Home » Poems » Best » Greg Hladky » Best Greg Hladky Poems

Best Poems Written by Greg Hladky

Below are the all-time best Greg Hladky poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Greg Hladky Poem

Predictable

What were the odds they did not know?
So many, many years ago, according to the records 
they had left in there, it seems the answer was, quite low.

How strange the paradox of nature, how unpredictable
the outcome of its selections, how some variations 
with the best chance to survive
became the human species,
became nature reflecting 
on itself, 
yet could not understand
that to stop adapting to its environment,
instead to change it, exploit it, a tipping point 
would be reached, a no going back extinction event 
would be unleashed, and adaptation would no longer be 
an option.

Oh the stories we have found! The art fantastic as the sounds
of sea on shore, birds awakening with the golden dawn and
the scent, still present in its capsule, of an ancient rose.

How primitive their science, yet how predictable
the future was for them in small steps undertook with effort:
they knew slide rule soon and to the second
when Apollo would return from the dark side of the moon;
they knew nano chip soon and to the second
when and where an eclipse of the sun would pass at noon;
they knew too soon and to what degree
rising temperatures and rising seas foretold their doom.

What were the odds they did not know
how precious was this Eden, how rare an oasis in a vast unfriendly space,
when they sealed this vault five million years ago?

(Should this poem go in the vault?  If so,
we have ten years left and then we'll know
and they'll know, too . . . we knew.)

- original poem written on the 5th of December in the year 2019 CE
Predictable poetry contest sponsored by Nina Parmenter

Details | Greg Hladky Poem

Seagull Semantics

Fair wind floating above a sparkly sea
as the pounding surf grinds sand over there,
I then feel hunger to a large degree,
sense some morsels near, beat my wings on air.

As the pounding surf grinds sand over there,
I fly, knowing fellow hunters will feast,
sense some morsels near, beat my wings on air,
then hover, tuck, and dive in from the east.

I fly, knowing fellow hunters will feast,
will swoop and swoon for every scrap of food,
then hover, tuck, and dive in from the east,
attacking dinner with some attitude,

will swoop and swoon for every scrap of food,
and leave naught behind but sand, sky and brine.
Attacking dinner with some attitude,
squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine

and leave naught behind but sand, sky and brine;
I then feel hunger to a large degree.
Squalling seagulls sip the morning sunshine,
fair wind floating above a sparkly sea.

November 26, 2019
Seagulls contest by Eve Roper

Details | Greg Hladky Poem

The Fervent Atheist

She left the tent in holy fervor,
Hell-bent to spread the Word.
The Spirit moved and made her quiver;
No act of faith was too absurd.

She knocked on doors, she spoke with zeal,
Her faith she shared in earnest.
There was no doubt God’s love is real:
His justice is the sternest.

I asked what other gods contend
For space inside her pretty head.
Might Yahweh, Allah or Shiva rend
The veil between gods ‘live and dead?

Do you beseech the Norse god Thor,
Once favored by the common folk?
The Son of Odin is heard no more.
What power broke that yoke?

For love there was an Aphrodite,
For war the Greek god Ares.
Athena’s wisdom eclipsed the mighty, 
As Apollo‘s virtues the Virgin Mary‘s.

Though long I queried with due respect,
She unyielding kept her patience.
“On Jesus only I reflect;
To Him I owe allegiance.”

One god only fills her life -
It severs her from me.
I trust in reason, yet love my wife
With faith in one less god than she.

Details | Greg Hladky Poem

Daedalus

And did those wings in ancient time
Soar upward in the sun burnt sky:
And was the father of our dreams
Seen boldly taking us on high!

And did the clever man of arts
Shed light upon our lofty bent?
And was a seed implanted in
That Cretan's dark imprisonment?

Bring me my wings of fair design;
Bring me the power of desire!
Bring me my aerobatic lines;
Bring me the chariot of fire!

I will not cease from mental flight,
Nor shall my sequence sleep in hand,
Till I have reached the sun kissed heights
In hallowed halls o’er sea and land.

- The word "sequence" refers to a series of precision aerobatic figures studied in advance and flown by an IAC pilot. (IAC is the International Aerobatic Club) 

-Inspired by William Blake's poem, Jerusalem, "And did those feet in ancient time..."

Details | Greg Hladky Poem

Reflection

Who is staring in the mirror?
Just yesterday I left my dorm
Took some notes then drank some beer.
Living life was just the norm.

Who is staring in the mirror?
Young man out on a night so clear
Chasing her with stars in my eye
Would you like to dance, my dear?

Who is staring in the mirror?
Swinging a hammer from above,
Building a life for the one I love,
Sharing dreams, hopes and fear.

Who is staring in the mirror?
The father of children young and bright
Who add on years yet bring delight.
How quick is the passing of the year.

Who is staring in the mirror?
I don’t know the man in there
Wrinkled with the years and gray.
Funny I don’t feel that way.

Details | Greg Hladky Poem

Phoenix

Oh banish from the dim lit moor
barren windswept cold and more
the untamed nagging beast and boor

Oh darkened sky above the fire
smoke rising from the pricey pyre
signals where my hopes retire

Oh twisted wooden frame remains
wreckage of some airborne gains
lock my airfield gate in chains

Oh welcome summer shifts of breeze
warmer winds from warmer seas
shafts of sun to ashes tease

Oh see it rise, oh spark of life
bird of wonder born of strife
free to wander, free to fly!

Oh transformation of the moor,
dappled by the sun and more:
no untamed beast, no nagging boor.

-Dedicated to all the pilots who, in practice or competition, have lost a plane this year, or in years past. Precision aerobatic planes represent a significant investment of time and money.  Their courage to rebuild and compete again was an inspiration to me.  Here's to renewed hope, rising from the ashes.

Details | Greg Hladky Poem

Misinformation

I miss some information while the news drones on today,
and lose a favorite TV chair, while commentators lie on air.
The coddled cats, now cozy in my spot, have no respect for playing fair. 
Their clawing paws pause in sync with reporters at play with words, 
then resume, like rhetorical retorts swatting truth away.

“The housing market's in a bubble,” they blurb on without a bobble,
or hint of irony. And with iron fisted tone demand attention to their
tomes, attacking what's left of right. A pin is needed to pop in, to bust 
their bubble with an outburst, an outrage against the dying of the light. 
But darkness already settles in as homeless huddle on the street.

Enjoy your yurt on a mountain top, camping with tin pot and tinder
from tenuous timber on a fire pit of stone, and thank fake news for 
declaring climate change a hoax. Sing with Mellencamp, “Come on baby,
make the yurt so good,” and dream melancholic dreams of better days.

In this post fact, post hoc fallacy filled world, where science must compete
with goat herder wisdom, the black belted Bible still punches out the Truth
in four inerrant yet irreconcilable Gospels, “The Good News.” But the news 
is not so good for slaves, or women, or LGBQT, or really any life 
on planet Earth from A to Z, as Heaven trumps our paradise,
despite the lack of evidence, and no planet B.

Oh the cacophony of cock-eyed calumnies! The columnist and internet
conspire, slipping the surly bonds of truth to touch the face of gob smacking
lies. Dismiss these purveyors of the putrid, who exchange fact for opinion
and peel back layers of untruth, until my eyes sting with tears.


July 23, 2021
Word Play Poetry Contest
Sponsored by John Anderson

Details | Greg Hladky Poem

What Hope Lies In This Earthly Garden

This patch of dirt, this womb of earth, organic 
black and aromatic with compost and 
coffee grounds, receives my 
spade, but soon my hands 
are digging there, putting roots 
in place as seedlings, kelly green and 
delicate as sparrow wings, fill the garden bed.

Relentless sun 
draws sweat like rivulets 
on walls in a leaky house, salting 
my eyes and a skyward supplication:
Dear God dismiss both drought and deluge;
create instead a harvest bursting like the heirloom,
deep red and overdue for picking.

On the morrow, with work behind me for a day, I drive 
to town and join my neighbors in communal song:  we praise 
the One who watches over home and field and commands 
his son to rise along with daily bread.

Heading home through glacial ghosts, on asphalt 
softened by an early summer, and though the 
wide horizon invites redemption, I’ll not 
realize what I’ve done: prayer engaging 
as an echo
     (the cry of hope in cloistered air...)
prostration pleasing to Apollo - 
and all the patriarchal gods -
praises poured upon an
ancient father, Abba,
unable to embrace a
child or climate 
refugee.

I’ll not remember my mother, how she shaped 
bone and sinew from the black dust of 
burned out stars, breathing, from 
florae exhalations, oxygen into 
lungs, benefiting when I 
grow wise enough to consider 
the lily, to celebrate her gift, now 
trampled beneath the gilded idol, how she 
suckled me with milk as rich as the soil in her veins.

Details | Greg Hladky Poem

Your World Will End

your world will end
you know the trend

unless you grab the now and run
ensure companies do their share
vote leaders in who dare to care
for this our home under the sun

ensure companies do their share
the work remains, so little done
so sorry it is yours, my son
vote leaders in who dare to care

your world will end
ensure companies do their share
decarbon by the megaton
vote leaders in who dare to care
you know the trend

you know the trend
your world will end

January 5, 2022
Meditative Ballad Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Emile Pinet

Details | Greg Hladky Poem

The Evolving Nature of Indifference

I am 

rush of wind,
upwelling seas,
weathered rock 
reforming,

libration of the 
moon at play,
dust of stars
rebirthing.

I sing
among the spheres,
take mirrored water
for a canvas,

and for the gemsbok
in Namib
remain unmoved,
uncaring;

then I grow limbs,
in self reflection rise, 
grow clever hands,
create anew 

and stand, 
a part of,
not apart from,
All That Is,

to tremble
with the energy 
of suns
surging in my veins,

to choose
with brain and heart
my course among the galaxies:
coldness or compassion.