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
Follow on Twitter at http://www.twitter.com/HopeNote
Feel free to post, forward and share!
For offline publishing contact author on gmail at hopeh1122

In The Drift

She lies back

until
from shore her canoe looks empty,
like driftwood
winding and bobbing
in the wrinkled clear water.
She stares up
into the bold blue background,
admires scattered wisps of white cotton.
Her perfect peace
is interrupted only by the soft
bump
bump
bump
of the smooth gray rocks beneath her,
and the pointed
tap
tap
tap
of the determined woodpeckers above her.
She closes her eyes,
lifts her arms and places her hands
around the smooth wooden edges
of her sliver of hope.


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

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

Peek

Peek

She peeks
over the mountain
down the ravine spotted with chapparel
palace palm trees
cactus patches
purple jacaranda
knotted pines bent at the waist before proud oaks.
Her eyes dart like black phoebes
over red brick roof tops
through baked adobe archways embraced by scarlet bouganvilla.
She waits,
silent and white like cotton
for the sun to grow tired and retreat
so she can make her descent
settle in for the night
belly nested in the sand
cuddling the sailboats in the crooks of her arms
stretching her nose
out over the sea
to peek
over the horizon.


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

Drive You Out of My Mind

I have to drive you out of my mind--

press down on the black tar interstate that splits the cactus and the poppies.

Part the opulent heat from here 

to Avenue A.

I have to pull ahead,

left of the pregnant Winnebago with Arizona plates, 

right of the Harley with the patriotic tail,

through the center of sweet water canyon 

brown and grooved like a walnut shell.

I have to pull off--

cross the overpass lined with trash 

and orange suits that bend and bag.

Pause where the signal light blinks—red, gone, red;

Rest my arm on the windowsill of my car.

Exhale acrid exhaust through paper mache lips,

my eyes like marbles in a sand pit.

Red, gone, red.

I proceed.

Pass Foster's Freeze--

a faded blue oasis of locked bathrooms,

plastic umbrellas casting crooked shade, 

french fries filling insatiable pigeons.

I have to pass,

turn on to the gray gravel road that circles your park,

where rust bites its way through posted signs:

No lifeguard on duty!

Dogs must be on leash.

Visitor parking only.

Each square has a number and a lawn like a hot spot on a dog's back--

rough, raw and unkempt.

I have to proceed.

roll by the metal boxes

with floral sheet curtains,

sleepy cats on couch backs

trucks that pout in driveways,

carports that bow their heads in reverence to past snowfalls.

I have to pull over,

Park;

Follow the crushed white stones between the potted plants and pink oleander

up two thick concrete steps to your door.

I have to press--

Press and wait;

bite my lip, study my shoelaces,

pinch the back of my shirt to fan the sweaty circle brought on by vinyl

and a hundred miles 

of driving you out of my mind.

- Copyright Hope A. Horner 2013. Use with permission by author.

Let me know what you think! (Constructive criticism welcome!) 

Contact on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/hopeh1122

Follow on Twitter @HopeNote