There is nothing like, for a thirsty voice, water clear and sweet,
A loaf of bread for a hungry man and his misery would retreat.
There is nothing like, for tired eyes, a night of gentle sleep,
Nothing like, for a weary body, the comfort of slumber deep.
There is nothing more stirring than a new born's hushed cries,
And nothing more heart warming than a twinkle in tiny eyes.
There is nothing like, for a tearful child, his mothers warm hold,
Or the wisdom of generations through his father told.

There is nothing like, for an unsteady heart, the call of a friend,
No aching heart that a friends love can not heal or mend.
There is nothing like, for a bruised soul, the calm of gentle words,
The miracle of a kind voice in deep recesses heard.
There is nothing like, for a battered heart, the comfort of a smile,
The promise of a tomorrow, though it may take a while.
There is nothing like, for a broken spirit, the touch of a helping hand
Gestures never washed away... eternal footprints in the sand.

Death came to see me today
It came so quickly
I had no time to say goodbye
I asked why now?
I'm young but I guess this is the plan
The man just pulled that trigger
Did he see me there?
I see mom looking down at me
Wish I could wipe her tears

I'm ready for school my ponytails are perfect
With my new shoes on I can't wait to show them to Julie
Standing in the front yard picking at the grass
I can see mom in the kitchen
Happens so fast one of my new shoes is flying off
I'm up in the air being pulled
It smells funny in here this man is rough
Death came to see me today
I had no time to say goodbye
That man seen me there

He's the hand I felt on my shoulder as the tornado went over me . He's the one who saved me from choking to death in my own ***** . He's the one who sat beside me on the mountaintop as I cried over my wrongs . And if I ever kneeled before him he would take my hands and raise me so I could kiss his cheek . Who is God ? My best friend who has saved me time and time again . Who understands my limits and my failures but forgives me each and every time . One who is always there for me to lean on when I am tired , lonely , discouraged . One who has shown me heaven and promised a place there for me .
Who is God ? He is in me , my past , my present , and future . I am nothing without my God .

All my life I was breathing in the poison air of self-judgement.
The kind that sticks to heart and aura,
bringing heartache in my journey.

Within my intake breath,
judgment of being stupid lodged, causing others to agree.

Within my out take breath,
judgement of not being pretty lodged, as others agreed.

In childhood insecurities plagued, as many teased and touched.
In adolescence fears plagued, as others kept their distance.
In adulthood, I gave my power away, and others took it.

Until light came into self to awake inside heart.

Until heart showed  my true divine self.

Now I breathe in clean air celebrating
connected to source energy.

Now I love myself to feel free at last.

Secrets of a poet are hidden inside heartbeats,
ready to be played on scripted page,
on platform for readers eyes.

They're buried beneath scar thought to be healed.
Exposed to bleed once again
so a poem can be birthed.

Perhaps, Secrets are inside rays of sun
that dance with kaleidoscope beauty
inside a warm breeze.

Or on top of a shooting star moving in galaxy
that opens one to wish inside a breathe.

Secrets in treasure chest of scribes vault
welcomes a readers eyes
with key-like words and strong intention.

Come, open the vault with eyes and partake
wont you?  The invitation is now given.

Lost Love


He remembers that day
many sad years ago
it was sunny out,
but soon a storm raged.

He returned home early
from work,
eager
to rest and nurse a cold.
Eager
to see his gorgeous wife
fix him a delicious soup
and give loving care,
a remedy not.
He caught a surprise.

Was it then a hallucination?
To see her ex's car
in front of their house,
fanning the flames in his heart?
Or to imagine the house shaking,
or to hear love noises howling
from the rafters of contempt,
as her fireplace warmed tempest.
He sure hoped then... it had been a misfire
it wasn't.

He slowly opened the front door,
walking decrepit and sad,
like he was in hospice care.
He could see the final script
playing out,
more so the tragic ending
the trail of clothes,
her ex-boyfriend's scent,
calamity,
and approaching closer
the devil speaking louder.

He opened the bedroom door
to their parts caught in honey jars
and scarlet red on his tainted wife
over bed sheets of shame.
Their eyes catch,
both flush, and tearful,
as breathing stopped,
his melancholy eyes asking why?
Why?
What about the future  lily pods,
our family, house, kids
... and you sell out.
What about being fresh
out of college with our dreams,
passion and honor...us.
What about the bonds,
pinky swears, pricking of blood
marital vows.
Her eyes had no answers.
She cried, loudest
as her ex-boyfriend bolted
not before passing the mill.

He closed her door for good
that mournful day,
dismissing darkness,
opening his wrath for her
in his mind, yet
what words or light can be exchanged?

Uprooted and lost, he walked
scarred over and over
by her promise and lost love.

That was thirty years ago
and he still walks with her
ghosts, and it still pains.

LR-5/4/17

I saw Stewart and Maud under a locust tree in Kensington market.
They had new bicycles. She leaned her sweaty, curly head on his bicep.
They had baguettes, flowers, asparagus and apples from the farm booths in their packs,
Buzet and Minervois from the liquor store, library books. They had life-loving things.
He says that for him this new life is instead of being an artist in Paris:
Backpacks, bicycles, the look of young lovers. The little possessions
That don't feel like a car or a house.  They are wearing bright white t shirts
And denim overalls. His children are confused. They have little money.
He joined the many who have refused to be punished for a mistake.

My friend Stewart lives with a university student.
You get to their Annex apartment up iron stairs bolted to the
Outside of  a building of old brick coloured like a driftwood campfire. The bed's iron.
She's been an adult for seven years. Iron, bricks, flowers, white iron bed,
Stewart has the skills to make it good, he's done this before, made the Muskoka
Chairs, the harvest tables, and sold them, repaired window frames and doors,
Advertised in supermarkets. He likes to breathe, to drink water, to cut wood and dress it,
To study, to read, to live well with a woman, to write in the evening, to make life like art.



                                       Paul Anthony Hutchinson
                                       www.paulanthonyhutchinson.com
                                       copyright Paul Anthony Hutchinson

Mr. Hall Proposes a Toast

Ladies and gentlemen, I propose a toast:
What will you have – wheat? White? Honey or jam?
Sourdough for me, lightly-browned, almost golden
With lots of butter, melted all through the crust

Let the warm scene of our merriment be
A café in winter, beneath a large window
All steamy, with rain or snow outside
And we don’t have to go anywhere

Or do anything but talk over our coffee –
Ladies and gentlemen, I propose a toast

The first time I saw Los Angeles,
it was after midnight.
Descending from Cajon pass and
entering the chaos of light and
the formless poetry of traffic,
I thought of Ezra Pound’s line from near the end of the Cantos:
“I cannot make it cohere.”
“It” is the most important word in that sentence.
In language we can conjure wholes too big for us to comprehend.
Push hard enough, and names fade and pronouns are all we have left.
So what is this place?