A. Hicks Hope

Creativity, Expression, & Entertainment Sought

 

March 06, 2011                                ISSUE: AHH-11-2 

[Under Construction]

A STONE’S THOREAU

 

If solitude were stone,

With these last years

Then,

I’ve solidified a spacious home.

 

&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

LONELINESS

 

If there

    were only snow,

Then there would be

    an excuse for the cold.

*******

AGE

 

The grey demon wisdom,

            Slows the step,

            Bends the back,

While youth turns its head away.

 

                                &&&&&&&&&

 

MOUNTAIN PASS

 

More a complaint

Than a companion.

The unhappy wind.

 

                                &&&&&

 

FATHER

 

They told me about

how my father in

his reluctant metamorphous

tried to comfort a

dieing man.

 

In the basement

laundry room

hovered by tenant

angels and my creator

sixty eight years

ceasing to exist

over a linted, steel drain.

 

***********

 

The Impotence of Emotion

 

Bury the mouth parts

                        Bleeding as pity,

            The cranium seems

As a reservoir

                        For blood and emotion.

 

But rid of life,

            It

                        Flows to emptiness.

 

            The skull,

                        Its immoveable

                        Joints loosened,

                                    Dismembers,

                        Moist,

                                    Separate,

            Apart,

Calls for solitary

                        Pits,

            Singular darknesses

                        To waste in.

 

            The hate that

            Cries in the

            Hidden mind

            Pushing its walls

            Down on consciousness.

                        The screams

                                    The chaos

                                                The gentle weeping.

 

The anti-chamber

            Destroyed

Awakened and killed

                        In quaking flames.

 

The cerebrum opens

            Like a

                        Black hole.

 

                        A vast

                                    Distorted

                                                Finity

Where silence

                        Released

                                    As sound

            Plays with solidity

                        To a vaporous

                                    Liquid.

 

The monster fury

            Grasps

                        Perceptions

            Compresses them

            To the heat of

                        Fusion

                                    The fission,

                        A tidal pull

                                    To wake.

 

 #############

 

Sorry!  But I can’t

 

January crushed me.

I needed you but . . . you were disappeared.

 

So I can’t do this again.

 

I love you too much . . . I guess?

 

                        &&&&&&&&&                           

 

Still Life…

 

The Moon sets

                                                            As white wine

                                                                        Fills the thin glass

                                                                                    On the small table.

 

                                                Behind her

                                                            Her still erect maleness lies,

                                                                        Nude on a Couch.

 

                                                While she,

                                                            Robed, leans against the table,

                                                                        Still Life with Glass.

 

 

***

 

 

Drying on the Beach…

 

Drying on the beach….

The net billows

So much like the just loosened blouse,

The sky seems flesh through the weave.

 

****

    The Object of Dreams

                    I pulled

                            her long

                    hair

                            out of my

                        bathtub drain

 

        She is the past

                that has

                        backed up into my

                                        future.

 

                 &&&&&&&&&&&&&&

 

A MAN’S MORNING

 

Awoke to;

A painful erection,

The sun rose too.

 

                            %%%%%%

 

BARK

 

Bark,

A rugged protection.

Dog

            Or

                        Tree

 

From the series, BONSAI GROVE.

 

NO TREE

No tree.

Just sharp sky

And me alone.

From the series, BONSAI GROVE.

Copyright 2008 - MWC

 

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