The unity of form and content is what distinguishes poetry from other areas of creativity. However, this is precisely what titanic work implies. House of Heart by Holly Rene Hunter (readnow TXT) đź“–
- Author: Holly Rene Hunter
Book online «House of Heart by Holly Rene Hunter (readnow TXT) 📖». Author Holly Rene Hunter
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
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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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