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Best Poems Written by Phill Hood

Below are the all-time best Phill Hood poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Limited Enjoyment

Hold on now stop here.
Now do you see the roses?
No, but i smell them.

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Driver, Round the Block Again

Some things change and some things won’t.
Some people care and others just don’t.
The situation I’m in unmistakably changed,
for one I was close to has now been estranged.
I was told when younger to think on my own,
but now it's not something the teachers condone.
One thing that during my time I have found,
is that circular logic, it goes round and round.
So as long as my feet are firm on the ground,
I’m in need of nothing that is so unsound.

With all that I’ve learned, I head off all alone,
leaving all censorship behind me at home.
Started out slow, not a care in the world.
But as I move on and through time I am hurled,
tempo goes up, beats per minute increase.
Soon I can’t take it, I need it to cease.
Not able to stop, no not in the least,
I trudge on like a machine, well oiled and greased.

My actions like a snake, they slowly unwind,
and start on a hunt pursuing my mind.
The snake goes about deploying the bait,
then, patient the predator, lies in wait.
About temptation, one should not linger,
but I’ve taken the bait, hook line and sinker.
Wasting no time, the snake lashes out,
the forked tongue and fangs on a heart bound route.
I listen to the venom course through my veins,
as it makes it’s way on up to my brain.
Once it arrives and inherits its reign,
is when I’ll be left with nothing but pain.

I don't feel the way I’ve ever felt,
inside, my head stings just like a welt.
Abrasion against the strings of my heart,
strums out a tune that's miles from art.
I’ve gone and done something oh so wrong,
for I’m unable to sing, or hum along.

Now in the calm that’s the eye of the storm,
I must find out how to return to the norm.
Opening doors devoid of locks,
I stumble upon a strange looking box.
On top of this thing that I’ve found amongst rocks,
is a line that reads “Opportunity Knocks.”
Now standing before this jack-in-the-box
I turn the crank like a hand on our clocks,
The childhood jingle comes to stop,
as something symbolic shoots out with a pop.

Though am I clueless? No, not so much,
I’m not handicapped, I don't need a crutch.
Ill fated though, it’s a no-leaf clover.
I know what this means: I’ve got to start over.

Details | Phill Hood Poem

How I Feel About the Haiku

Haiku's are stupid
and I think that they are pointless.
Why did I write this?

Haiku's are lovely,
and I think that they are awesome.
I'm glad I wrote this.

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Untitled So Far

Raindrops on my window,
footsteps in the hall;
Teardrops on my paper,
and holes punched in the wall.

Lying on my bedroom floor
the lights aren't on at all.
Crawling through the darkness,
I can't see wall to wall.
The bed is up so high
and the ladder is so tall;
I think that I'll just lay here,
and hope that I don't fall.

Fall into a state of mind
that's not so far away.
Fall into the mind frame
that keeps happiness at bay.
The safety net of friends I have
got lost amongst the fray
of battles raging in my head
through each and every day.

I get up every morning,
to don my faux facade.
But outwardly it's obvious
that things are not okay.

I cling and try to hold on,
but its all to no avail.
Yes falling's unavoidable,
as gravity wont fail.
I toss and turn, my stomach churns;
soon now I'll need a pail.

My gaze draws to the window.
Therein comes forth a wail.
For in the windows sheen
I see myself now deathly pale.

Out on the ocean all alone,
no one to tell my tale.
Sacrilege and blasphemy
are all one needs to fail.
No matter how the wind blows now
it will not fill my sails.
I'll be herded down to hell by dogs
with flames upon their tails.

The air itself is stifling;
It chokes one to the end.

I find it overwhelming
for myself I am to fend.
There's others like me down here,
yet a hand not one will lend.

Slithering the shadows' veil
a fiend with not a friend;
Brooding on the thought that
my demise it will attend.
Pensive yet on when to strike,
my heart it seeks to rend;
Upon the pounce all hope is lost.

There's nothing left to mend.

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Lost Knowing

The world as seen from outer space,
a relatively tranquil place,
is not what it appears to be.
Though rocky earth and deep blue sea
dominate this living sphere,
that is not all that resides here.
There’s mammals, birds, reptiles and fish,
but to be one of them is not what I wish.
The thing that I wish is something far more,
than anything found in legend or lore.

The number of wishes I've made is tall
as the tree from which I once saw an apple fall.
Yet wishing I’ve found, it does not matter,
like as high as you climb on a treadmilling ladder.
How could this be the answer to what has become
of not all the thousands, but just of the one?
The one wish I want to truly come true,
the wish that I could be with you.

These thoughts they carve a hole in me,
and at first glance I did not see
the toll that it would take on me.
Thoughts of longing to be free
of emotions now consuming me.
I'll push these things to the back of my mind,
but to my soul, the emotions will bind.
As time goes on the days will pass,
and turn to fleeting moments, or memories everlast.

Now just as the apple that fell from the tree,
I wonder what is to become of me.
I take another breath, then let fall a tear,
For cold is the wind that will breeze me.
And sadness will sear.

Details | Phill Hood Poem

Along In Procession; the Writing of a Poem

The thoughts they come, the thoughts they go.
I’m sitting like a bum trying to make things flow.
But I can’t seem to think quite clearly enough,
my thoughts, like a candle, just keep getting snuffed.
I know for these thoughts it just isn’t fair,
and I know for myself I need some fresh air.
So I’ll take a walk to clear my head,
and for the birds I’ll bring along some bread.

I’ve learned about birds from things I've read,
the places they go without having been lead.
Sometimes I wish that I were a bird,
but always take back my every word.
For to give up this life for that of a bird,
is a notion I’ve deemed completely absurd.

Having walked up a hillside a rest I shall take,
I’ve a view from the top overlooking a lake.
Now I think to myself of the art I’d create,
if I had but a canvas or even a slate.
I love this place, I like it here.
I’ve walked this far, now my heads clear.
Yet whisper does the wind unto my ear,
I must be departing for nightfall is near.

So I'll head back on to my home,
and dive into my thinking dome.
I find my head a reservoir,
of all the thoughts that is and are
wanting past their prison bars.
I want this gateway flung ajar.
Every thought is inside, all in a pack,
and there's a crack in the dam that’s holding them back.
The thoughts like water trickle through,
I need paper and pen to make them flow true.
Without paper or pen the thoughts will not surface,
without paper or pen, the thoughts have no purpose.

I’ve found my paper; I’ve found my pen,
but I find myself asking what next, what then?
I return to the dam with the crack in itself,
and with the pen that I found, I dig for my health.
As the rock starts to crumble and the dam falls down,
I lay down the paper, under words it will drown.
The thoughts they come cascading through,
now in the open, here for you.