Hello!
I’ve decided to post some of my older works of fiction and poetry over at my fiction blog. If you’re not already following me there, and you enjoy reading short stories and poems, please click here have a peek.
Love,
Me
Category Archives: Poetry
If Only
Go to The Community Storyboard; read this (my poetry) and more! 😀
Singular
You are unique. I know you wish you weren’t. I know you don’t want to be thought of as different, but the fact is that you are.
There are not thousands of you, or even hundreds. There is you.
No one else thinks the way you do. No one looks like you or sees the things you see in exactly the way you see them.
No one even smells like you; you are sweeter than the rest.
When you go, the people who have known you will grieve, but they will also learn to smile. They will remember the joy with which you illuminated everyone around you.
Be proud to be unique. And know that the way you touch the earth is precious.
Haiku
Gossamer Dream
Placed in morning light
Draped in gossamer wishes
I kneel to your pyre
A Letter to my Main Character
Dear Stephen,
You were a magician before I ever met you. Nevertheless, I handed you your tricks; your wand, your cards and your bunnies to be pulled from hats. It was serendipity that you met the love of your life. I didn’t expect you to show up any more than she did. But oh, how I discovered you. We discovered you.
I’ve seen you through many troubles, frights and flights, I watched you dance and fall in love, I saw your joy and your pain. You surprised me and you caused me grief. Most of all I saw you grow as a man. You blossomed before my very fingertips.
Now you have outgrown me. You’re ready to move on. Though perhaps we’ll meet again in another tale, I have to let you go. I am happy to say it was a natural break. You have a life to live that doesn’t need me to tell it.
For now.
Giving away your smile
Your precious crooked grin
Fills me with pride and sorrow
In almost equal measures
Selfish is the heart who won’t let go
Allowing your wings to spread
You don’t need me
Though I created you from scratch
Grown and changed
You look upon me now with love
For what I have given
You have given me much more in return
My Poetic Paper Route
It’s cold and damp outside. The snow is melting in all the wrong places turning the earth that was churned up beside the sidewalks by the sidewalk plows into mud. Said mud is running in dirty puddles down every conceivably available square inch of concrete, and where the sun doesn’t touch the mud is an icy sheet. Every day before noon I walk these muddy sidewalks delivering the local newspaper. I don’t do it for the money, I do it for the exercise – at least that’s what I keep telling myself. Most of the time I think I just do it because I’m masochistic, especially on days like today.
However, as I was trudging up the hill on my street today, an inch deep in dark black mud, I realised I am living my dream. I write in the hopes of one day distributing my words to hundreds of thousands of people. What am I doing now? Admittedly, I only deliver 16 daily papers (and 124 flyers on Thursdays).
One day, when I’m a bestselling author perhaps I’ll be able to look back to my life now and say, ‘There I was, doing what I’ve always wanted to do. I spread the written word’.
Poetic, isn’t it?
Dawn
Promise from sunrise springs
a new day brings
the sun
Wasted Time
To rest alone within leisurely time
A well wasted space of unhidden bidding
To take up the taste of weightless encumbrance
The hours tick by without lifting a hand.
The eons of thoughts which pass through this pencil
When sitting in crowded rooms filled with the wares
Of life’s inspiration in hot bodied persons
They see me, they don’t. Invisible I write.
I wonder if they are as curious as I am
To know this lone figure in a sea of companions
Appear to be wasting my time in hot coffee-
filled dreams of a writer in idling waste.
What of my poems, my stories, my scribbles
Are worthy of readership blessed by the critics
When sit here I sit and I write about nothing
For nothing can come of my time wasted hand.
My mind it keeps turning and churning out lead
From my Bic #2 of black and of purple
The people ignore me by diminishing plate-fulls
My cup runneth over, my coffee refilled.
Where was I? Oh yes, I am here wasting time
My ears filled with droning of foreign speech convos
The lead leads to dullness, the clock I hear ticking
Is life passing by through my time withered grasp.
But time has no meaning in this little cafe
Christmas cake scarfed back in March by my side
And perfumes of women that drown out the noises
Of plates hitting forks hitting dentures, my turn?
Not yet. I sit with my pencil and bang out a poem
The stares and the glances ignored by my will
The writer within me strains hard to the surface
But still I write nothing, time wasted, again.
@Linda G. Hill
March 2005
lindaghill.com 