Poetry

by

Blessed

Is there space left

to push in my page–

to share my thoughts

on such an overcrowded stage?

Is there room

in our text-attacking lives

to find my voice?

Is there any surprise

left?  Any story

that hasn’t been already said?

I could read all my life

and still be over-fed.

There isn’t room for it all.

I block out just to breathe;

and my generation wonders

is there any need

for me?

More music available

than I will ever hear.

More knowledge than I

could ever care to seek.

More roads than I could

hope to take or meet.

More food than I

could ever safely eat.

I’m

SNOWED UNDER

by all that is sweet.

DSH

5/2017

by

Ficstory

I am overcome

and my heart bleeds

with the violence of fiction and history.

Must this be art?

Intrigue and sorrow,

traitorous tales

of harm by the same hands

that should have protected.

Grief, that is harshly too real

as I look into their lives

of darkness and spoil–

hungers soothed in famishing ways–

true lives of dramatic loss

and loneliness

so hollow that many

fell into their own abyss–

taking others with them.

And I, alone,

am left to mourn.

Can we celebrate prose

at so great a cost?

DSH

5/2017

 

by

Dear Emily,

Dear Emily,

I walked with you today

until my heart stopped

and I could no longer breathe

looking through your eyes.

 

A tiny desk, a life afloat

in a sea of ink and solitude

lost in thought

with nowhere else to be.

 

I catch up to you occasionally

when my life slows down.

I find you waiting–

waiting for me so we

can be alone–

together.

 

My heart beats again

pumping life into your pen,

and I breathe by

writing you in answer.

–DSH

3-23-17

 

 

by

Catching Up

It has been so long

since we spent a quiet

afternoon

together.

Just my pen

and I

getting reacquainted

with

myself.

Catching the lessons

out of the sea

of experience

and tacking them

up page by page

in the sun

to dry

so I can taste them

again

on yet another day’s

golden picnic.

DSH 11-30-16

 

 

by

Success

I am my service–

my greatest, only gift.

How shall I wrap it?

‘ depends on what you need.

If I’m ever in your service,

forever on your team,

how can you accuse me

of being so mean?

And am I not successful

if you have what you need?

If my gift is invisible to you,

what happened to the deed?

Is it really there?

I guess that depends

on if you

know

how much I care.

-DSH 11/30/16

by

Empath

Lord,

You’ve given me

eyes that see

the pain and suffering

all around me..

a heart that beats

with every other

and cares for each one

as their mother.

A daughter of Eve,

I cry to see

my friends,

my children,

so unhappy.

I want to hug

and cure and paste-

to fix each cause

of every sad face.

To help

each one

feel happy and free

because of how

you’ve blessed

me.

A happy soul

in a sea of sad

I cannot cure.

If you healed them, too,

I’d be happier.

But even your

mighty hand

that holds the key

won’t force them

to take

what you give

for free.

And you know best

why we must

endure

these griefs

that are somehow

better than a cure.

–DarEll S. Hoskisson

June 9, 2016

by

First Day

First Day

Standing at the door of the school year

I hesitate

Anxious

Excited

Prepared, but not ready.

 

Maybe if I just stay in bed

It will all go away.

 

I pray.

 

Impossible becomes

possible

because I’m not alone.

 

Into the lion’s den

DSH 8/2016

by

NEVER

“NEVER.”

That bitter sentence

sucks

a black hole

swallowing my dreams.

I dangle over the abyss.

“No more,” and

“never again,”

echo,

mocking my wishes,

carving canyons

impossible

to cross.

I expected better

although I don’t know why

I feel cheated,

trapped,

lost.

Am I still myself?

I hate this new

definition.

One without warning.

Involuntary.

Permanent.

How can I

accept

this

never

 

—DarEll S. Hoskisson 1/16

The final punctuation is up to the reader.

Is it:

How can I accept this?

Never!

or

How can I accept this “never?”

by

The Enemy

Hurt.

I carry the burning scars

with me.

I face them

in the mirror

every day.

The memory

inflames me

with justifiable

anger.

 

Hurt.

I will never forget

or let you in

no matter how long

you knock.

I can’t listen.

It doesn’t matter.

There is no

excuse.

 

Agony.

The betrayal.

You should have been

my friend!

 

Agony.

You might have been

if only

I had been

yours.

–DarEll S. Hoskisson 1/29/16

**I don’t believe this is always true.  There are truly enemies we need to protect ourselves and our families from, acts of true barbarism that can’t be allowed to be repeated.

But, in general, who the aggressor is in any frictional or one-sided relationship is less clear.