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Wesley Hill Poem
I chased a thing called Nothing through the misty gray of dawn,
It wore a coat of silence and a crown already gone.
I searched beneath the willow where the silver shadows cling,
Yet Nothing left no footprint and it carried not a thing.
I asked the moon to find it as it drifted through the night,
The moon just laughed in pale and ghostly light.
I questioned all the sparrows as they danced above the stream,
They said that Nothing lives inside a dream.
It hides between the seconds that are slipping from the clock,
And sleeps among the pebbles by the old forgotten dock.
It whistles through the keyhole and it rattles empty air,
Yet when I turn to catch it, there is no one standing there.
It sits upon no throne and wears no robe of gold,
Yet every tale of Nothing somehow still gets told.
It fills the empty spaces where the lonely echoes ring,
A quiet little kingdom with no ruler and no king.
At last I found that Nothing, strange as it may seem,
Was floating in the corners of each wish and every dream.
And though I tried to hold it, it slipped away from sight,
Leaving me with Nothing in the gentle arms of night.
Copyright © Wesley Hill | Year Posted 2026
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Wesley Hill Poem
Pink is not a color.
It's a dare wrapped in velvet.
A sunset refusing to apologize.
A heart wearing sequins to battle.
A blush that survives the storm.
A revolution painted beautiful.
Copyright © Wesley Hill | Year Posted 2026
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Wesley Hill Poem
I was born where comets broke their promises,
where the night sky wore bruises
the color of forgotten kings.
The midwife held me up to the moon
and the moon hissed.
Not from hatred,
but recognition.
Something ancient had arrived
with stardust in its lungs
and venom in its veins.
I learned early
that beauty has fangs.
Roses defend themselves.
Galaxies swallow whole worlds.
Even angels carry swords
when the story demands it.
So I wandered,
a glittering contradiction,
collecting constellations in my pockets
and grudges in my shadow.
Lovers kissed my forehead
and tasted lightning.
Enemies drew blood
and found their own reflections
staring back from the wound.
Years passed.
Nebulas bloomed and collapsed.
Entire versions of myself
burned to ash
like letters tossed into sacred fire.
Yet here I remain.
Not untouched.
Not innocent.
But luminous.
A creature forged
from equal parts poison and wonder.
The stars taught me how to shine.
The venom taught me how to survive.
And on this birthday,
beneath a sky still writing my name,
I raise a glass
to every darkness I outlived,
to every dream that refused extinction,
and to the wild truth
that some souls are not born gently.
Some arrive
wearing stardust as a crown
and venom as a pair of wings. ???
Copyright © Wesley Hill | Year Posted 2026
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Wesley Hill Poem
The Green Madonna
She arrived draped in constellations,
wearing a crown woven from the silver bones of moons,
her emerald hands folded in a prayer
older than the first star.
The galaxies bowed.
Not from fear,
but from recognition.
For she was Mantis,
Celestial Madonna,
keeper of forgotten hymns
and patron saint of wandering souls.
Her eyes held entire nebulae,
spiraling cathedrals of light
where comets burned like votive candles
before an altar without end.
She spoke no words.
The universe listened anyway.
Planets turned more slowly
to hear the rustle of her wings,
vast and jeweled,
stretching across the velvet architecture of eternity.
Each movement scattered stardust
into the dark places between worlds,
and new suns were born
from the fragments.
She wandered the heavens barefoot,
her feet touching neither cloud nor stone,
leaving trails of luminous roses
that bloomed in the vacuum of space.
The angels followed at a distance.
Not because they were commanded.
Because beauty itself
had become a destination.
In her breast burned a sacred flame,
neither mercy nor judgment,
but something greater:
understanding.
She knew the language of the broken.
The dialect of the lonely.
The silent prayers spoken by hearts
too weary to believe they would be heard.
And so she gathered them.
The exiles.
The dreamers.
The forgotten children of distant worlds.
She carried them beneath her mantle of stars,
where no wound was mocked,
no tear was wasted,
and no soul was abandoned.
Above her,
the heavens unfolded like a jeweled fan.
Below her,
the darkness learned to sing.
And there,
upon a throne carved from dawn itself,
Mantis sat as Celestial Madonna,
Mother of Starlight,
Queen of the Infinite Bloom,
her wings embracing creation
as though the universe
were a child finally returned home. ?????
Copyright © Wesley Hill | Year Posted 2026
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Wesley Hill Poem
They built their homes of crystal praise,
Then sold us bricks of shame.
Each window gleamed with spotless haze,
While every neighbor took the blame.
The mayor preached of modest needs
From a throne of imported gold.
He watered plastic virtue seeds
And called the harvest brave and bold.
The gossip queen wore angel wings,
White feathers pinned with spite.
She blessed the town with wholesome things,
Then sharpened rumors every night.
The preacher cursed the gamblers' vice,
His sermon fierce and loud.
Yet counted silver twice and thrice
Behind a curtain, safe from crowd.
We watched them hurl their polished stones,
A sport the righteous love.
The glass sang back in cracking tones
Like judgment from above.
By dawn, their mansions sparkled less,
The fractures plain to see.
For every saint who plays at perfection
Leaves fingerprints on hypocrisy.
Copyright © Wesley Hill | Year Posted 2026
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Wesley Hill Poem
Painted a picture.
I thought I drew you well.
Mixed moonlight with memory,
called it truth and framed it on the wall.
I gave your silence a laugh,
your absence a pulse,
stitched constellations into empty sleeves
and dressed a ghost in gold.
Every brushstroke was a prayer
for a miracle to stay still.
I shaded your flaws with mercy,
highlighted your virtues with hunger,
until the canvas knew you better
than you had ever known yourself.
Visitors stopped and stared.
"Who is that?" they'd ask.
And I'd smile, because I didn't know.
The eyes belonged to hope.
The mouth belonged to loneliness.
The hands belonged to every goodbye
I was too frightened to release.
Then one morning the paint began to crack.
The colors slid downward like tears,
revealing the white beneath,
the terrible holiness of nothing.
That's when I understood:
I never lost you.
I lost the masterpiece
I made from empty space.
And standing before a blank canvas,
for the first time in years,
I met the artist.
Not the illusion.
Me.
Copyright © Wesley Hill | Year Posted 2026
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Wesley Hill Poem
On a summer night in Greenwich Village,
when neon trembled against wet pavement
and fear wore the uniform of the law,
a spark leapt from the shadows.
It was June 28, 1969.
The night the people who had been told
to lower their voices,
hide their hands,
change their walk,
bury their hearts,
finally said:
No.
At the doors of Stonewall Inn,
the pursuit of happiness ceased being a promise on paper
and became a demand carried by living, breathing souls.
Drag queens.
Runaways.
Dreamers.
Workers.
Artists.
Lovers.
People whose names history almost erased,
yet whose courage became a torch.
The world would later learn the names of heroes like
Marsha P. Johnson
and Sylvia Rivera,
but that night belonged to thousands,
each carrying a universe inside them,
each deserving the simple freedom
to exist.
To love.
To dance.
To breathe.
The journey was never straight.
It wound through funerals and protests,
through silence and song,
through years when hate marched openly
and hope marched anyway.
Yet every generation carried the banner forward,
stitching new colors into an unfinished quilt
of human dignity.
And as fate would have it,
the uprising began on the birthday of
Judy Garland,
whose voice had long offered refuge
to those searching for a place
somewhere over the rainbow.
Perhaps that is coincidence.
Perhaps it is poetry.
Today the rainbow flies in cities and small towns,
in courtrooms and classrooms,
in places where it once would have been dangerous
to whisper its name.
Not because the struggle is finished,
but because courage is contagious.
The pursuit of happiness
was never about chasing wealth,
or fame,
or applause.
It was always about the right
to wake each morning
unafraid of being yourself.
To hold a hand.
To speak your truth.
To live openly beneath the same sky
that belongs to everyone.
And so the voices continue.
Different accents.
Different stories.
Different songs.
Yet together they form a chorus
so powerful
that even history must stop and listen.
A chorus born in resistance,
carried by love,
and still marching
toward freedom.
Copyright © Wesley Hill | Year Posted 2026
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Wesley Hill Poem
They called me Breathless Mahoney.
Not because I ran from danger,
but because men forgot how to breathe
whenever I stepped into the room.
The nightclub glowed in lipstick reds,
champagne golds,
and the bruised blue haze of cigarette smoke.
I stood beneath a lonely spotlight,
wrapped in satin and bad decisions,
singing torch songs to gangsters
who mistook desire for devotion.
Every pair of eyes wanted something.
Money.
Power.
A piece of me.
A promise.
A lie.
The city itself reached for my ankles
like a desperate lover.
And still,
the only man I wanted
looked at me as though I were a storm
rolling across his clean horizon.
Dick Tracy.
A name sharp enough to cut glass.
A jaw carved from righteousness.
A man who kissed duty
the way other men kissed women.
I tried to lure him
with ruby lips and velvet whispers.
I poured myself into every note I sang.
But you cannot seduce a cathedral.
You can only echo inside it.
So I became a ghost
wearing another face.
The Blank.
Neither woman nor shadow,
neither sinner nor saint.
Only a wound
wrapped in mystery.
I stole empires.
I outsmarted killers.
I danced with devils
and taught them new steps.
Yet beneath the masks,
beneath the diamonds,
beneath the dangerous perfume,
lived a lonely girl
staring at her reflection
and wondering
if anyone would ever love her
without first wanting to own her.
The city never answered.
Cities rarely do.
They only flicker,
blink,
and forget.
And when the bullets finally found me,
I fell not like a villain,
but like a song ending.
Softly.
Regretfully.
Beautifully.
The spotlight dimmed.
The orchestra surrendered.
The smoke drifted upward
like a soul leaving a nightclub.
And somewhere,
long after the music stopped,
they still whisper my name
through neon rain and midnight jazz.
Not because I was good.
Not because I was wicked.
But because for one dazzling moment,
I burned so brightly
that even the darkness
was left
breathless.
Copyright © Wesley Hill | Year Posted 2026
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Wesley Hill Poem
I wear your old sweater
not because it fits,
but because it remembers
what you chose to forget.
The threads hold their shape
better than our family ever did.
Your picture smiles from a frame,
frozen in a version of yourself
I searched for years to find.
I learned how to miss someone
who was still alive.
That's a special kind of loneliness,
setting a place at your table
inside my heart
and watching it gather dust.
I built a thousand fathers from memory,
patched them together
with birthday wishes,
half-finished apologies,
and every excuse I was given.
None of them stayed.
The house grew quiet.
The seasons changed.
I grew older than some of my memories.
Yet part of me still listens
for your footsteps in the hallway,
still hopes the next knock
might carry a different ending.
But grief is a stubborn tenant.
It pays its rent in echoes
and keeps your room
inside me forever.
So I fold the sweater carefully,
place it back in the drawer,
and carry what remains:
not your absence,
but my survival.
Copyright © Wesley Hill | Year Posted 2026
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Wesley Hill Poem
No apples hung from this old tree,
No cherries blushed in summer light.
Instead it bore a stranger crop,
A harvest of humanity.
Upon the limbs they gathered there,
The dreamers, drifters, kings, and poor,
Each balanced on a different branch,
Yet rooted in the selfsame core.
Some climbed toward the palest clouds,
Convinced the heavens waited near.
Some clung to bark with weary hands,
Held fast by memory and fear.
One stood alone upon the top,
A tiny silhouette of pride,
While others searched the tangled maze
Of pathways winding deep inside.
The tree said nothing as they moved,
It judged no stumble, fall, or flight.
It simply stretched its wooden arms
And held them through the day and night.
Then suddenly I understood
The secret hidden in its form:
The tree was time.
The people, us.
Still reaching through another storm.
Copyright © Wesley Hill | Year Posted 2026
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