Those Times We Danced

do you remember the night we danced;
the time we twirled under the moonlight?
times you held me close so that your perfume
eased its way into my nostrils…
do you remember the time that we held each under meteor showers
how the sky rained down around us as if the world were ending?
I remember that was the night we danced

do you remember the morning we woke up in each others’ arms?
how we dared not look away from each other
afraid that the image would be a dream and that we might wake
next to someone else or worse next to no one at all?
do you remember how we danced around the bed
our fingers gently touching each other in a special way
with a special purpose and intent
we fed our hunger with lust from our hearts
that morning we danced

do you remember the night we lost our way?
how we spent an endless cold night in a strange and foreign place?
that special and scary time was trying and it was true
we survived those harsh realities and persevered
do you remember how we held our hands close to one another?
afraid that if we let go, we’d be lost?
I remember it all…
that cold night we danced

through all of these years and these miles
that we have traveled together
with all the ups and the downs;
joys and the horrors that we’ve lived through
my favorite memories are of
those days and nights we danced together
with all the world watching; all eyes on you
we danced until our feet hurt; our eyes red with tears brimmed over
tears of happiness; tears of relief… we made it…

© 2013 p.hill

Nightmares in Color

Chemically balanced hallucinations
     brought to life by memories no longer buried,
     past visions of what were sins
     embedded in the psyche; married

As it were. Bound in form and shape
      as ethereal portraits, tattered canvases
     strung end to end. Macabre film tape
     overexposed to garish glass

Statuettes of disillusionment. Memory spark
      gives light to dim horrors
      so soon forgotten but with a careless    remark
      comes back with such savage roar.

Too curious about the dead and what cannot be,
     sitting alone at a impasse, precipice,
     the mirror of time shows a reflection not of me.
      A strange face stares back, identity amiss

To the relation of the soul. Monsters and resurrection
      dominate all thought process and function.
     God. Damn. It. If only I could shun
     what seems to demand and dominate attention;

More than its fair share of my time.
     If I could push them back down
     these unsightly demons of mine
     would they weigh so heavy, an unpleasant crown

Made of thorns, of brambles and things made to prick
      causing blood to draw from unsightly wounds
      heavy on my heart like a cinder brick
      sewn mortar with flesh, a self contained tomb.

Heavy is the heart behind the eyelids of the damned
     wishes for sanity and longing for sleep
     inside this crazed mind they now become crammed
     nothing left to do now, but lie in the dark and weep.

© 2013 p.hill

Gentleman; Bastard

bees wax poetic on a dusty record player
warped ancient vinyl dancing circular
designed to emanate symphonic melody;
instead a discordant sound.

I stood in the doorway and watched her cry
that last bit of life we shared now gone,
extinguished in a single barbed comment
because we went to bed angry.

what should have been whimsical and delicious
now the tinny cat gut sound of dying affection.
heat swelters through this old stick frame house
baking the trapped occupants to a sickly sticky end.

while the world spins oblivious outside
the night calls out, but the stars can’t reach;
light dimmed by the cloud of emotion that hangs
damp and deep over our heads.

sweat from frustrations long pent up
soaks the sheets where we once tossed.
words should be so poetic but fall hollow on a page
hollow as the sound of an empty chamber in the gun,

hollow as the sound of an empty glass that once held liquor
and dreams and romance and desires and lust
all things that would have made this life complete
but for the fact that effort couldn’t compete with impotence.

and now Ginsburg himself can hear the howl;
tortured scream of pain that should have been mistaken for ecstasy
now sounds of an animal in its death throes.
if only a simple apology could fix all the wrongs

a kiss good night could say all the things that needed said.
we might not be here now wasting away
dying of thirst because we are too oblivious to notice
we were each others’ resuscitation.

too late too bad so sad now gone.
the world has moved on and I wasn’t invited.

© 2013 p.hill

Kites In a Cemetery

recall with such vivid memory
      burst into tears!
no less appropriate
than flying kites in a cemetery
waterfalls of tears drown down
echoes of the woman; gone
precious images from derelict hotels
shadowy clips in clouded past
I wish you could see me now
but you don’t see me anymore
you see no one at all
subtle pulse of my heartbeat
backbeat, soundtrack to my pain
your sound has gone dark
rhythmic scratching of a needle
on record’s side done
if I could say one thing, anything
just now I would say I am
when we said goodbye
on steps of the church so cold
in the warm spring sun
it wasn’t supposed to be forever
forever goes by too fast to count
what happened to our innocent
lying under pool tables, kissing to
the sounds of Spacehog…
we didn’t just grow apart but
     fell apart
torn apart ripped apart thrown
to the four winds of future and
the noose fell tight and choked
the light out of our naivety
strangled by the weight on the
simple third left that left us with
even now we pass in politeness
but never more do we speak
of the fateful nights when
passion ran free and so did our
inexperienced hands and tongues
salt stains the face now, still now
why now? why not go and leave
the happy memories of youth?
we erected those markers of youth
and bowed before them and lived
in the happiness of impropriety
just like kites flying in a cemetery

© 2013 p.hill

A Father’s Wish – Verse #1

My child little child where do you go
When your feet now touch winter’s new snow?

My child little child what do you see
When you wander so very far from me?

My child little child what clues do you leave
When you wander away and your parents now grieve?

My child little child what sights does the world show
When you are off to the places you will go?

My child little child are you scared now
When you realize you are on your own now?

My child oh my little child know this above all
I will always love you most of all…

© 2013 p.hill

That Time I Said Too Much

Neon green meteorites rained down
on an old brown Buick Century;
windshield glass fogged by indiscretion.

Too delicate to look away and
too embarrassed to admit that
he was rubbing the armrest that
he mistook for her leg.

Stealing quick glances at her
petite breasts that leapt out of her low cut
sundress as she bent over to retrieve her bag.

Hippies don’t wear bras, thank God.

I tell this story and laugh because
that was a long time ago and
the mental trauma has faded to hilarity.

So I pen this story in atypical orange ink.

That’s right motherfuckers I’m comfortable
with my sexuality; stupid hot pink tattoos
that I’d love to show off on my pale biceps
because they are so damn awesome.

But I would have to take off my shirt
and I dare say no one wants to see my scarred
nipples from 10 gage rings that used to
sag my man boobs and bleed through
my best shirts because they never fully healed.

Do people see the hidden meaning of the
fact that there is no hidden meaning
in my artwork?

If dinosaurs could diffuse bombs then
our pop machines would always be
stocked by poor tyrannosaurs with short
arms and senior citizen style extension grips
used to retrieve soup cans by people confined
to their Hoverounds and fueled by
a desire to never give up
as they cruised the Grand Canyon and Wal Mart aisles.

I’d write more but I can’t feel my hand…


© 2013 p.hill

Toy Soldiers in Maple’s Autumn

I would if I could tell you we died well
that in glorious fashion a charge we led
such that men might remember and tell stories
these things I would love to tell you about
but the truth is not simple
it never is

instead on a fall’s cold day staring down
the impending onslaught of winter’s embrace
an old man stooped in the last sad rays of muted sunlight
blood that once ran hot in his veins
now lies tacky, spilled on forested floors

a valiant knight once stood tall in his saddle,
white hair signifying an age but not condemning
him to the sentence of a number
his brave band of armed countrymen stand defiant, to the last
against the coming assault; a ragged fence

I would if I could tell you that he died well
but, in the summer’s last light his life he gave
stood barrier between women and men, so proud and brave
however as the sun sank low in the western sky
with puncture wound drawn open, he led his charge, bled and fell

the knight we so bravely and so valiantly defended
stood tall in his saddle for the very last time
but even our brave Lord could not hold out
against the final insults of treacherous hands
placed in power by the same ones that stripped him bare

and we brave few held out as long as we dared
no matter time of day we kept our charge close
until bitter end when we too must give up this ghost
facing the long slow fall on brisk breeze’s wings
back towards the earth from once we sprang

the piles of our fallen brethren
await collection by unknown hands
uncaring as they are piled into
heavy plastic bags in an attempt to
ferry us away

but my brothers do not go easily
and in one last act of defiance
destroy the bonds that attempt to hold them
scattered to the winds as prisoners set loose
their muted rustle marks passage of time
but they do not get far, poor lost squires

dead mingled with dead
vibrant colors drained to earthly brown
I would if I could tell you that we died well

© 2013 p.hill

Oblivious to Obvious

Porcelain china doll skin
shows bright under stark yellow
fly bloated light.

I reach to take your hand
unaware your fingers have broken off in mine.

A silent victim becomes ash,
the twinkle in your eye once so green
now a melting pool of candle wax.

Under the onslaught of flame
your delicate lace bra strap
has fallen on your exposed shoulder.

Moving to fix it I fail to notice
the charred sackcloth once sundress.

Oblivious to smoke I see fresh mountain air;
a bountiful spread of vivacious hair
so eager to have fingers run through it,
now fallen away to soot.

An unnoticed television plays in the corner,
a sad box encasing flame.

What was once so good
shall always be now.

The glorious rays of paradise
bask me up and down,
reclining in the crematorium’s coffin.

© 2013 p.hill

Of Captains and Mobster Poets

Such should be a
class that could be
as a lab where
we might get up

to such business…

Such should be a class
where the captain forced us to dark uncharted
waters. The soul shown as dark mirror that gives
deep seeded introspection; gives me vision.

Allows me to see that which I should not see,
mourning the loss of my child like romance.

Bound to rules that
when are learned well
are so easily cast off, now.
Banned from the pages that we dictate

as being the rod and rule. For now we have
come to the end when it has all been laid
onto pages milk white and lined dead blue.
The pen has now become the pun, a tool,

you see… Giv’n life by hands no longer trembling.
The word is now the picture, a frame of mind…

I will make no apologies for that which is
said, and what must be put to the paper.
The thoughts that have rattled around are so
near to escape, a sweet release. Far too

long have they been constrained; forced to live in…
inside the depths of my dimension. Now
soon, free to float without form or shape
that was given them by a sinister headmaster.

Words take wing; FLY! Give us your heavy downdraft
to buffet our brains with phrases unclear and meanings unknown…
Standing on our desks we cry loud, “O Captain!
My Captain!” A last honor as we slow march

out these frosted and stained wooden doors.
Oh Captain, My Captain…
     …what a lesson we have been given.

© 2013 p.hill

Once Upon a Time when I was Haunted

There once was a time, not so long ago
When I was haunted by the spirit of a pretty little thing
She used to creep into my mind
When I wasn’t looking
She would steal visions from my eyes
Replacing them with the memories of days long gone;
Times long dead

But then once upon a time when I was haunted
This pretty little thing
She left me one day
I watched her walk out of the door,
Out of my life
In that instant I hated her the most
Because she had taken all those little memories
That I used to hold so dear

Once upon a time when I was haunted
I was filled with the rage and sadness
From innumerable terrible events
From the time that I can remember being able to remember
I attended the funerals for the things that I held most dear
Slowly letting the dirt of life slip through my fingers
Gently cascading down to soft little piles spilling over
The sides of those golden coffins

Once upon a time when I was haunted
I watched this pretty little thing
Keep me company in the darkest hours of my days
Keep my sanity to a level that was unreachable on my own
This little ghost of a thing kept me intravenously fed
Bleeding herself off, so that I could be nourished
And when she was bled completely dry
This little ghost that used to haunt me
She walked away, into the dark of the cold night

Once upon a time I was haunted
And while I hated that the torment was of my own creation
Sometimes I miss the fact that a little spirit would come visit me
Sometimes I miss the fact that there was a little spirit at all
Sometimes I miss being haunted…

© 2013 p.hill