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i just found out today that on poemhunter.com
on the 26th of January, The Child of The Sun was selected as the  POEM OF THE DAY:
and this makes me very very happy  🙂

The Child of The Sun

it is a shadow,

of the tree
dark lighting
at the zenith of the day, tasting
the sweat on the man's forehead

the child of the sun
it is a shadow

of grass
opaque existence
angle of light
in the calmness of the earth

the child of the sun
it is a shadow

silently
following the man, to the water spring
in the valley of springs

the mother sun
quenches its thirst
with the tears of the earth

the child of the sun
it is a shadow
🙂 Last week, I had some thoughts about me giving up on writing, that it is a waste of time, and that there are more important things to do, but today I received this message, and I am wow. My eyes popped out like onions.
In the last 3 years I have been devoted, waking up every morning at 4:30-5am, writing whatever was coming, whatever my psychic was breathing out over the night, without questioning, I was there waiting for the invisible, facing it, receiving it as a gift and converting it into poems.
and today seeing this I am like a newborn, and I receive the message like ”the show must go on, baby ...:)”


So, in the end, the truth is that everyone needs a drop of appreciation from somewhere. We are creatures of receiving appreciation and love! No matter what we do as work, or create, in us, we carry the need to know that there out, somewhere in this world is someone appreciating what we do, invent, or imagine. There is no other way ...
 Jan 2023 David Hilburn
viola
sometimes I wish I had cancer
then people would send me flowers, and get well soon cards.
but I am bipolar
so when I am sick
I suffer alone, ashamed
because too many times
people synonymously use my illness for crazy.

-please stop
We are travelling quickly on a path that is blind to our misery.
We believe that destiny will unfold itself.
Our goals change, and so does our path.
Nothing appears to be close to where we want to be. But we keep moving.
COMES A MOUSEY

"Comes a headache you can lose it in a day,
Comes a toothache see the dentist right away;
Comes love nothing can be done! "

she wiggles her fingers
she wiggles her toes
tries to mouth the words

she gurgles in her cot
waves her head about
hits her mobile toys

I sing her old jazz
standards from the first
day of her life

from tiny tot
to the toddler
of now

she can join in
and sing
with relish and delight

and demand of Daddy
"Sing me mousey
Sing me mousey!"

"Comes the measles, you can quarantine a room
Comes a mousey, you can chase it with a broom
Comes love, nothing can be done!"

Comes love, nothing can be done

Comes love...nothing can be done

Comes love . . .nothing. . .can be. . . done
The best poems avoid eye contact.

Just before you find their rhythm,
catch their direction,
they dance away,
and you watch their beauty,
leaving

you full of wanting
wishing
you knew the steps
hoping
you might keep up
wondering
where they led
leaving
you to tap your feet,
missing
every third or fourth beat,
kidding
yourself that you too
could be sliding, shuffling
and maybe grasping the sway,

but they dance away,
and you stay,
while your eyes follow.
Caroline Bird: "Some poems won't keep eye contact."
And then
there are
these things
called words
oh my
the night is silver
air, her dark ink
flowing like a pen, her
aches and sinews, water-
born, melted out of sky.
there is no cage

to hold the bird, page-like,
built out of river and
dream, it is free to fly,
carry the green of
the trickling leaves to the
rain-heavy cloud.

february builds her palaces
of love, a pretty rose,
a sentimental card,
a rain-sweetened kiss.

we are as full of the night
as a poem, our lips glazed
red, our hearts glowing
golden gathering petals
and sky.
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