put down the pen,
gown thyself in coats
of many riotous colors,
banish ‘never’ and ‘hope’
from thy lexicon, and
begin with a smile
always a smile as you
walk the streets as if to say
open open says me,
open sesame and let the
good works begin,
for having found your
captain of the muses,
you will need not write
Crack my bones like dry kindling
and make more room for some logs.
Then set them on fire
watch my body burn hotter
than any star.
If you feel queasy
at how I burn so easy
then maybe turn away.
Let me die out with the flames.
Don't douse me.
But my dignity is something
you're not willing to give.
So you take the water
and toss it on me.
A fire put out, can't die on its own.
I'm just embers and ashes
that you leave out in the open.
A day and night passes
and you return to the spot
to poke a stick at my cinder heart.
You're shivering, are you cold?
It's too bad I have no bones
left to warm your icy soul.
I'm a fire put out, can't die on my own.
I'll see you home.
it's not hard to be faithful,
but it's hard not to break someone's heart.
I questioned why I
post on HP..many left
Maybe I should too
** lots of techincal probs on hp many left many not post no more , anyway it’s been a frequent question I keep asking myself I’ve been debating it a a lot lately just think maybe I should finally lie down my pen , Ive wrote over three thousand short poems wow that’s a lot lol and life’s busy as per and focusing on family as always ;**
Thank you though for those who have read me you will remain forever in my heart always❤️ It’s hard leaving you all but family calls , new adventures await , positivity as always xxxx
Hope u enjoyed my poetry but it’s time for me to stop writing ❤️❤️❤️ My poems will remain here on hp ❤️
For Emma Ottinger “I put out (my stories) just because”
that’s the best excuse you got girl?
is a **** good one
way back in March
wrote a declaration^ to all those just
beginning with an iota of courage and
a good story telling
way of seeing and the
to spin my imagination in
my eye sockets
with their well words,
for I am a drinker of
the beaujolais firsts of the new grapes
of young poets
words welling springing from between
the oohs and ahs and the damns -
I wish I had wrote that...
so here’s a hero push - so many kinds of bread to
fill our baskets, please girl may I have some more?
so here’s to you - and the Great Plains that birthed you,
and the breadbasket of four poem/stories you poured out
that were so far from plain, how could you know of seas and sea foam and cobalt and mahogany human body parts?
and the speech patterns of waves that took me decades to learn?
use those “Jacob’s ladders between your fingers,”
“whistle me like a stray dog following,”
for that’s what “the kingpin of my flighty wits”
requires, for this old scribbler is now:
“firmly rooted for a girl who's bold enough
to crack the whip over her head if
ever went to war with myself.
A confidant that won't run,
won't offer half truth when
the whole of it
is all that actually matters.”
so write with that window light on and
wheat fields that can be reenvisioned as the gray-blue sea
from which I crawled out of croaking...
to read you rightly