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Best Poems Written by Casey Hart

Below are the all-time best Casey Hart poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Casey Hart Poem

Volcabulary of the Dead

i’m cooking these words on the stove,  
hoping they won’t burn—  
but they burst into flames,  
fierce with laser focus,  
only to be choked on  
when spoon-fed,  
and regurgitated  
when swallowed.  

served like fast food—  
empty calories filling the gaps  
meant to comfort,  
to reorder.
part of the standard American diet.
words on a bun,  
piled high with all the fixings,  
a digested impact crater,
in the pit of our gut.  

politicians try them on  
like shoes—  
until they fit,
but seldom do.  
words written  
to fall off the paper’s edge,  
into the echo chamber
of insincerity.  
instead, they carve them into stone—  
only to shatter  
when dropped.  

formulated words  
to soothe,  
to numb pain.
thoughts folded into paper prayers,
thrown skyward.
officials toss them high,  
a solemn beacon of fortitude.

but the touch of a dead child  
shoots them as skeet.  

bullets spoken as words,  
spat out with ease,  
surrender to normalcy—  
just another  
American day.  

---

**2**  

an errant boy,  
garden hose in hand,  
sprays the clouds full  
as mourners careen
to pay respects  
to his family.  

words,  
drenched in sorrow,  
are washed away  
by the cloudburst.  
the open umbrellas
amplify the drops
into a steady drum beat,
as they hit, roll, 
and vanish.
 
---

**3**

Ashai cradles  
a red plastic ball,  
her palms hoping
to find its role.

meant to roll,  
to wander, 
to tumble,
perhaps even fly  
through the air in play—  

but it’s too hard to bounce,  
too light to throw.  
small worries,
circle before settling,
inside her pretend world.

---

**4**

the chevron-blue lake  
draws an outline  
along the water’s edge,  
a loneliness floats  
on its water mattress,  
bobbing the loons  
into calling for solitude  
before it reaches us all.  

shivering leaves rustle
signalling the night breeze
whispering warnings  
of another cloud spill
by the garden hose.

Details | Casey Hart Poem

Trust Today

the word trust contains
its own form of corrosion
—a steadfast decay

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Absolute Rule

untamed masters, tame
their subjects, until they're tame 
enough to follow.

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As We Walk By

cardboard mattress 
concrete box spring

cocooned within the threads of shame

pillow stained 
with dried tears of despair

air pockets 
hover with a pungent force

that’s the way I remember her bed—
as I walk by.

Details | Casey Hart Poem

The Dangers of Mankind is Man

Mara’s hair colour touched by time, her voice hedged—struggling to find its way to me
She had once tried to kill herself.
My flippant thought: Did you succeed?
She looked as she had.

An abandoned relic, bopped-up, surfacing
in her drenched memories—Arbeit macht frei.
The stench of horror clings to her bare flesh,
worn as a wetsuit of near death, 
unwashable, unforgettable—always present,
dragging survivors in its spiral of dark desires.

Dipped in death like Lazarus. 
One of many Juden,
Spun into the spindle of time
then woven back 
into living memory.

Her lips caressed the porcelain rim of a teacup,
allowing her stream of consciousness to flow.
Each sip of thought occupied her scornful solitude.
The cozy, blanketed a tempest of hate,
steeping in a strong pot of paranoia.
A sole survivor, thinking of her great-grand children at the Supernova Sukkot Gathering.
Are they alive? 
No word.

Memories placed her on life’s off-ramp, 
detouring to the deadened horrors—rising
from the ashes of the Topf & Söhne ovens.
The gas shower of angst traded fears for tears,
fingerless gold rings of love and devotion—
marked as counters of the untold bathers.
Death, hunger and torture, the triple tyranny
of genocide that took her family—people.

Vanquished, now the vanquisher.
Ceaseless revenge inflicted over and over again.
Global tides of sympathy and empathy recede.
Justice silently struggles to calibrate towards 
the untempered horror as horror begets horror.
Gaza openly parallels into a concentration camp.

Details | Casey Hart Poem

Outside The Empty Mug

the night’s wildlife stampedes through the crosswalk.
penguins dressed in short black skirts and white tops.
an Irish River Dance of black boots cross by the lights
startle the onlookers from the comfort of their cars.
hard to distinguish any individual from the rest.

a uniform that ignites a father’s spark,
not the kind they ignite on the bar-walk.
thinking about my own daughter and
what I didn’t know back when.

cavalier cheeks peek out from the high hem-lines,
a playful peek-a-boo to see if anyone is looking.
hands tug the hem to control the will of their wiggle,
drawing scorn from those who are wearing their envy.

an atmosphere of nonchalant breathing angst.
mingle and mix with the alcohol and club odours.
the club’s corral is sliced into quiet ‘me too’ zones
one that hovers and the other confines

small talk shrinks to texting while waiting.
girls wonder—why no one approaches.
guys fear—of their prophetic rejection,
leaving a gap big enough for superficial indifference.

conversations are meant to be seen, 
a language of the mere mundane, 
spoken with auto-laughter and random head bobs.
words fall, stripped of meaning—
as echoes of their intent, bounce off.

the girls too drunk to stand, fold in half becoming 
wall props that buckled under the burden of isolation.
an entourage of concern tries to conceal—
what an unattended skirt might reveal.

the still standing, fidget with cell phones,
text club memes while waiting for an uber.
glad my daughter’s married and a home body.
most patrons go home alone.
a few hook up until the dawn of reality shares their bed.

Details | Casey Hart Poem

Earth Takes a Fresh Breath

asteroids descend
lava erupts from below
flood waters sweep clean
leaving traces of its stay
for wildfires to have its way

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County Road 43

the road became a tree-lined tunnel—flickers of
crepuscular rays try to play tag with the squirrels 
as they stutter-dash across the shafts of you’re-it!
a free for all, until the road-tires butt-in—
flattening all the rules on a tire-treaded squirrel.

the light reacts with a sudden shift—to renew.
anticrepuscular rays converge to the antisolar point.
a change in perspective as the light beams fall. 
inflating the tire-treaded squirrel with a do-over.
the game goes on until sunset or the next rogue tire.

Details | Casey Hart Poem

An Arm’s Length Away

Sometimes, when we hurl
angry words—
ancient stones thrown by indifference,
lodging in the ears of our children.
Witnessing horror twist itself into child’s play.
A stone’s throw—killed our empathy.

Anger knows its enemy:
sitting next to,
sitting opposite of,
never with.
It sits a stone’s throw away.

Rising from the ashes of fear—
Vapours of flesh smoulder
as blooded lava flows.
Cools—
our scarred magma to a crusted creed.

The stitched social fabric
binds us—
its loud colour blinds us.
Worn by both—
the right
and left sleeve.
United buttons,
reconcile for peace.
Unironed—full of wrinkles.

We tear further apart
the closer we come,
repelling—mirroring
the same magnetic face.

We read our compass,
in a bipolar place;
wondering how,
we’ve lost our way.

Believing everything
we’ve been taught,
until we die—
Realizing—
too late,
it’s all been a lie.

Details | Casey Hart Poem

Ridiculous

Don’t spread cremation crumble on burnt toast.
Is what the undertaker said about dad’s ashes.
My furrowed brow responds…
Why? Who would do such a thing?

If you were to follow a random person 
from the street, ever wonder, where it might lead?
You just might pick some ordinary schmo.
single?
innocent?
cavalier?
kind?

You may find out something—wishing you hadn’t 
psycho?
shallow?
yokel?
callous?
hapless?
omnicidal?

Would you spread cremation crumble 
on burnt toast or follow a random street person?