House of Heart, Holly Rene Hunter [the best e book reader txt] 📗
- Author: Holly Rene Hunter
Book online «House of Heart, Holly Rene Hunter [the best e book reader txt] 📗». Author Holly Rene Hunter
Poetry enriches both the writer and reader. Modern English verse is dense and at times leaves the ordinary reader gasping for clarity. These verses are not meant to leave one baffled but hopefully affected by their essence, be it romantic, poignant, or comical.
In general, poetry in the western hemisphere is a somewhat overlooked genre, however the hunger for romance appears alive and well and I think that it will remain so for those who enjoy an escape into beauty, for owners of broken hearts on the mend and the lost longing for renewal, or simply the fundamentally sentimental. I have gathered some of my poetry and stored it here for safe-keeping and hopefully for the enjoyment of all who wish to linger for a while. My words are born of joy or sadness, love and passion. Incidents of life that remain with their owner forever. I hope you will enjoy this anthology of poetry.
---Holly Rene Hunter
A luminous tapestry of wordplay, delightful and transcendent moments are filled with insight and beauty. House of Heart: Poetry for Dreamers is a delightful book of Verse from a unique and gifted poet.
---William Westergren
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Love is a journey through waters and stars,
through suffocating air, sharp tempests of grain:
Love is a war of lightning,
and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness
Pablo Neruda - Carnal Apple...
Currency and confessionals
Sheer scarves cover the
lamp beside the bed as
daylight slips through
the open French doors
igniting walls of burgundy.
Her hair fans out on pillows,
eggshell limbs are caught in loose binds.
She is the red of womanhood,
her breasts, alert gazelles.
Guileless eyes the shade of currency,
her mind becomes his confessional
and there is no sin grave enough.
Petals
When words were your only nourishment
I fed you calla lilies
budding in my throat.
From stacked shelves of your
smoky library
you read to me Aristophanes.
Of all poets
we loved him best.
In the final hours
we lingered among wilting flowers
fragile petals falling everywhere.
Crossover
Come across the boundary softly
Hear the sea oats sighing secrets
to the whispering wind.
See the schooners shadow the horizon,
exotic dreams our hearts have seen.
Uncover ancient lands known to our minds.
Sea breezes find us far from the sea.
Cross over colors and countries,
where stars are diamonds and hearts are free
come cross the boundaries.
A soft kiss
The soft kiss of a tawny sky
caresses her golden shoulders.
Living things wind around her feet
grateful for her presence.
She whets the stones of hope
with perpetual anticipation,
expecting dreams to come alive
before it is too late.
art by featurepic
Migrating
In January snow birds besiege us.
Drab sparrows hover in lush evergreens.
Wary of the spirited swallow
they settle for the lowest branch.
Parrots eye me from palm fronds
camophlaged in rubies and emeralds
their sunlit feathers give them away.
A cobweb laden garden traps
morsels for night creatures, a bit of
purple, a slice of stem.
When night falls moonflowers open
pure petals to silvery dew.
I Haven't Been Here Before
I haven’t been here before
Without your hand to guide me
I would be lost.
At my threshold the tide consumes the days
shadows fall like lace upon the sand
Come, enter without knocking
you were my lifeline when I drowned
Whiteout
The wind ravages the woodland,
roots of trees grip the riverbank.
On a frozen branch a snow owl huddles,
Snow flakes crust her large orbs.
Crystalized feathers pull tight against her bones,
uneasy, she waits the return of her life-mate.
Our love is like winter
fixed mountains against a blanket of white.
Tethered to time
held captive by circumstance
riverbeds thirsting for rain.
Ice spikes my minds canvas,
spilling over the edges into ephemeral snow.
art by mkdnews
Lessons
I Gathered seasoned firewood
for the fireplace to lean into the
flames and melt a heart of ice.
I would drench my mind in kindness
if ever there was enough.
Don’t waste tender roses on regret,
save them for hearts naïve.
“It is well for the heart to be naïve and the mind not to be”
Anatole France
Orion
When dried flowers
fold into winters skirt
Spring longs to extract the light
in shades of supple green
erasing fall's gold’s and brown.
Rolling rivers run between us
threaded tendrils thread our
hair and limbs.
At the end of our journey
I will find you above the
snow laden mountains
Your likeness as brilliant as
as a summer sun.
Effigy
She no longer recalls or feels
Freedom is not a concept
The curve of her back is wired
with filament and straw fills
the space that held a heart.
Constructed for crows her limbs
stripped of flesh, her pupils fixed.
Her lips are strung with suffering
silent but for labored breath
she no longer speaks because
there are no words
that cut deep enough.
No One Died
Mist fogs the banks
dripping down our borders,
our bodies are currency
spent in lands of wonder.
Fastened firmly,
our palms roam damp terrain.
Loose diamonds fall from my hand
sparkling like crystal water.
They are precious with the blood of hearts
though no one died in the quarry.
It is only right that you should have them,
that was your plan from the start.
Fire
She is provocative,
at times she is insolent.
Her concept of red
is nowhere near
roses.
Her house is
the hollow of bones
and skin stretched
beyond margins.
She has given birth
to despair and suffered
the triteness of platitude.
She is in search
of kindling
waiting to ignite.
image by Ivan Slavinsky
Satellites
orbit my nights,
specters no longer
inhabit the shadows.
You have created
space where I can
close my eyes without
fear of principles
and articulations are
no longer foreign.
Feel this body
of insecurity,
the pounding of desire.
I am tangled in yearning.
If you follow me I will
not turn away.
Because I love you,
do not come to me.
image by Lu Jainjiu
moving right along
Flowers are still in bloom. Flaxen rays of sunlight ignore the seasons and persist in heating the soft earth. This year El Nino has diverted the few Atlantic hurricanes coming off the Cape Verde islands away from our mainland and with just two weeks left of the hurricane season, a collective sigh of relief is likely to be carried on the cool breeze. It is green and lush here; A paradise of birds and wetlands, splashes of double hibiscus, swathes of crimson and peach. Blankets of impatiens winding in and out, petals of violet, red, and white crowding every available space in the landscape. Huge poinsettia trees reach out long limbs dropping layers of red blossoms as ground cover. I have joined a friend in his secluded courtyard for Cuban coffee and guava pastelittos and small talk. The peaceful ambience is interrupted when his demeanor mutates to political. He is angry about the influx of Mexicans and Latinos from Central America crossing our borders. I remind him of his own flight from the shores of Havana over the straits via smugglers. That is different, he tells me, he had relatives here, sponsors. I stroll to the small clay pots lined up on the deck, the peppery smell of basil and thyme and black earth sting my nostrils. Eventually he joins me, proposing we go for a swim and walk along the beach. Beaming at his very welcome suggestion, I have to wonder how many people can take a dip in the sea in mid-November.
art by Maria Soto Robbins
Sirius
Sweet Blossoms
With gentle hands
brush amber strands
from my face and
see me.
Kiss sweet blossoms
from my lips,
I’ve saved for you.
There’s need in these eyes,
inside the jade.
You are unsure,
Will you be sorry?
Urgently, you follow.
In shadow we linger;
I will not say no,
because today
I am weak.
Heart Throb
I saw his picture
On a billboard,
leaning against the
"Little Bastard".
Beautiful and magic.
I dreamed he would
lay eyes on me
and fall.
I pleaded don't go,
we'll picnic together
on Mulholland, pate
and chardonnay.
Timeless and immortal,
Not one photo stained with tears.
If you are God
From the forest a bob white calls your name.
Listen to the sound of you. Do what you will do.
Do not feed on the pain. If you are God, be the sun,
but Let the moon have its turn.
Shine on willows weeping
Stray into the a shivering night,
return with a joyful heart.
Think of me ....
I’m the faint scent of lilac The gust of chill in the air.A forget-me-not trampled,springing upright as you pass.The sweeping wings of an eagle,an orphan at your door.Thoughts gone amiss, never getting it right; pacing feet across your floor.A muffled cry when you grieve,
a feral comforted along your path
A Sole Dove
(for Roby)
From my periphery I see you
hear you in the café
My breathing stops to listen for sounds
for signs of the space that held us
Rooms are casks replete with stillness
send me signs of validation.. of exits
dismal bargaining and vulnerability
grieving what is not easy
A sole dove swooped into the crown of a tree
watching from a forked bough
soon the cardinals fly in
A brilliant male and his drab mate
natures cruel sense of humor
on wide wings they sail to a distant stand
letting go the past the lone Dove lingers
Echoes of Gods
Sips of rain permeate the surface,
seeping through rock, carving sandstone,
flowing sideways, etching airspace, filling caves,
fleeing hillsides, escaping to the valley floor.
My name echoes through canyons,
seized by roaring waterfalls
crashing at the feet of Gods.
A sound snared by the breath of souls,
flung into the gentle flow of
sorrow’s spring of tears.
At it's Finest
We were drama at its best,
witty, facetious, and ironic;
Conduct deteriorating downward.
Like Taylor and Burton,
I was the strongest
if not the most temperate.
I fortified my defenses
behind walls of retreat.
We begged each others assurances
What made us think we were in control?
art by lifeat24frames
I need to start a fire
I am weary
of grieving the lost.
I need to start a fire,
distinguish love from
a cunning scheme
The days are a flinch of the eye
a trembling heartache-
a phantom hidden in plain sight.
I am at the river's edge
and my tears are a healing balm.
I want to rise to the light
but tonight I need to start a fire
I’m as cold as the midnight moon.
Because I am not Jaded Enough...
I still imagine your balcony doors swung wide
where you breathe the humid night air in shadows
that conceal your naked body.
Because I miss your soothing belles lettres
and azure eyes amused by my tears.
I should scream a mock rant but I can’t;
Because I am still in denial.
When I speak
The house I built
rests on rolling waves,
it’s hallowed bed billows with
sea island breezes.
Stay here forever in dreams
where I am but a visitor.
When I speak of love
my words slip like rain
into the deep as
I search for you
in the fading sunset.
Art by Vincent Romero
hearts of lovers
You are deep as the mariana trench
the finest opus of nightingales
a tropical
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