A Button To Fix It All

featured in the poetry forum March 11, 2014  :: 0 comments

She sees the past in her dreams
and says things like we’ve always been.
Yet she will scream across the table top
and then lament about love’s many faults.
In those oceans she calls eyes
Is a silken cradle of lies,
I remain the same
– her bless-ed little fault.

I see the future in my way,
heartbreak and debris block our place
It’s now approaching fast
the future now becomes the past.
Yet in my hand is a lovely thing
a button which makes dreams complete
gives us one more chance to repeat
Clicking on it paints a trail
that leads to where you waited
leads me to where I wish fate had

I fell in love before we ever met
I fell in love before the causeway set.

editors note:

These days, the best adhesives stick forever. Best to stay solvent… – mh

Marching in the Summer Sun

featured in the poetry forum November 15, 2013  :: 0 comments

From Mount Sulphur to Mount Cyanide
we watched, we waited along the Rhine,
along that spine!
A bird, a bee, a bombing spree – above
below a swarm of doves
a herd of doe!
And where we’ve been is where we be
Hurray, Hurrah! So goes the patriotic
And then the little ants went passing
right along.
We watched we waited, for them
to continue on,
in and out of order they marched
in that summer sun.
Then it rained, the damnedest thing
– the ants never stopped.

editors note:

Can’t let weather deter progress or stop growth of the complex (mayhem is money). – mh

Misguided by the Light of My Youth

featured in the poetry forum September 6, 2012  :: 0 comments

The train started to stop,
and we watched
perched on top
stacks of timber
–cold, cold wood.
The train cars
–slinging, lurching, and screeching,
finally came to a halt.
And I remember
the swaying stacks
and the passing boom!
I was drunk and happy then,
young too,
and I suppose
misguided by the light of my youth,
as most of us have once been.
I thought nothing of it then,
yet I’ve tried to go back
so many, many times since.

editors note:

Wasted on the young, treasured by the old. It’s the same track all down the line. – mh


featured in the poetry forum June 17, 2012  :: 0 comments

Speak first with bullets
then maybe words.
Aim and squeeze
don’t pull, don’t breathe.

Speak loud with bombs
light up that night sky
lanterns float and fall,
becoming exploding fireflies.

Speak quick with anger
among mobs and fire,
candlesticks and powder,
pure hatred, pure power.

Speak strong with pride,
tea kettle black ice,
warming and simmering
–infectiously spreading.

Speak first with love
and all falls down
when they push you
against the wall.

editors note:

Well said. Bullets, bombs don’t bode well. Love is the better tell. – mh

The Blackest Rose

featured in the poetry forum March 5, 2012  :: 0 comments

In the garden,
does wait.
I’m the blackest rose,
to pollinate.

Her milk white
is smooth and fine.
I consider,
just might take my time.

Like a needle
I’ll penetrate.
And in every
I’ll permeate.

In this seamy
flowers carry blood.
I’ll make her
the liquid love.

Her sullen heart,
never last.
And wither up,
turn to ash.

When the curtain
we exit left.
I’ll always be the
of this myth.

editors note:

Terminal horticulture, life as love as myth. No green thumb here. Better cultivate some other skill to fall back on. – mh