2022 · Poems · poetry

“Rain, Dear?”

“Moist Surface” ©️C.P. Hickey 2022

“Rain, Dear?”

Splatters drip abundant

Down sloped trolley exoskeletons

Wintering coats repel most water…

But, not all

Surgical masks punctuate the crowd

Riders on then off

The catastrophe of a wet commute

Hangs soggy on the brows of all

2022 · Poems · poetry

“The Pages Between”

“Page Potential” ©️C.P. Hickey 2022

“The Pages Between”

Sometimes at the margins…

You discover the pages between

The ones to add

The ones to take away

The ones to cherish

The ones to loathe

Saving some for later

Staring some down

Pushing lead friction

Ability meets imagination

Right there—

The pages between

It is NOT a safe space

But…volatile, dynamic

An eruption of force

An unavoidable gravity

Nothing.

Consuming all

One finite point

Reaching critical masses

The pages between

Expanding ever outward

Until all is written on—

The pages between

2022 · Poems · poetry

“Mountains Misting”

“Misty Mountains” ©️ C.P. Hickey 2022

“Mountains Misting”

Post dawn play awakens

Mountaintops pulling clouds down

Wisps of Wizard’s beards

Spied dancing among the tree line

Sun rays slicing through

Heralding the advance of day

Echoes of busy, travel valleyward

Surrounded by loud quiet

Peaceful energy vibrates

Nature reminds of its stature

Sunlight washes over peaks

Then tumbles down painting fauna

Jagged granite exposed

Playing hide and peak

Shadows finding the best spots

Tippity treetops tease vertigo

And a sky Godly blue reigns

Mountains misting distant points

Mark moments perceived in time

By the ferocious precious of human existence

What is a mountain misting to man?

What is a man to mountains misting?

2022 · Poems · poetry

“Counsel of the Crowd”

“Umbrella Academy” ©️ C.P. Hickey 2022

“Counsel of the Crowd”

Boston Common jury pool

Sitting just to wait

Impaneled peers passing by

Hundreds of thousands of judgments

Rendered unconsciously

The horde wills itself

Despite small protests

Barrister bums profess innocence

Regardless of their guilt

Happy clams waiting to be plucked

Away from an unjust motion

To dismiss outright, doubt

Just is

Thumbs are on the scales

Just is

Only pretending to be blind

Just is

She’s in it for the handicapped placard

Just is

Courting the illusion

Writing to sit

Peers passing disaffected

Pooling common

Just is

2022 · Summertime Rhymes

“Sand Thrift”

“Seaweed Merkins” ©️ C.P. Hickey 2022

“Sand Thrift”

Sweaty seaweed merkin

Tubular carbuncular barnacle

Surf’s up

Swell roaring

Waved in, waved on

Horizon plied with UV radiation

Québécois down for holiday

Sipping seltzers while passing judgment

On body positive ‘Muricans

Every breaking wave supplying sobriety

Salt infused air blowing way by

The downward smell of tide approaches

Sand creeping into every crevice

Grinding out pearls

For shells to covet

Wetly moist wetsuits

Hiding disparities

Musty smell of musk mollusk

Creepy beach bum listening to “Goodbye Horses”

Slide the shore in parallax error

Breezy foam blowing upon dreams like birthday candles

Long cold beers quenching patch

Art among the sand denizens

A good day’s sun soon rolls on

2022 · Poems

“Wind Phone”

“Winding Wind” ©️ C.P. Hickey 2020

“Wind Phone”

I had heard tales of a wind phone

Somewhere in Japan

Talk to your dead loved

They said

I bought a plane ticket

I flew on the wind

I found the wind phone

It was somewhere in Japan

I waited in the queue

My turn finally came

I approached the booth with trepidation

It was white

That is to say the booth was dreadful white

And there was a small neatly organized table

Organized in precision in only the way a small Japanese table could be

Upon it was a phone

Black and dull

What was once shiny glossy

Passed through thousands upon thousands of hands

Hand to ear

Mouth to word

Word to air

Not ears…

Wind phone!

Talk to your dead loved

They said

Only, I chose differently

I didn’t talk to my Father

Dead these eight years

I didn’t talk to my Mother

Dead these twelve years

I didn’t even speak to the baby we lost between my first son and my first daughter

Perhaps, his name was Hieronymus

No, I spoke to no dead loved

But, I put my words into the wind phone

Hoping the wind would find the ears of my second son, Paul

He is minimally verbal

But, luckily for us, more verbal than most

I try to persuade the wind with my silver tongue

Persuade it to unlock the mystery of my second son

Who often releases words on the wind,

Hoping those words unlock some type of understanding between us

As I look out over a Japanese valley

The wind carries my words away

Not to be heard,

Nor understood

The wind phone holds me silent

As I wait for a connection

Whether my second son was there

Or ten thousand miles away,

Our words are carried over the wind

And, pass us by.

Blowing fierce into the stratosphere

Carrying our DNA back to the stars that we came from

Out to somewhere where our dead loved

Are rejoined in a Big Bang connection

As I hung up the phone

I looked backward at the queue,

And felt shame for my wind blasphemy

I had to try

Before I myself become dead loved

I hope they can forgive me—

I hope Paul can forgive me—

I then thought to myself…

That maybe sometimes not being able to talk to your dead loved

Is not as bad as not being able to talk to your alive loved

2022 · NaPoWriMo

“O’hlcidhe”

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“O’hlcidhe”

What is a name?

Nominal, Descriptive, Adjectivial

Proverbial, Pliable, Provincial

Genetic, Prophetic, Patrilineal

Loyal, Worthy, Accusatory

Damning, Enchanting, Demanding

Prideful, Rightful, Spiteful

What is a name?

2022 · NaPoWriMo

“The Mourne Wall”

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“The Mourne Wall”

Pivot around a structure that stretches on

There seems no end in it

Hard to tell what is being kept out and kept in

Meant to guard against harm

But harm boils up when idly walking by

Sinister sadness picks away

Left with an expanse of nothingness

Room enough for all of the pain

All of it

Then a bit more

Walking along the wall

Again uncertain of which side is the right side to be on

Frost contended that good fences make good neighbors

Impassible, endless walls make great hermits

2022 · NaPoWriMo

“Lámfada”

“Longhand Mist” ©️C.P. Hickey

“Lámfada”

It’s the longhand reach

That exceeds the grasp

Such things can only be calculated deliberately

Trying as one might

The might of effort

Required

Not matched

But, they sure do appreciate a good try.

Whatever the outcome might be.