A place for prayer.
Hazel Target's Articles
May 2, 2008 by Hazel Target
Normal 0 false false false EN-US X-NONE X-NONE I stood framed in your doorway,arms like Samson side-to-sidebraced against the collapseof fragile resolve. Warmth and apprehensionsettled easily into my stepand when I finally reached youI found I was holding my breath. You were so peacefulin your cloth cocoonthat...
February 21, 2008 by Hazel Target
We are synchronicity
Pattern emerged from chaos
As the winter robes the ground
In crystal lace and ivory furs

You are serendipity
The grinning bias of circumstance
When nocturnal pens joined our Horizons
I did not yet recognize my muse

I am blessed
Which is what Haitians say
When their hearts glow brilliant with hope
And their minds throb thickly with doubt

I am grateful
Which is what the Japanese say
When atonement is less than it seems possible to ask
And more than it seem...
January 21, 2008 by Hazel Target
I’m told hearing is the vibration of tiny hairs
tiny fragile hairs swimming in yellow fluid
twitching and clenching to the beat of life's roar

like the wasted boxer with lifeless eyes
a handful of hits for the knock-out
and every fall is a high-pitched tone
the last shriek of a dying nerve

I remember the stomach-twisting boil
the first hair of innocence tearing away
the pounding of lonely adolescent hearts

two bodies ruined together, forever
waves crashing together, dissipating ...
November 12, 2007 by Hazel Target
blood or tears, darling;
anything but stillness
steal not thy pain,
shield not thy weakness:

I would adorn thy perfection
like jewels in a crown;
but think me not fragile
relegated to your gilt boxes

for as thou art wounded
I would be thy bandage
as thy muscles weaken
I would be thy repast

do not think me too proud
to be thy pillow;
too weak to be thy shield

and were I either do not think
I would not rather be broken
than yearn alone for you.
November 11, 2007 by Hazel Target
There are so many things I can't tell her. It's ironic, because I can tell her anything. Just not everything.

You see, she is scared to death of love. This is not an interpretation, she has told me. But that's all right, I told her. Slow is good. Maybe better. The upshot is that all relational issues are dealt with over long periods of time, one at a time. And so they accumulate: I need her to communicate more. I need her to stop attacking the personal preferences that I'm insecure a...
September 8, 2007 by Hazel Target
When mascara runs from your cheeks
like mud from filthy streets
and your hair holds its shape
like a plastic mold

when your knees buckle beneath
the weight of integrity
and prone you wait
unfeeling, unthinking

when your eyes darken
distorted by pain
and grief sets
your tongue aflame

Trust me
to see your beauty
August 3, 2007 by Hazel Target
damp hair, shower soaked
blonde roots barely showing
the smell driving me wild

your precious satin lips
like virgin veins of gold
desire holding me still

I still imagine, sometimes
when love disturbs my peace
that you still belong to me
June 23, 2007 by Hazel Target
A heart-shaped love was what I wanted
a love to wear like a bullet-proof vest
What would I give for you?
What would I give up for you?
Anything--except my heart.
Steal away my piano--
if you love me what else matters?
Hide away my religion--
I need nothing else but you.

But the heart is an organ
throbbing with delicate need
and demands of its own.
Your love was too small
and the air and blood ran dry
until my breath caught short
and my heart siezed up.

These days I...
June 22, 2007 by Hazel Target
breathe me in like morning mist
choke on the ether of my memory
feel my breath on the hairs of your neck
spin 'round to catch my ghost fleeing

like a lodestone holding your heart
I call in the voice of dead passion
for my pain I would never release you
for my love would imprison you always

reduce the dream to tragedy
feed us both the poison pose
our bodies robbed of vigor skin
as pale as spectres for the photo

no--I let you go already
you have strayed far out of range
I guard...
June 18, 2007 by Hazel Target
I am always one step ahead.

At five I dreamed of ten,
PG movies, better toys
tall enough to see over counters
and finally too old for tears.

At twelve I dreamed of seventeen
cars and parties and women
wisdom equal to my decisions
and finally too old for tears.

At twenty I dream of thirty
success and a child of my own
a family and home to die for
and finally too old for tears.

But my dreams suffer
from false adversing.
I am still the same child
crying as science-set acid
June 17, 2007 by Hazel Target
I remember being homeless
how my spirit ached for peace
I remember wanting, needing
passion dimmed by darker hungers
than I'd ever seek to fill.

I remember shadowed corridors
the kind that crawls with paramours--
the ones I thought I'd buried
I feigned freedom as I carried
rusted needles filled with freedom
bottles brimmed with thick release

For demons are like loves: they never die.
June 16, 2007 by Hazel Target
Karen aka Dharmagrl,

Though I don't do much posting, I read your articles regularly. Thanks for your contributions. I wrote this poem in your honor (also posted on a similar thread by foreverserenity).

~The Hazel Target

From one who knows
birthdays are not events
but excuses, brief
exclamation points
in life's chaotic prose:

may your reflection be gentle
may your lover be close
may your indulgence be harmless
may the dreams that spur you onward
be placed within your reach; ...
June 15, 2007 by Hazel Target
How beautiful is brevity
the second form of rarity
like ripples sway down glossy hair
in motion is its strength.

No man on death will gladly dwell
but by its fear does love compel
how sad if sunset's crimson flare
like life were cursed with length.
June 14, 2007 by Hazel Target
To my bride:
this last day is lethal
we make our vows
now while magic bows
beneath the weight
of worlds combining.

To my wife:
this echoed oath
rings truthful still;
as the saints are saved
and baptized, so I swear
and declare for all to know

that I love
and will
always love.
June 13, 2007 by Hazel Target
Every so often
I shed my shades,
lift my lids to the blinding lights--

for of all the ways
that my back has been stabbed,
hope was the strangest knife.