Among The Deepening Shades

Perceive this rag of bones,
This white stick man,
Roaming the night;
Baying softly to the darkened moon.

For what price his flesh congealed;
At what cost his passion spent.
A few bright words thrown to the winds;
Some paltry images from his dreamworld rent.

All transfigured; all debased;
All stripped to marrow; twisted; deformed.

What price, what profit,
What penance demands
That poets must end
As white stick men,
Content with the flesh of their poems.

Written the Fall of 1975 by James R. Hoye

Poet, Beggar - Beggar Poet

Poet, Beggar,
Beggar, Poet,
Crying
Poems, Alms,
Alms, Poems

When no words fill
The begging basket,
And no coins fill
The paltry soul,

He must go a-begging
Words and rags,
Tattered and worn
As a Beggar.

He must go a-begging,
Worn and tattered
Rags and words,
as a Poet.

And beg on,
And dream on,
Wasting away.....

Searching in vain
For a poem.

Written in Spring of 1970 by James R. Hoye

On Writing Poetry

What is the nature of this craft
At which I’ve toiled so many years, in vain,
Fettered by my cluttered  mind.

Why can’t I see and think in images.

Why have I slaved so long to find my voice,
And having found it, or thought I had,
Found that no one saw or heard.

I could, as well, have been content
To hear the splashing on my window,
Thinking of nothing more than rain.	

And, why couldn’t those tears of nature
Be more than colorless drops of water,
Held together by surface tension,
Erupting on each crystal  pane.

Why can’t I think in metaphor or simile.

I suppose I could tell of the robin
Bathing ‘neath my sprinkler
And staring at me challengingly,
Daring me to say a word,
Or in any way disturb his bath,
			        
As if I were the guilty one
For so intruding on his privacy
Even though the sprinkler was mine.

There must be meaning in that.

And I could write of
Being stranded between two railroad tracks
With scarcely room to stand
As moving freight trains passed me by
Rocking close enough to touch
And knowing that loose packing bands
Could slice and dice me like so much fruit

Such images perhaps will do

For,  I could even tell of
Speeding in my car,
Cut off by a Semi,
Yet making it to the other side unscathed
In some way I didn’t understand,
Despite oncoming traffic.

I should have died,
But did I teleport?
I’ll never know. 
			        
And perhaps that’s the nature of poetry.....
Searching for truth
In the things we see and do,

So maybe my muse will draw near again,
And my writing begin anew......

After all.

Written the Spring of 2004 by James R. Hoye

Once A Poet

Visiting past themes
As one grows older
Reflects no lack of inspiration.
				      
Themes change.
Perspectives change.

What was true at a point in time
May no longer be.
Or may be seen differently
Even if it is.

The world changes.....
As do we,
(Sufficient change
Calling for new viewpoints).

Everything old is new again......

And sometimes re-visiting the past
Brings joy in and of itself.
Like visiting old friends.
_________
			          
So, who should I first visit then?
My Ghosts, or course,
The Ghosts that led my hand,
And always will, I hope).

The need for guidance is strong again.
The time has come for new inspiration.
May my Ghosts watch over me,
And once more prove to be my friends.
________

And of what shall I write, then.....

The images that once ruled my brain
Hold power still.
________

Basilicas are still “Gay”
In the face of faith perverted,
And far too many faithful still fill such
In swarms.
________

Few come from the desert anymore,
Either in innocence 
Or purged by their trials,

Yet......

The snakes are still in the city,
Or in ourselves,
And NOT so simply purged.
________

Images, more than ever, rule
No matter the price paid in “Truth” or “Reality”,
And  President’s images still need preening,
Even in death,
Though they call it “spin-doctoring”, now.
________

The realities of war are
No more “pleasant” now, than once they were,
Nor the prices paid less harsh,
(On training ground, or battleground,
Or seen through time’s perspective).
_________
			
Prejudice still finds rebirth
In innocence corrupted by lessons taught
And by example.
________

Lost loves remain lost
No matter how fondly
The memories are revered,

(Yet love maintains its value.
Love maintains its appeal).
_______

Hypocrisy, in all its forms
Still “reigns” supreme		
And cries to be revealed.
_______

Minstrels still struggle,
Portraying the world,
In face of forces
That would silence their voices,
(But NEVER will).
_______

Old friends, old truths,
Thus visited again,
Re-making old connections,
Opening new doors,
Continuing journey’s once begun.
_______

Come my Ghosts,
There’s work to be done.

Written the Spring of 2004 by James R. Hoye

Reflections Upon Waiting For The Kernal Of Inspiration

How much I muse the clock away.
I fling my silence to the sun.
I meet my coffee, spoon by spoon.
I eat my pleasures, one by one.

I count the pelicans that fly
Across the sun's diurnal course.
I pin a paper where it lies
Beneath my pregnant pen of force.

But, pelicans fly, scarcely one,
And coffee lingers cold ere noon.
I fling my silence to the sun.
It flings it back - Ah! much too soon.

Written the Fall of 1965 by James R. Hoye

Renaissance

Long fled the words
That mirrored my youth,
The truths I'd viewed
Beneath the lies.

Long fled the dreams
I'd fed upon.
Long a'er my innocence
Had died.

Too oft' ignored,
That inner voice
That fueled my dreams
And filled my days,

Too often wrong,
The choices made,
When roads diverged
Along the way.

But then, a stranger's
Chance remarks,
By vagary
Of happenstance,

Conjured sweet memories
Of delight,
Reflected in 
A lady's glance
				
That brief encounter
In the night
Had served to draw
My muses near,

As though they truly
Ne’er had strayed
Thru all those 
Intervening years.

Then did my pen
Leap to my hand.
As if such things
Were meant to be.

In sweet release,
I wrote these words;
And found, again,
My poetry.

Written the Fall of 1997 by James R. Hoye