Mirrors Are Optional and I can’t Swim

I look at my reflection
I look terrified
Emerald eyes impossibly large and deep
On a watermark face
Those eyes churn like a restless sea
They could drown me
There is much hidden
Below the surface of those green waters
I refuse to jump because I can’t swim
If I am too terrified
To dive under the surface
Of my own eyes….
Why would I expect
Anyone else to?
I turn away from my reflection
I don’t much like mirrors.

B.J.H.
09-27-2013

they say eyes are the window to the soul..

Advertisements

Goodbye Virginia Beach

I generally don’t explain my poems but this one tugs for explanation. I wrote this the last time I would be at my special spot on the sand, where I had been inspired to write for the past year, I looked at that shore where so many memories were made, where so many poems were born . The place I sent my dear friends mementos on a voyage over the waves under an October Dark Moon.
So as I sat there and all I could do was cry. I Neptune’s daughter could not write. I knew when left this shore I would loose a part of my soul. So now on to the unedited words I wrote that could not capture my goodbye to Virginia Beach

~ I am shivering in April
sitting here on the beach
Slack jawed
Words in my frustrated tears
I sit beside the boy with the shadowed eyes
He does not know I am terrified
December comes to early.”

B.J.H.
April 2013

Words Within Crystal

I held a crystal ball,
Within this delicate sphere,
Colorful words swirl like mist.
A poem desperate to escape,
Strains against it’s invisible prison
A poem that I lived,
A poem that I dreamed,
The poem that I cannot write

B.J.H.
09-25-2013

Pinball & Scrambled Words

My pinball machine brain
is pinging off invisible obstacles
Scoring points that are impossible
And in the chaos
The words that I NEED to write
Are scrambled
Relocating.
Every time the silver ball pings
On invisible obstacles.
How can a writer write
with pinging in the brain
and scrambled words?

B.J.H.
09-22-2013

Marisol, Chopin, & Bukowski

Chopin came first,
His piano dark, moody
The “Poet” composer,
I slept to his notes.
Bukowski came later,
His words raw and real,
Poetry from the fringe,
Bukowski is inspired
by Alcohol and Chopin,
As am I.

B.J.H.
09-10-2013