it is
February already
& the rain keeps confusing me on
what day of the week it is.
he says over coffee, how the
storms are keeping him up /
making me grateful for Florida summers.
i made mine too strong & am having another, reminds me how you'd laugh & dispute either
ever being a problem.
i am convinced i'm
happiest with my heart beating like this anyway
and on my way back downstairs
i look down passed my knees & think
if feet shook like hands i'd
probably take up flying

boy,
jealous boy,
i'm crazy in love
with you,

if i tremble like a
a february leaf,
gold and brown
on the black branched
beech hedge,
where the snow's
fragile kiss melts
the night into
whispers,

and the wind,
wild with its
northern chill,
flutters those
leaves, blanched
like our love-starved
lips of
colour,

beneath a sky
of midnight's sea,

then i would melt,
like this sky
of midnight's sea,

crazy in love,
with my boy
of grey clouds,

who sweeps the
crying sea, with
strange whispering,

who kisses me so
beautifully in his arms

that i sigh and cry and die
for his love,

boy,
jealous boy,
i'm crazy for
your love,

like a star
glistening in the deepening
night where the
nightingale sings
and the grey clouds
drift forever in their
stream-like dream.

I have not tried to see
Through the eyes of a refugee

I am aware of them
Here and there
And in between
But I have not seen
Through their eyes
I have not measured
I have not weighed
The worlds they leave
Nor the worlds they imagine
Across the sea

I know one of them
Through a friend
When her journey ended
She said she started off
In a wave
Of many hopeful souls

She has now arrived
In her new world
Has a husband
And a child
And a house
And a new tongue to talk in

Though introduced
We never met
Her wounded way
From there to here
Was flooded in tears
An inundation

An escape
An emigration
Of desperation
Manipulation
By a gauntlet of men
A bartering of copulation
Then,
Immigration

“The rest died
Only I survived”
She said

Sean Hunt  Jan 2 2017

Many people knew him
Once upon a time
When he was a little boy
And when he was a man
He used to like his whiskey
And the songs he sang
He used to break the rules
Liked to play the fool

But John is gone,  yes John is gone
John is gone, long gone

Just like the summer
And ground he walked on
Like the sound of his voice
John is gone

He used to live here
And he lived over there
Seems like John lived
Everywhere

When he was a tenor
He sang night and day
If he were still around
I’d sing with him today

But John is gone,  yes John is gone
John is gone, long gone

Was he ever here I wonder
And where did he go
The John that I remember
The John that I know

Trying to feel fulfilled
Trying to be fulfilled
Thinking of a to-do list
seems so easy
but they're always too ambitious
Nothing fills
Trying to clean up after myself
cannot keep up with the slob I am
before I storm out the house
after picking up some kind of purpose
from the oblivion
after licking the wounds of being lost in infinity
Finding a way to embrace
the superficial beyond tongue-in-cheek
Lost in dharma
sick
I don't live the truth I know
in my heart
Nothing here is permanent
Should you chase after delusions?
We consciously delude ourselves
past the intellectual epiphanies
where we admitted how little we know
Or do you just sit and enjoy the show
limit you exposure to negative experiences
and chase after ones which end up positive?
Even that's too ideological
But how do you stand without any ground
even for just a moment?
God's been dead
but what have you replaced him with?
May is
may well be
what ought
Because what else do we have
besides what is anymore?
But should our perceptions of what is
become our argument for what ought?
There, the shadow of a god still looms

There are one hundred and twenty six tiles on my ceiling
If you count all the halves.
I know because sleeping is what normal people do in their bedroom
and normal is not my favorite descriptive word.
Why say you're normal when you could be
fabulous,
magnificent,
tenacious,
or incorrigible?
But why would I ask you?
It's obvious you don't know the rules of the game
because why would you say you love me
when you don’t?
Is it because my halves
don’t add up to perfect tiles?
I know I have a few cracks,
some warped edges,
and missing chunks,
But my imperfections tell a story;
I won’t hide behind flat spackle.
Besides,
I always thought my ceiling
could use a few stains.

You and I
high in a tree,
happy as
two birds could be,

but the bough breaks
but the bough breaks
but the bough breaks

and so do I.

Bench.
Book.
Breeze.

Sunlight
       peeking
through
       the
trees.

These bobber and blueberry plaid sheets
don’t seem as sleek as they once were.
I don’t think I washed them last week.

A put-together person
really ought to wash their sheets
at least once a month
because wrinkles and stains
don’t just take care of themselves.

Didn’t our mother raise us better?
I ask the neatly put together bed
that silently sleeps beside mine.

Although, I suppose,
the ticking of the clock
is the only answer I’ve got
anymore.

That bed only stares,
always stares.

That bed is done in purples and reds
and I always said it could use
a dash of black or white.
And when it won’t sleep at night,
I flip its radio on
and I keep country going,
even though I can change it
to play anything that I like.

The radio sits on an empty dresser
next to a bare table now,
one that I really should dust.
You’d be surprised how much collects
when no one stores
deodorant and lip gloss there.

The chickens watch us
with their tiny T-Rex eyes,
their funny feather hats shaking
and pulsing
with Heaven only knows.

Collecting warm brown eggs
from haughty hens
is an honor.

That’s what Papa says, at least.

Papa built these coops himself,
I tell all the chickens.
He made them because he loves you
or maybe just because he wants your eggs.
I’m not sure which,
I say,
but it’s one of those two
or both.

The silkies are doubtful
and pacing
and ready to peck me into a bare corn cob,
but I’ve got an egg carton to fill
and this is the first time I can help
because Grandma isn’t home.

Papa humors my toe-turns
and my untamed joy
the way that only Papa can,
with squinty jokes
and whistle-wheezy laughs.

An almost dropped egg here,
a yellow yolked yelp there,
and my egg carton is full.

Papa wears a sunny-side up smile
and the chickens don’t mind if we sing.