to catch the rain on the grass crown,
bring the light closer
when
hides behind the horizon:
we also need sunset
arranging his collar,  like the lion's-mouth flower,
she looks at his chest as it rises up, down,
touches his face, soft fingers glide,
antarctica is just an ice cap,
beneath her springs flow, mountains sleep:
we must have a coincidence of floating clouds
like steam
humidity as far as embracing the desert,
calm storm,  leaves
the birds return to the nest:
- and that's all we need?

and look at the moon, see how it swallows its shadow,
to remain still until dawn appears
carolers of your *******
on my forehead
the sweat
with a thirst for death
to bury
at the root
of the grass blade
the sleeplessness

We are quick to complain when
the dreaded 502 Bad Gateway
appears and we cannot read or
post our creative thoughts on HP.
Some even unfairly criticize its
creator. May I remind you all,
this is a FREE Website.

If we desire better site flow,
why don't we all donate say $25
$50 or more to keep the servers
up to tip top function. I have no
idea how many of we Poets are
on this site, must be thousands.
Eloit has been footing the bill alone
from day one, it seems impossible
that it is FREE.

We pay for cable, TV, movies, our
phones, we need all that, how about
the pleasure of writing and reading
poetry on HP? What if HP went away
taking all our posts with it? Gone!

I donated $125 some time ago but
since then, I have been remiss, I will
correct this "take it for granted" oversight.
As perhaps we all should.

This has been sort of a public service
announcement.

Bill Baley bought the bank down on Boulder street
He rode the bus to work
years for every week

He always sat his
orbed *** down
upon the same old seat
The one you know with a view that was always so oblique

He liked the way the wind would swirl and
blow the trash around
It was a poor man's cheap ballet
but without the sound

If threatened . . .  with change . . . then he'd begin to fret
Just considering the consequences always made him sick

(Sometimes he'd get so riled he'd became a ****)


No one robs a bank these days
nor steals a railroad train
They'd illegally transfer digital money
and that's how they've named the game

If you stroke or tap the key
you'll become a millionaire
Join the frequent flyers club and go mostly anywhere  

Well Bill's bank on Blouder street
had all of its money drained
They took out everything
turning his blood icy in the vein

Bill then lost his everything . . .
His bank his house his cat
Even had to give up the blue Siberian Yak

He became a homeless man
and drifted with the wind
He never knew tomorrow or the troubles it would send

Someone stole the shoes
he wore
while he was drunken sleep
and he became another refugee begging on the street

As far as survival skills
he was worse than even lame
Most people avoided looking
thinking he was all to blame

Poor Bill Baley froze to death
On one of those freaking polar nìghts
The frigid northwest winds made sure he was frozen white

They took his remains
down
to the mortuary
The city had contracted them to dispose of indigents
with their crematory

He was torched by flames
that rose above the city
Now at this point and time I say purely it's a pity

For after all crime does pay  
yet it kills , ruins lives
and slanders
And we are the goose looking on stretching necks to gander


Now-a-days no one sits
on the bus
that Bill would use to take
The bus route run there was decided that they'd eliminate


Now nothing but black faces blankly stare when you're staring back
Those are the people who were born with no claim to either side of track

And as for Bill no one remembers now except those who lived aback
And not too many live that long
When you're tied down to the track

There is no moral to this story
No bands or whistles or
parades of glory

For what little we have will be taken away
. . .
when they open up the gateway