You remind me of the earth,
   like deep burnt umber woodlands
mid downpours' fresh aroma
       & spring's foliage lushly reborn,
twinkling explosive pinpoints
       grazing beyond dark ether,
  sparkles dappling 'pon depths
        of eternal seascapes's nature,
amidst breath of relentless airy winds
    gusting above her majesty's hazes
       beyond purple mountain's apex
and streams of meadows' wildflowers in
  deftly painted horizons after moonbows,
vivid consciousness' uttermost reminisce
   of all things recollected in the long ago
        essence of your memories' presence

October 20, 2014   8:40a.m.

On August 28, 2013, strictly as a novice, and not having posted anything, anywhere, I posted my first two pieces of "literary art" on the HP site. I had previously searched other similar sites until finally deciding on posting with HP. I'm glad I did.  Why?

Not knowing what to expect, I threw "1894", and "Folklore and Fairy Tales" into the "mixing bowl". Pradip and Sally were the first to comment, and I will never forget the encouragement their words gave me. Never! Quite often, I go back and re-read them, particularly when I get a little discouraged when the "writers block" syndrome decides to attack. Thank you both, so very, very much!

But that is the core of the HP family. There is an aura, a special atmosphere of cohesiveness among its contributors, willing to offer(in most cases) constructive criticism without being cynical, and always encouraging each other. Making friends whom we may never see, whose hands we may never shake, but a friendship none the less, that is spread throughout the globe, and the thoughts that will always be there. It is a feeling I did not sense with other sites.

One thing is for certain. We never know what our readers are going to like/dislike on any given day. When we post a piece, of what we may think is the work of "pure genius" could go by the wayside in seconds. On the other end of the spectrum, what we believe is not so great, could trend in minutes.

We will keep trying.

Richard Riddle
copyright: October 20, 2014

Maybe it was the way I told you.
I rolled my sexuality off the tongue
like sweet milk and honey.
Saying it so casually
I might as well have hands stuck
between pockets of worn in grey sweatpants
complimented with a deep v that goes
down to my belly button.
I said it like the spoken version
of a sticky note
written with my best chicken scratch.
I guess I didn't say it with any more girth
because I felt like I didn't have to.
The picture in my head was
like a short silent film from the 1920's
that only needed two cards
to show what we were saying.
The first saying "I'm not straight",
the second saying "Okay."
Okay as in that's totally normal.
Okay as in I'm happy you've found yourself
Okay as in I'm glad you're comfortable with your sexuality.
Okay as in not a celebration or a witch hunt.
I was not expecting what came after.
Telling me that I was just trying to fit in.
That I didn't know myself well enough.
That I'm a liar.
That I can't be attracted to every gender.
That I'm selfish.
That I had to wait for the "right man".
Comments pouring onto me like a cold shower
entering old wounds
that stung with every syllable
and you got mad when I wanted to get out of the bath
Of course I would get upset
with words trying to make me
disregard the day when I found myself
after long nights
of locking myself under bed sheets
feeling confused and not knowing
how to answer questions I'd ask myself in the mirror.
In someways I don't blame you.
You didn't hear the past in my voice.
You didn't hear the storm
only the calm winds.

But it still hurt,
because these bitter words
flowed from the people
who were supposed to love and support me the most.

It’s not a bad goal
to be the kind of girl who
Rumi writes about.

So unknowingly
this bright muse interpreted
to touch and inspire.

But me? Never meant
to be the subject of art—
an object of thirst.

See, I’m the poet,
existing somewhere alone—
a penchant for soul.

Watercolor thoughts,
manipulating the lines
between joy and pain.

It’s not a bad goal
to be the kind of girl
who becomes Rumi

either.

Your love is like...

Helium

It changed the

Voice

Of my heart

the dogwood trees
are blooming
their petals
tipped in the silver
of the morning
rain

i'm beginning to like
the quiet again
the shifting hands
of the clock
brushing hours
against my shoulder

You know his favourite smell,
The colour of his eyes when he’s happy,
The curve of his lips with each emotion he feels.
You know him on the inside and out.

He only knows you in the dark.
He knows only the shadow of your bones
The dip of your waist,
The curve of your legs wrapped around his.
He’s mapped out his favourite places to caress,
He’s marked it as his.
His.
His.
Only. His.

You know him.
You know his breath on your neck,
You know his words in your ears,
You know his short breath on your stomach ,
And the feel of his hair.

But you don’t know his gentle touch…
Only his bruising fingers...
You know nothing of his sweet words,
Only the profanity's and curses
You know the purple on your skin,
But you've never felt his burning, lingering touch.

You've always been an escape ;
A Fantasy.
Darling,
you know you deserve to be a reality.

Waves unfurled like the backs of whales
Rolling in a tempestuous sea
With cresting foam like the heads of sails
Straining to break away free

The clouds bow down to touch the waves
The waves ****** high above
The wind whips up a howling dance
As sea and sky make love

Cori MacNaughton
25Mar2000