Category Archives: Poetry

Poems by me & other poets, musings on Poetry

I saw a dog on a roof today
a girl opened a window
to let him in
The best kind of bird dog
would be one who could fly

Today the garden lady
confirmed that the Japanese
characters on M.’s shirt
really did say
what we thought they said*
(*so, you have a dark side, eh?)
One always takes a risk
trusting in the honesty of strangers

Today the rhododendrons
were bright sky blue
the cookies were sweet and crumbly
with purple icing
and all the boys and girls
were dressed for summer
short shorts and flip-flops
tattoos like alien birthmarks
twining over bared skin

– T.H. (Patchwork Journal, 06.10.11)

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This page rejects
the pretence of insecurity
It does not flaunt its heritage
like a hard won trophy
or throw its voice across the room
like a weapon;
it keeps its secrets
to itself.

Look at me, my beautiful
plumage, my new boyfriend
the perfumed lady cries
exclaiming her presence
her au naturel, her grand
sense of ease, her
honest frankness, her sheer
lack of consideration
for the finer points of kindness
and yet
she is nothing like this,
a stranger borne
on currents unfelt by us
lesser mortals

When abandoned by happiness
we find new appeal
in old illusions

-T.H. (Patchwork Journal, 07.05.11)

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This is where we go

white cuts in brown skin
memories of elephants in a grove
long grass trampled flat
this is where we go
to escape the endless rain
to find silence in the spaces
between thought and action
voices numbed by hesitation
what was once a headlong rush
becomes a waiting contemplation
soft music behind pastoral scenes
designed to soothe and mollify
we lose our conscience here
cut the tether of dream & ambition
watch them float away
dust motes on the wind
all sense of self lost
in the emptiness of time
grasslands shiver under
black star-scattered skies
sleep will come at last
when all has been given away
but this one gift will keep
a while yet; breathe in and out
eyes open; we’ll suffer
one more dawn

– T.H. (Patchwork Journal, 05.24.11)

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I am out of words, and yet
they riot inside me
a cacaphony of complaints,
laments, exultations, exhalations,
rants, moans, cries, whispers
(…uncomfortable silences…)

There is always a scene
taking place somewhere
(the grips and gaffers
never get a break)
all the green rooms overlap,
overlying the stage, skulking
in warehouses, alleyways, street corners,
languishing on cold pebbled beaches,
vacant sun-blasted plains,
deep green forests wet with rain
sun burning fog drowning light blasting shadows

Words fill me to overflowing
a non-stop babble of voices,
music, arguments, diatribes,
calls to arms, well-worn jokes,
soap box monologues

Yet cat-like they ignore
my pleas, not one will come
to my beck and call
they will not heed, sit, stay, fetch, roll,
behave – oh, they will bark,
and bite, and run, how they run
as far out of reach as truth and astronauts

They shun this infernal machine
too many of their siblings birthed here
too many caged, corralled, squashed,
beaten into paragraphs, sentences,
point form bulleted lists
formatted, chopped, diced, broiled
tidied, cleaned, defaced, butchered

Refusing digital bondage
they yet mock the bald antiquity,
the quaint solidity of paper
faced with the laughable simplicity
of a black roller-ball pen
my prose stumbles and staggers,
wanders off course, forgets itself,
its name, the way home,
muttering in confused circles
hands flying like tethered birds
flapping vainly for a kind of freedom

We are only here by virtue
of this flesh and blood interface, this
thinking machine, this sum
of immeasurable parts
yet the interface is faulty, limited, dull-
witted, and far, far too slow
for these frenetic whims and fancies

This resistant weariness, this sullied
sullen petty vanity of vapours
sits not well with me
I would soar among the stars,
if only I could teach myself
how to forget when falling
how to forget to hit the ground.

– T.H.
05.16.11 (Amadeus journal)

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If I were
a post-it note
expressing poetry
on a white board
to a crumbling
brick wall

stuck a wad
of bright pink
chewing gum
in the hole
as if it were
a secret message
passed from
person to person)

I would be
the reincarnation
of a doodle copied
from Kurt Vonnegut’s
scrap book

Only I would ever know
the replicant’s song
before he died
something about
starships burning
and the shoulders
of Orion


T. Haney

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Filed under Poetry, Writing, Books