"hectors" poems - Hello Poetry

Sarah and Solomon married at Foxglove in verdant Taranaki…a magical time for everybody at that beautiful, beautiful occasion. Dear old Grandpa Verne Bell passed from this mortal coil and went on to the next with his typical strong eyed fortitude and open curiosity. Major earthquake shatters the top of the South island and is felt with trepidation from one end of the country to the other. Trump hauls votes from the impossible and manufactures an improbable US Presidency…. Much to the embarrassment, alarm and discomfort of the majority of the thinking American population. Oceans continue to rise and atmospheric temperatures climb…..and nobody really cares enough to try to do anything much about it. Russia and China flex their military muscle and snub their sabre rattling noses at the West. Interest rates and the price of gas started to escalate upward again. Friends and relatives have been rocked by ill health, hardship and misfortune. Key calls “Enough” and passes the Prime Ministerial gauntlet to a (thankfully), very capable Bill English. Janet and Marshal both reach out and find new jobs, fresh horizons & new avenues to explore. Syria slides into chaos and anarchy with absolutely no regard for it’s ordinary, civilian population languishing in the dreadful ruins of East Aleppo. The Hectors dolphin numbers dwindle to 87 living animals, surviving globally. But….We, friends, live in a peaceful oasis…forgotten at the very end of the earth. We live in a land of plenty and opportunity, a land of rare green beauty where individuality is prized and freedom valued. May we pause for a moment this Christmas…and appreciate just how ****** fortunate we all actually are? MERRY CHRISTMAS FRIENDS M. Hamilton, New Zealand 20 December 2016

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Dec 20, 2016

Dec 20, 2016 at 1:36 PM UTC

marshal-gebbie

What a year that was!

Sarah and Solomon married at Foxglove in verdant Taranaki…a magical time for everybody at that beautiful, beautiful occasion. Dear old Grandpa Verne Bell passed from this mortal coil and went on to the next with his typical strong eyed fortitude and open curiosity. Major earthquake shatters the top of the South island and is felt with trepidation from one end of the country to the other. Trump hauls votes from the impossible and manufactures an improbable US Presidency…. Much to the embarrassment, alarm and discomfort of the majority of the thinking American population. Oceans continue to rise and atmospheric temperatures climb…..and nobody really cares enough to try to do anything much about it. Russia and China flex their military muscle and snub their sabre rattling noses at the West. Interest rates and the price of gas started to escalate upward again. Friends and relatives have been rocked by ill health, hardship and misfortune. Key calls “Enough” and passes the Prime Ministerial gauntlet to a (thankfully), very capable Bill English. Janet and Marshal both reach out and find new jobs, fresh horizons & new avenues to explore. Syria slides into chaos and anarchy with absolutely no regard for it’s ordinary, civilian population languishing in the dreadful ruins of East Aleppo. The Hectors dolphin numbers dwindle to 87 living animals, surviving globally. But….We, friends, live in a peaceful oasis…forgotten at the very end of the earth. We live in a land of plenty and opportunity, a land of rare green beauty where individuality is prized and freedom valued. May we pause for a moment this Christmas…and appreciate just how ****** fortunate we all actually are? MERRY CHRISTMAS FRIENDS M. Hamilton, New Zealand 20 December 2016

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I put a make believe woman through hell. I worship the devil. I worship the devil because my dog drowns in a water bowl. I pass the time writing holy, holy. I condemn my body as I need proof. I say to a particular no one a boy after my own heart. I’m not sure what makes mother power off the television. she moans afterward as if it is the great work of her neck. I keep an appointment to be blinded by a window washer. every other word of my father’s autobiography is not so strange. if I hadn’t ****** myself in second grade, Hector might have. his brothers would’ve beaten him. his unborn sister would’ve been premature on purpose. I can count on your hand the Hectors we know. it could be that mother worries we are wildlife. she wrote once depression is a dog whistle. I missed dinner sounding it out. between me and you, you’re the private sort of person women like.

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Oct 12, 2012

Oct 12, 2012 at 1:48 AM UTC

barton-d-smock

sleepy, tenable town

I put a make believe woman through hell. I worship the devil. I worship the devil because my dog drowns in a water bowl. I pass the time writing holy, holy. I condemn my body as I need proof. I say to a particular no one a boy after my own heart. I’m not sure what makes mother power off the television. she moans afterward as if it is the great work of her neck. I keep an appointment to be blinded by a window washer. every other word of my father’s autobiography is not so strange. if I hadn’t ****** myself in second grade, Hector might have. his brothers would’ve beaten him. his unborn sister would’ve been premature on purpose. I can count on your hand the Hectors we know. it could be that mother worries we are wildlife. she wrote once depression is a dog whistle. I missed dinner sounding it out. between me and you, you’re the private sort of person women like.

26

by: William A. Marshall we fill a pig we fill the job we fill in the blank we fill a **** tank our plot of dirt and wreathed granite we fill our gut we fill the dish we fill a wall with frame and single-mindedness we fill our cup we fill a slot we fill up the dog with greasy scraps that no one wanted since they’re full and we seal friends with cake from cheap card board boxes stuffed with sugar and nonsense we fill our kids with what we want we fill a prison we fill our brain and cabbage chest that eventually rots and smells like old Roses De Chloé and Loreal pigment we fill our ******* crows feet with collagen instead of admiring them like the meritorious stripes that they are they rest in ashen dust gin vapor and vehicle identity finally blows up and floats away like a bad check a shadow on the landing up high, a sun drenched butte where lupine and sage grows out of touch from hectors reaching what counts, quiet breezes can be heard shrilling through the rock and now bare dignity never shows up at times like this, vultures hover over the empty can of a carcass and bones that once stood just and ran full and fought clashes, nothing is full now and what matters most is now empty.

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Apr 3, 2014

Apr 3, 2014 at 9:41 AM UTC

william-marshall

We Fill

by: William A. Marshall we fill a pig we fill the job we fill in the blank we fill a **** tank our plot of dirt and wreathed granite we fill our gut we fill the dish we fill a wall with frame and single-mindedness we fill our cup we fill a slot we fill up the dog with greasy scraps that no one wanted since they’re full and we seal friends with cake from cheap card board boxes stuffed with sugar and nonsense we fill our kids with what we want we fill a prison we fill our brain and cabbage chest that eventually rots and smells like old Roses De Chloé and Loreal pigment we fill our ******* crows feet with collagen instead of admiring them like the meritorious stripes that they are they rest in ashen dust gin vapor and vehicle identity finally blows up and floats away like a bad check a shadow on the landing up high, a sun drenched butte where lupine and sage grows out of touch from hectors reaching what counts, quiet breezes can be heard shrilling through the rock and now bare dignity never shows up at times like this, vultures hover over the empty can of a carcass and bones that once stood just and ran full and fought clashes, nothing is full now and what matters most is now empty.

63

A reflection on his rippled crest The Moon lays lightly down upon his chest she answers him Paris, on the Jersey shore distance like Helene lore Will your ship sail to her then? Harrowing Hectors have sent their horses before and she'll have no more. he is an ocean still silent blue passion, like undercurrents striking him through she would sail over him, in her craft fragile like a paper boat a waxen heart temple afloat to catch currents in her shafts her siren call is piercing shrill the ocean then bends to her will and then, in waves as oceans do it saturates and wets her through and if cleansed, then stripped bare and bathed in moonlight kiss... if she hides it is because she wanes in waxing love and to give her silver light she must appear at night spin coptering fall a nocturnal dance in poem's thrall Look up! she sees him now he wants to catch the moon, somehow she hides in the sun when night is done but she kisses his face at night kisses it with Lunar light the curve of her crescent heavy present. in his hands he can sense the moon has no defense.

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Mar 15, 2018

Mar 15, 2018 at 11:17 AM UTC

virginie-guillemette

Putting the Moon In Your Pocket

A reflection on his rippled crest The Moon lays lightly down upon his chest she answers him Paris, on the Jersey shore distance like Helene lore Will your ship sail to her then? Harrowing Hectors have sent their horses before and she'll have no more. he is an ocean still silent blue passion, like undercurrents striking him through she would sail over him, in her craft fragile like a paper boat a waxen heart temple afloat to catch currents in her shafts her siren call is piercing shrill the ocean then bends to her will and then, in waves as oceans do it saturates and wets her through and if cleansed, then stripped bare and bathed in moonlight kiss... if she hides it is because she wanes in waxing love and to give her silver light she must appear at night spin coptering fall a nocturnal dance in poem's thrall Look up! she sees him now he wants to catch the moon, somehow she hides in the sun when night is done but she kisses his face at night kisses it with Lunar light the curve of her crescent heavy present. in his hands he can sense the moon has no defense.

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