A storm lives here. Don’t let the sun’s Cheery face persuade You otherwise. Unseen, Clouds roll in. Lightning slaps the sky, And our ears ring with thunder. Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a poet a pen
Keeping It Kinky And Funky
Don’t call me nappy; I prefer kinky. Don’t tell me I’m stinky. Say that I am funky. Let your descriptions Of me mimic The ambiguity of my character. Make them double entendres. Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a poet a pen
Shaman Of Words
I write behind a veil Of golden mist. My presence Is obscured to the world; All its peoples and noises— The makebate-created welter Of clamors for attention. But the Earth, it speaks to me When I write. Unfiltered. It laments the vanishing beauty Upon it. It rejoices in the mystic Abilities of the poet, a shaman of words. We lay on leaves sacrificed in flames, And recount the marvel of...
Are you sincere when you talk of having my children and the pleasures of forever? Or are you speaking in heat, taken far from your true feelings by the undertow of our coupling? Do you mean what you scream when I’m inside you, jackhammering through debris that has been discarded from ivory tower windows over the years? Will the passion on your lips remain after I paint your interior walls in...
A coward’s death Is left in a pool of vomit Beneath an underpass That leads out of the city. There’s chunks of pineapple And beef stew in the greenish fluid. A shadow crept forward And discharged the rest Of the body. Purge after the splurge. I’ve forgotten why I enjoy The taste of blood but not The scent of semen. Both are ingredients for life. Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a...
I’m not smart enough to own A smart phone. By that, I mean I’m not smart enough to figure Out how to turn poems into dollars, Words into status, and other feats Of literary alchemy. Still, I try. Still, I write. Still, I publish. Still, I share. Some would consider this the opposite Of success or an example of insanity. I prefer to call it the definition of perseverance. Copyright...
Everybody hurts, but everyone doesn’t feel pain. I’m a veteran of mind wars in psych wards. Post-traumatic stress and night tremors Are the least of my worries. Ditto for the Apparitions that haunt my subconscious. What will eventually kill me are internal wounds, The bullets lodged in bone. They severed Nerves as they ripped through my flesh; These projectiles—Depakote,...
The sight of you concussed me; Turned my knees into brittle fossils, Made my world spin in a centrifuge. You held up your hand. I saw five fingers spread open Instead of two fingers in V formation. I rolled into a ball, hands protecting My head, prepared to receive The slap that never struck. I mistook your peaceful Approach as an act of aggression. Between fight or flight— I choose the...
I, Like You
I, like you, Have been rejected. I’ve had my dreams Dashed upon a washing board And scrubbed clean. The gray stains of hope Removed, bleached away Until only the plain truth remained: It will never happen. I kept this whitened flag In my breast pocket, Folded into a handkerchief, At the ready to be waved At a moment’s notice. I, like you, Have been deceived. I have believed lies, Even...
Catepillars Ate My Books
The library’s sanctity Has been shattered by Cellular phones. Mobile conversations eat through The ancient silence within This tomb of tomes Like a caterpillar munching leaves. Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a poet a pen
Fair: Love & War
United in distrust, we fight under one torn flag— our relationship. Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a poet a pen
Just Like God
If there is a God, it is Love. Love shares similar attributes Of a supreme being: mysterious Ways, non-corporal form, Existence beyond space and time. Love has minor, little “g” gods— Namely lust and infatuation— Running around being mistaken For Love. Not by any fault of Their own; they mimic Love In some way or fashion. Love doesn’t announce Its presence, but when...
An Ocean, A Man
I dropped a pebble into my life. I watched, painfully, as the ripples distorted my reflection. Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a poet a pen
Third Sunday In June
I remember when Fathers’ Day Was about “World’s Greatest Dad” mugs, Clearance rack ties, cotton dress socks, And homemade cards. Now, Fathers’ Day is simply A reminder that I haven’t Talked to my father in months And I have no intention of calling. Well, at least he got a poem out of it. Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a poet a pen
Entire civilizations are built Upon the desire to categorize Whatever is experienced— In two options. Two is the minimum Number for there to be choices, And the ones who created The need to choose are not The sharpest tools in the set. And if a person does not Fit into either neatly packaged box, Society doesn’t know how To categorize her. He’ll float on, Ignored as if a ghost....
Fuel For The Soul
My soul is empty. The nearest station Within 100 miles Is 15 miles behind me. I can only go forward, Hoping for a mystical Oasis of soul fuel To appear ahead, Replacing the barren Arid desert with an Undisturbed, bubbling spring. Colors cascading and pooling Around reeds that grow As tall as words, Were swans gracefully Dance—dipping between The water’s membrane— And swallows...
I saw her name in my phone. I stared at it for a long moment Before deciding to delete it Or call her. I wondered How she was. Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a poet a pen
In the dark days before Internet waves, I wrote in secret. No one read my thoughts. Now people expect to read a new me daily. Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a poet a pen
Sew & Reap
I sewed a fuzzy Teddy bear for my son. I reaped his laughter. Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a poet a pen
Looking Passed Plum Trees
Come all ye faithful! Forge ahead to a land Where coffee remains stale And cookies are salty. Brood with the poet, who sits At her window in Baltimore, As she listlessly gazes At the frost-coated plum Trees swaying in Sacramento. Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a poet a pen
When the red-eyed monster comes home, Do not question its purpose. At first, Wonder not about its presence— Simply mark the creases on its face And allow it to hunker down in its cave. Peacefully. Give the beast time to sate Its hunger on the sack Of bitter yellow bones It returned home with. Allot half a shade or more For it to gorge itself on some Mindless task; during which its...
If blackness was definable, it would had divulged its identity centuries ago. But blackness absorbs all spectra of light, including knowledge, into itself. To understand blackness, one must approach it bearing light; become one within its confines, surrender ones mortal understanding to the eternal wisdom of the universe. Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a poet a pen
Mark Of Venus
A bloodied boon, Passed from giver To receiver, is too slick To grasp. It slips, Like an oiled egg, Along a rainbow’s curve— Rotating on a planet-like axis— Before crashing into a golden pot. The gift shatters, and the Soot-colored rains begin Falling anew. Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a poet a pen
Solitude would have feasted On my sanity had it not been For a colorful book about A very hungry caterpillar. As I consumed its tale of gluttony, The caterpillar feasted on the maggots That gnawed on my parietal lobe. This fictional creature, constructed From bright scraps of tissue paper, Saved me from a life of madness. Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a poet a pen
Cry for the emerald sentinels We never knew. Their names black Out the sun; the residue Of their charred bodies remind us This is the only future We have to look forward to. Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a poet a pen
This road is littered with spiky balls The size of caltrops. They are discharges Of unruly brackens that encroach along The road’s edges. The razor-sharp fern Leaves can shred to bits even the toughest Leather, and one false step and a spiked ball Can through shoes and flesh effortlessly. Skin as impervious as Achilles’s or Nemean’s Is necessary to traverse this gauntlet. This...
A Season For Evil
Speak no evil during The sun’s apex and there’ll Be no evil echoing under The harvest moon, No evil hiding behind winter’s frost. Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a poet a pen
I was born in the 80s - the lyrics mean more now I am older. Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a poet a pen
Budget: $60 Wardrobe to hang clothes Bug traps to kill infestation Shower curtain to protect modesty Small folding table to serve as writing desk Soap to clean my flesh Cleaning wipes to disinfect EVERYTHING Air mattress (?) Beer (?) A gift for Pat Copyright 2012 A. J. Hayes Give a poet a pen