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

paradise where

birds sip nectar from blossoms

that unfold for you alone.

Let me leave my mark

roses beneath banks of snow

lovers

 caught in a  mock sinner's lullaby

on a widespread meadow

between skyscrapers

we  surrender

to the  white hot night

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Lament

 

 

A young birch sways

like a new-born giraffe,

its limbs lean out

over wilted grass

and ochre vines bind

a sightless sentry

whose eyes never flinch

but guard eternal.

The silence of winter

stacks on solitary bones

until May winds stir

the crowns of trees

flush with suspeneded

birds

powerless to fly on.

 

 

 

Muse

 

 

 

In my mind you ebb and flow,

desire glows like rubies

in your ancient soul,

gifting a thousand fears

forlorn despair and buoyant hope.

I trust you inherently.

Stoking the fire in my belly,

you strengthen from a slow simmer

into a raging boil.

On our raft of papier-mâché

we become whole,

desperately thrashing against

the current.

Art by OceanArt

 

 

 

 

 

Spring of 1990

 

 

 

I am a chrysalis

twisting in the breeze,

 fluid bones press

hard against fragile casing.

Swollen wings beat against

the space that holds me.

Somehow I know that I

am meant to struggle.

I don’t hear or see,

nor would I heed

 signs of warning.

My body emerges

a pubescent butterfly

excessively sanguine or

desperately melancholy.

Keen to spread my wings,

filled with zeal for flying,

I flit from flower to flower

sipping nectar in the sunlight

oblivious to life’s repressive

hand hovering above me.

 

 

private art

 

 

 

Hymn of Birds

 

In the hard silence of freedom

my heart bleeds the extract of

flowers until each breath is

a promise suspended from my lips.

A whisper against  skin

that I am more than mountains

or specks of dust or the sever

of flags divisive as tongues.

a wing beat of doves

the gemstone of freedom

as sweet as the chorus of birds.

 

 

photography by Heartafire

 

 

 

The Life Cycle of a Rose

 

 

 

 

She stands erect on a tall stalk

wrapped in veiny leaves

burgeoned with  fat globules

of  viscous dew.

For the love of light

she spreads tender petals

for the broad faced sun

sinking   sinewy roots

into the earth.

Swollen with nectar she

pulls her corolla upright

toward the heavens.

At dusk she combs the air

with sweetness

retreating at night into

the pearly pools of the moon.

 

 

Marwell Rose Garden

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Primitive

 

 

Across a velvet backdrop

stars hang like crystal

like glass... like you

softly glowing lanterns

strewn across the heavens

encircling tiny candles

that wax and wane

in the out breath sighs

Plummeting spectrums

streaking through darkness

they vanish over mountains

plunge in to the sea

or diffidently fade

against the dark horizon.

 We are

tumbling waves of unrest

harnessing the wind

or still as tide pools

hostage to the moon

our  world goes up in flames

come out, ignite,

be the fire.

 

War-Cry of Birds

 

 

Her trill lilts through

the trees,

across the poppy fields,

above the mountains,

through the valley,

it spills from towers

into the dreams

of seekers

bruised from battle,

unwavering  crusaders

soothing homeless children

afraid to go to sleep.

Her bones are set with courage,

eyes deep wells of wisdom.

She sings for you and me

a song of dignity.

 

 

art by rick nilson

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the game

 

 

The jaunty horses are her darlings

with their heads held high.

she loves to play the game

win or lose

 

He thrums his fingers on the table

feigning anger though he knows

the kings a mere adornment

for her territory

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Play it Safe

 

 

 

 

 

escaping disapproval

filled with self-doubt

in a brow-beaten world.

Hide in your shell,

it is comfortable there,

close your mind and mouth

seal  flickering eyes,

accept without question

bow to the pressure

swallow fear and anger

suck it deep down

lest you come alive

raging at the system

forcing hard decisions.

You are tired,

you want to rest,

You want to play it safe.

 

 

 

 

art by Janette Tomanek

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Imgarcade

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Token

 

 

Her skin is scarrred from

sharp stones

 

she soothes her wounds

in the waters edge

 

at the shore a man searches for

the colors of the world

 

his eyes shed tears

of peony and purple

 

pointing a finger he motions

toward the ocean

 

look he cries

the dolpins are mating

 

Submissive as the sunset

 she cast her eyes in his direction. 

                                                              

 

 

 

 

 

  Random thoughts

 

Kaleidoscopes are fascinating, their brilliant shapes and hues, just a shift and they evolve to jewels entirely new. I hate converting miles to kilometers, do you? Sitting ringside at a kangaroo boxing match would be cool. Falling stars make me cry. I studied Krishna to find myself, I learned that Karma doesn't discriminate. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waiting to Inhale

 

Confined in that  intricate labyrinth,

translucent limbs wore me down.

I dreamed of honey and coconut milk

and transparent eyelids and fingertips

sucked into rose bud lips.

I held you captive in my barriers,

imprisoned in shifting walls.

falling through  nautical twilight

hope cast it’s shadow on us.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

laugh lines 

 

 

The morning is filled with the scent of freshly brewed coffee forcing me into consciousness. My eyes open to burgundy roses, life-like on flocked wallpaper. Placing my feet on the January floor I sit for a moment at the edge of the bed till the aberrant pounding in my chest slows to a mundane thump. When my eyes adjust to daylight I rise. Passing the antique mirror, my fingers trace  laugh lines . I could refrain from laughter, the thought makes me smile.I pull the sheers aside to let the sun  in. Its rays pace across my floor on silent paws.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kame 

 

I filed your shoe box with precious things.

A stone bridge from the flower bed

where you went to be alone.

Lettuce and parsley coaxed you from your shell.

My marionettes filled with blood,

I found you in a puddle.

Syrupy thickness filled the corners of my lips,

wiping my nose with the back of my hand,

you became the rusty shade that filled my nail beds.

I sat you in the sunlight in the window seal,

tiny holes poked in your lid to shield you from war.

You were not the only lost creature that I brought home.

It saddened me that I never gave you a name.

 

 

 

 

Wildflower

 

 

A wildflower grows through a crack

in the pavement where it suffers

rain and snow and boots that walk

past overlooking beauty among debris.

Concrete messages reveal advancement

and retreats, struggles and strength.

Reach for the sky, wildflower,

the world Is beautiful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Wildwood

 

 

A trampled path winds

 its way through the

reaching arms of evergreen

to a misty wildwood where my

heart lies down with yours.

White tail deer nibble goldenrod

lifting the veil of solitude.

Spring showers and wild flowers

flourish in this place

where April lives forever.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Shanty  

They settled in a shack down the dirt road.

She would come on Tuesday to do laundry,

her gold tooth gleaming when she laughed from her belly.

They ate a fine dinner on the porch.

We could barely hear them from the dining room

unless whispers raised themselves in anger.

Sweet tea in bell jars eased the sweltering summer.

I offered him a sack of apples when they left

. He bowed his head in gratitude, grinning at the floorboards.

She said he gambled their money away,

with those little ones needing shoes.

I slipped a dollar in her pocket.

Fall came in brown and gold like skin and teeth.

The scent of smoke filled the air.

They found him swinging from an oak

like an October leaf swaying.

He used to sweep hay from the barn floor.

Thick calluses covered his hands.

They don’t burn anymore.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

juicy fruit

 

When I think of my father’s mother

I can smell the  flour on her apron.

It seems just yesterday I roamed

the rooms of that big house,

inhabited by ancient books.

I once found erotica in the drawer

of an antique bureau.

Indulging the feelings it aroused

I  immersed myself in it. The scent of saffron faded pages

did not deter my interest.

Her most precious possession,

A cedar chest secreted cigarettes,

the deadliest of sins, 

shrewdly stored beneath sweet sticks of juicy fruit gum

I was allotted a stick a day.

A heavy price was paid,

reading aloud from that massive family bible 

while my mind drifted away to pages of erotica.

She watched over me in Summer,

after Mother died.

She only slapped me once, when I kissed that boy.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Still I can fly

 

I’m an odd bird,

clumsy and askew

with but one wing to guide me.

Still I can fly 

rustling leaves on my branch

shake my foothold.

I am sightless here in the shadows.

I would sweep swaths of light

across the dark but my

art has forsaken me.

I’ll fly away chiming like a bell

when the dawn ignites the sky.

I have a voice, can you hear me?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Courage 

 

is a leopard with cubs in danger,

rushing forward without hesitation to face the foe.

It is looking your greatest fear in the eye,

leaning forward, stepping across

the line you dare not cross

 

lungs bursting, thoughts racing,

adrenalin heart pounding;

entering the arena of dread,

defending the defenseless,

facing the enemy, confronting the bully,

challenging the antagonist,

fighting the battle until it is won.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Time Passing

 

 

She had an eye for artand fine tapestry.

She adored animals,

allowing my puppy to sleep with me.

The pigments of her head scarves were dazzling;

silver, bronze,and crystalline

I never imagined an omen 

a poem she called “Time passages”

or ‘time passes”.

it was long ago andI was just a child.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Thing Is

 

 

I sometimes browse old snapshots

or read again  a book that you sent me

dedicated in your own hand.

When I miss you most I hold

the keepsake that once

sailed the seas.

I listen to jazz  that we loved

or you reciting poetry.

That is the thing with the dead

they leave behind those memories

kisses on cold figurines

 messages from an obsolete address. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Elegy


 A strange name for a Welshman

his mother called him Carlos

Perhaps she loved Spain

So fortunate is she

not to see the light go out

on her boy.

 go gentle, as gentle as can be.



I must question Dylan

the nature of death he's seen.

"Do not go gentle into that good night.

Rage, rage against the dying of the light"*

I was a sword in fist

I was a shield in battle

I was a string on a harp...*

go gentle as can be.

* Dylan Thomas

**Cad Goddeu: Battle of the Trees

 

 

lost in translation

 

 

This  summer I will

indulge in originality

and lose myself in

anarchy.

Lie down in the

shadow of skyscrapers

on a metaphor of meadows

spread out  on clouds

of Aristophanes.

 

In hedonistic adventures

I will risk the wrath of gods

while between breaths

in your day-dreaming tongue

you translate “the Song of Songs”

for me.

 
 
 
 

 

Confession
 
 
You are dark as the brown liquid that you love more than me. 
Still, I feel such pride in you, the wonder of your words, so imperfectly perfect.
I swallow guilt in the quietness of my thoughts.
It is good I do not see your eyes; confession will not stop this love nor redeem me.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Winter Song
 

The sun has lost it’s domain

snow birds shroud its rays.

A handful of larks quiver

on a bare branch,

tiny in their frozen feathers

they could fit into

the palm of a hand.

 

Their song so fragile,

suspended in frozen breath,

they sing for the sight

of an outstretched hand

clinging to a red-tailed kite,

racing through sunflower faces

 

 

 

 

 

Inertia

 

 

 

I was not meant to

toil the thickness of prose

or suffer the madness

of time frames.

Wisteria climbing a wall

in good time is alluring.

Pooling droplets of rain

in folded leaves of

broad faced  hollyhock,

tracking the sun or

dormant buds sleeping

beneath winters

hard earth awaiting

the gesture of a nightingale’s

signal seems appealing.

In good time passers-by

might find beauty in me

a reflection of nature.

 

 

 

 

In The Company of Angels

 

My eyes are fixed on an echelon of

snow birds winging southward,

A mere heartbeat ahead of winter’s blast.

They seek refuge in palm fronds and

honey-dripping hibiscus.

My sea-walls are under siege,

melting languor opens my borders.

In the company of angels I offer no resistance. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the mission

Through the rustling curtains
a damp breeze fills the room.
Beyond the dusty panes
the reflection of a woman
weeding her flower bed in the rain.

Undaunted by the cold

chafed hands attend her mission
resolutely she cares for fragile

blooms of red and gold.

Listening for the thunder
to break the sound of silence,
she awaits a