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Read books online » Poetry » House of Heart by Holly Rene Hunter (readnow TXT) 📖

Book online «House of Heart by Holly Rene Hunter (readnow TXT) 📖». Author Holly Rene Hunter



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Barrelling on I listen for my destination
have I missed my stop?

once while I slept we switched tracks
  I wandered for the longest time in
search of higher ground.
A few grabbed my coat to lift me.
 It was comforting to be carried.
Soon my belongings became too heavy
for them to bear.

Baggage travels with me
within reach and never out of sight.
I will remain on this train it suits me,
 I am  comforted by your company.
If you stay here beside me my heart

may still it's pounding
but cargo travels with me and

always will

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Did it Hurt You?





what were you thinking?
Dying t like that.
Who would I have to blame for my failures?
My bad decisions?
  May I  use you to
ease the guilt of my misguided behavior.
  blame you for
the unhappiness in  life?

You were not perfect,
Did you give  any thought to me,
You did not have the courtesy to get well.
You left me in the care of that man who did his best,
sadly lacking the skills to teach life to a young girl.

There was Grandmama, who taught me well that
the touch of a boy would bring haji.
Shame, on the family, and she would have to care for it.

Though I fought mightily, that young man kissed me hard,
and I bled when he ran his hand up my dress.
I feared I would need to kill myself.
Finally, to my relief, I found no shame would be
delivered to us this time.

He took you to your homeland in an urn.
I have no place to mourn.
That is your fault too.
Could you not leave me your remains?

Surely you are to blame for any pain
that I may suffer.
So, here is your elegy.
I need someone to blame.
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Bowl




The Cupboards were placed out of reach

of small hands.
Cookies are kept there and other things grand.


Most precious, embellished with pink cherry blossoms
a bowl of wood filled with rice  flour.


Holding it to her belly she stirs its contents.
The air is misted with floating rice flakes. 
 
“Grandmamma” I call, but she doesn’t hear.
  Left  with her faded dreams
her brims overflow like the  rice flour in the bowl
  that she has  seasoned with melancholy.

 

 

 

 

Join Me



From my disordered lobes
Positive negative synapsys

hearten and dishearten. 
 
in my mania
I hear Freud repeating
" psy chai a tree."

We know he is not there.

 do not  join me
in my delusions
 
Wait until  darkness falls,
 It is then  I will

need you.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

    Claire de Lune

 

 

 

A Nightingale  sings   Clair de Lune

from  an old oak where the moon

reflects shy smiles,  unsure if

it should seek her out.

Its beams play hide and seek in

the brushy crown of a tree,

skipping from leaves to grassy weeds

where wildflowers close their

portico to hummingbirds

dipping in and out,

they flit away into the night.

A  spectator view

deepens to shades of sighs.

On silent paws an old black dog

lies down  without a sound

and licks her hand.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Sound

 

 

Hear the sound of wrath hurling

dogma at the branding sun.

  Detonated metal shards 

missiles of flame disrupt

astonished heavens.

Listen to the shallow breathing

of rose tinged angels gasping

with the choke of  man

until all is lost.

plummeting like rubble beneath

the asphysiating doctrine

smothering the world

like  blood stained tapestry

falling from the gaping sky 

and all that is left it to watch

all that is left is to wait

in red rivers of carnage

fortunes built on the bones

of humity.

 

 

Driven by  hatred

empowered by arrogance

inspired by false knowledge

it flows from the desert

over the oceans,

across the land.

The slice of the blade,

red rivers of carnage,

fortunes built  on

the bones of humanity.

 

 

 

 

 waging 

 

 

Driven by  hatred

empowered by arrogance

inspired by false knowledge

it flows from the desert

over the oceans,

across the land.

The slice of the blade,

red rivers of carnage,

fortunes built  on

the bones of humanity.

 

 

 

waxing summer 

 

 

Like clockwork,

the  rains come late

in the Summer day.

Yogurt clouds of vanilla

slip to overripe blueberry.

The  rough winds whip

debris into whirling dervishes

that spin up and out through

the tall trees where birds

weave like wicker,

shiny beads slipping from

their waxy feathers onto the

soggy leaves.

Higher in the blowing

crown squirrels escape

to  dreys of durable rattan

and knitted fur to await

the signal of inky shadows

that  venture  into

mottled rays dancing

in puddles and glistening blades

of grass that spring erect

from the wet potpourri of  earth.

 

Summer Garden from Startribune

 

 

 

 

 

I need to start a fire 

 

 

I  cherish every beat,

every emotion that is life.

I have grown weary of vigilance

and want to grieve the lost.

I need to start a fire,

distinguish truth from

a  cunning scheme.

The days are a flinch of the eye

and 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.

 

 

 

 

 

Ragazzi

 

The small boy clings

to his father’s hand

who searches for

someone who speaks

his native tongue.

In school they call him

ragazzi Nazi,

he does not look up

but inside he hurts. 

Once he wore Lederhosen to school,

later he asked his Dad to burn them.

He misses his grandmother and

the scent of ginger and baked apples.

He is smart  and learns the way early.

Work hard and do not complain.

He  raises his children to be

proud and strong but tonight

they are tired standing vigil.

The sterile room is filled with

the sound of labored breathing

until silence replaces laughter,

wisdom,  and a loving heart.

 

 

 

 

 

 

singing to birds 

 

 

Leaning into dreams,

 free falling adventure,

anarchistic hummingbirds

hover in mid-air.

Tiny ballerina’s too

light to bear their shadow

vibrate the air with

the laughter of children

so I open  my heart

like  raining down clouds.

 

 

 

 

 

art: Dawn Chorus by bellavista

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Waxing Summer

 

Like clockwork,

the  rains come late

in the Summer day.

Yogurt clouds of vanilla

slip to overripe blueberry.

The  rough winds whip

debris into whirling dervishes

that spin up and out through

the tall trees where birds

weave like wicker,

shiny beads slipping from

their waxy feathers onto the

soggy leaves.

Higher in the blowing

crown squirrels escape

to  dreys of durable rattan

and knitted fur to await

the signal of inky shadows

that  venture  into

mottled rays dancing

in puddles and glistening blades

of grass that spring erect

from the wet potpourri of  earth.

 

 

 

 

"summer garden" from startribune

 

Beneath green water 

below lotus blossoms

kissing gourami

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

beneath dewy moss

guarding the riverbank

old stone soldiers

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

needing to wring

they remain motionless

delicate as doves

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 Splendor

 

 

  

In December snow birds besiege us,

a heartbeat ahead of winter’s blast.

Tiny wrens settle the bare branches

yielding lush crowns to the larks.

 

Parrots eye me from palm fronds,

concealed in green and gold

the glint of sun off their feathers

reveal them every time.

 

Walls of  stone soldiers

hold back the ocean swells,

capricious sea gulls swoop

rays that pierce the waves.

 

Looking out past the sea foam

splendor catches in my throat

amethyst clouds sweep in,

bleeding  shades of a sunset.

 

 

 

“Sunset” by Nikolay Yaroshenko

Share this:

 

 

 

 

 

 

A Whimsy

 

I’d love to be a summer breeze

that swirls along the shore,

kicking up sand till whimsy

 

flings me beneath the wings of

gulls that trip for free,

defying gravity. Oh, it is insanity!

I’d drop them at white-capped waves

 

that soak the caves of Crabs with

side-ways eyes ,

escaping opportunity.

 

I’ll blast my strongest overhead,

stack pink pearls and tan shells,

 

fine shelter for this living thing.

 

When it’s done I’ll blow through trees

where red bellied parrots sleep on one leg.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Georgette

 

We stepped over cracks

of terra-cotta paths

leading to the pears.

Still weak from sleep

ginger coated feet drifted

through heather to the trees.

 

I hear you call  to me

across the queues,

breaking the stillness,

sending startled field mice scurrying,

energizing the air with

clusters of roused birds.

 

We sunk our teeth into pungent fruit

savoring juices streaming our faces.

Dissolving into laughter you

wiped my cheek with

the damp hem of your gown.

 

I recall your smile and

the warmth of the sun

on a Tuscan morning

when we hugged goodbye

to the carefree days of summer. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

the huntress

 

Sprinkling a handful of sand into a cookie tin

I imagine this is the Kalahari,

not the shore of a beach.

escaping the sun,

I lie beneath an umbrella tree

rather than a palm.

peacefully he soaks up the warmth.

I smile at the king who sleeps

while his woman hunts.

 

 

 

   Shoot the Moon

 

Route 66 called out across the desert.

Tossing rain gear into saddle bags

she roared off on the flame of a comet

above the moon she littered

the heavens with her belongings

shrewdly saving the best for Reno.

 

 

 

 


                                                online picture of a painting in the Route 66 museum

                                                                             in Clinton, Ohio
 

 

 

 

 

 

SoBe 

Her skirt whipped by the ocean breeze, she moves among the chaos.

cars  cough and  shudder,

  pedals to the floor

 weaving in and out,

dodging vengeful lovers.

Young girls stroll the walkway,

 wide-eyed at shop windows

promises of  glitter nails 

and  eyes that sparkle. 

Machismo eyes her up and down,

hissing mami,

the tourist gaze upward

tripping over trash

  

 

 

 

Miccosukee

 

High cheekbones rise up toward the sky.

Her  hair is  streaked with silver and shines like moonlight.

She wears yellow and gold with panels of brown

on a skirt that sweeps the ground when she moves.

Her  skin is wet clay glimmering, her eyes the color of the world.

She tells me about her people,

how things have remained the same, of hours spent crafting

their treasures in huts on the Tamiami Trail.

She studies my face intently selecting gems that will bring  good fortune;

teardrops of jade and silver.

Placing my payment in her callused hand,

I own her earrings and gems of wisdom.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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,

 

You are unsure, Will you be sorry?

Urgently, you follow.

In the shadows we linger,

do not not say no

 today I am weak.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

December In MoTown




The band rocks the atrium.

It's December in Motown.

Dirty boot prints stain the sidewalk

like the rest, I step inside them.

I hit the boulevard freezing,

dreaming of tanned bodies,

Mimosa sipped in tiki huts

and you beside me.

Dreams won't land us in paradise

we seek temporary asyllum,

pulling our jackets close

we slip inside the noise

to dance the chill away.

 

The Wild

 

 

 

The small lake shimmers in the light,

autumn rustles beneath

the feet of a fawn

leaning forward her pink tongue

curls backward

spattering the sweetness of life

into her nose and eyes.

Spotted ears pull sideways,

heeding the sigh of the forest

the breath of a breeze

the kiss of sunlight

transforming faded green to gilded gold.

Beyond the edge of the wood

spring collides with fall

in  tender places

of the wild

 

 


 
 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Brazil




Her palette shines
 
Emerald and Jade

Vibrant shades of Brazil

water colors left to dry

she day-dreams under

turquoise skies.

Crimson and cobalt

psychedelic pleasures

bleeding swaths of gold

across her heart

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

 

 

 

There's a Moon there




Some nights I walk down to the sea side like this.

Looking out, I wonder, how far to Bimini.

There is a moon there.

From your frozen window you gaze upon

the same moon and stars.

They shine on you and you shine too.

The Bimini moon winks, but looks away,

searching for hearts anew.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Moselle River Valley




She lives on Gutenberg Strasse;
Up a flight of stairs that
she polishes every day.

She must remove her
slippers, the Frau works so hard and
takes such pride. She taught the young girl to
polish its brass banister.

He wakes her when he comes home,
parking parallel on the edge of
the cobblestone street.
She likes the scent of his uniform,
the odor of gun metal.

She has no responsibilities.
He is done with his twenty four on.
They pack a picnic lunch and leave
for their

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