Poems · Poemvember 2018 · poetry



Somewhere near the seashore,

Apollonia hedges bets.

She views the dusking sky,

While casting fishing nets.

Waning lights swim majestic,

And escape to nowhere planes.

The silt of swelling tides,

Unfolds beneath the waves.

Yet, sweet, sweet Apollonia,

Takes all of it in stride.

Neck craning ever skyward,

Seeking miracles that hide.

Celestial lights appearing,

Marking distant stars.

Imagination daring,

Captures yearning hearts.

Expansion of the cosmos,

The backdrop of the night.

A celestial bacchanalia,

‘Til the early morning light.


Poems · Poemvember 2018 · poetry


Photo Courtesy of E. Vickery

“Glory Hole 71”

Don’t know what’s more surprising?

That there is such a thing as Glory Hole 71, or that it is implied at the very least, that there are 70 other glory holes.

Of course, I’ve heard of such things, but I never knew they were numbered.

It might be useful to have a Glory Hole numbered.

At bare minimum, if you were trying to keep track of things, it could be helpful.

Why is glory commodified, and why is it distributed at numbered holes?

Who benefits?

Can a Glory Hole ever be filled?

Or does it just remain open?

These are the things I consider when I contemplate all 71 Glory Holes.

G-L-O-R-Y, H!

Glory Hole 71, somewhere near the Bermuda Triangle, perhaps somewhere adjacent to 70 other Glory Holes.

It’s enough to make you wonder.

Poems · Poemvember 2018 · poetry


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Too much, too much, overload.

Tub is full and cannot hold.

Cresting over the porcelain,

The bath mat’s, not that absorbent.

Spreading out across the tile,

Will pass the threshold in a while.

As it builds, it starts expanding.

Soon starts leaking down the landing.

How does one stop the deluge?

The basement holds the valve to use.

Just find the source and give a turn.

The water then will cease to pour.

Clean up is the hardest part.

Mop and bucket, just a start.

Damning domestic consternation,

When broken valves cause saturation.

Poems · Poemvember 2018 · poetry


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Many years ago,

my friends would gather round, and we’d do dumb things.

Oh, but I was the dumbest, and the meanest, by far.

I used to call this one guy I found in the phone book.

He had the misfortune of having a name that stuck out, and for living in a part of town that was considered bad.

I’d call him, and make fun of him for his name, and for where he lived, and for the color of his skin.

And, somehow, i thought it made me feel better to make him feel worse.

But, it didn’t make me feel better to make him feel worse.

It just made him feel worse.

And, now, with older eyes, and less dumb days, I’m reminded from time to time of who I was.

It is uncomfortable to hold that person up to the light, and if there is ever a regret in my life, it certainly resides in the immutable past that pushes me toward the hope that the bully of a boy doesn’t reside in the heart of the man that now exists.

Reflecting on that person, I pity that heart, and how scared he was, and how misguided his thinking was.

But, that is a life.

My mistakes are my fingerprints, and my DNA.

Hoping the mutation takes,

And replications endure.

Tomfoolery, for tomfoolery’s sake comes at a cost.

One I’m not willing to pay anymore.

Not anymore.

Poems · Poemvember 2018 · poetry


“Bereft” ©️C.P. Hickey 2018


Where went verdant summer green?

Distance blown, on wind and rain.

Lost, among the atmosphere,

Now circling, the public drain.

Warm visions abscond.

Gradually, replaced in grayer scales.

Rigidly wet branches clack-clack.

Traction lost, leaves spinning wheels.

Dampened crowns among, around.

Air finds aching bone.

Hissing trains emerge tunnels.

A soggy walk alone.

Looking up to voided trees.

A skyline touched by death.

Where went verdant summer green?

Leaving branches most bereft.

Poems · Poemvember 2018 · poetry


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I think I could, but don’t know how.

My worry is for you.

In spite of me, what’s mine I give.

It’s simply what I do.

I never ever cut the line,

Hold patience,’til my turn.

Despite my heart, I will concede,

Where other’s wants concern.

A saintly take, this way of mine?

Or, path of self-deprecation?

No concept is as foreign to me,

As the act of self-preservation.

Poems · Poemvember 2018 · poetry


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“The Pretenders”

One rainy Saturday,

Somewhere in the hustle of my youth,

I flipped a Stratego game board over,

Because, I wasn’t winning.

Life has developed into a series of flipped boards.

There is a sadness in that, for me.

It is hard to find joy in the little things,

When you expect to win the jackpot on every draw.

Others, figure you out, and act accordingly.

It is much easier to get along with others, when you pretend that you don’t mind that they don’t listen to your unsolicited advice.

A dead voice.

Experience, not valued.

Who needs them?

But, it’s a lonely way to exist in these parts.

Park benches collect discarded folks.

Especially, those searching for the truth needle in a hollowed out haystack.

You think it would be easy.

Poems · Poemvember 2018 · poetry · Uncategorized

POEMVEMBER 2018-DAY 13: “Wet Leaves Stop The Traffic”

“Wet Leaves Stop The Traffic” ©️C.P. Hickey 2018

“Wet Leaves Stop The Traffic”

A friend texted that her morning train was delayed due to wet leaves on the tracks.

I’ve heard most if not all the excuses the transit authority uses for poor service, but I agree with my friend: this is a first.

It would seem slippery Leaves would lubricate the movement of wheels on a track, but maybe that is not what is needed.

Still, it seems like a pretty bullshit reason.

Yet, the boxcars full of commuting cattle was delayed indefinitely.

I mean, eventually it moved, but not before thousands of texts, and emails, and false promises were made.

Hell, if I was on that train, I would have been inclined to call in sick.

And just for fun, I’d tell them that I can’t come in because there are wet leaves on my bedroom floor, and in the hall, and in the bathroom, and down the stairs out the door, and all the way to the train.

I wouldn’t want to slip.

Poems · Poemvember 2018 · poetry

POEMVEMBER 2018-DAY 12: “Day In Day Out”

“Day In Day Out” ©️ C.P. Hickey 2018

“Day In Day Out”

If I paddled upstream,

I would remain in place.

Everlasting lines at the grocery,

Folks fighting tooth and nail over clipped coupons.

The is no clear cut winner in that scenario despite whomever wins.

Facebook comments are often misleading and misinformed.

Ranting and raving is rewarded with a higher blood pressure.

Some salad bars are filthy.

The sneeze guard is filthiest.

That is of course, until you pick up tongs that may or may not have fell on the floor.

Day in day out, disappointment looms large.

I remain impressed by how bad it can get, and how quickly that can happen.

And then, somehow, I remember everything I forgot

Poems · Poemvember 2018 · poetry


“Fading”©️C.P. Hickey 2018


Fading, Fading, Fading,

Fading out of view.

Focus unresolved, exposing unknown truths.

Adjust the close-up lens, frame a point of view.

One chance to catch the shot, before the lighting moves.