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Daniel Hunter Poem
I Wonder if He Wore a Fedora
He passed a few months ago.
I looked through a few pics
of him when he was young.
He grew up in the depression,
so there weren’t many.
Black and whites, no dates.
None of him smiling,
just a vacant stare,
familiar at that time,
Hand me downs clothes
of a cotton farmer,
Hardscrabble life for this
child of the 30’s.
He didn’t talk much
about that life.
Well, a few times:
how he got two pairs
of shoes a year,
oranges for Christmas.
Patched pants so short,
the kids made fun of him.
Never made it past the eighth grade.
By the time he was eighteen,
his hands looked fifty.
Twelve to fifteen hrs.
a day picking cotton will
make a young man old.
I picked up another picture.
Some other man from the 30’s,
sitting on a bench in front
of the Memphis Zoo.
Wearing a Fedora.
Sophisticated looking.
I wonder if my dad wore a Fedora.
I asked a lot of questions
when I was young.
But that wasn’t one of them.
I can’t ask him now,
but I know what he’d say.
“Those were for the rich, son,
The Boss-man.”
“Not common folk like us,
who knew their place.
You can’t be more
than you are.”
But he was wrong.
Although he was raised
poor common folk,
he worked all his life.
Loved one woman.
Raised his children right
and loved his God.
He died a rich man.
He would have looked
damn good in a Fedora.
11/5/16
Copyright © Daniel Hunter | Year Posted 2018
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Daniel Hunter Poem
Hurt is a Spoken Language
It came from your heart,
like gas on fire,
burning everything in its path.
Hurt was your spoken language.
Fluent in anger,
flippant with pain.
Words tossed carelessly,
thoughtful or thoughtless.
Sweet and bitter,
hard and soft.
All poured
from the same vessel,
from the same heart.
Intentional or not,
your words were nails.
driven deep,
one word at a time.
Hard words,
hung heavy in the air.
Emotions burst forth,
taking the path
of least resistance.
They make their way
to the tongue.
Ah, the tongue!
Sharper than a sword
cutting deep to the bone.
Like salt in a wound,
words don’t disappear,
even if its goal is accomplished.
Time may move on,
hurt may not.
Lingering like ice
that’s slow to melt.
Daniel
6/2013
Copyright © Daniel Hunter | Year Posted 2018
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Daniel Hunter Poem
Basketball-Meanderings
Played basketball with Fred at a church.
Haven’t played basketball
since my daughter
was a twinkle in my eye.
All the things
I used to do with a ball,
I had put away
in a file marked “use to.”
Sometimes, I take it out,
dust it off, look it over,
then put it back for later.
Every now and then,
I make a basket, throw a pass,
that reminds me
of the “use to” file.
That file gets added to daily.
I just don’t use it
as much as I ‘use to.”
DANIEL - APRIL 2012
Copyright © Daniel Hunter | Year Posted 2018
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Daniel Hunter Poem
JUST ENOUGH
Just enough water
that still leaves thirst.
Just enough effort
for second, not first.
Just enough heartache
to make you bitter.
Just enough fear
to label you quitter.
Just enough anger
to justify your hate.
Just enough arrogance
that seals your fate.
Just enough hardness
to harden your heart.
Just enough pride
to keep you apart.
Just enough lies
to blind you to truth.
Just enough regret
to long for your youth.
Just enough church
to make you feel proud.
Just enough walls
to keep out the crowd.
just enough doubt
that mocks your belief.
Just stubborn enough
that you refuse relief.
Just enough words
that hurt, don’t heal.
Just enough truth
betrays what you feel.
You’ve done enough
to just get by.
Neither hot or cold
nor low or high.
What were you thinking
as you began the trip.
Afraid to drink deep
you just took a sip.
Your master is back
an account he demands.
You stand before him
with empty hands.
What he entrusted,
you took and buried.
You did not share,
you refused to carry.
You took it easy
and hid your stuff.
He expected more of you
you did just enough.
Copyright © Daniel Hunter | Year Posted 2017
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Daniel Hunter Poem
Little Trucker
Little trucker in your little truck,
rolling down the road with a little luck.
Chicken fried steak, napkin on the floor.
Pulling your pants up as you exit the door.
Pull out of the truck stop, another load picked up.
Heading to Little Rock with a 100,000 Styrofoam cups
Lights at night, blur with the lines.
300 more miles according to the sign.
Glow of the panel keeps company with you.
Song of the wheels can make you feel blue.
Alone on the road, it looks the same.
telephone lines, occasional train
Pulling over, as required by law.
A few Z's caught, that’s about all.
Another load, another town,
another drink, another round.
Twenty years of roads come and gone.
One day, you tell yourself, you'll move on.
But you never did, you never will.
Worst thing for you little trucker,
is just standing still.
daniel- 5/2013
Copyright © Daniel Hunter | Year Posted 2018
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Daniel Hunter Poem
Apology #2
From:
The corporate office
Omaha, Nebraska
To:
T. Hunter
Subject :
Stupidity harassment from one D. Hunter
Dear Ms. Hunter,
We were shocked and appalled to hear about the unfortunate display of stupidity by one of our employees; a Mr. D Hunter, whom I believe is your husband.
We here at the corporate office want to assure you
that we have a zero tolerance of stupidity as had been reported to us.
Unfortunately, our records indicate that Mr. Hunter appears to be a repeat offender on various callous and bewildering acts of stupidity.
We want to assure you that action has been taking to insure this type of harassment does not take place in the future.
Mr. Hunter will be subject to severe disciplinary action,
which could include, but not limited to the following:
1) flogging, by a licensed flogger.
2) 3 days of wearing pink glasses and headphones.
3) 16 straight hours of watching "psyche ".
(Please note, we only use this last action, if all else fails ).
We hope that this will cure said Mr. Hunter from being stupid in the future,
but alas, it's hard to predict stupid.
So please accept our humble apologies for any distress this may have caused.
Feel free to contact us with any questions you may have.
Sincerely,
The home office.
Copyright © Daniel Hunter | Year Posted 2018
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Daniel Hunter Poem
ODE TO A FAN
My fan blows beautiful air,
that minutes ago, wasn’t there.
It begins to circulate wind that was dead,
given it a purpose of living, not dying instead.
It can blow you a new hair style.
It can blow really hard, or extra mild.
Windmills of plastic go round and round,
creating a symphony of wind and sound.
The whir of motors and blades
remind me of a summer in the shade
Position it on the table or on the floor.
Put it in a window, or by the screen door.
It can gently sway side to side
or focus on certain parts of your hide.
On hot days and cool,
for the wise and the fool.
Faithfully serving,
Always observing
You can run it for days,
and it will not whine.
Or get a quickie
if you don’t have the time.
It doesn’t moan, belittle, or complain.
It works day or night, sunshine and rain.
I love my fan, and you know why?
It takes me to a place that passed me by.
6/2013
Copyright © Daniel Hunter | Year Posted 2018
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Daniel Hunter Poem
Dogs of Jezebel
2nd Kings 9:30
Painting your eyes,
arranging your hair.
As if expecting a lover
to climb up your stairs.
It’s not a lover,
but death that climbs.
Calling your name,
for the very last time.
Daughter of Baal,
doesn't your god hear?
You pray for deliverance
from judgment that’s near.
The silence of your idol
leaves you to wonder.
Chariots approach,
on wheels of thunder.
Still defiant,
with no tears or remorse.
From the window of your temple,
you see the main force.
You cursed their God,
his servants put to sword.
This was your sacrifice
for your Canaanite lord.
You taunt your captors,
with jeers of hate.
Not knowing their God
has sealed your fate.
They take you to the window,
throw you to the ground.
Chariots trample flesh and bone,
til silence the only sound.
Dogs appear,
ravenous for man or beast.
How ironic that Jezebel
was queen of this feast.
2017
Copyright © Daniel Hunter | Year Posted 2018
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Daniel Hunter Poem
Daughter of the Wind
Daughter of the wind,
gliding on visions and dreams.
High above blue skies,
freedom in your wings.
Fly as high as you dare,
soar, toward the light.
Seek all your answers
before the oncoming night.
The path is clear.
The air is clean.
Keep your heart true.
Keep your mind keen.
Stay above a world
that’s torn and broken.
Listen to the one
whose name is spoken.
The God of creation
gave you wings
to let your spirit soar
to let your heart sing.
So, fly daughter fly
while time is in your favor.
Breathe the air of dreams
take this time to savor.
Daniel 2015
Copyright © Daniel Hunter | Year Posted 2018
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Daniel Hunter Poem
The Offering Plate
The offering plate
started at row one
I was in row ten.
I reached in my pants
knowing I had a five
down there somewhere.
I pulled a crumpled wad
from my pocket.
A receipt from MacDonalds,
couple of one's and a----
"ten"!
I jammed my fists back
into both pockets.
Where was it,
that five that I was
so generously going to give.
Monuments and statues
were to be
erected in my honor
for the noble contribution
of that five.
"But ten?"
Did God really need
that extra five,
more than I did?
Thinking about the
theological and
the existential implications
hurt my head.
The plate was starting
the second row.
Going from one generous hand
to the other.
Five is one thing,
but ten?
I smoothed out
the wadded ten,
as I tightened my grip on it.
The plate was
on row four.
The passing plate
seemed to accelerate.
Do I give it?
I saw my monuments
and statues crumble
right before my eyes.
The plate was
at row six.
What happened to
row five?
My heart quickened,
the breathing became
more shallow.
My fingers held tightly
to the ten like it was
my only child.
The plate was steaming
along row eight,
like a piston,
faster and faster.
My eyes darted between
the plate and the ten,
as my grip tightened
like a vise.
Beads of sweat
began to appear.
My mind raced,
ten or no ten.
Righteous obedience
or succulent avarice.
The plate has now
cleared row nine.
It feels like
my eternity hangs
in the balance.
The plate comes
to me.
With gritted teeth,
and gritted heart,
I drop the ten in.
The ten snuggles
into the plate,
up next to a "twenty."
It's funny,
but ï didn't hear
the Hallelujah chorus
as the ten left my hand.
Nor did I hear: "Well
done my good
and faithful servant."
The offering plate continued
it's one way journey.
Songs were sang,
the preacher preached.
One last question
entered my little mind:
Was God impressed,
or embarrassed?
5-7-17
Copyright © Daniel Hunter | Year Posted 2018
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