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Timothy Hicks Poem
You probably don't think much of me
save for the season of spring
when your lawn litters itself
with giant over-buttered popcorn
(birds that think they can sing,
supersonic sneezes?
those kinds of things)
And yet here I am,
standing out like a stamp on a letter
(a marble in a field? even better)
I don't wish to be a bother,
only a friend
(merely an acquaintance would suit me fine)
But alas ... I see your eager fingers
reaching for the spray
(you DO know that I'll just come back ... like ...
the following day?)
I'm not like those other plants,
all stuck up regardless of circumstance
(certainly not like those stoic cedars;
when the breeze hits me right I like to dance)
But don't get it twisted
that my musicality means I'm soft as goo,
for - like my herbaceous brethren -
I have my weapons, too
The grass they have blades, but I...
I am a shining emerald lance,
a golden head is my insignia
Address: two-ten Sidewalkville,
in the Botanical State of Suburbia
That line by your feet?
well, that's my line in the sand
This patch of summer lawn
is my country folk's native land
And I dare you to cross it (nay, make it double)
Take your ten timid toes an inch to the right
and there'll be no trouble
For you see ... I am invincible: I cannot be erased
Matters not how many lawnmower blades you replace
To that tunnel-light I will not inspect
To that goodly night I will not go gentle
Merely attempting to slay me,
to your child's health 'twould be detrimental
(and who had the audacity to call me dandy?)
Just because my colorful coat reminds one of candy
doesn't presume sweetness of taste,
fragility of frame...
(weak in the knees? please)
I headbutted my way into existence
right through the concrete
all the while you slept
all swaddled in your sheets
(tender to the touch,
softness of the head?
you presume volumes too much)
I thrive in the August heat:
triple degrees, my dose of caffeine
Any other species would have wilted away,
destined to be crunched under so many city feet
(I'm looking at you, autumn leaves)
But me? When it's my time to go,
to the azure heavens is where I'll be
(when the moon sets low and those bright dots
begin to show)
That's when you'll know
I am eternal
Resilient as a rock,
but like an eagle I am free
(no date upon the calendar
could possibly confine me)
NOTE: I originally attempted to make an entry for that Pantoum Personification contest, but I quickly realized pantoum was out of the question ... lol. Don't like to share posts in a row that have such similar titles (like my other one, The Dandelions Beg to Differ) ... however, I think it's okay since this one is ACTUALLY about dandelions. Lol.
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2020
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Timothy Hicks Poem
Everyday is beautiful, son,
and no that's not being optimistic.
You're here - you're alive - with one more day on your plate.
That's just being realistic.
Tuesdays are for Tenderness, for the little things found beneath the rubble:
a flower peeking or a new-dream seeking, even though its subtle.
Wednesdays are for Wishes --- like hoping on that pretty, pretty star,
for something just around the corner is never all that far.
And Thursdays are for Thoughtfulness, on those reflective afternoons,
where all of life hangs between your ears, as your heart struggles to make room
for all the love that's bursting inside of you ...
(I know it's there!
hiding somewhere ... perhaps beneath the dirt and muck)
Fridays are for Friendship --- to the ones who you know true,
and hold you oh so close, despite all of life's various hues.
Saturdays are for Sanctification from all of distraction's clutter;
an occasion to make small your piece of toast, for there's too much of time's butter,
spreading oh so thin on Little You.
And Sundays are for Sunflowers, and the smile that ensues on even the coldest soul.
Treasure it child, if you ever see it bloom, for she's a fragile beauty that makes you whole.
Yes, my son ... EVERY day is beautiful, and Mondays especially,
for that's the day we praise our Mothers,
for giving birth to us at such a time as this (God knows it wasn't easy)
And no, I don't need to see the Seven Wonders,
to know how beautiful life can be,
for I've got all the splendor I can handle ...
... seven days a week.
Image Used: The I Hate Mondays T-Shirt Picture
Written April 10th, 2016
For the Images Contest Hosted by Silent One
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
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Timothy Hicks Poem
They say it's a time to slip in the mud, and begin anew.
Kick off the dust of yester ...
and put on the dress of Yes Sir! and Thank You Ma'am
She sure is a joy This baby little season
And like moths to a flame we praise her name
(we don't need a reason)
And who can blame the helpless admirers
trigger happy on their Kodaks
drunk with Marigold Merriment.
No matter your profession, everyone's a poet,
when spring comes along, like a child, showing off her dandelion face,
believing in her curious way that death has been conquered.
But reality comes in firehouse red,
with silver sickle blades that say, No can do, Little Miss Spring,
not every bird, on every branch, has a song to sing.
The fact of the matter is ... you're just another three months
(Winter? Autumn? They're simply taking an overdue lunch,
but they'll be back with the same fire The same ice)
Hate to break it to you, Sweetie, but not everything nice
is destined to remain (it's a cyclical thing ... you understand)
You can bet your slender green stem
even Little Miss Spritely has her down days,
but like teenage hysteria it's just a phase
(we can just pretend those zits are poppies
they smell fragrant enough)
And yes of course It's a time of LOVE!
Young and Fresh --- Tongue and Flesh
like good ole Elmer Fudd would say
(bweeding like wabbits)
Oh Little Miss Spring, surely you can't have everything!
Green grass and blue sky --- it's halfway sickening
the way you steal the show with your sunny splendor.
And Poor Old December ... you left him in the cold,
bragging up your warmth and innocent demeanor
(I saw what you did to the snow)
It can all be forgiven though Truly it can!
I know it might feel like I'm freezing you out
(but all the cool months are doing it)
... 'tis no excuse you saw through my ruse
I'm just killing time before the Melancholy Mob
comes back into town.
Remember how they used to hang around Stick in the Mud Lane
poking holes into your joy?
(they annoyed me too)
And what became of the pessimists, the argument-ists,
the I-don't-believe-in-all-this kinda crowd?
Are they all hibernating somewhere like Mother Grizzly?
(If you ask me they can take all advice from this soda pop
fade and fizzly)
Written March 15th, 2016
For the Spring Contest Hosted by Catie Lindsey
Poem of the Day: March 18th, 2016
Placed 8th
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
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Timothy Hicks Poem
Allow me to be disgusted at the jest
and your halfway happy surprise at the end result
of the missile timed precisely:
Did he just splatter?
And allow me to feel the brunt of the bruising
upon my saddened heart, where for others was felt,
from laughing hard.
Yes, all lives matter
Even the ones who don't bear
our national colors
our political expectations no matter how wrong or right
For just this occasion let us get back to basics:
That was a human
ten fingers and ten toes
perhaps a wife and family to call his own
but do you even know?
Or even care to think
beyond the face of it?
Getting kicks at watching the Live Leaks
of people being blown to smithereens It bothers me
That one should find it amusing
Does it bother You?
---a single tear of blue
is all I'm asking---
Who he was or what he did
what difference does it make?
When life closes the lid
all we have is the acknowledgement:
That was a human A human
What if those pixels on the screen
were all that was left of that man's memory
would you still find it funny?
And yet still we turn to Facebook Enlightenment
with quotations that decorate a sniper in a holy moment ---
"And oh God. One more thing.
Ignore my enemies heathen prayers
and help me send those bastards
straight to hell.
Amen."
(The amount of "likes" are disheartening
and should be a sin.
Where's the "vomit button" ... ?)
Reading through the comment's section,
like poetry for the juvenile,
and the criminally insane.
No Alka Seltzer No pills
I'm riding this crazy train unprotected
as if I'm dying for a thrill.
Dying ... at the very least.
Queasy at the vertigo of a nation
acting to love and loving to act
(Nineteen-Eighty-Four called,
they want their plot back)
And have you read empathy such as this?
ROFL, mate! That's classic!
(you have a doggie bag on ya, by chance?
I think I'm gonna be sick)
That was a human
A HUMAN!!!
And you call yourself a Man of God?
Yet still feel compelled
to pull back His Grace to your own ends
... that slippery tide
between your fingers
As if infinity could only be stretched so far;
it won't last long my friend,
before you look into that celestial mirror
scared at what you see
Is that me?
Yet still you wear that outpouring of love
on your neck like a trophy
as if you even deserved it.
a single tear of blue just one
can you give it to me, son?
t h a t w a s a h u m a n
And do you even care?
Does it phase you in the slightest?
Or does a coat of arms
give you further reason to divide?
Jesus died for all For all
All that upheld the American flag
as equal to His words.
All who marched to the beat of the drums
drowning out the birds.
All who bravely proclaimed: We are Heading to War!
We are Heading to War!
And all those who never asked: And what for? What for?
Do you feel its beating on your soul?
S h o u l d
I t a l k
s l o w?
(the unwritten verses
you added long ago)
It doesn't even matter now,
because all that remains
is what's been left on the page.
All that remains...
Just four sad words
like hopeless sand
slipping through my fingers
That was a human (or at least it was)
Before Man forgot what he had,
Believing he could do better,
Egging the Almighty to play his game
... back to the drawing board, smirked the Creation
And what about you, Dear Reader?
What will the eulogizer speak
in your honor
when the lights out?
That was a monster
He won't bother you now
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
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Timothy Hicks Poem
What things does one possess
at journey's end?
What bits and bobs? What trivial tripe?
Please, do tell, what is the hype?
For should I recall anything at all
of trinkets obtained in memory's shawl,
it would be the warmth of a companion's smile;
his hand in mine, while on this earth for a while.
The tickle of a tide brushing against tiny toes,
while the whisper in the wind, tells me all she knows.
Should I gaze at gems, pearls, rubies, emeralds--
Forsake the wisdom of the solid for the beauty of the temporal?
Should I throw caution to the wind, like seeds for the birds,
or stick to what I know - the solemnity of the written word.
Of trinkets obtained in memory's shawl,
be there anything at all worthy of my recall?
Happiness, Peace, Love and Joy -
these remained to be my one and only lot.
These intangible things more valuable by far
than gold and silver ingots.
At journey's end I stopped to ponder,
in the cloudless starlit night,
about the heavens and her wonder;
I was struck by sudden insight:
the lightness of the moon
suspended in air,
and the weight of a mere thought
that put it there.
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2015
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Timothy Hicks Poem
I often sit for long periods of time
hoping the perfect beginning will come to me.
To write a poem that starts with a pristine Capital
leaving readers with great expectations.
But after much torment, with not a fleck of gold in sight,
it's comes to my attention
that much like life, How it Began
isn't half as important as How it Finishes,
(And neither as important
as How it Is in the Present)
That's how it was, in any case,
when the landlord dropped the news
that sunny Idahoan morn;
It was a time for a change, they all said in unison:
my sister, my brother, my mother ---
And like the sweetest melancholy, I couldn't help but agree,
For I knew no matter where I went
I'd always have poetry ...
(but now it seems she has alluded me)
Through 2,500 miles and 9 states;
through a million and a half brand new things
... and yet
Inspiration refuses to sing.
As I sit here in suspense
for that metaphorical gravy train,
wondering when the words
will start flowing again.
Will it be like it was before,
when it comes to me?
Ears perked to the extreme
with expectations of a symphony?
When it comes to me ...
Will they laugh? Will they cry?
Will my words come across
like softest lullaby?
Because sometimes our muse just up and leaves,
we wonder why.
But no my most cherished friends,
we mustn't cry,
for it's been a great adventure,
has it not?
Remember the words of Dr. Seuss:
Don't be sad that it's over,
Smile that it happened.
Though words were once putty in my hands
I now take in the beauty that encompasses me,
content to just let it sit,
without the need to express it ...
But don't be fooled, Dearest Reader,
for I have the highest hope
that stars will dance,
leaves will fly,
birds will sing,
WHEN it comes to me.
But will you believe me when I say
I've watched the stars fall and flicker
between the leaves
a hand's breadth from my fingertips?
(go on and take a sip
the magic's free)
That I've breathed in the air,
as if it were honeysuckle blooming in the sky
just for me.
Oh and how I wish you could see
beyond the words of this page,
for it's beyond a tragedy
that all I have to give is this poem.
You know I'd offer you my eyes
for you to see the things I'm seeing.
(put your hand on my chest,
can you feel it beating?)
Like the petals of a rose
she holds me close:
the place where the bright rubicund clay
makes way for my Armstrongian footprints
---just one small step
then comes the leap---
My arms spread wide
hoping for discovery,
but preparing for catastrophe ...
And believe me when I say
I couldn't dream of sleep,
for when it comes to me
the minstrels will weep,
the prisoners'll be set free ...
as emotions become ablaze
in new and surprising ways.
For there's a lily pad pond,
just outside my backdoor ....
that's begging for a tale to be penned.
There's a place called Mount Alto
sitting just like a storybook
outside the backdoor, my friends,
whilst I sit here
listening to the cicadas sing
in Valley Soprano,
reminding me that everything
is but a poem-in-waiting:
The rolling green hills
bearing witness of mountain familiarity;
the black butterflies
flitting between
the berry blossoms of May.
Everything is so new here ...
far beyond anything I could ever say.
And I hope I can do it justice,
to paint a picture in your head,
with every ounce of the things I've said ...
(auto-biography? fantasy?
you won't be able to tell the difference
when it comes to me)
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
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Timothy Hicks Poem
I was wiping the dust off an old snow globe in the upstairs attic, when a mop of honey-blonde hair suddenly appeared through the wooden flooring.
"I thought I'd find you here," said the voice, warm and feminine. It was a lovely contrast to the thoughts that bloomed inside my head. The little red Santa smiling gaily, his gloved hand forever frozen in a wave. Truth be told it was over a hundred degrees outside, and up here in this cobweb-ridden place (by God) was practically unbearable.
But as I lightly shook the fragile keepsake I found myself dashing through the snow like I once did so many years ago. I heard the sound of high pitched laughter from afar, out in the sultry day (most likely the neighbor kids playing tag through a sprinkler-soaked lawn). But there, at that precise moment, I was taking the road before me, and singing a chorus or two.
"You miss him don't ya?" the voice broke me out of my thoughts, and for a moment I just stared at her as if she had a left over piece of spinach in her teeth. I nodded quietly in the silence and rubbed the smooth curvature of the glass with my thumb. It somehow felt cold, as if winter wonderland was still trapped inside.
I knew I hadn't stayed too long, though I knew my wife would be patient throughout this ordeal, however long it took. She didn't need to recite any famous sayings to pick me up, just her being there was enough. It was the unspoken truth between us, and it was always enough.
"Cody and Angie will be downstairs when you're ready to head out."
"I'm ready now. I was just doing a little cleaning up." It wasn't quite a lie. It was one of those statements we use to say one thing and mean the other. The attic was "okay", but I knew of more dire things in need of some organization.
Beth went down the ladder first, naturally. Then it was me, a bit awkwardly, still holding the snow globe. We both came into the living room, where our children sat waiting. Cody was playing some handheld video-game in his Hawaiian swimming trunks. Angie was quietly giggling at something her friend said, via text. Her blue bathing suit was barely more than a strap, and I knew I was this close from losing it. But this was a happy day, so I let it slide, just this once.
"Are you still not ready?" asked Angie.
I looked down at my blue work jeans and buttoned-up t-shirt. My wife gave her a fierce look, as if willing her to take back what she said. It didn't really matter though ... my emotions were spent.
"I was gonna change when we got there," I said, a bit defeated.
"Whatever." She rolled her eyes and plopped her phone right there on the couch. I just stood there like a lifeless statue, while my family got everything ready to head to the local pool. My wife was as patient as a snail, but the kids bustled about as if they've been down here a lifetime. Cody was mad when Beth took the game-boy from his hand, just before some big important checkpoint. Angie was calling Beth completely unfair for not letting her invite Tom over to come swim as well. My wife told her, "This is a family event, no exceptions, and for Pete's sake, listen to me for just this once!"
I just stood there, in quiet grief. Their voices were mere sounds, plastic and surreal, and I went along with it as if everything was alright. But it wasn't alright. The world was falling apart all around me, miraculously still turning, and I just stood there! Finally I reached for the doorknob, when I realized I still had the snow globe in my hand.
I looked at it longingly, with affection, and it came to me. A slightly crazy idea. Not the kind where it's life or death, but the fact that it was a spur of the moment decision, it felt totally crazy. I placed the snow globe on the mantel above the fireplace, where the glass caught the sun just right and the jolly Santa shone a brilliant red.
Allow me this simple pleasure, I asked God in silence. Let the neighbors gawk and smirk all they want. Let the kids think their father's going senile, thinking it's December and not August. I didn't care. I just watched the little flakes twinkle through out the water-filled dome.
I displayed it proudly, knowing that good will, kindness and love were never out of season. So I picked myself up out of my gloomy state, got inside the car, and slid into the driver's seat. "Alright, let's go!" I said cheerfully, and everyone looked surprised.
"Dad, is everything … okay?" asked Cody, from behind. But no answer was necessary. I just smiled, and looked across at Beth without a care in the world.
And since we've no place to go, let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.
First Published in Dual Coast Magazine Issue #3
NOTE: I've written a few short stories, but this one is special to me. It was well received by my family, and I was so excited to discover it was accepted by a magazine. It was my first non-poem to be published.
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
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Timothy Hicks Poem
You'll find it in the crimson eyes
of a throwaway photo somehow frozen in time.
When the past painted us like demons
with secret fury.
And you'll find it in the smell of a burning memory
like melting microfilm becoming enraged
(gifted with the freedom to deny
first appearances)
You'll find it in the cedar smoke
of Tyndale's earthen cage
roasting in a bale of hay for crimes unknown.
Where the fire of his message burned mighty
through a thousand hungry hearts that day
(where ancient ink once again
took a detour into youthful veins)
You'll find it in the velvet ash
of a (just one more) cigarette
being flippantly flicked into December sky
for reasons unknown.
Where yellowed fingernails bear witness
of freedom to live and freedom to die,
leaving not an inch of space to analyze;
for the fickle flames - much like life -
waits for no one.
You'll find it in the platinum tendrils
of a Colt 45, that so quickly took a life,
in the burning heat of an eternal second.
Where curled fingers and steady stare
makes it painfully aware
freedom is a pitiful beauty, ugly as sin,
and as right as rain
(ask the victims of Hiroshima --- they'll tell the same)
You'll find it in the vermilion sky
blazing brighter than passion pure;
stopping the world gears, of rat-race routine,
and turning a thousand rusty necks Heavenward
Where minds silently unhinge (for a moment)
And fear itself begins to cringe (for a moment)
When faced with childlike wonder
blind eyes will see.
A rejuvenating spark
this freedom can be.
And you'll find it the explosion of ecstasy
like a rose blooming in tenacious time-lapse.
You'll find it in the Cherokee midnight dance,
being warmed by the tongues of freedom personified.
Where Common Sense no longer applies,
for when freedom found his heart's desire,
you know it was a compromise.
Losing his mind, and losing his life,
in the process of a martyrdom
for all things beautiful and all things temporary,
in its earthly essence
... where freedom finds the fire,
you can't tell the difference.
Written March 23rd, 2016
For the Where The Freedom Finds the Fire Contest Hosted by Justin Bordner
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
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Timothy Hicks Poem
You can see him now, dirty as a horse
that slipped in the mud, planting petunias
with that infamous shamrock thumb
(Irish from his Pop Appendage from his Mum)
stopping every now - and again -
to breathe deep that fragrance
rich with pheromone nostalgia
just like Grammy Georgina used too do
the apple doesn't fall far from the tree
I can still see her now, in her glory days,
with lovely lemon locks soaking up the summer sun,
rooted in that old-fashioned train of mind:
You don't stop your work until it's done!
(but a walking contradiction, just like her grandson,
... rose to her nose like ruby rebellion)
the tree doesn't grow solely from the ground
Water's an important player too,
especially from grandma's showering can
(laughing tears the shade of crystalline blue)
Course you can't forget those lifetime lessons either,
from dear ole Georgie, speaking with a sunny kind of seriousness,
about the importance of patience,
the fruitfulness of labor,
plucking up the surviving winters' courageous cucumbers,
blushing beets
the ground isn't just a place for our feet
Cause with her and I, we incinerate the stereotype:
young blood reflecting on infinity,
old knees dancing like she's got chipper chipmunks
for toes giggles in the background like a photobomb
to the expected chapel silence
(it's not all peaches and cream though,
sometimes we get violent)
Orange slush, flying miles behind us,
at times getting grazed in the face
by nature's food fight
our feet between the squish squish of the crab apple
We were two peas, if you please, in a curious pod,
like a whimsical joke from a laughing God:
Me, the champion of her scallions,
the guardian of her garden,
leaving all sensibility befuddled
with an, "I beg your pardon?"
I wonder if she knew then the gravity of the situation,
watching mama scream bloody murder,
as I came into this world ...
... was she scratching her head, lips curled, in questioning amazement,
just like Newton must have been, when developing his theory?
What d'you suppose they both were thinking?
The apple doesn't fall far from the tree ...
Written March 27, 2016
For the Cliche Contest Hosted by Silent One
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
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Timothy Hicks Poem
Who knows if magic exists,
if dreams come true
and whether miracles take place
(all of these things we thought we knew)
... buried in our haste
to dig childhood's grave...
And though something gets lost
along the way,
it's never very far --
(and oddly enough
never very near)
We find it when we least expect
(when the sun dips and the moon resurrects)
Takes nothing more than some dry brush
and a flicker
(just enough, mind you, to convince any young squirt
you're a wizard)
And lo and behold ... a campfire is born!
drawing friends and strangers alike.
From those uneasy, longing for something more:
those that wish to say to their long-traveled fears,
"Take a Hike!"
We are all Homo-Sapiens
astride these flames, this moment, this night.
And everything falls into place
(and nothing makes sense)
We say, "Eat a Snickers, Rat Race!"
(and accept it as pretense)
For nothing else exists
when nature misbehaves such as this:
orange and amber flames
like twin spirits sparking our inner dialogue.
Yet nothing at all do we hear
save the sap-filled sophistries
exploding in each and every log
And yet illumination comes
when the darkness of night overtakes
We take pleasure in the heat
of flames (and friends) simply for own sake...
...like sputterings of contentment,
so softly nestled in each hiss and crack
(the choir of pine cones bearing witness
to all the days we'll never get back;
the future nights, never reached)
Up like the wisp of smoke
we've seen a thousand times before ... poof!
Gone like the fireflies we've caught and let slip,
jarred and un-jarred, as if repetition was our duty
(ain't that the truth)
The mysteries of the mind hiding such enchantment
at such vapid magic as this: wood burning
(in the center of a semi-circle) -searing,
as one would a bull,
on all who gaze upon its diabolical delight
These People! God up in heaven ... this Night!
Who could dare contemplate
the glory of this present moment ... how bright?
Like a pinewood ember longing to join
the likes of Leo, the party of Pisces,
so to does one's thoughts linger on eternity
and the Ever After -experienced in the Now
In the company of Capricorn
we cogitate the Cosmic Crafter
"But it's just a campfire," one might interject
"A couple logs and some heat ... nothing more!"
... and yet it sparks such intellect
From deep within (you know it to be true)
warm tendrils find their way (you can see it peeking through)
... to the surface, something ancient and new,
slippery and sure;
as mysterious as a mirror darkly (and yet oddly familiar)
And who could doubt the conclusion?
except those who never put flint to reed
and watched a Red Flower bloom
Yes, there is something mystical here
concerning this brew
of pine needles, deadwood and star laden dome roof
And yet the paradigm comes back again!
The age old question in quest for the truth:
"Who knows if magic exists,
if dreams comes true
and whether miracles takes place?"
I know it
And so do you
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2020
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