featured in the poetry forum June 15, 2014  :: 0 comments

I don’t know where you’re going
only that you’ve been there.
How do I know?
Let me be that secret.

I knew you when you were just an eye,
just another starry, starry night.
Perhaps you were just another lie,
or maybe something special.

I like a mirror just as much as the next man,
but you can not be that for me.
There’s too much memory,
and now we see as through a glass darkly.

Too many times I’ve put off.
Too many tomorrows I’ve lost.
You, you are only a kid.
And I, I am only a spark.

editors note:

Riddle resplendent in eye night spark kid, life alive and awake. I’m watching… – mh

An interpretation of “Los Heraldos Negros” by Cesar Vallejo

featured in the poetry forum June 22, 2013  :: 0 comments

There are knocks in life so hard… what the hell do I know!
knocks of God hate, as if driving
the riptide of suffering
were to dam the soul… what the hell.

Though few… they carve lines
in the fiercest face and the toughest back
Maybe they’re Attila’s horses
or the black harbingers sent by Death

They are the abysses of the Christ in soul
of some utter faith blasphemed by Destiny
the blood hits in the crackling bread
that burns us at the oven’s door

And poor poor man, he turns his eyes
as if slapped on the shoulder
turns his crazy eyes, and everything lived
is dammed, a little lake of guilt, in his sight

There are hard knocks… what the hell do I know!

editors note:

What the hell, indeed! – mh

A deliberate misreading of Sonnet 124

featured in the poetry forum January 13, 2013  :: 0 comments

if lust was simply but a child of state
then and now to be a bastard of the fate
that all destinies are met not good or bad
but in the joke so practically had

time for heart or merely time for hate
the common weeds are gathered with the sate
and by an accident were only meant
to be just a moment of discontent

in every single hour life is short
in every raining shower faith abort
and all alone each forced to perform the trick
that makes profession of faith a heretic

witness the fools of time who died confessing lives of crime
in the belief they are made clean to enter into love supreme

editors note:

Arrest evil outcome with this article of faith (or magic spell) boosted from the Bard in three quatrains and a couplet. – mh

a troped poem

October 6, 2012  :: 0 comments

I opened up the door to the cab
and paid God to take me where she stood folding
He said here’s the station
she walked through the now chanting my my my
my hands were on the door but her heart was a card
the singer won uptown eyes the train bailed out
and night threw me down
I refused to have it handed to me
maybe I was lazy but the phone was ringing
and I said buddy fix that out
he had his hands at her heart wild crazy like some Zapatista
He was in my deal and I was ringing the bell
but no one came nobody to job me without a chorus
the fingers warming over the sun
we got back into the cab singing
so we took the first left although she started hiccupping
but I tried to ki-
ss her anyway
she took just one
what was that for I said
and that was that
but just for luck she laughed
she said gimme a dime I gotta make a call


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

if as for the window opening in me
the who where something can do
that which makes awake the lesson
and listens to the footsteps in the wet
depending upon the secret language of the wind
the message and the rain opens it is just possible
to adjust the focus to a narrow beam
of contact that is perhaps possible
to read the fact that all through the house
where the floor boards give up the ghost
the beam creaking is the noon of the ceiling
a kind of put-together crack
but waiting under the roof at midnight the fact
that it is blown through the room
which peels that skin where the paint blinks
and is the naked light bulb
and is pulverized and so passing
by the long wall built to keep out the mares
the door behind the empty keyhole by the front entryway
I who close the lock hear someone walking away
I keep hearing the noises inside
tears falling which in this halfstate of consciousness
can move me and make me laugh
in the storm which you thundered
it shakes the twist of pain
which by any means cannot cause me
who can’t close my eyes
and make a dream where the hurricane
is the answer to all my prayers

editors note:

Great way to learn a new language; while you sleep… – mh


August 24, 2011  :: 0 comments

if I like you did this many times
it was with the best intentions out the
door one time therefore many years ago
I had already moved out here
when you spoke so before you go
escaping by any means you need to
speak with me desiring the fact that who
is your friend today might not
be tomorrow and who is feared to
be found for the second time if you
yourself and driving through the old
neighborhood inhaling yesterdays
hearing the old sounds something o-
vertakes the senses if I had better
known that one moment the letter I
should have written the call should
have made the detectives should have
put on the case but nothing was
delivered and when I am old and still
possessed so still I wish I had met
you coming down the old road then I
could tell you everything myself


featured in the poetry forum August 24, 2011  :: 0 comments

whether the meaning of the thing
is this way whether or not the design
or the method of the thing is known
those for whom it was owned are
the net and for the sake of the net
which is the net there is a nervous
irreversible life which really is not
avoided and the delicate pattern of
which is thought of so for whom it
was concerning is not because it is
known so in regard to the center of
it because it itself existed for that
being in order to make technical the
silk of the extreme edge which is
a fully realized natural technology
that evolved over millions of years
and to understand it simply and
exactly just examine the interlock for
which is made and inferred in the
system and you will learn that what
ever good you encounter will be in
and of itself and the device actually
does work it does work whether or
not it is actualized with the hand


July 12, 2011  :: 0 comments

in the absence of fact faith is a rational
response so I touch my fingers
against the glass the snow is falling I tell
myself that if the facts are in
question then faith is still a rational
response the ice spears are forming
someday they’ll break no one can
come alone to the realization if the
facts contradict you will be marooned
no man is an island I only made
one mistake Galileo’s accusers
were rational but they were wrong hard
diamond black looking back on a
kaleidoscopic night if you can’t trust
your heart then what is there to hold
on to right or wrong the choices
are few waiting for a summer that
never comes so I tell myself I’m just
numb from the bitter cold and that
seems to make some kind of sense


featured in the poetry forum July 12, 2011  :: 0 comments

so I have to wonder if this condition
is abnormal if some person puts
labor in place of love in the same way
a sexless worker bee puts buzz
ahead of lust the flood of the rose
walking down my center takes over
my medulla rushes in past all my
defenses and shakes me to the spine
I forget that my where am I is right
here and I cannot believe the only
thing which remains is pure necessity
and I collect the scattered pieces
of my shattered blessings all the while
asking heaven for a transfer to
the in-between place so’s I can have
some time to catch my breath


featured in the poetry forum December 2, 2010  :: 0 comments

one person can lose only so much blood before before falling salt
tears salt in blood salt in the brain salt in rain so the spark spins
around in my heart a start in my ears I can hear blood the dogs
can smell fear a foot in the snow and a foot in the doorway I am
such a fool I really don’t know the sun comes up tomorrow is not
a given with the hickory our sycamore has a war lasting decades
touch ice don’t feel it fine line between cold and numb but cross
it unawares almost broke my knee flying down the slippery steps
lying on black ice wife came running out saw me groaning on the
ground and said “Does it hurt?” felt stupid too there was nothing
I could do except lie there and “ooooooooooo……” then an old
photograph that looks just like an old friend in another life when
it gets too cold it’s like a secret fire that skin only knows dreamed
of a dog on my chest woke up there he was laughing at me boy
down in the gutter a shard of glass beneath the ice reflect the sun
sometimes the false dawn is called the hour of the wolf but there’s
no wolf either dust in a dead room is the only thing moving except
for my heart a bowl of fish soup a loaf of multigrain bread a tub of
butter the finches are back looking for sunflower seeds they were
here before stuck between the dream and the awakening I forgot
who I was again spring again celebrate it while you can know so
what tomorrow? who knows what I found? a lost treasure? even
I don’t know cardinal on his branch blooming redder than cherry
he is so happy! guess it was a bug that ran under the drawer but
I can’t be sure the house finch is an invasive species that has no
where else to go last turn not a pecker this time it was a sparrow
maybe blue next time I was feeding the squirrels one nut at a time
when one bit me on the thumb I guess he was bored or was simply
impatient but it hurt like hell but if squirrels don’t think then what’s
going through his mind when we see eye-to-eye?