The Heat
when we were young
and time was free,
our skin danced in bronze
crafted by sunlight’s constancy
our footsteps whispered
in fields of green and the distance
between us was a heartbeat,
caught in the hum of laughter
about something silly, I’m sure,
but now the reason is gone
as much as who we were,
once—when summer knew us best
for all I know now is heat,
how to harness it by air conditioning,
while seconds rise like goosebumps
to steal the rest of youth away
bronze serves as a bleak reminder
that sunlight cannot stay
Blue-Tip
lectured in the backyard
about how to start a fire
on coal with a match
statement: you know, they don’t
make the blue-tip ones anymore?
while thoughts whirl with wonder,
not sure if there’s ever been
a difference between one flame
and the scorching next,
my mind turns inward
to the certain knowledge
blazing there, ever fed,
and think how America’s flame
has slowly dwindled,
but I know there’s no way
a blue-tip will make much difference
on coal fading to ash,
so I sip Holland’s finest and say,
“ain’t that some shit?”
Gush
coffee talks most on mornings
after the night has maimed
what senses were gathered
in the shroud created
by day’s calm relief,
sure silk—sure foolishness,
and all the fabric rests
with as much happiness
as a whore’s soiled mini skirt
after Friday night’s contract
ends with a Wall Street jerk
my senses are cauterized
to stop the gush of thoughts
while coffee and daylight
wash my soul clean,
and I tell the night
to fuck off, and stop
fucking with my sleep
Only
“only” doesn’t exist
in a bent up, rusted,
two steps from being gone,
smothering, half-ass joke
of a heart, aching over
close ties and foundations
built on hope and roses
you’ve chosen to neglect
“only” exists in one flame,
one lighter, one perfect throw
to burn the only sad home
on a happy street, and watch
the flames lick away the lies
only I believed
Friday’s Fire Drill
Called out by silence
to stand in slippery-ass
grass
on a morning
of yawns and yarns
and a lazy yolk sun
that can’t even do its job.
[It’s fucking cold!]
Kid murders bubblegum,
shoots it about five feet away,
almost smacking the sidewalk.
Good aim, kid, good aim.
Even out here,
we’re divided
like the military,
like Congress.
Who am I kidding?
Everything’s divided these days.
Sorry, Ben.
If these people only knew
how crazy it was,
standing around
because of imaginary flames
when we’ve got a clear view
of the door.
Dumbass fire drill.
H. Holt has been published by various magazines and blogs, including The Blue Mountain Review, Eunoia Review, Yellow Chair Review, Hobo Camp Review, and Ishaan Literary Review. She has been published in “Stone, River, Sky: An Anthology of Georgia Poems,” alongside former president Jimmy Carter, among others. Holt serves as the managing editor for Walking Is Still Honest Press; and is also the one-woman show behind Southern Muse Services, which is a business dedicated to artistic renderings, where she takes works from other poets and puts them to digital art. Holt is a full-time student, full-time employee, and a full-time member of The Southern Collective Experience with dreams of writing the next great American novel.
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