found its level
In that deep deep well.

editors note:

Is one quenched fair requite? Crows know; it’s better if both or wells run dry. – mh