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Mary Oliver  Nov 2010
Cold Poem
Cold now.
Close to the edge. Almost
unbearable. Clouds
bunch up and boil down
from the north of the white bear.
This tree-splitting morning
I dream of his fat tracks,
the lifesaving suet.

I think of summer with its luminous fruit,
blossoms rounding to berries, leaves,
handfuls of grain.

Maybe what cold is, is the time
we measure the love we have always had, secretly,
for our own bones, the hard knife-edged love
for the warm river of the I, beyond all else; maybe

that is what it means the beauty
of the blue shark cruising toward the tumbling seals.

In the season of snow,
in the immeasurable cold,
we grow cruel but honest; we keep
ourselves alive,
if we can, taking one after another
the necessary bodies of others, the many
crushed red flowers.
~
June 2023
HP Poet: Patty Mager
Country: USA


Question 1: Welcome to the HP Spotlight, Patty. Please tell us about your background?

Patty M: "I was born an only child in a 3 generation household. I loved books, and playing imaginary games, and chasing my mom with really long nightcrawlers, my Grandpa raised in a washtub. I was a banker, and a financial banker for many years. I quit to do hospice for my Dad when he was to go into hospice. My husband had heart problems and my little Mom eventually got Cancer. So I nursed and loved them all. My Dad for a year, the others over an 8-year period. I saw the transition of each and the way each handled their ending, and I was there for them all. I consider that a special blessing."


Question 2: How long have you been writing poetry, and for how long have you been a member of Hello Poetry?

Patty M: "I always wrote, but I found a poetry site 20 years ago, and began to write seriously. I've been published in many anthologies both in the US and abroad. I was nominated for the coveted Pushcart Prize twice and I once had a three-page spread in our local newspaper. I came to HP in 2014 and I love this special place with amazingly wonderful poets who have become really great friends."


Question 3: What inspires you? (In other words, how does poetry happen for you).

Patty M: "Sometimes poems seem to write themselves, almost like automatic writing."


Question 4: What does poetry mean to you?

Patty M: "Poetry is spiritual, and a lifesaving rope that carries me through both good and the horrible times of my life."


Question 5: Who are your favorite poets?

Patty M: "My favorite Poets are: Sylvia Plath, Neruda, Billy Collins, Maya Angelou, Poe, Ginsberg, Anne Sexton, and Longfellow."


Question 6: What other interests do you have?

Patty M: "I love to cook, do crossword puzzles, read, and play card games like canasta, and spider solitaire. Being with family is my heaven."


Carlo C. Gomez: “Thank you so much for allowing me to interview you, dear Patty! I learned a great deal about you!”

Patty M: "Thank again Carlo. Thanks so much for all your help and kindness."




Thank you everyone here at HP for taking the time to read this. We hope you enjoyed getting to know Patty a little bit better. I indeed did. It is our wish that these spotlights are helping everyone to further discover and appreciate their fellow poets. – Carlo C. Gomez (aka Mr. Timetable)

We will post Spotlight #5 in July!
~
Kit Aug 2018
I destroyed the pretty.
It's all emptiness now, what do you expect? You can't expect me to trust you further! Why would you let me break?

I destroyed the pretty.
It's not the question if you trust me, it's the question if I still feel a needle in my arm. It's the question for love and pain; a heart attack in a field of broken Roses.
Why can't you break me further? I am done, and you took my lifesaving essence.

How may I feel betrayed today? If it wasn't you that destroyed, oh, but it was me.

I ruined the pretty, I destroy the last lovely, I broke it.
One was left, now two are shattered.

So give me pain,
pain to ban the feelings,
pain to ban my life decisions,
pain to ruin further what's already lost,
has always been meant to be lost.
God why does it hurt so bad?
It's not like heartbreak,
it hurts like betrayal
and it hurts like death.
The feeling of death, deeply sitting down, wearing me out like a broken glass of beauty.

I threw you down, Glasshouse
Pretty
Beauty
I destroyed the pretty all the beauty is what I took away.
Shattered on the glass wood floor.
Death crawls up my spine like a spider to its to be killed prey.

I can't hear you anymore, how could you???
How on this earth dare you???
You left me!
You let me break you.
Why would you want that?
Isn't one destroyed body enough?
Isn't my misery beautiful enough?
I felt the worst when I wrote this (not about writing it, but I was chaos when this was created) , it's about selfhate and a person very important to me...
RH 78  Dec 2015
Passport
RH 78 Dec 2015
Burgundy book oh such a creation.
500 million British passports in circulation.

Patterned leaves adorning a secret interior. Without this treasure am I inferior?

Access to benefits and free healthcare. In a world like ours in a world so unfair.

Shiny pocket book taken for granted?
Non owners aware of its powers, automatically deemed the disenchanted.

Access to a phone call.
Access to legal aid.
Access to commonwealth.
Access to the European Union.
Access to free education.
Human rights.
Freedom.

That marvellous lifesaving book of epic proportions with the ability to eradicate human ill-fortune.
Interestingly, 500 million passports are in circulation..... Britain has a population of 64 million!!!!!
Disaster Child Oct 2013
She’s radiant and glorious
Pure and gentle
But strong
Flowing hair
Soft eyes
A smile that would put the sun to shame
She’s neither too tall, nor too short
But stands just as high as a bride should
She’s confident and powerful
But open and loving
She doesn’t hide or lock her heart in a box
She is brave, and courageous
And confronts her fears and nightmares
She’s powerful and motivated, and yet she gives herself
She inspires and empowers
She never gives up or gives in
She has a heart that is focused on god and open to his influence in her life
She cares for others as much as herself
She loves, and does good
She battles evil in her heart, her speech and her actions
Her words are lifesaving
Her voice sings a tune more beautiful than any ever heard
She’s radiant, and enrapturing
Her beauty shines through simplicity and purity
I let go,
I lost my grip,
I couldn't hold on
any longer,

I felt my disappointed heart
break in two
when it became obvious
that I was no longer
"the strong her."

Whist falling I realised,
as my life flashed before my eyes,
that I regretted
the day that I surrendered my wings,
the very lifesaving things,
I, now, needed,

My soul shattered,
before hitting the ground,
knowing that I would meet my end
defeated.

By Lady R.F  (C) 2017
Rainey Birthwright  Sep 2015
eyes
i saw in your eyes
my windowed soul
my naked self freed
alive yet dousing now
joyous tear and burst
of cloud ringing stars
yay i am sure drowned
overboard in lifesaving
blooms wilds flowering
of irises touch so dear
and lay awake bathing
only to dream for sight
with looks blissful keep
the near deepest unrest
and i am fairly held nigh
holy in pagan fairy pools
of skye by sunken lochs
into bluest shyest violets
glowing moons ashudder
what unlived eyes of mine
could nae see ever before
what life held by saving us
ayes set in promising glaze.
Skylar  May 2015
Spring in Snow
Skylar May 2015
It is in the midst of cruel December
That cynicism springs forth
Lush, verdant and fruitful.

As people sit
Firmly fastened in front of computers and televisions,
    Their pale, two-dimensional illumination
    A vicious imitation of the golden glow
    Of which we have been deprived,
The trite uniqueness of each falling flake
Is regarded with the same appreciation
Held by a prisoner for the peculiarities of each bar of his cell
While mercantile endorsements
Perform their annual joyless Yuletide jig
Complete with sullenly cheery music.

Indifference plods with a purpose across the pavement
On feet uncomfortably shoved into boots
And sometimes wielding a shovel.

My own feet angrily railed against the bus-stop sidewalk
On this particular day.

I forfeited the ice-block bench on this occasion,
Preferring to crush my feet into the ground
Than to risk cryogenesis by the unfriendly seat.

I was waiting for the next vessel to drift in on a tide of noxious diesel
And take me home
So that I could put cables through my ears
And stare blankly into a vividly opaque window;
Fingers performing a well-choreographed dance
While I wrap myself in warm, gas-heated euthanasia.

As the bench reclined behind me,
She sat down upon it like a ghost.
Slight and spritish.
Silky black strands dance in brave escape
From their woolen armour
And guard green isles floating on white seas.

Where have I seen her?
This person so maddeningly, forgettably familiar?

A breath of persimmon and greenery.

She extends forth a creamy hand.
The snow eats the vibrant blood as it leaks from her wrist.

Seized by panic,
I leap from my station,
A lifesaving scarf in my hand.

Hers presses to my chest.
Her pale-sunrise lips move to my ear.

"Wait and see." She says.
"Read between the drear to find what you seek:
"That which you remember and yet have forgotten."
The vital stream returns to its tributary by a volition of its own.

Did I faint at this surreality?
Did I go into shock by it and return to my abode in an ****** ambulation?
Did it take place at all?
I awoke at home, seated in my parlour
And watered by the melted rime.

For weeks after,
I would, with expectation and intrigue,
Await her arrival at the same stop,
Search for the silky black strands playing in the crowd,
I even sought her in vain through my nocturnal oneiric haze.

Indeed, she must have been a spectre,
Either of our world or that of my brain.

Nevertheless, this I know is true:
I did feel her gentle hand against my panicked heart
And her delicate voice still echoes in my ears.

It is Spring now, and still my memory of her persists
As does my recollection what she had to tell me.
Her whisper is in the snow-melt water
And her eyes cry joyful tears from icicles.
Anais Vionet Jan 2022
I woke up late this morning, my phone was dead. I guess I never plugged it in, I found it buried under my pillow (erah!). I barely had time for anything, just managing to cover the basics as the “Whoop” sound signaled my first virtual classroom opening. A pop-up announced that the class would be recorded and available later. “Yessss!” I thought, as I put in my airpods.

My room is surprisingly full of houseplants. There’s a ponytail palm, an anthurium and philodendrons sending down tendrils of heart-shaped leaves from shelves and tables. I drew open my curtains and the room bloomed, morning sunny. It was 22° but my windows are almost always cracked open to let in some real air.

I’m dressed in an unstylish, black school hoodie, short pajama pants, long socks and fluffy, pink slippers for my virtual class. My still-wet hair looked attractively mop-like. I began brushing it out while arranging the colored gel-pens and highlighters I use to take notes.

Was I ever starving, but I could only imagine breakfast. Ever notice how the sun looks like a giant egg-yolk? At least my Keurig was on the job - burping, whirring and dripping like a malfunctioning steam engine as it rendered lifesaving French Vanilla coffee that smelled like caffeinated heaven.

As the professor started talking about the syllabus, outlining the types of problems we’ll be working on this semester and reminding us of things we learned in our intro to econ class, a teaching assistant, in another window, asked us to press the roll-call icon and reminded us we had a paper due (this is why we read our syllabus, people). Then the assistant's window became a countdown timer showing what remained of the ten minutes we’d been given to upload the first-day’s homework.

Twenty minutes into the class, I was combed out and ponytailed, coffeed-up and positively vibrating with pleasure - I LOVE this stuff - strategies, actions, outcomes and payoffs. Student life is unnatural, stressful and myopic - but it can be thrilling too.

There was a knock on my door frame (the door to my room is almost always open), and one of my roommates, Sunny, was there. “Morning, Princess Anesthesia,” she said, teasing me about over-sleeping.

I pointed to my pink-M1-iMac screen, to indicate I was in class and she tossed me a bag. I knew, at once, that it was breakfast from the cafeteria. “I love you,” I mouthed, before turning back to the screen.

Spring Semester has begun.
BLT word of the day challenge: Myopic: a narrow perspective
Mary McCray  Apr 2019
First Day
Mary McCray Apr 2019
(NaPoWriMo Challenge: April 29, 2019)

At the end, you always remember the beginning,
sleepless sweating and the dread of the new.
It was going into battle through the glass doors,
the receptionist on the front lines, the rounds of names.
There was always the fear of missing something lifesaving,
the cliffs of inevitable failures ahead of you,
the roster of duties and missions you would not be suited for,
the impenetrable maps, the bank of phones with fifty lights,
the script of survival at the skirmish, the awkwardness
in the dying role.

Figuring out your generals and where they stood
from their hilltop proclamations, this little trooper
finally learned the war machine, way too late
to take on the mission with any patriotism,
way too late to be anything more than a soldier
serving out the term. My badge of honor
became what I could not do, my efficient honesties
and the raw willingness to fail.

Maybe this is a mark of a mature conscript,
the luxury of modesty, the last days
of having nothing left to prove.
Prompt: start with a declarative statement and write a powerful emotion reflected in tranquility.
Crow  Apr 2023
Freefall
Crow Apr 2023
aboard the aircraft metaphorical
bearing those employed
by companies large and small

a moment arrives when the cryptic
overhead lights instruct
that the time to leave has come

passengers are led to the open door
at the rear of the fuselage
where they will leap into the mist

the happy few will be strapped
into a designer backpack
filled with a carefully packaged parachute
of luminous gold

others are handed
a sturdy bundle which holds a
lifesaving paraglider of shining silver

a group somewhat more numerous
gratefully accept their sustaining dome
of spun silk and exit with confidence

the greatest number will be in a line
leading past a toilet paper dispenser
each individual to be ejected will be allotted
a single sheet

the one ply tissue will be printed as follows
“Grasp tissue firmly on opposite sides
hold tissue above head parallel with ground”

a hearty cry of “Good luck!” follows them
as they are assisted through the door
by a well placed boot
My power on you
Is negligible
Yet you hold me tighter
Tight
Tightly to you.
We dance around
In endless rotation
I spin
Immortally.
I breathe you in
I walk all over you
Yet you don’t know
I exist.
I am one piece
Of the puzzle
Of your skin.

You are hot and cold
Oscillating my emotions
Tidally locking me
Ensnaring me
Into your brilliant bath.
She is jealous.
Stronger and brighter than
I am smaller and feeble.
Her light shines luminous,
My glow is conditionally a specter
Unseen.
Eons ago she was yours,
And the crawl of seconds
Pulled her away
And the crawl of seconds
Birthed me upon you

Given the chance
She would wrench the blood
From my veins as she
Tugs on your arteries
Yet the iron given to me
By you, residing in my
Bones and beating chest
Holds strong, touched by
Your lifesaving magnetism
Your ferric ferocity shields
Me.  In an invisible
Aromatic atmosphere of
Blanketing love.

You swirl me
Rotate and revolve me
Wake and quake me
Birth and waste me.
Mother and Father providing
The soul within me, the
Soul beneath my feet.
My planet, my world
You are my Earth.
Magnetic fields, Moon is getting further away from the Earth, yes its actually about the Earth.  Nothing is about the sun.

— The End —