My father worked with a horse-plough,
His shoulders globed like a full sail strung
Between the shafts and the furrow.
The horse strained at his clicking tongue.

An expert. He would set the wing
And fit the bright steel-pointed sock.
The sod rolled over without breaking.
At the headrig, with a single pluck

Of reins, the sweating team turned round
And back into the land. His eye
Narrowed and angled at the ground,
Mapping the furrow exactly.

I stumbled in his hob-nailed wake,
Fell sometimes on the polished sod;
Sometimes he rode me on his back
Dipping and rising to his plod.

I wanted to grow up and plough,
To close one eye, stiffen my arm.
All I ever did was follow
In his broad shadow round the farm.

I was a nuisance, tripping, falling,
Yapping always. But today
It is my father who keeps stumbling
Behind me, and will not go away.

It's done - the book, that is
ready to be purchased
finally turned it in complete
each and every "sheet"

though it's only on a screen
it will be printed on demand
so step right up to Amazon
tell your family and your friends

HP poets are in it, too
so give a hand to them
if you do you will do good
your funds will be well spent

not only will they affirm
deserving poets on HP
half the funds received will go
to let poor cats & dogs go free

to find forever homes
to leave behind the cages
of rescue shelters at which some
may have been for ages

again...

a thought
pursued freedom

gone forever

from my mind

Elliot, please add to the HP rules:

Caution: Don't drink and read!

Stop! Stop! I say
You've work to do
Stop! Now! I say,
It's nearly 2:00

Just one more poem
just one more rhyme
It's Saturday
I have time

You're not even dressed
your hair is unbrushed
stop digging, stop finding
you'll find yourself rushed

But her words are so airy
His thoughts are so keen
I must keep on reading
their souls are between

Just come back later
at the end of your day
you'll have earned it, my friend
what do you say?

I'm loath to be leaving
it's so hard you know
to put down my laptop
and let the poems go

They'll still be here later
I'm sure you'll make time
to read some free verse
to check out some rhyme

You win, but I warn you
if I do leave
when I come back to it later
no tricks up your sleeve,

no interruptions
no phone calls, no texts
no "sorry, 'net's down"
wait now, you're next

I want to come back and savor
all the gems that I find
just do me this favor
be ever so kind.

Okay, it's agreed
we'll meet here again
to take up where we left off
say quarter past ten?

*You drive a hard bargain
you're such a drag
but I'll stop now
so you won't have to nag!

There once was a man who liked to eat grunion
he ate them with ketchup and onion
he ate them for lunch
he ate a whole bunch
he ate so many they gave him a bunion

There was a lady who liked to eat cheese
but when she ate it she started to sneeze
she'd sneeze and she'd cough
till her hat would fall off
and she developed a terrible wheeze

There was a young girl who ate cantaloupe
while she rode on the back of an antelope
she rode along fine
and continued to dine
till her antelope tripping, slid down a *****

There was a boy who liked mango
when he ate it he did the fandango
he'd throw out the peels
then with a click of his heels
he would dance a beautiful tango

There was a lady who loved carrots
but so did her large group of ferrets
if her ferrets were there
she had to give them a scare
to keep them away from her carrots

There once was a man who liked to eat soup
but when he did it made his ears droop
it was hard to recoup
with ears covered with goop
but he just couldn't give up his soup

There was a young lad who liked waffles
Though they made him feel really awful
he ate them with butter
then he would sputter
and develop a terrible cough-ful

There was a man who loved to eat stew
but when he ate it his face would turn blue
it was truly a ghastly hue
he looked like he had the flu
as if he was sick through and through

There once was a lady who liked custard
she ate it with pickles and mustard
a strange combo, she'll grant
since she's not even pregnant
when she was asked she'd always get flustered

How can I not love my mother — when she carried me first in her body, then in her arms, and then for a lifetime in her heart. ~ Rumi ~

Hide and Seek
Charles Simic, 1938
Haven’t found anyone
From the old gang.
They must be still in hiding,
Holding their breaths
And trying not to laugh.

Our street is down on its luck
With windows broken
Where on summer nights
One heard couples arguing,
Or saw them dancing to the radio.

The redhead we were
All in love with,
Who sat on the fire escape,
Smoking late into the night,
Must be in hiding too.

The skinny boy
On crutches
Who always carried a book,
May not have
Gotten very far.

Darkness comes early
This time of year
Making it hard
To recognize familiar faces
In those of strangers.

Don’t stare,
but
don’t look away

as if we don’t exist or
will disappear.

Don’t judge.
“So glad that’s not me”

It could be.

Don’t assume
“drugs”…”lazy”
“offer a dollar
it’ll go for *****”

You don’t know

Don’t presume to grasp
the reasons,
the whys the wherefores
don’t write us off
as useless,
worthless,

less…

If you can’t help,
don’t want to help,
are afraid to help,
don’t trust,

then

Just offer a smile,
A good wish or prayer

But acknowledge we exist,
we, too, are human.
We breathe, we feel,
We need…
trust and love,

Not disdain,
not even pity
if that is all you have
to give…

don’t…

In your day we know the sonnet was the rage
but I can't write in rhyme or formal verse.
I feel constrained and locked within a cage.
In fact, I consider it a curse.

Now I find I'm being asked to do it.
"Just write," he says, "the form won't hold you back"
maintaining that there's really nothing to it.
"Just write to find out if you have a knack."

Though it's an assignment I have to do
I'm not sure there is a purpose for
this convoluted rhyme you used to woo
your listeners in days of yore.

How hard did you have to work to do it well?
Or did it come easily for you, pray tell!?

Did you ever consider
that the amazing work
The Ingenious Nobleman Sir Quixote of La Mancha
"Don Quixote"
could be thought of as
being "tilt-illating"?

.............................................................run­ning
                                                            ­     in playful
                                                                ­     abandon
                                                         ­             through
                                                                ­          endless
                                               ­                                  fields
you know
those flowers
look
closer

                                            ­                  red,
                                         ­                          blood red...
                                                          ­                     tulips
                                                          ­       wave,
                                                           ­       nod,
                                                     ­             ripple
                                                                ­          to my touch

they keep on
being
tulips

they keep on
being
red

                                                   ­                               still
                           ­                                                              running
                                                         ­                          arms
                                                            ­                               outstretched
                                                    ­                               brushing
                                                        ­                                  their tops
                                                            ­                                      gently

why?
why tulips?
why red?

                                                           ­                         lying down
                                                                ­                                     now
                                                             ­                          lazing
                                                                ­                               in the sun
                                                             ­                          gazing at
                                                              ­                              a sea of red

                                "when I count to three...
                                                      on­e..."

not yet.
please
not yet

I need to know...
                                                       "two..."

I like tulips
I like red
but
they're not
my favorites
                                                      "­three..."

alert now

heart
           pounding...

        heart
                pounding...

         ­                    I

                                          know

I dreamed that I was old: in stale declension  
Fallen from my prime, when company
Was mine, cat-nimbleness, and green invention,  
Before time took my leafy hours away.

My wisdom, ripe with body’s ruin, found  
Itself **** recompense for what was lost
In false exchange: since wisdom in the ground  
Has no apocalypse or pentecost.

I wept for my youth, sweet passionate young thought,
And cozy women dead that by my side  
Once lay: I wept with bitter longing, not  
Remembering how in my youth I cried.

I ask them to take a poem
and hold it up to the light
like a color slide

or press an ear against its hive.

I say drop a mouse into a poem
and watch him probe his way out,

or walk inside the poem’s room
and feel the walls for a light switch.

I want them to waterski
across the surface of a poem
waving at the author’s name on the shore.

But all they want to do
is tie the poem to a chair with rope
and torture a confession out of it.

They begin beating it with a hose
to find out what it really means.

I'll try to write this in a poem
don't know if I can, we'll see

there's a book being formed
includes some folks from HP

has pictures, stories and poems
"Forever In Our Hearts" it's called

if you've wanted to be published
here's a chance, your family will be
enthralled

it's for a good cause as well you see
half of proceeds will go to rescues

of those wonderful pets who become family
who just might have inspired your muse

Gunshots sound
children fall
bullets fly

down crowded halls

families wail,
               families cry

for their loved ones dead
their loved ones gone

             ...yet life goes on

shouts of terror
screams of fear
seventeen dead

don't they hear?

shot in the heart
shot in the head

they're dead,
               they're gone

...yet life goes on

prayers and condolences
such empty words
sent by our leaders
                     ...afterwards

after they're dead,
                  after they're gone

and life goes on

don't see,
            don't hear,
                        don't speak
like the symbolic three

"It's not the time to talk"
Good god, when will it be?

Too late when they're gone
                       ...and your lives go on!

can we get from here
to there

wherever there may be

is it even possible
to make

that leap of faith

can we see clearly through
the mist that rises

minds wavering on the edge
of the unknown

hearts aching to continue
while souls seek rest

they run past in our minds...

all the cliches

journey begins...
one step

it's not the destination...

life is a journey

one step at a time

but none speak of a leap
as some steps must be

none speak of journey's end
from running out of space to step

is this the point at which one
must learn to fly or turn about

is it defeat

or is the turning step simply
a first step of a new journey

in beds where flowers grow
well-kept, neat and clean
they've let the kale and cabbage go
it's rather a pitiful scene

they grew quite tall, they flowered
and then they went to seeds
now they're looking oh so cowered
they could be seen as weeds

their stems are gnarled and knotted
the ends are brittle brown
their roots will soon be rotted
the whole plant is dragging down

please someone be gentle
save them embarrassment
these lovely ornamentals
that once were so elegant

I asked the robin who
crumpled orange and olive-brown
lay motionless
in my path today

no answer

I asked the mockingbird
whose repeating hymn
attended my steps

no answer

I asked the gull
swooping overhead
slicing the ashen sky

no answer

Seeing it coming
do birds rush headlong
and proud
to meet it?

do they drop
from the heavens
in mid-flight
swirling in a ballet
like a golden autumn leaf?

do they stop
mid-song
as melody echoes
in their throat?

having achieved
their ultimate note
their aria bursting
through the heights
making the clouds shiver

do they quietly close
their tiny eyes of onyx
to dream an eternal dream of song
an infinite fantasy of flight?

I wonder...

how do birds die?

set down on satin lining
velvet box laid cautiously
placed on top of other cargo
for the voyage on the sea

strands of precious shining stones
stowed in Captain's quarters
second mate stood by to guard
it was the Captain's orders

secured and safely in the hold
I had no need to fret
the lateen sails were readied
drawn up the mast and set

sun shone brilliant, sky so clear
along Africa's gold coast shore
the journey would be smooth
captain couldn't have asked for more

with Portugal as destination
and royalty waiting there
crew's footsteps scurried on the deck
there was excitement in the air

the caravel set out to sail
'twas in the sixth month of the year
that traditional wedding time
and the date was coming near

the date I had to be delivered
for the princess bride to be
to be worn above her ***** fair
sparkling gems from 'cross the sea

I'll match her love-filled eyes
and complete the four required
not sure of old or new or borrowed
but for blue she'll have sapphire.

A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.
I execute it all for pay.
My daily trade is killing time.

I slice the day up like a lime
in sections green and silver-gray.
A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.

I'm practiced in this pantomime,
proficient, quite au fait.
My daily trade is killing time.

Like a hit man in his prime
I knock off the hours of the day.
A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.

Yet killing here is not a crime;
it's merely the established way.
My daily trade is killing time.

No. killing here is not a crime;
it's the toll road through this fray.
A minute for a dollar, a second for a dime.
My daily trade is killing time.

I've often heard that karma
is a witch
but with a different start
you...
you with your blackened heart
won't see it coming,
but I tell you this
it surely will arrive...
along with a Judas kiss.

As you've stabbed others in the back
sharp tongue like a knife
karma will creep up on you
it will tangle up your life

It won't matter which face
you wear
karma knows your many
and
karma doesn't care

You'll wonder why
it happens
you'll coyly ask "why me?"
feigning innocence, ignorance
lacking remorse and empathy

you shouldn't fool
with karma, but
too late to think of that
it will strip you of your pride
you'll feel it deep inside

though
the exact reason for your pain
you may not recognize
karma can't be fooled
you'll be haunted by your lies

I likely won't be there to see it...
see justice come around
but in my heart I know...
I know you will be found

you'll get your just "reward"
as you hold the losing Karma Kard!