Rain from the Sun

This is a poem I wrote in my twenties at the peak of my frustration with not being able to change the unchangeable.

RAIN FROM THE SUN

Beneath the sun, with arms outstretched
Think of me not as some poor, lonely wretch
Palms up to the sky
Burn on my skin
Praying for thunder
For rain to begin
Yearning for breakthrough
Water’s sweet fall
Pleading for moisture
Where there’s been none at all
Not one drop escapes from the sky
Just shimmering mirages that grasp at the eye
Toes in the sand
Scorpions crawl
Cacti and cottonwood grow sharp and tall.
They watch me spin in this endless dance
Drilling a hole in the sandy expanse
Deeper and deeper
Till sand fills each ear
And burns tender lips
And soaks up each tear.
The tortoise, he passes in lumbering retreat
Out of the sun, away from the heat
With glance of dark eye
And flick of gray tongue,
He knows not to ask for rain from the sun.



Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2013. Use with permission only. Contact author at hopeh1122 at gmail. Follow on Twitter https://twitter.com/HopeNote

Pigeon of Palisades

Hey Pigeon of Palisades!

You and I are partners.

When I toss trash over my shoulder in search of a meal

You clean up after me.

When the sun disappears,

You coo me to sleep from the top of the Calvin Klein billboard on Sunset.

We make a good team, you and me.

You are not quite a bird.

I am not quite a man.

At least in their eyes.

                                                                     

Hey Pigeon of Palisades!

You can fly, can’t you?

I mainly see you hopping and wobbling, but I bet you can.

Yeah, you can fly just as surely as I can speak.

And yet I am never heard 

and you never soar.

My voice is useless - except to beg for change from tourists

Who never look me in the eyes

or stop to watch you fly.

Hey Pigeon of Palisades!

Do you belong here?

Do you wish you were somewhere else?

I am not welcome here either.

But here we are!

“Shoo!” They say to you.

“Get outta here!” They say to me.

So we move, but not far.

After all, where are we to go?

Hey Pigeon of Palisades!

You know they call you “dirty bird" right?

They call me worse, my friend.

They call me nothing.

I have no name.

They prefer it that way.

Yeah, I guess you could call me "dirty nothing." 

We are dirty

you and me--

Forgotten,

Invisible,

Scavengers.

We are the

Pigeons of Palisades.

Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2013. Use with permission only.
Contact author on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/hopeh1122 or by email at hopeh1122 (gmail).
Follow on Twitter @HopeNote

As I See It

Jewishpress.com - 2012 Photo of the Year

A photo hangs on a wall in a quiet a museum
showing
anguished father carrying 
his 
dead 
son 
wrapped in a white shroud down a narrow Gaza street 
full of long shrieking faces.
The brick walls appear to squeeze him closer to the others,
but it is despair 
that draws these tight quarters.
From the photo he screams: 
Help me!
The sky should not rain death!
Children should not die!
Not my son!

That's how I see it--
But where I see people,
you see only propaganda.

A newspaper sits on in a plush hotel lobby
showing 
brown girl riding
hot
government
bus. 
High school track star in relay of desperation to a strange land,
with head in hands and her dreams behind her.
It is fear
that keeps her in her seat.
From the photo she screams:
Help me!
I belong here!
I know no other country!
I pledge! I pray! I race!

That's how I see it--
But where I see people,
you see only propaganda.

A camera pans to a stark Aleppo hospital
showing
young man gasping
wrapped
in 
bandages.
His IV drips as talking heads chatter--
"Who burned his eyes? Who collapsed his lungs? Should we help?
Now on to the sports..."
It is --indifference
That helps them keep their distance.
From the photo he screams:
Help me! 
The breeze burns! 
I can trust no one--nothing!
Not sky! Not air! Nor heaven!

That's how I see it--
But where I see people,
You see only propaganda.



Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2013. Use with permission only. Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122. Follow on Twitter @HopeNote

Wheelbarrow

A bit of introduction to place this poem in context....
Soren Kierkegaard describes a person without a centering point in their life (faith in God was his center point) as "a drunken peasant who lies in the back of a wagon and sleeps and lets the horses shift for themselves."

WHEELBARROW 

Push me!
Slosh me around, Oh Captain!
Take me where you will in your wheelbarrow.
I'm wild, wayward,
wasted.
I go where you go
like a drunk on a bus
in this unforgiving, red seat 
that barely holds me.
My legs splay.
My elbows clamp.
My head rolls.
Push me!
Don't spill me out.
Take me to the hill
to the top 
where I can see what Pious Piper calls you up,
what pulls you to the peak.
Then, 
there, 
Oh Captain,
when you stop at the edge,
I will teeter in drunken despair
alone
and plead
Push me!


Who the heck was Kierkegaard? Click here for Wiki link.
Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2013. Use with permission only. Contact author on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/hopeh1122 Follow on Twitter @HopeNote

Soul to Take

Oh Night Sun,
above this dry desolation,
as I lay in isolation,
I won't ask for blessed sleep
but instead, my soul to keep.
Oh rocks,
turn smooth, flat, compliant
from piercing, sharp,warm and violent;
May coyote's long and ragged moan,
be a serenade to my ears alone,
and the needle prick of cactus arm
be not enough to cause alarm,
on my journey of a thousand steps
away from those who starve and fret
toward the crystal sparkling ridge--
that promised land of privelege.
Oh moon, I pray, stay bright and long!
Stars, please be my welcoming throng!
Then greet me, Sun, at morning break;
I pray
new Lord,
my soul to take.


- Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2013. Use with permission only. Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122. Follow on Twitter @HopeNote
Visit www.hopehorner.com

Fruit Picker

Cast me out!

You can
because you don't know me.
You never had to look me right here--
Right here 
in the eyes 
and tell me

You don't want me around.

It would be a little harder then 
wouldn't it?
To toss me back into the heap 
like a bad apple-- 
One brown spot too many.

Look at me!

You see me now

in the sun and sod,
overalls and long sleeves
between the ruts and the road stands.

Someday,
you will see me--
My back
no longer bent over the green rows.
My hands
no longer stained with the blood of your fruit.
My glory
no longer restrained under a bandana

But flying

Like a bandera!
Freedom
whipping across my face!
Joy
stinging my almond eyes!
I will not be tossed back by you,
For I am chosen!
Not by you,
Fruit Picker.

But I am Chosen!

Copyright Hope A. Horner. Off-line use with permission only. Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122. Follow on Twitter @HopeNote

Sylvia

Sylvia

You know better
Sylvia
The time spent
in the desert

in each other
Between the roses
and the riddles of life,
Too old
to go home
Too young
to make our own
So
we sat
barefoot
in circles
Passing green bottles
Rolling the dice
on what was before us
or
at least what could be seen.
But
Sylvia
You and I
both know
now
It was only a mirage,
a shimmering illusion,
The bounce of light
off metal panels and hubcaps,
Trash on fire.


- Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2013. Online use/forwarding permitted. Offline/print use with permission only. Contact author on Facebook or email on gmail at hopeh1122.