There's A Cry in Everything

There's a cry in everything--

A universal tear.

There's a sob in every being--

A common sense fear.

Rue the day and push away;

Dance and drink and sing!

But there's a sigh;

There's a why;

There's a cry in everything.

Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2023. 

Use with permission only. Contact author on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/hopeh1122 Follow on Twitter @HopeNote

Horseshoes and Hand Grenades

'Close' only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades

That's what my Mom said

When I told her the game was close--

The one where she beat me

placing wooden tiles on the board to make words

PLAGERIZE

        R

        OAK

        W

        NOISE

Her smile unfamiliar but warm;

Her hands like mine--long fingers, short nails.

The sun was dropping outside;

Her energy too.

She must sleep now--

Next to the large metal fan that whirred away the world

and changed my voice when I stuck my face in it. 

TAKE ME TO YOUR LEADER

I would be shushed to bed.

At midnight she would put on her white pants, white top, white shoes with large white soles

Place plastic ear plugs around her neck

The ones where I could hear my heart beat if I put the metal circle on my chest

Lump dump lump dump

The same way it beats now, only faster

because I know you are leaving

And when I arise, you will still be gone

The tiles still out on the table to fidget with

Reminding me

We are not horseshoes and hand grenades.

Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2023. Use with permission only. Contact author on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/hopeh1122 Follow on Twitter @HopeNote

Grief

As soon as the hush falls,

In every lifeless lull,

Your name repeats in my ears.

Memories of you

both fond and fatal,

flash and flicker

On an endless loop in my mind,

Like an old TV in a store front window.

The picture is blurry and wavy

And the sound undermined by a hiss.

I should move on.

But

I stop and listen;

Stand and stare;

Until my ears ring,

My eyes sting,

Until the hush lifts,

The lull is dismissed

By someone on the street who asks

What are you looking at?

Are you OK?

I point 

But they see only a window.

I walk on in the rain.

Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2023. Use with permission only. Contact author on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/hopeh1122 or on Twitter @HopeNote / RIP Cali 2012-2023

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

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

The Janitor

Hola amiga
I said
I was late for a meeting
Click click click
My heels on the shiny linoleum
City hall dark except for the hallway
Hola amiga
She replied holding open the bathroom door with her foot.
Como estas? I asked.
Tired she said.
Mucho trabajo.
You work everyday? I asked.
Si
She picked up a towel;
Her hands were thicker than mine
Her face older
Everyday? I ask
Here, 6 to 2 she said.
Then I clean houses in the day
Take care of boy in the night
Her trail of tools was long
A mop
A broom
A box of blue, green, yellow bottles
A bucket of rags and sponges
A yellow warning sign
CUIDADO
You work on the weekends too? I asked.
She wheeled a large gray trashcan down the hall away from me
Black plastic bags flapping off the sides like flags
I don't have weekends she said.

-Hope A. Horner, 2014. Use with permission only. Follow on Twitter @HopeNote
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

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.

Disconnected

God pulled the power plug out of the wall.
Grabbed the cord, yanked and watched it fall.
With a hiss and a pop that was heard all around,
Computers and laptops and phones all shut down.
TVs flashed then went blank; devices went dark.
Wi-fi service ceased, cell phone towers sparked.
No Facebook, no Twitter, no YouTube, no Skype,
No blogging, no chatting, no media hype,
No breaking news, no Dancing with the Stars,
And for once, there was no cell phone use in cars.
No spyware, no software, no internet hacks,
No hard drive failures, no virus attacks.
We looked up from our iPads, PCs, and macbooks,
With eyebrows raised high, we exchanged confused looks.
We could no longer text, like, email or tweet
If we wanted to surf, we'd have go to the beach.
We pushed back our chairs, stretched out our necks,
Blinked our red eyes and thought, "What next?"
As we stood to our feet, not knowing what to do,
We were surprised to find that our legs could move.
So we rode our bikes, we took long walks
We even tried having face to face talks.
Soon we discovered just by looking around,
There is so much to see when the power is out!
We hugged and we smiled and we danced and we sang
(Without interruption because our phones never rang!)
We LOL'ed and threw our heads back
And our headphones fell out of our ears at last.
Our reception was great, we were completely tuned in
To the joys and the hurts of our neighbors and friends.
We were away from our desks, off of the couch
We were living and loving - wirelessly now!
We handwrote a love note, we picked up a book
Re-Kindled old friendships, found a warm Nook.
Now disconnected, we learned to truly connect!
God was pleased when he saw the dramatic effect.
What a valuable lesson in His wisdom he showed us.
And when He plugged the cord back in, heck,
...We didn't even notice.

Copyright Hope A. Horner, 2013.

Use with permission only. Contact author on Facebook http://www.facebook.com/hopeh1122
Email hopeh1122 at gmail dot com
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