House of Heart by Holly Rene Hunter (readnow TXT) 📖

Introduction

 

 

 Poetry enriches both the writer and reader.  Modern English verse is dense and at times leaves the ordinary reader gasping for clarity. These verses are not meant to leave one baffled but hopefully affected by their essence, be it romantic, poignant, or comical.

In general, poetry in the western hemisphere is a somewhat overlooked genre, however the hunger for romance appears alive and well and I think that it will remain so for those who enjoy an escape into beauty, for  owners of broken hearts on the mend and the lost longing for renewal, or simply the fundamentally sentimental.  I have gathered some of my poetry and stored it here  for safe-keeping and hopefully for  the enjoyment of all who wish to linger for a while. My words are born of joy or sadness, love and passion. Incidents of life that remain with their owner forever.  I hope you will enjoy this anthology of poetry. 

                                                             ---Holly Rene Hunter

 

 

 

A luminous tapestry of wordplay, delightful and transcendent moments are filled with insight  and beauty.  House of Heart: Poetry for Dreamers is a delightful book of  Verse from a unique and  gifted poet. 

---William Westergren

 

 

                                                             -

 

 

 

 Love is a journey through waters and stars,
through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness

Pablo Neruda - Carnal Apple...

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   Currency and confessionals

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sheer  scarves cover the

lamp beside the bed as

daylight slips through

the open French doors

igniting  walls of burgundy.

Her hair fans out on pillows,

eggshell limbs are caught in loose binds.

She is the red of womanhood,

her breasts,  alert gazelles.

Guileless eyes the shade of currency,

her  mind becomes  his confessional

and there is no sin grave enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Petals

 

 

When words were your only nourishment

I fed you calla lilies 

budding in my throat.

From stacked shelves of your

smoky library

you read to me Aristophanes.

Of all poets

we loved him best.

In the final hours

we lingered among wilting flowers

fragile petals falling everywhere.

 

 

 

 

 

 Crossover 

 

Come across the boundary softly

Hear the sea oats sighing secrets

to the whispering wind.

See the schooners shadow the horizon,

exotic dreams our hearts have seen.

Uncover ancient lands known to our minds.

Sea breezes find us far from the sea.

Cross over colors and countries,

where stars are diamonds and hearts are free

come cross the boundaries.

 

 

 

A soft kiss

 

 

The soft kiss of a tawny sky

caresses her golden shoulders.

Living things wind around her feet

  grateful for her presence.

She whets the stones of  hope

with perpetual anticipation,

 expecting dreams to come alive

before it is too late.

 

 

 

 

 

 art by featurepic

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Migrating

 

In January snow birds besiege us.

Drab sparrows hover in lush evergreens.

Wary of  the spirited swallow

they settle for the lowest branch.

Parrots eye me from palm fronds

camophlaged in rubies and emeralds

their sunlit feathers give them away.

A cobweb laden garden traps

morsels for night creatures, a bit of

purple, a slice of stem.

When night falls moonflowers open

pure  petals  to silvery dew.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I  Haven't Been Here Before

 

 

I haven’t been here before

Without your hand to guide me

I would be lost.

 

At my threshold the tide consumes the days

shadows fall like lace upon the sand

Come, enter without knocking

you were my lifeline when I drowned

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Whiteout

 

 

The wind ravages the woodland,

roots of trees grip the riverbank.

On a frozen branch a snow owl huddles,

Snow flakes crust her large orbs.

Crystalized feathers pull tight against her bones,

 uneasy, she waits  the return of her life-mate. 

 

Our love is like winter

fixed mountains  against a blanket of white.

Tethered to  time

 held captive by circumstance

riverbeds thirsting for rain.

 Ice spikes my minds canvas,

spilling over the edges into ephemeral snow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 art by mkdnews

 

 

 

 

 

Lessons

 

 

I Gathered seasoned firewood

for the fireplace to lean into the

flames and melt a heart of ice.

 

I would drench my mind in kindness

if ever there was enough.

 

Don’t waste tender roses on regret,

save them for hearts naïve.

 

“It is well for the heart to be naïve and the mind not to be”

Anatole France

   

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Orion

 

 

 

When dried flowers

fold into winters skirt

Spring longs to extract the light

in shades of supple green

erasing fall's gold’s and brown.

Rolling rivers run  between us

threaded tendrils thread our

hair and limbs. 

At the end of our  journey

I will find you above the

 snow laden  mountains

Your likeness as brilliant as

as a summer sun.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Effigy

 

 

She no longer recalls or feels

 

Freedom is not a concept

The curve of her back is wired

with filament and straw fills

the space that  held a heart.

Constructed for crows her limbs

stripped of flesh, her pupils fixed.

 

Her lips are strung with suffering

silent but for labored breath

she no longer speaks because

there are no words

that cut deep enough.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

No One Died

 

Mist fogs the banks

dripping down our borders,

our bodies are currency

spent in lands of wonder.

 Fastened firmly,

our palms roam damp terrain.

Loose diamonds fall from my hand

sparkling like crystal water.

They are precious with the blood of hearts 

though no one died in the quarry.

It is only right that you should have them,

that was your plan from the start.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Fire

 

She is provocative,

at times she  is insolent.

Her concept of red

is nowhere near

roses.

Her house is

the hollow of bones

and skin stretched

beyond  margins.

She has given birth

to despair and suffered

the triteness of platitude.

She is  in search

of kindling

waiting to ignite.

image by Ivan Slavinsky 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Satellites

 

 

 

orbit my nights,

specters no longer

inhabit the shadows.

You have created

space where I can

close my eyes without

fear of principles

and articulations are

no longer foreign.

Feel this body

of insecurity,

the pounding of desire.

I am tangled in yearning.

If you follow me I will

not turn away.

Because I love you,

do not come to me.

image by Lu Jainjiu

 

 

 

 moving right along

 

 

Flowers are still in bloom.  Flaxen rays of sunlight ignore the seasons and persist in heating the soft earth. This year El Nino has diverted the few Atlantic hurricanes coming off the Cape Verde islands away from our mainland and with just two weeks left of the hurricane season, a  collective sigh of relief is likely to be  carried on   the cool breeze. It is green and lush here; A paradise of birds and wetlands, splashes of double hibiscus, swathes of crimson and peach. Blankets of  impatiens winding in and out, petals of violet, red, and white crowding  every available space in the landscape. Huge poinsettia trees  reach out long limbs dropping layers of red blossoms as ground cover. I have joined a friend in his secluded courtyard for Cuban coffee and guava pastelittos and small talk.  The peaceful ambience is interrupted when his demeanor mutates to political. He is angry about the influx of Mexicans and Latinos from Central America crossing our borders. I remind him of his own flight from the shores of Havana over the straits via smugglers.  That is different, he tells me, he had relatives here, sponsors. I stroll to the small clay pots lined up on the deck, the peppery smell of  basil and thyme and black earth sting my nostrils. Eventually he joins me,  proposing we go for a swim and walk along the beach.  Beaming at his very welcome suggestion, I have to wonder how many people can take a dip in the sea in mid-November.

art by Maria Soto Robbins

 

Sirius 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sweet Blossoms

With gentle hands
brush amber strands
from my face and
see me.

Kiss sweet blossoms
from my lips,
I’ve saved for you.

There’s need in these eyes,
inside the jade.

You are unsure,
Will you be sorry?
Urgently, you follow.

In shadow we linger;
I will not say no,
because today
I am weak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  

 

Heart Throb

 

 

 

 I saw his picture

On a billboard,

leaning against the

"Little Bastard".

Beautiful and magic.

I dreamed he would

lay eyes on me

and fall.


I pleaded don't go,

we'll picnic together

on Mulholland, pate

and chardonnay.


Timeless and immortal,

Not one photo stained with tears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If you are God 

 

 

From the forest a bob white calls your name.

Listen to the sound of you.  Do what you will do.

  Do not feed on the  pain.  If you are God, be the sun, 

but Let the moon have its turn.

Shine  on willows weeping

Stray into the a shivering night,

return with a joyful heart.

 

 

 

 

 

Think of me ....

 

 

I’m the faint scent of lilac The gust of chill in the air.A forget-me-not  trampled,springing upright as you pass.The sweeping wings of an eagle,an orphan at your door.Thoughts gone amiss, never getting it right; pacing feet across your floor.A muffled cry when you grieve,

a feral comforted along your path

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Sole Dove

 

 

(for Roby)

 

 

From my periphery I see you

hear you in the café

My breathing stops to listen for sounds

for signs of the space that held us

Rooms are casks replete with stillness

send me signs of validation.. of exits

dismal bargaining and vulnerability

grieving what is not easy

 

A sole dove swooped into the crown of a tree

watching  from a forked bough

soon the cardinals fly in

A brilliant male and his drab mate

natures cruel sense of humor

on wide wings they sail to a distant stand

letting go the past the lone Dove lingers

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Echoes of Gods

 

 

Sips of rain permeate the surface,

seeping through rock, carving sandstone,

flowing sideways, etching airspace, filling caves,

fleeing hillsides, escaping to the valley floor.

My name echoes through canyons,

seized by roaring waterfalls

crashing at the feet of Gods.

A sound snared by the breath of souls,

flung into the gentle flow of

sorrow’s spring of tears.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

At it's Finest

 

 

We were drama at its best,

witty, facetious, and ironic;

Conduct deteriorating downward.

Like Taylor and Burton,

  I was the strongest

if not the most temperate.

I fortified my defenses 

behind walls of retreat.

 We begged each others assurances

What made us think we were in control?

 

 

art by lifeat24frames

 

 

 

I need to start a fire

 

 

 

I am weary

of grieving the lost.

I need to start a fire,

distinguish love from

a  cunning scheme

 

 

The days are a flinch of the eye

a trembling heartache-

a phantom hidden in plain sight.

I am at the river's edge

and my tears are a healing balm.

I want to rise to the light

but tonight I need to start a fire

I’m as cold as the midnight moon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Because I am not Jaded Enough...

 

 

I still imagine your balcony doors swung wide

where you breathe the humid night air in shadows

that conceal your naked body.

 

Because I miss your soothing belles lettres

and azure eyes amused by my tears.

 

I should scream a mock rant but I can’t;

Because I am still in denial.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 When I speak 

 

 

The house I built

rests on  rolling waves,

it’s hallowed bed billows with

sea island breezes.

Stay here  forever in  dreams

 where I am but a visitor.

When I speak  of love

my words slip like rain

into the deep as

I search for you

in the fading  sunset.

 

 

 

Art by Vincent Romero

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 hearts of lovers

 

 

 

 

You are deep as the mariana trench

the finest opus of nightingales

a tropical