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  May 2017 Sean Hopps
Seán Mac Falls
( Sonnet )*

Under the primrose stars, the lovers
Lie abed, on green, threadbare croft
Of sleeping daisy, clover and moss,
Trails with hushed air, an embroidery
So fine as to stitch blushing heart fall
And wrap the waters full of quietude
In graces, winding, soft, granulating
Time, wings flutter and hum, winsome
Sparks, fire white, flying as little suns
Burst confetti, in sweet encampment,
Of grass and sapling wood, innocents,
Charmed are wholly twining, in moon
Rise a lantern to the winking heavens,
Out of their skins they are climbing.
Re: a poem of mine, finally being chosen as 'The Daily Poem' ( it only took over five years )

First, I'd like to thank all the fine writers and readers on HP for your lovely comments and support.

Secondly,
As an earnest and hopeful poet, who has been here, posting poems nearly since the beginning of 'Hello Poetry'
I'd like to thank the HP - daily poet - algorithm for finally choosing one of the hundreds of poems I've listed here.
Perhaps the ghost in the machine has a heart after all?
.
  May 2017 Sean Hopps
Joshua Haines
I can tell that
you can't tell
that you aren't
going to be famous.

You helped **** a kid
by selling him laced candy
because you were trying
to buy an acting career.

Your suicide threats
and cries for help
turn me on.
Because.
I would love
for you to die.

And if you were dead --
as dead as the dirt on
the graves you've helped fill --
I wouldn't sleep better or worse;
I guess I would just be happy
knowing that someone would
be able to sleep and wake up.

They put you on the evening news
and you laughed about it on twitter.
Because you are a river
teaching drowning lessons
but not taking responsibility
for the cornflower blue corpses
that haunt your dangerous brain
and contaminate nearby life.

You are a degenerate --
but not one with potential
or hope. You are not what
is beautiful about struggle;
you are not interesting.

You are written about
much like how cancer
is written about in journals.
Sean Hopps May 2017
They danced,
and touched the sky.
No good, no bad;
nothing remained.
All became part
of their glowing trail.
They were violent seas:
fiery red, flaming orange.
They left everything
in ashes. As ashes.
Then they touched the sky,
and they danced.
Sean Hopps May 2017
A certain beauty is always withheld
Until the most unfavourable time,
And then presents itself for all but those
Whose eyes can see what beauty none behold.

A certain beauty never understood
Can fleet through anyone oblivious;
Can hold itself in clearest forms, and should,
Yet never can be seen or grasped for good.

The one with all the eyes sees only black
And cannot look the brightness in its face,
But when a certain beauty steals his eye,
All the beholder does is watch and cry.

A certain beauty tears the hearts of men;
No eyes but his behold, not even then.
'Beauty is in the eye of the beholder'
  May 2017 Sean Hopps
r
There was a girl
I used to swap paperbacks
and spit with, once
I fixed her wiper blades,
I remember the soft dead wings
on the windshield,  pretty
as you please

She was alone in her shoes
listening to something
that kept getting darker
and glowing like morning
on the oil spilled under her truck,
she was drifting through
the rosewater of her soft red hair

She only wanted to be rolling
off a swollen river, sliding
out of a clean slip, turning
over in a deep sleep, trailing
a shimmering thread, hiding
under a pile of wet leaves

Then there she was sailing
in her river of blood,  going
white and smelling like smoke
from a struck match behind
closed blinds on a ceramic floor,
a white blouse red as a sharp knife
collecting the light of mourning.
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