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Best Poems Written by Daniel Hunter

Below are the all-time best Daniel Hunter poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Hurt From the Spoken Language

Hurt is a Spoken Language

It came from your heart,
like gas on fire,
burning everything in its path.
Hurt was your spoken language.

Fluent in anger,
flippant with pain.
Words tossed carelessly,
thoughtful or thoughtless.

Sweet and bitter,
hard and soft.
All poured 
from the same vessel,
from the same heart.

Intentional or not,
your words were nails.
driven deep,
one word at a time.

Hard words, 
hung heavy in the air.
Emotions burst forth,
taking the path
of least resistance.

They make their way 
to the tongue.
Ah, the tongue!
Sharper than a sword
cutting deep to the bone.

 Like salt in a wound,
words don’t disappear, 
even if its goal is accomplished.

Time may move on, 
hurt may not.
Lingering like ice
that’s slow to melt.


Daniel
6/2013

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I Wonder If He Wore a Fedora

I Wonder if He Wore a Fedora

He passed a few months ago.
I looked through a few pics
of him when he was young.

He grew up in the depression,
so there weren’t many.
Black and whites, no dates.
None of him smiling,
just a vacant stare,
familiar at that time,

Hand me downs clothes
of a cotton farmer,
Hardscrabble life for this 
child of the 30’s.

He didn’t talk much 
about that life.
Well, a few times:
how he got two pairs 
of shoes a year, 
oranges for Christmas.
Patched pants so short,
the kids made fun of him.
Never made it past the eighth grade.

By the time he was eighteen,
his hands looked fifty.
Twelve to fifteen hrs.
a day picking cotton will 
make a young man old.

I picked up another picture.
Some other man from the 30’s,
sitting on a bench in front 
of the Memphis Zoo.
Wearing a Fedora.
Sophisticated looking.

I wonder if my dad wore a Fedora.

I asked a lot of questions
when I was young. 
But that wasn’t one of them.

I can’t ask him now,
but I know what he’d say.
“Those were for the rich, son,
The Boss-man.”

“Not common folk like us,
who knew their place.
You can’t be more
than you are.”

But he was wrong.

Although he was raised 
poor common folk,
he worked all his life.
Loved one woman. 
Raised his children right
and loved his God.

He died a rich man.
He would have looked 
damn good in a Fedora.

11/5/16

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Basketball Meanderings

Basketball-Meanderings

Played basketball with Fred at a church.
Haven’t played basketball
since my daughter
was a twinkle in my eye.
All the things
I used to do with a ball,
I had put away
in a file marked “use to.”
Sometimes, I take it out,
dust it off, look it over,
then put it back for later.
Every now and then,
I make a basket, throw a pass,
that reminds me
of the “use to” file.
That file gets added to daily.
I just don’t use it 
as much as I ‘use to.”
 
DANIEL - APRIL 2012

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Just Enough

JUST ENOUGH

Just enough water
that still leaves thirst.
Just enough effort
for second, not first.

Just enough heartache
to make you bitter.
Just enough fear
to label you quitter.

Just enough anger
to justify your hate.
Just enough arrogance
that seals your fate.

Just enough hardness
to harden your heart.
Just enough pride
to keep you apart.

Just enough lies
to blind you to truth.
Just enough regret
to long for your youth.	

Just enough church
to make you feel proud.
Just enough walls
to keep out the crowd.

just enough doubt
that mocks your belief.
Just stubborn enough
that you refuse relief.

Just enough words
that hurt, don’t heal.
Just enough truth 
betrays what you feel.

You’ve done enough
to just get by.
Neither hot or cold
nor low or high.

What were you thinking
as you began the trip.
Afraid to drink deep
you just took a sip.

Your master is back
an account he demands.
You stand before him
with empty hands.

What he entrusted,
you took and buried. 
You did not share,
you refused to carry.

You took it easy 
and hid your stuff.
He expected more of you
you did just enough.

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Little Trucker

Little Trucker

Little trucker in your little truck,
rolling down the road with a little luck.

Chicken fried steak, napkin on the floor.
Pulling your pants up as you exit the door.

Pull out of the truck stop, another load picked up.
Heading to Little Rock with a 100,000 Styrofoam cups

Lights at night, blur with the lines.
300 more miles according to the sign.

Glow of the panel keeps company with you.
Song of the wheels can make you feel blue.

Alone on the road, it looks the same.
telephone lines, occasional train

Pulling over, as required by law.
A few Z's caught, that’s about all.

Another load, another town,
another drink, another round.

Twenty years of roads come and gone.
One day, you tell yourself, you'll move on.

But you never did, you never will.
Worst thing for you little trucker, 
is just standing still.

daniel- 5/2013

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Dogs of Jezebel

Dogs of Jezebel

2nd Kings 9:30

Painting your eyes,
arranging your hair.
As if expecting a lover
to climb up your stairs.

It’s not a lover,
but death that climbs.
Calling your name,
for the very last time. 

Daughter of Baal,
doesn't your god hear?
You pray for deliverance
from judgment that’s near.

The silence of your idol
leaves you to wonder.
Chariots approach,
on wheels of thunder.

Still defiant,
with no tears or remorse.
From the window of your temple,
you see the main force.

You cursed their God,
his servants put to sword.
This was your sacrifice 
for your Canaanite lord.

You taunt your captors,
with jeers of hate.
Not knowing their God
has sealed your fate. 

They take you to the window,
throw you to the ground.
Chariots trample flesh and bone,
til silence the only sound.

Dogs appear,
ravenous for man or beast.
How ironic that Jezebel
was queen of this feast.

2017

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Ode To a Fan

ODE TO A FAN

My fan blows beautiful air,
that minutes ago, wasn’t there.

It begins to circulate wind that was dead,
given it a purpose of living, not dying instead.

It can blow you a new hair style.
It can blow really hard, or extra mild.

Windmills of plastic go round and round,
creating a symphony of wind and sound.

The whir of motors and blades
remind me of a summer in the shade

Position it on the table or on the floor.
Put it in a window, or by the screen door.

It can gently sway side to side
or focus on certain parts of your hide.

On hot days and cool, 
for the wise and the fool.

Faithfully serving,
Always observing

You can run it for days,
and it will not whine.

Or get a quickie
if you don’t have the time.

It doesn’t moan, belittle, or complain.
It works day or night, sunshine and rain.

I love my fan, and you know why?
It takes me to a place that passed me by.

 6/2013

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Apology Number Two

Apology #2



From:
 
The corporate office
Omaha, Nebraska 



To:

T. Hunter

Subject :

Stupidity harassment from one D. Hunter

Dear Ms. Hunter,

We were shocked and appalled to hear about the unfortunate display of stupidity by one of our employees;  a Mr. D Hunter, whom I believe is your husband. 
We here at the corporate office want to assure you 
that we have a zero tolerance of stupidity as had been reported to us.

Unfortunately, our records indicate that Mr. Hunter appears to be a repeat offender on various callous and bewildering acts of stupidity.
We want to assure you that action has been taking to insure this type of harassment does not take place in the future.

Mr. Hunter will be subject to severe disciplinary action, 
which could include, but not limited to the following:

1) flogging, by a licensed flogger.

2) 3 days of wearing pink glasses and headphones.

3) 16 straight hours of watching "psyche ".
(Please note, we only use this last action, if all else fails ).

We hope that this will cure said Mr. Hunter from being stupid in the future, 
but alas, it's hard to predict stupid.
So please accept our humble apologies for any distress this may have caused.
Feel free to contact us with any questions you may have.


Sincerely,

The home office.

Details | Daniel Hunter Poem

A Beautiful Woman

A Beautiful Woman

A beautiful woman
shares my heart.
Keeps my soul to herself.
Laughs at my jokes,
walks the same road.
Keeps her bed with mine.
Wants me and me alone.
Loves hard like a rock.
Stays til the end.

She is worthy of the name, 
beautiful woman.

Details | Daniel Hunter Poem

Baptized In the Jordan

Baptized in the Jordan



The preacher announced on the bus:
"We are heading to the Jordan river,
those wishing to be baptized
will get their chance."

Thoughts of being dunked
in the same water
as the real Jesus.
That appealed to me.

Visions of a wilderness
river, 
just like in those bible times.
Taking my cloak off,
wading into the muddy Jordan.

John the baptizer himself,
doing the honors.
Dropping me backwards,
dying my old sins,
raising me to a new life.

Coming out to the sound:
"This is my son,
in whom I am well pleased."
That appealed to me.

We got off the bus.
The wilderness was not 
all that wild.
The Jordan had been turned into
"Baptisms are us."
Complete with deli and gift shop.

Apparently six other buses
also had been led by the spirit.
Our spirit's time was 
between 4:00 and 4:30.

Ten dollars got you a towel
and a white sterile pullover,
barely long enough to cover
your glad tidings. 
Lockers and showers were optional.

Our group was in zone 4.
Who knew rivers had zones.
As one of a hundred white
clothed sheep, I felt like
the newest member of a cult,
like the Hari Krishnas, 
but without the fancy haitcuts.

We were herded down concrete steps
that led to the river.
The Jordan was cold.
Baptizers were in the water,
ready to go.

Henry Ford would have been proud
of that production line.
Baptizing had never
been more efficient.
Two every ninety seconds,
like pistons, up and down.

When it came time for me,
I didn't get a "Thank you Jesus"
out before I was whipped around
and plunged beneath the crimson flood.
I almost got whiplash.

I dripped back to the locker,
glad tidings and all. 
I think I was baptizee #41. 

For five bucks, 
you can get
a DVD of your sacred event.
I bought ten, 
they oughta make
great Christmas presents. 

I went through the gift shop.
I bought a set of John the Baptist 
steak knives, 
Virgin Mary placemats,
and a couple of Holy Ghost 
candle sticks.

As I got back on the bus,
I thought how far we've come
in 2,000 yrs.
We've made God's job so much easier,
assembly line salvation and baptism,
with steak knives thrown in.

Would Jesus be proud?
That did not appeal to me. 

9.7.17.