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Doug Hilton Poem
she came from the town of keokuk
for what she did, she charged a buck
or sometimes two;
everyone said she was an evil gal,
but she changed my luck,
that evil gal from keokuk!
in the most painful, miserable year of my life:
i saw her walking in the worst snow storm
iowa ever seen;
i helped her up the icy-steep hill
to her run-down trailer park;
after putting away her groceries scant
we talked till it was dark.
swings left it does - fate;
swings right it does - fate;
while fate and angels fight for space
while dancing on the head of a pin;
but does it go straight - fate?
can it?
i think not!
by august i knew her well;
by january i proposed;
in june i married lisa
she made a lovely bride;
just after i come home from the war
with a bayonett wound in my side.
then twenty years later a viper named fate
twisted and coiled and struck!
and she smiled at me before she died
and held my hand so tight...
i remember that night thru our tears;
it was so dark and awful a place!
the wound in my side throbbed again in great pain!
and i knew the war was no worse than this.
she left little billy and me late that night
i know for a far better place:
it's not at all like a trailer park;
and it's where angels WIN the dance with fate -
and lovely souls like lisa can sing amazing grace!
Copyright © Doug Hilton | Year Posted 2020
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Doug Hilton Poem
In 2038 time travel was/is invented.
The first travelers -- scientists, all, are tasked to find out
how the first great ape became intelligent.
They are ordered not to interact: "Just watch!"
"The world is afraid of changing the timeline!"
They setup a secret observation post.
They observe some apes quietly.
But the apes of olden times have some vision in the near-infrared range
so they can see the shadows of the observers in their observation post.
The apes have acute sense of smell and they smell the woman scientist:
Every month they smell her mating smell.
One ape thinks the smell comes because of the full moon.
That happens in his own tribe,
with his own mates.
He tries to explain that to his tribe,
but grunts and gestures are to no avail.
Every month one ape smells the woman:
He watches the images moving, moving.
"What tribe?" he thinks -- he thinks!
Later on, when the moon is full and he doesn't smell her:
He is upset.
He starts thinking about what happened to the female:
"Why no smell?"
He ponders the idea of death for the first time,
and for a long time.
He ponders life for the first time,
and for a long time.
His eyes light up for the first time,
and for a long time.
The next morning he thinks:
"It's time to climb down and look around"
He liked walking -- he did it more and more.
For a long time.
Another morning: he saw the sun glint on a shard of obsidian
and he knew that he was going to feast on pig meat tonight!
*******
Sometime later: he discovered how to save a tree branch
that caught fire after a lightning storm.
Pig meat was much better after that.
His tribe agreed.
The rest is history (to us).
The scientists died out one by one,
and they never did figure it out,
and they were sorry they went
back in time.
Forever.
Copyright © Doug Hilton | Year Posted 2019
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Doug Hilton Poem
And then it starts:
You cough, you wake up at midnight;
You cough hard.
Death has been thinking about you:
And now you know him, too.
You smell the hospital smell:
You drift back in.
He was patiently waiting:
Waiting to unwind your DNA
and rudely shove it into the ground.
That's his job:
You knew that;
You just didn't like it:
You pretended.
Now He's here:
Knocking.
(You cough hard again)
(Tears run down from your new-found knowledge)
He's always been stalking you:
When you got sick,
When you got depressed,
When you got nothing,
You knew.
You ignored him.
(Now that cough hurt!)
(He's coming: He's sitting on your bed)
You recall the Good Times list,
the Bad Times list:
You add Right Now to that list.
A few friends hang around:
You add that part of Right Now to the Good Times list.
You smell his bad breath:
It smells like a burning match,
From when you last smoked a Lucky.
(You should have heeded the warnings)
(I'm not feeling a bit lucky, you smirk).
From the moment you were born,
You began to die,
So what's your big deal, bud?
"Wait," you think!
"I have too many un-accomplished things"
You have a list of them, too.
But you finally know that it is a null-list...
as you cough up a horrible bloody clump.
A guy in black with a white collar mutters quietly in Latin (?)
(He's very sincere, you think).
The doctor turns away and says something about the time,
and then writes something on your chart.
Your final few companions are weeping.
But it's over for you:
And the guy with the sulfur-breath
Extends his claws and takes you for your last ride.
Copyright © Doug Hilton | Year Posted 2022
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Doug Hilton Poem
You saw my master and me in the diner.
You and your wife:
"Oooh what a pretty seeing-eye dog"
What do you really know about seeing-eye dogs?
Look:
I don't write this because I see better than my master,
I write it because I'm a better poet!
Copyright © Doug Hilton | Year Posted 2018
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Doug Hilton Poem
People become trees;
Trees become people.
In any forest:
look -- you'll see.
Dogs become people.
You've seen that too:
don't you agree?
Copyright © Doug Hilton | Year Posted 2018
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Doug Hilton Poem
Ooooh, Ohhhh, Ooooh,
ba da da -- ba da da
Sittin' here listenin'
Is that the Blues?
Sittin' here hummin'
Yeah, that's the Blues
Sittin' here stitchin'
Stitchin' the Blues
I'm a-workin' on my Life Quilt
And I'm sittin' here
Stitchin' the Blues
Doo doooo ba da ba da da da
Stitchin' the Blues
It's so sad if you understand
It's worse if you don't
Stitchin' the Blues
boo-wah oooh boo day
Copyright © Doug Hilton | Year Posted 2018
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Doug Hilton Poem
You ran and jumped and played. Your mommy loved and cuddled you. Your father taught you man-things. Your teacher taught you school-things.
You grew up to fill your skeleton- and skin-thing.
You grew up to be yourself.
You met friends and you did friend-things.
You worked and lived and did life-things.
Now your morning coughing lasts a lot longer and you curse the cigarettes of your teen years.
You notice that another day has just started and you somehow know that one less day remains.
Your internal calculus-thing finally tells you that each day is part of an infinitely small part of a series (of days; of friend-things; of good-things; of living-up-to-your-standards-things; of failing-to-do-things-that-you-should-have-done-things...
Today you're old enough to know that the tick of today represents your soul rushing to a river of souls; the universes' calculus-thing slowly eats up the infinitely small series of days; your quota is almost ticked-out (but of course you can't possibly know the limit of your days). And now you hear the rushing river of souls every morning; now you judge yourself every day.
And you are aware that you will be judged at the end-of-time-thing; you will be plucked out of the river of souls and be judged; you will be found wanting or adequate; the rushing river will have one less soul-thing to deal with; the gates of good or evil will open and close once more; your infinite-soul-thing will have its final home.
The river of souls is not very patient: ponder (if you are capable) what you could do today to increase the odds of a good home for your infinite-soul-thing. Today might be the last time you can. Your self-thing needs protecting and you are, ultimately, responsible for the today-, tomorrow- and forever-thing of your own self-thing. What if you yawn, wake up and do just one good-thing today? A river of souls is awaiting your answer.
Copyright © Doug Hilton | Year Posted 2022
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Doug Hilton Poem
Diane,
What you know about physics and calculus wouldn't fill a thimble.
What you know about love and goodness overflows my heart,
Every day.
I love you,
D.
Copyright © Doug Hilton | Year Posted 2019
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