Last Night

I woke up crying last night
yelling at you
eye to eye
covers around me
shards of light
slicing through the darkness.

When I asked you to leave,
I wish I had done it with more force
instead of wimpering like a dog
and telling you this is how it had to be
because I was too afraid to say how I really felt
How you disappoint
How you disrespect
How you disappear
How I know where you go
when you do
what you do
I can smell it --
the long, gray smoke that follows you like
a spirit
It clouds your eyes
Until
You cannot see what you are becoming;
WHO you are becoming!
I yelled all that
Last Night.
Unlike
the actual day.
The one you thought would never come and the one
I knew probably would
The one where your hands shook and your voice was thin
You said
It's not what you think.
And I said
Wait until tomorrow.
It's not wise to talk when we are upset.
But we did speak
The next day, in long heavy steps on the black top, side by side
So we didn't have to look eye to eye
And I said--
Oh, I can't remember it all now.
Only I must not have said enough
Or said it the way I should have
then
I must have left it hanging out there
like a partially filled cartoon bubble
Because last night
I filled that bubble full of exclamation points
Until it burst.


Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2013-2017. Use with permission only. Contact author on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/hopeh1122 Follow on Twitter @HopeNote

Five Things

Write down the five of things you hear today, he said
the wind in the maples
the clink of a metal gate
horses as they nip at each other
hawks screaming overhead
the sound of your feet on the dirt path as you walk into the canyon.
The silence is priceless.
The dust?
Golden.
You can have a big house in the city with noise and chatter
or a little house in the canyon with oaks and rattlesnakes
Write down the five things you hear today, he said.
You may not even get to five.


Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2015. Use with permission only. Contact author on hotmail at hopeh1122 or follow on Twitter @HopeNote

Treasure

You held on in shallow tide pool
beneath the salty tidal sting--
and fading pink light
pinned
pressed
by sharp heavy rocks,
weathered
but unbroken.
Then, 
discovered
uncovered
you are lifted
by gentle fingers,
carried in warm palm,
treated like treasure.


Copyright 2014 by Hope A. Horner
http://www.HopeHorner.com
Offline use by permission only. 

Purpose

The wind comes in the fall
with purpose --

to break 
          the brown,
dislodge
          the dead,
throw down.
Wind
Cold
Gutters the gold.
Santa Anas whip 
to strip limbs bare--
barren branches left to cope
in winter wait 
for blossoms of hope.





Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2014. Use with permission only.
Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122.
Follow on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/HopeNote

Familiar

From familiar hills You come--
Brushing nostalgic slopes, 
Once green velvet, now dormant and dry.

You come 
Quiet like the wind
Radiant, 
Encircling,
Slicing through childhood canyons
Treading sacred paths
Scattering flowers
Moving clouds
Tipping the light out of your eyes.
You come--
Familiar,
Like home.



Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2014. Use with permission only. Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122
Follow on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/HopeNote

Butterfly Lilt

Small white butterflies 
like summer snowflakes 
fall and flutter;
I swerve to miss them
on bike 
on foot
in my car.
They are on their way, too,
but they will not stop.
No rest for the winged.
They float and flutter and fling themselves on flowers like desperate lovers;
weave between sycamores like playful youth,
lilt and jump as though on a string
until the fall comes and the wind changes direction,
carries them out of town
to make way for the season of moths--
when bikes rest
feet sink deep in boots
cars make warm caves
And butterflies sleep.


-Hope Horner, 2014
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For offline publishing contact author on gmail at hopeh1122

Release

Click
       of release

                    into the open

Leap
      of joy
             to break free

Bolt
     of happiness
                     to not be broken

Flash
       of recognition
                          "This is me."





Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2014.
Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122
Follow on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/hopenote