2 pm Poem
Secret Garden
A special place all my own
Dreams fly free
Cares flow gently away
Senses renewed
Body Relaxed
Purpose awakened
A place of peace and tranquility
My secret garden
Hour 5: The Devil You Don’t
A girl lay on her mattress dreaming
a dream first sweet then vicious-seeming
subconscious visions softly screaming
teeming with the ghosts of yesteryear
when woke she with a startled shiver
each cheek the bed of briny river gleaming
streaming with the tears of childish fears
Alight did she on wooden floorboards
creaking as she tiptoed forwards
sneaking past the door and onwards
down the hall in stocking feet
A shady figure always keeping
clear of where her eyes were peeping
went behind her in the shadows creeping
down the hall on stalking feet
For the window made she fumbling
stumbling as she reached out
thumbing heavy drapes
that hid the night
when suddenly she heard a rumbling
as if some beastly stomach grumbling
and nearly tumbling turned she
towards the creature hid from sight
A shudder took her
nearly shook her to collapsing
sure she was that claws would hook her
rasping fast through darkness
grasping as they preyed
Casting out into the masking shadows
now to be forever lasting and crashing
to the floor she threw her hands together clasping
gasping as she prayed
The curtains she had sought were dropped
with haste, at once forgot
yet somehow they had caught upon her wrist
and with a movement pulled into her fist
A twist, and through the window’s pane
the moon before its wane did cast a silvered plane
upon the floor
Before her shrunk the hidden horror
outside the beaming boundaries of the light
around the girl
but sensed she in the blackness watching
the crouching creature still there slouching
while behind her fast encroaching
‘cross the lunar face a looming cloud
Fast the hallowed halo now retreating
lifted she again her hands entreating
in the dark that followed
as the moon was slowly swallowed by the shroud
one
if we could find that secret, sacred place
here on this great, green earth
where we could hold each other,
breathe each other’s sorrows
and fears, we could
discover our souls are One, and there
is no such thing as suffering
or ugliness or what we call fear…
only love.
only being.
Poem 6
Poem six. Already out of ideas
What should I write about?
They are planning a human head transplant
So who exactly does the thinking
The old person or the new head?
The cops busted kids with a koolaid stand
Guess the real criminals weren’t available
Kids are so out of control these days
Someone figured out how to fry coke.. coca cola
Not the other stuff, I am sure someone has fried the other stuff
They have definitely been fried by it
Frying coca cola sounds kind of sticky
If we have to fry things how about fried coffee?
Seems more to my liking
Wait I think I saw a recipe for fried Starbucks
Or baked Starbucks or
A rolled Starbucks fried pastry
How soon can I get it at an actual Starbucks?
I don’t cook.
Rue McClanahan’s death went viral
Five years after she died
That Rue has staying power
Wonder what her next sitcom will be?
Caitlyn Jenner wore hot thigh high boots
Not extremely interesting
But I had to look
I wasn’t impressed
Thigh highs are completely impractical in Hawaii
Unless you’re fishing.
I don’t think Caitlyn plans
To use them that way
If she does it will make the news
Apparently some celebrity is with their old girlfriend
Another is pregnant
Another may be getting a divorce.
Another is on his deathbed
You know, the usual gossip. Insert names
Only poem 6 huh….we have how many more to go?
My Dog, Alfred
My Dog, Alfred
Fashioning himself as a gangsta, Alfred
Hitchcock wears his gray hoodie whenever
I take him for a walk through our local
grave yard. He enjoys peeing on tombstones.
An intimidating terrior with
penetrating eyes and monolithic
Easter-Island ears, he refrains from barking,
never smiles, and takes pride in the way
his gray whiskers highlight his black coat. He
lives in his own monochromatic world.
An introvert by nature, he cares not
for human intercourse. Do not pet him.
Little Rock, With Green Moss and Googly Eyes
one shouldn’t throw little rocks, with green moss and googly eyes, at others
just because they don’t also have rocks
just like one shouldn’t throw little rocks, with green moss and goggly eyes
when others cannot
there is a moral and a lesson to be learned;
when you are lucky enough to own a little rock
with green moss and googly eyes,
hold on to it,
put it on the table
and contemplate about how very lucky you are
By: 2015 KMH
Hour 6
I hold in my hand
I hold in my hand the essence of all life
It runs in my veins, what could end all strife
But I close my eyes to the simplicity of truth
and disguise the birth of life in tarnished youth
In That Old Photograph #6/24
In That Old Photograph
It looks as if my skin’s too tight
like my soul hasn’t had the chance
to work its way to the surface
of my then smooth mask of face
I don’t know who she was
the way she tied her scarf like that
made up far too much for a young
girl so unformed and unsure
of everything around her
Life has a way of loosening
the skin of the soul
of pulling down what once
held firmly to the bones of youth
and still the one similarity:
that uncertainty about it all