Hoed Poems

The Language Of Shadows

Yet where there were curses , you will find scars, Where I found my secrets, you will see my quiet lies. What pain hides, it also still shows Its fact hoed through ruined trails it snares.

In shadowed dark, a fire still gleams, An ember bright that even pain redeems. The knives that gut are mirrors, clothed in mourning, Reflecting strength once buried beyond understanding.

We learn to draw a sharp edge by hand, To forge a shield of what one cannot stand. For shadows whisper stories, dark but bright, Of powers found where light is scarce and slight.

Behind the door, the soul finds light turn up, In shadows' dance, it learns to rise for you. The night is long, though wounds are won, a future breathes, Where time’s embrace, in life, lays true to its sheathe.

From hushed hallways where voices of shadows call, A symphony of victory rings with thrall. The heart that braved each bitter eclipse. Now throws its dreams on dawn’s gentle lips.

Holiday Limericks

	A Red-Letter Day

Staid pilgrims grew leery, Thanksgiving Day,
When men came to feast, half-covered in hay.
	"Where's Hester?" wives asked
	And elders were tasked
To march to the barn and give her an A.


	Santa Goes Truant

With trollop hand-picked and madam well-paid,
Dear Santa was truant from the parade.
	He ho-hoed, "so what?
	I'm old with a gut,
So do this perhaps just twice a decade."

Twilight

TWILIGHT

Daylight was creeping into dusk
Yet enough light remained
To see the shadow or father
As he hoed before rain

   Evelyn Pearl Anderson

A Family Tradition

In the chapel wherein Joe laid, his son stood, those final moments, needed.
A reflective image of one’s boyhood flooded through his mind, 
fourteen years he has lived, yet somehow a hope of emulation to carry on 
with a family tradition. 

nature needs balance
a wild beast if uncontrolled…
dawn’s chorus each day
 
His Mother, has need of him and his five sisters, two of whom as yet 
school age. The happiness they knew was to till the land, dwell within nature’s simple things, but many tears hamper this midsummer day, leafy pasture Joe knew so well, allied, his roses dip their heads in a suave way, the village folk salutes his final ride. Yet no more time to grieve, next day animals to feed, pastures to be hoed, seed to sow knowing he’d understand, if winter’s inclemency stretches into spring.
 
at the end of day
sunset rolls along the moor…
a time to reflect

© Harry J Horsman 2021

He Tended Her Garden

Her spirit lived in the garden's bright blooms.
Tended with a solemn vow that he'd kept.
Their scent reminded him of her perfumes.
While planting, his sad heart mournfully wept.

Tended with a solemn vow that he'd kept,
Although years had passed since her tragic death.
He hoed and weeded, Autumn leaves were swept,
fulfilling his promise to his wife, Beth.

Although years had passed since her tragic death,
he still carried fresh flowers to her grave
in bouquets with lilies and baby's breath.
Sorrow engulfed him like a crashing wave.

He still carried fresh flowers to her grave
Their scent reminded him of her perfumes
Sorrow engulfed him like a crashing wave
Her spirit lived in the garden's bright blooms.



June 6th, 2021   ~   Photo #5
Pantoum Rhyme Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Eve Roper

Comer's Stand

Seems we walked away the morning
Hil and I hiking toward Comer's Stand
Stopping awhile to swing on a grapevine
Identifying the wooded birds singing
We ate our lunch in early afternoon-
A peanut butter and jelly concoction
With raisins from Grandma's cupboard
And stocks of celery purloined, I think,
From the crisper of Mama's Frigidaire
All tied together in a hobo's feed sack
High adventure the trek to Comer's stand.

Worth the fate awaiting our return
For no corn was hoed, no garden weeded
Even though Papa had said, "Today, my boy! "
There would be neither excuse nor reason
Why I should not feel the crack of the strop
But the pain did not erase the grand
Time we had …hiking to Comer's Stand.

The Garden Seat

just like their love of fifty years
that they held very dear
the lilies and the irises
looked radiant that year.

they had no need to prove their love
just a knowing glance instead
and a gentle squeeze when holding hands
beside their flower bed.

when both felt tired from bending down
and working in the heat
they spoke of seeds and bulbs and things
drinking tea upon the seat.

having rid the soil of all the weeds
he hoed and raked the earth.
the yellow line of daffodils
spoke more than words were worth.

and when their lawn was cloaked in leaves
from the sycamore above
they cursed and sighed just being themselves
in the autumn of their love.



and as he sat there mourning
the passing of his wife
he looked upon the garden as

A CELEBRATION

of her life.

Hard Rows Well Hoed

It was a Wednesday;
a day woven 
into prison blankets and dish towels.
A day to assess hours unnoticed.
A time of trivial hungers.

The hard heft of earlier times: -
not fitting into anything,
teenage fluff and huff. Heartbreak,
rearing and loss. The fallow traipse of age.
The clinical clunk of clay feet.
Making room in a grave-yard moon,
for faces mislaid.
Those hard rows were all well hoed.

Washing a closed face in a misty mirror.
Listening to the coffee percolator.
trying to shave before its last burble,
ears catching the dark drops of a winter rain,
he creeps again too close 
to a hole in his mind.

He should not be doing this still,
but the hole keeps tugging him.
He must keep throwing raw meat
into that roaring silence.
The hole is deep, and the end of it, is no end.
He wishes he could at least,
install an elevator.
for his ghosts to ride up and down on.

It would give him time
to drink more coffee, and write 
some polite, well-adjusted poetry.

My Garden

I made myself a wastrel
  an orphan of my choice

And severed all my family ties
  in search of my own voice

I left without once looking back
  the present straight ahead

The past redundant, future flawed
  to butter my own bread

The years have come with decades gone
  old memories buried deep

Of times when I was young and hurt
  to dream but not to sleep

New breezes blow, fair winds to call
  the children come and go

As here I sit with no regrets
  —my garden fully hoed

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2018)

Veracious To Lay

You till your own garden,
  you sow your own seeds

You harvest the memories,
  you feast on the breeze

You water those choices,
  both made and unmade

Your truth deeply hoed	
  —veracious to lay

(Villanova Pennsylvania: July, 2017)

Heidi Hoed

Heidi hoed, hurting
her back..."Get a tractor!" cracked
her chiropractor.

Aligned In Faulted Hands

The tip of a brush is the finger of God
Each stroke a creation
Each movement a chance to bring beauty to an unaltered platform
But when there is a crack in the pavement
The hand of the maker no longer caress the cheek of the brush so daintily
The lover is now the combatant
And the hand begins to slither into a grip around the throat of its holy wand
The field of flowers long grown out
Is hoed time and again 
To arrange them in a perfect order 
That was faultless art before
But the master washes distain upon the far gone creation
The finger, now an outstretched palm of disaster 
And so begins the flood

Howl Beyond Reason

“Being crazy isn't enough.” ? Dr. Seuss

Jabberwocky's growl
Jabberwocky howl
howl at little girls
howl at the moon
moon with your pants down
moon over Manhattan
Manhattan nights
Manhattan Knights
Knights in White Satin
Knights with Bat ears
ears of a donkey
ears of a rabbit
rabbit across the street
Rabbit Run
run for your life
run the stocking
stocking up
stocking legs
legs on a flamingo
legs under the table
table talk
table manners
"manners" said Alice?
"manners" said the Queen
Queen of Hearts
Queen of the May
May I
may you
you may
you can
can can
can do
do what?
do who?
who said that?
who yoo-hooed
yoo-hoed a yodel
yoo-hooed on cue
cue up the table
cue ones and two's
two's are for pairs
two's for tea
tea totalers
tea bags
bags for a season
bags for a reason
reason or not
reason be damned
damned
not



Debbie Guzzi
8/8/15

So Busy

I have pinched, pruned, planted, fertilized and even mowed...
I have dug, dressed, divided, harvested and hoed.

Then I thinned, trimmed, transplanted, sprayed, sowed and staked...
Then I wheeled, watered, weeded, rototilled and raked.

I loosened, limed and layered, that's me; gardening by the book...
But there was one thing I neglected, I was so busy I forgot to look.

My flowers were as beautiful as could be...
And I was so busy I didn't see.

                        TK<

Turtle Hand God

{gone}
I think God took you away.
That blissful- ancient mist of man. 
Simply swept you up one day
with a big turtle hand.
Turned you into a pillar of marble,
in place of your warm, sweet skin.
Scribbled a few words to replace your smile.
Cold numbers in place of a shimmering rainbow...  1969-2001.
My nuclear winter...how devastatingly cold.
           {gone}
Thoroughly hoed my Eden mind.
Velvet flowers uprooted by a R.I.P. current. 
To make room for plastic words- plastic flowers
sprinkled with salt and sorrow.
           {gone}

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