It doesn't matter how well you write
Or how much time you take to
It all depends on whether or not
You were born fortunate.

the whole intention of life is to get through it
there is no instruction manual
there is no easy way to explain it to someone
you are conceived and you die
your journey is not predetermined
your voyage can be altered
your trip around the sun is your own unique ordeal
put your seat belt on and enjoy the ride...!

Brian Hill - 2020 # 52

He is perceived as youth
Younger than all
A child amongst the gods
However he was borne of Chaos
Bringing life through love
Chaotic and painful love
Uplifting and righteous love
Melting hearts
Make them as unyielding as steel
Arrows of gold and lead his tools
He uses them with wild will
Just as love is
Borne from chaos
His bow taught and waiting
Finding their targets
True strike of love
Rain your arrows upon me
So that I may learn
To love myself

Why Love?

Do we really know, when love was born
Where and why it happened and how it took form

From the start of it all, from the time it occurred
What was this new feeling, what is this new word
I believe it occurred, to be felt in your heart
From the center of your essence to the tips of all parts

Were the feelings just there, were they always that good
Was the meaning really known, was it truly understood
Sometimes you would be glowing, other times you might sting
It's perplexing to know, what this word can actually bring

I know love has meanings, how many, is not exact
It will change your life forever, I know that's a fact...

Brian Hill - 2019 # 322

where do the bad people go if hell isn't real?
will they linger on in a never ending limbo,
walking never ending roads to never ending nothingness?
will they cease to exist,
dissipate into thin air?
would they think back on their lives,
the crimes they've committed?
would they try to seek forgiveness,
for every ounce, every drop of blood or sweat or tears they've shed for their own selfishness?
would they be sorry for what they did?
or would they remain prideful and allow the maggots to eat away at their flesh?
maybe they'll remain on earth
to watch others go on with their lives
maybe they'll watch their families,
how they go on with their daily business without them
maybe they'll watch the lives of the people they've wronged,
how they smile knowing they're gone
maybe they'll rewatch their lives,
from the day they were born to the day they died
over and over and over again

and maybe that's the hell
maybe hell was within them
and they were hell itself.

a new born poet-babe was born this day!

more of a surprise to the baby than the
supervising family members in attendance
in the delivery room, they, unafraid of the blood
and amniotic fluid coating the baby’s first
poetic cri de coeur, a screaming wail

for well do they re-envision their own birth

the poet babe cuts their own umbilical chord
with a scissors snipping named and engraved
SEND,
which irony galore, reminds/rhymes with The End,
this misnomer a challenge and soon the babe
cries out in surprise, it is twins, and the second poem
emerging stating in a tone solemnly serious and formal,

”more to follow”

and the room bursts out laughing,
including you!



Saturday Dec. 14th, 2010