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Tom Hitt Poem
So words become; the order of the day
and order of the day becomes
the soldiered meaning of all work and play,
the ever present, beating drums.
Then words become; the lure of the lie
and liars lure every son
with shadows of gold 'til they all but die,
to retire, to be, to be done.
And then, once again; the words become
the order of every day
to sleep, to awake, to be dead and done,
'til all words fly, ever away.
~TH~
Copyright © Tom Hitt | Year Posted 2015
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Tom Hitt Poem
Thank goodness for a sun,
the rays that cross the plane!
My office remains melancholy,
a dimness I defend.
Daily I defend this muted light,
thinking it "muse", drinking it blind.
On overcast days, I get away with it;
be it blinds pulled, or curtain down
(rarely both: I'm not an ANIMAL!),
a ray or two may lift the room,
cause a breath, pull me out.
In day, the birds do not distract so.
Outdoor noises are immaterial.
Night of course, is a cause in itself.
At these times, sleep is a mistress
I dare not court, nor think about.
Night draws and draws, she never gives back.
Thank goodness for sun, and a nap on the day.
Earth's elegant axis, Sun's elegant ray.
~TH~ http://wrongwaywriteway.com
Copyright © Tom Hitt | Year Posted 2015
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Tom Hitt Poem
Imagine the joy! A word from the east
Delivered by pony express,
I ride into town on this nag of a beast
Fetching mail for my humble address.
Imagine the miles! Stretched far 'cross the plain
One rider, horse, saddle and bag,
Crouched o'er the withers, nose close to the mane
Spurred to relay before they might flag.
Imagine the hand! Crossed over the reins
As one man pulls back on the bit,
Another spurs on, fast and far 'cross the plains
Thus defining the truth in true grit.
Imagine the thrill! Mail passed hand to hand
From rider, to office, to nag,
Far west came my missive; a tip of my hat!
To the rider, horse, saddle and bag.
~TH~ http://wrongwaywriteway.com
Copyright © Tom Hitt | Year Posted 2015
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Tom Hitt Poem
All the music done by ear
Hammered out by courier
Lyric carried all the cheer
While record shows the blow and beer.
~TH~ 03/19/15
Copyright © Tom Hitt | Year Posted 2015
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Tom Hitt Poem
A-CAT-A-COMB
NINE-LIVES-A-TALE *
SHE-PRIMPS-AND-PREENS
EACH-FINE-DE-TAIL *
WITH-TONGUE-TO-FUR
PAW-FACE-AND-TAIL *
THIS-DEATH-A-TOMB
SHE-SHANT-EN-TAIL *
~TH~
Copyright © Tom Hitt | Year Posted 2015
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Tom Hitt Poem
In ignorance, bliss!
This bottom rung,
we speak as we choose
and that gets the job done.
Yes, ignorance mired
in language unkempt-
the parlance of paupers,
ill-regarded, undreamt.
In tolerance, wise!
This highest rung-
we speak as the learned
and get the job done.
Where lofty words sing
amidst high-minded mind-
the old tongues of conflict,
new tongues now refine.
In limbo, angst!
This middle rung-
the higher won't save us,
the lower we shun.
Just enough rope payed out,
just enough slack-
For me and Pygmalion
to launch our attack.
~TH~ 2015
http://wrongwaywriteway.com
Copyright © Tom Hitt | Year Posted 2015
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Tom Hitt Poem
I live a life, in perpetuity, of almost always being done. ~TH~
Copyright © Tom Hitt | Year Posted 2015
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Tom Hitt Poem
An Orchid in the forest, shoots forth.
All things, all things will grow as they should.
And so the time, the time becomes the thing.
The measure of all that we might know to
what we might become.
Emblem and symbol always pale
when compared to the lotus fully formed.
Every warlord passed has dropped to knee
when survival brings them to
a fresh bloom of life. ~TH~
(a spontaneous poem inspired by an illustration by Ryan Heshka. http://wrongwaywriteway.com)
Copyright © Tom Hitt | Year Posted 2015
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Tom Hitt Poem
First of all, forget the rhyming - it's not gonna happen.
Or - if it does, by happenstance, be mildly surprised.
No loft or glory here be found - AR!
Now, like a pirate I do sound.
Dammit!
I promised you no rhymes.
A hazard spun from occupation;
a rhyme, a rhythm: (entertainin'?)
Well, maybe not, but rest assured, no fear.
'Tis not an epic, nay! The end is here.
Hooray!
~TH~ http://wrongwaywriteway.com
Copyright © Tom Hitt | Year Posted 2015
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Tom Hitt Poem
You gave me a ring that I might wear upon a finger.
A commitment of the highest order, asking
that I pledge all my remaining years.
Seriously?
~TH~
Copyright © Tom Hitt | Year Posted 2015
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