To the Poets of Hello, Hello!

We write, we share.
We hope there’s someone there
To read
Perhaps need
Poetry,
Precisely as we
Say it,
Hoping that they see it
As we do.
(They seldom do, but
It’s the memo
Of the heart,
Our smattering of art
That matters.)

Hello, Hello,
My fellow poets.
Ego-less
I come to you,
Admiring, commenting,
Caring for the things you dare to share.

Over simplified, naïve maybe,
Never diva we,
The weavers of profundity.
Hello, Hello to poets and to poetry,
Its crystal-gifted company
And you who take in what you see
Here.

To The Poets Of Hello, Hello! 7.4.2016
The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin

Hello Poetry; a site encouraging one and all to submit & share their oeuvre.

.

He sits on a hill
crying tears of rejection
Searching for love
but to chase it away

Calling the clouds
hanging low in the heavens
Blind to the light
in its abstract display

There all alone
hearing voices on breezes
Swears it is him
they are talking about

Recording echoes
on pages of reasons
Counting each one
on his fingers of doubt

Feeling the sweat
as it drips past his hairline
Filling the cracks
that have formed on his skin

Drowning the dreams
of the flooded temptations
Closing his eyes
just to try once again

Falling apart,
tiny pieces now crumble
Pebbles of life
cast to reaches below

Back to the earth
if the soil will have him
Maybe this time
something better will grow

You’ll find a turtle walking slow,
or in the sea prepared to go
a thousand miles before its old.
It migrates without being told.

You’ll find deer mostly in the deep,
and every one knows when to sleep
and when to stay awake to feed.
They do the things they know they need.

You’ll find a tree that buds in spring,
and every year it leaves a ring
inside a ring. It also knows
to lose its leaves before it snows.

And grasses grow in rocks and chert,
and roots go dormant when the dirt
becomes too cold for them to swell
and pull cool water from a well.

And rocks will weather when they thaw,
and shatter when the weather’s raw,
and leave behind the smallest grains
to nourish all things when it rains.

Music to a song

I was sort of hoping,
that you would come along.
Like the answer to a prayer,
and the music to a song.

Like the kind of thing that happens
at a special place in time,
that will change my life forever,
like a fantasy of mine.

The fantasy was there before
I ever knew your name.
and now that I have found you
I will never be the same.

So,pardon if I look at you,
forgive me if I stare
at the fantasy I knew before
I saw you standing there.

For I was always hoping
that you would come along,
like the answer to a prayer
and the music to a song.

By

Randy McPeek

“Have you written about me yet?”  you asked.
“I write about things that make me sad, you’re not one of them.” was my response.

But even as you made me sad,
Even as my heart started to crumble.
I never could write about you.

I am a poet I string stars into constellations
And weave words into stanzas.
I need someone whose eyes can be twisted into metaphors
And the mere sound of their voice makes my hands tremble so gracefully
That I can make my magic with a pencil.

I was in love with all the poems I wished I could write about you.
How badly I wanted to sculpt you with sentences into something
Too beautiful to call mine.
But you are not a poem.

Yes, your eyes are quite a gorgeous blue,
And your arms are strong.
I’m sure you would make a beautiful painting,
An inspiration for someone else’s art.
But not mine.

You wanted to believe all of my broken pieces
could fit in a cardboard box.
That's what attics are for, to hide ugly things.
You're beauty was skin deep.
And thats how you wanted me.
I didn't want to be empty.

“Have you written about me yet?” you asked.
“I write about things that have meaning, you’re not one of them.” should have been my response.