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Whitney Hart Poem
For them.
To her the word love refers to a boy.
Something she yearns for and misses dearly.
The day they met was cold and fraught with January chill.
“Oh, that does seem so long ago.”
That is the untarnished memory she replays over and over again when events in her life go array.
Back then it was tangible and real, their lives together had not been succumb to so much misery and woe.
They have triumphed, failed, and even caused each other more pain than can be imagined; But through it all they always walked the path together, holding each others hand.
She loves him unconditionally and for that some people cant understand but love needs no excuses, certainly not for them.
She adores him for working so hard, slaving to the man trying to base a future and a plan for them, but she feels guilty that their small American dream over the years has always led down a dead end.
With today’s hard times she knows they are not to blame, but still her idol hands carry burden with them.
A plot of land, a small farm, and a home to call their own so they may grow old.
that’s all the pair desire.
He loves her to, a thought that at times is unfathomable.
He admires her dreams, even if they are bigger than the world and never distills fear in her that they wont one day come true. She thinks ill rationally and believes in things as a child would, but this merely makes him smile at her spontaneous outlook.
To him she is like a wild bee, searching ferociously for something.
At times he doesn’t think she will ever find it, that’s why its so hard to see her cry.
Life hasn’t been fair for them.
It’s a tragic book that just keeps reading on.
But they muscle through living on their dream and knowing that as long as they have each other, everything will be alright.
And as they drive home to their house with no walls, catching glimpses of each other in their ratty car they don’t feel so alone.
Behind those blue eyes, she will be forever nineteen to him and to her, as she gazes into his brown large pupils; the boy she knows has grown into a man and at that moment they know, one day all the sacrifices they have made will pay off.
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2012
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Whitney Hart Poem
Why the dogwood tree grows.
In the middle of a vacant filed stands a grand dogwood tree where the crows gather daily. People flock far and wide just to gaze at its majestic stature and overwhelming beauty wondering silently amongst themselves, “How this tree came to be.”
Shrouded in secrecy lays the scattered bones of a dead man.
His hands rest against his thighs, his head turned upright as his soil filled eyes gaze upward awaiting the warm glow of the sun that sadly never comes.
The man laid to rest beneath the black dirt over time had long been forgotten, he no longer had a name, no home, or even a family of his own. Just the loving roots he had been encased in long ago.
But how this event came to be only three could say.
The women, the murder, and the forever silent dogwood tree.
The restless bones belonged to a man, a young man who had fallen in love and courted another mans betrothed. The women cared for the simple gardening man and the many trees his nimble fingers tended but her fiance was a jealous chap with rage to match.
And upon one final night after witnessing their true loves kiss the grief stricken cohort stuck the man down with his rusted pick axe and banished the gardener to his hand dug grave, placing his lifeless corpse in a vacant filed in which no one came. But what the enraged man didn’t foresee was the seed of a dogwood tree.
It fell from the deceased pocket and grew from the gardeners heart.
Year after year the tree budded magnificent flowers each possessing a hint of red staining their petals.
People marveled in its splendor gazing at the unique tree, gasping in awe and glee, but for one women its beauty agonized her for its existence was a constant reminder that no justice, nor revenge could ever be won for her simple gardening man.
And as the roots steamed onward feeling the caressing flow of a spring wind on its crimson petals the mans chest flooded with air and his dry, frail skeleton once more exuded life;
And as she eyed the swaying branches his memory suddenly came to life.
He was the air the tree inhaled, the nutrients it desperately needed to grow, and the reason it thrived.
Even in death he had the gardeners touch.
Her wrinkled face light up with love and for the first time in fifty years she smiled in happiness thinking to herself.
“That is why the dog wood tree grows, its out of love for my dead mans bones.”
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2012
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Whitney Hart Poem
From the moment I was born I wept. I cried out of wanting, After all to want is the first natural humane instinct. As I got older I walked through life holding open my heart to experiences even if unwillingly. My eyes remained wide as my legs carried me through twisting generations.
I have laughed gaily without judgment, grieved earth shattering loss, embraced joy beyond what the motion pictures portray and loved and been loved more than any fictional character that its writer breathed life onto paper.
From cradle to my destined grave I stroll on earths vast plain of emotion to take hold of life and live as if tomorrow my again body would be laid to rest.
A newborn cries because it is its horn of proof that it is thriving with vitality. An elder gently sobs under breath knowing each day they inhale is another day of dying. We are born into cradling arms and are buried cancelling ourselves, From life to death we take memories we've made from cradle to grave. Nothing is more precious, needed and wanted to either groups young r old than a life fully lived before the final chapter is read.
Birth to twelve is layered in childhood innocents. Becoming a teen is our first presumable milestone and we assume ourselves to be made of granite like Galatea.
Throughout our twenties our lips taste first loves even lust but gracefully as we age our minds and souls carry us home making a place to rest out weary bodies, a place to rest with growing families. Children come wrapped in beautiful ribbons and we grow old. Wrinkles come, inevitably dependency goes then we parish to our coffins made by younger, sometimes older hands.
But even after we rest under feet of blackened tear filled soil we live, To be born again or to be swept away by Gods gentle voice no one person can say.
But we live and breath, inhale life though our lungs from cradle to the grave.
"Sorry for not capitalizing, hope that fixed it! Please keep commenting :) Much love, Whit."
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2012
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Whitney Hart Poem
Tiny dirty hands layered in filth, grim under the nails, what dread do you face as you toil and toil throughout the long frightful day?
There is no comfort behind broken walls, no comfort in mothers arms, no safety offered to your wondering soul. Tiny hands scavenge for food, finding only aged bones with little meat, few scraps to feed your aching abdomen. Those hands so small, so cold, trembling uncontrollably, wrapped around your petite frame, your mind replaying “How will I survive today?” But you toil, toil on.
The water there is none. Only blackened pools of thick mud and how you long to taste the cool refreshing drips on your tongue, to soak your calloused and bruised toes, but that fantasy has long been gone.
Feeling as though you where made to suffer, made to grieve, want and never to obtain you start to weep. Those hands, those tiny dirty hands reach up and gently push aside the free falling tears that seem to never stop.
Though you can’t see her, her pain is real.
A child of hunger, a child of fear, her wanting is palpable, honest, and correct, no lusting just dreams all shattered by circumstance and sadly she is not alone.
So as you sit in your homes surrounded by loving faces, grand objects and perfectly set dinner places, give thanks as your hands, clean and untouched by poverty break bread.
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2012
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Whitney Hart Poem
Toy collector:
He holds the bear gently in his old wrinkled hands as he gazes into its kind beaded eyes. The toy collector sees love lined in its double stitches and his childhood in the busted toys smile.
There stitched in black thread he can hear the sound of a child laughter, happiness, and growth reviving his memory of youth, like a jolt of life to an empty vein.
The years have passed freely, almost fleeting by. He had no more time to play in grassy school yards or hide from girls wearing satin dress, he had to grow up. The boy eventually turned into a man and was forced to pack away his toys regrettably into a wooden box.
There they sat in the attic awaiting the return of their beloved friend while he aged slowly into an adult.
High school came and went, college, even marriage but unfortunately he was never blessed with his own child. No one to share in the lined pleats of his own childhood. All of this he now recognizes in the bears sandy eyes.
The toy collector hands his most prized procession to his wife, a dazed look covering his forlorn face.
She takes his withered hand and speaks gently in his ear.
“All the memories in the world could never replace the love between a man and his bear.”
“Yes, but even the toy collector eventually grows to old and must let go.”
He replies in woe.
His thin lips force a smile as he repacks the boxes that escaped him long ago and in the early morn of the next day he patently sits alone outside for a bus to come.
The driver honks her horn and greats him with a warming smile.
“Are all of these toys for our orphanage?”
The toy collector regrettably nods.
“Things have been pretty rough but this will surly lift there sprits up.”
She confesses as she gently grabs a random box.
As she stacks them one by on into the now cluttered van his bear falls onto the pavement below.
Unable to pick it up he wrinkles his brow with great sadness.
Suddenly the passenger door opens revealing the face of a young girl and as she draws near she extends her hand and clutches the bear.
“Did you find a friend little Lou?”
His heart melts as she kisses the teddy gently then smiles.
“thank you.”
The child coos softly.
The toy collector lives in the toys he collects, but the man lives forever in the bear the child now possesses.
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2012
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Whitney Hart Poem
The forest of grief:
At night I can hear the pain filled screams coming from the forest of grief. Longing, despair, and terror seeps in from the thick tree line into my bedroom window.
Their inhuman wails send chills down the nap of my neck rendering me unable to move.
“What horrible events accrued inside this desolate place?”
No vegetation, growth, or life exist.
Only the suffering from distant pasts.
Time itself seems to be halted by the walls of the dense forest that shelter its ghostly inhabitants.
“Do they know death?
Do they know of the life they once led or can they even hear their own horror filled cries?
I do, I feel every heart breaking emotion as I lay in wait for dawn to break.”
There is no rest for them or me, the lonely women who tends the forest of grief.
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2012
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Whitney Hart Poem
Fear of war:
Bullet casings strike the ground as the sound of war numbs his eardrums.
The sent of sulfur and black powder fill his flaring nostrils as he stares down the barrel of his riffle.
Barley eighteen he knows fear better than any man working nine to five on Americas boarders and as he sits perfectly still looking through the mud splattered scope he sees the young face of his predestined enemy.
Pure terror.
The lines of affliction deepen around his mouth and in his chaotic mind he prays to god he didn’t have to take the shot.
Tanks roar across the soaked bog, echoing the sound of robotic chains.
Missiles fall from the sky piercing though the red clouds in whisking lines.
The massive elongated shell screeches like a banshee just before exploding, demolishing their targets below.
Black soil erupts, carrying with it dismembered and blood drenched bodies.
Scared and angry wails cause disarray.
“This cant be real.”
The boy thinks as heavy black dirt falls around him like rain.
His emerald eyes dilate in size as he surveys the destroyed land.
Overhead flybys are made, Fighter jets taking aim with enormous guns hidden among their metal frames.
The pulling back of hammers and bullets striking flesh.
Screams of unimaginable pain, rolling tanks and swords clashing against the enemies seethe. Even the sound of warm blood splashing across the tips of untouched grass blades.
And as he stops, lowering his gun he hears the sound he has feared the most.
A gasp exiting the lungs as he takes in his last shallow breath.
“Yes.”
He mind echoes as he lays in his own spilled soil.
“This is the song of every man, every solider stuck in the world of war.”
His eyes grow cold as he succumbs to his injury.
A bullet to the chest.
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2012
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Whitney Hart Poem
The old man turned his head, his ear pointing towards the door. Through the mundane sounds of everyday life he heard a faint song. It wasn’t clear, barley noticeable but the music was there playing gently amongst the background.
“Perhaps someone left the TV on in the lounge, perhaps it’s a passing cars radio?”
He shook his head and ignored the idea.The next day as the elder man was eating his lunch at the cold metal table he once again heard the same tune, curiously this time with muffled words. His caterpillar brow twinge as he struggled to hear the female voice. “Perhaps a nurse is hiding a walkman in her coat? Perhaps the management invited a band for this dull day?” Again he shrugged but on the third day as he awoke he rolled onto his hip feeling weighed down by his limbs, his chest constricting in pain. Weakness seeping in aching his feeble bones and cramping his joints.“No one ever warned me about old age.” He muttered.A few moments passed filling out his unscheduled day as he gripped his accent cane and wobbled about.Shortly after he took refuge from the warm sun under a gazebos wooden roof. He sat fully relaxed, simply enjoying natures sound. The finches soared overhead while the ladybugs landed on the cool damp grass below.His wrinkled lids closed. “Don’t be afraid, I am death here to cradle your spirit away.”Those soft words sent a chill down his spine.“Why would I think that? What has happened to my elder mind?”The humming grew more intense, his ear drums pounding like a jack hammer knife. His head spun in confusion as tiny beads of iced sweat dripped down his twisted pale face. Nausea and pain consumed him as he free fell from his revolting head game.Abruptly everything stopped. Not a sound, a movement, or even one thought. It was the nothing only experienced in life’s final moment. Two hands took his that wrapped around his ears.“You cant hide from death behind closed lids.”His eyes gazed at the hazy female face.“You’ve died of a heart attack.”The silhouette spoke followed by his name. Her black transparent creaturesque fingers stroked his tired face.“Your time on this plain has ended, I am here to cradle you away.”Though death had no face, no distinct features he found comfort in the void.His blazing spirit pulled outward from his slumped body. In awe he gazed at the lifeless shell, It appeared only to be sleeping.The old mans glistening face flashed a luminous smile. “Spirit me away all mighty specter, I have been ready for quite a while.”
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2012
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Whitney Hart Poem
Love:
His gloved fingers loosely grab the tin cup as he sits slumped over.
People pass, barley glancing at the tattered man before them, their faces uncaring.
He has no home, no duplex or even apartment to call his own. Tonight he occupies a large box behind a local pizzeria, which sometimes if he is lucky the employees take pity and hand him a sack of three day old pepperoni.
He rests his head along him arm, closing his wrinkled eyes before the rain comes. It bounces off his cardboard box fiercely and pools around his naked toes. A veteran for his country, he never thought his life legacy would be this, an empty box laying in an ally.
The night drags on with the raging storm, high winds, monstrous bolts of lighting and thunderous booms. Eventually the old man is awaken but not by the pounding rain but a purr. A kitten, merely a few months old has wondered into his lap taking refuge from the storm. Its orange and white fur drips as he shivers, yet his purr echos around the sagging brown walls. He sits upright and cradles the kitten, wondering why it didn’t run. Perhaps like himself the small animal only wants a home.
Its olive shaped eyes fixate on an empty bag of meat, its heart racing rapidly. The kitten is thin, appearing as though it has never ate. The war vet smiles and slides off his coat, he wraps the kitten gently then grabs his tin cup. Eagerly he shakes, panning for nickles and dimes. He washes windows even wipes away the grime. Never has he worked harder for $8.75 but tonight the man and kitten will eat from a bag that reads pedigree and to him that’s just fine. He has made a friend in the most unlikely of places and to him in the most needy of circumstances. Tomorrow the vet will rise and work the cruel streets of New York. He will face ridicule, people glaring in disgust, but he will gladly face it all to provide for his kitten he named Love.
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2012
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Whitney Hart Poem
Before you:
Before you love was a word of foreign magnitude. It had no meaning, no depth, or even feeling, It was something I simply feel into blindly. I had grown accustom to pain, my lovers actions of immense throe causing heartache I had never wanted to know. My lips have kissed that of undeserving toads, like I was a wondering princess with wounds to show. My features were never found to be pleasing, my characteristics labeled as quite odd, making myself a curious handicap for any man to have, so the idea of prince charming was depraved, but then I met you.
Day by day a smile grew, I laughed with joy I had never knew, and an odd sensation even grew. My abdomen started to quiver with isolated flutters, butterflies causing jitters. My cheeks blushed with the perfect amount of rosy color and my once vacant mind rambling onward with thoughts of you.
Suddenly someone had become my day, suddenly someone had become my night, never in my life would I think all this to be true, but no lie could ever come from these words I write. For you give me reason to be happy, you give me love when I feel undeserving, and the kindness you show me is exhilarating, never temporary.
The way you care, the way you offer me compassion and show empathy for what I have to bare makes me feel strangely human once more. The way you touch my face, your fingers slipping through my hair, the way you stroke my pallid skin, whispering loving words in my ear, and the way you kiss my soften lips makes me feel wanted and every wall I have ever built suddenly no longer exist. I feel like a women, no longer a scared girl because now I know all the wondrous things love has to give.
Never do I want to lose my reason for vulnerability, I fully enjoy the free falling sensation and my heightened sensitivity.
And to think it’s all because of you.
Copyright © Whitney Hart | Year Posted 2012
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