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Hope Horner: Vacancy

Friday, July 1, 2022

Two Mourning Doves

Two mourning doves
Perched side by side
on a chain link fence
like lovers on a park bench.
They stare into the sun over still water reservoir,
behind them the California freeway roars--
rubber turns,
diesel burns,
stomachs yearn for evening meals.
Are they oblivious to the chaos
or just unconcerned?
These two--
With shared view
Ignore the din
'til it is only them.

-Hope A. Horner
Copyright 2022. No use without permission

Friday, May 27, 2022

Emerald of the North

Gray slab rocks slick with green
Direct the blue downstream
The Man of Sligo on corner stands
Pointing to the sky, jacket fanned.
First born child of rival shore
All who know, know he loved you more
You - this Emerald of the north
Province Connacht, seaport.
Leaving London's crowding choke
Crooked streets and chimney smoke
To commune with fairies beneath the tree
In song and dance and poetry
To bring a tear to travelers' eyes
With wild swan words and lovers sighs
And stir what Irish blood remains
In hearts with same blue in their veins
To match the river rushing still
Around the bend toward Strandhill.


Sligo, Ireland. Photo copyright Hope Horner, 2022.

- Poem dedicated to WB Yeats. An inspiration and genius poet.
Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2022. Use with permission only. Contact author on Twitter @HopeNote
#ireland #irishpoetry #irishpoem #newpoet #undiscoveredpoet #sligo #yeats #wbyeats

Thursday, August 3, 2017

Last Night

I woke up crying last night
yelling at you
eye to eye
covers around me
shards of light through the window
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
You cannot see what you are becoming;
WHO you are becoming!
I yelled all that
Last Night.
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
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 Follow on Twitter @HopeNote

Saturday, October 17, 2015

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?
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

Wednesday, December 10, 2014


You held on in shallow tide pool
beneath the salty tidal sting--
and fading pink light
by sharp heavy rocks,

but unbroken.
you are lifted
by gentle fingers,
carried in warm palm,
treated like treasure.

Copyright 2014 by Hope A. Horner
Offline use by permission only. 

Monday, November 17, 2014


The wind comes in the fall
with purpose --
to break 
          the brown,
          the dead,
throw down.
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.
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Monday, November 10, 2014


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

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

Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2014. Use with permission only. Contact author on gmail at hopeh1122
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