A place for prayer.
Hazel Target's Articles In Poetry » Page 2
June 9, 2007 by Hazel Target
Believe me, it's not even worth explaining.

My life is static, changing in fact
never in function. My life has
family-channel problems: no sex
or drugs or women or thugs just
money and boredom and tears.

My life is the commercials
of a really great show;
my audience is watching on mute,
throwing back popcorn and vodka
and trading whodunnit opinions
and I don't blame them for not caring.

My life is a joke, lame and obscure,
not even worth explaining.
June 7, 2007 by Hazel Target
People are like planets,
swallowing circumstance
in an immensity of inertia,
hurtling through darkness
with no guide but habit.

With my heart, with my thoughts,
with my life, I would move you;
but how does one move a planet?
How could I correct your course?

Our orbits meet only for a moment--
to be together have we any choice

but to collide?
June 2, 2007 by Hazel Target
Thank goodness
the line in the sand
has been obscured by
footprints, the conflict forgotten

thank heaven
the wall has crumbled
into piles of precious stones
scatters like beads
of a necklace

thank God
mistakes have faded
like the impression
on your side of the bed

(my heart burns
with the heat
of my apology.)
June 1, 2007 by Hazel Target
basically I am just
your average superhero
when the stars align
and the aces come
and the bob-tailed nag takes first

I have had my square-inches
of spot-light
and I have had
my telephone booth moments

so when fate sees fit
on occasion
to tear my wings
in mid-flight
I hold the scowl
drink the whiskey raw

because if everybody flew
the skies would be too crowded.
May 31, 2007 by Hazel Target
Distraction at the rate of
twenty-four frames per second
of sleeping-limb numbness
of pureed passion screen-bleeding
into hollow heads or hollow hearts
like a tire-plug, just enough to last
until that heart or head
can be replaced entirely.

Of all the things I own,
I love my television the best.
May 30, 2007 by Hazel Target
It's all I'm good at these days--
the systematic input of calories.
A screen and a spoon and I forget
what I cannot input: the smell
of your hair after a shower,
the playful battle for the top lip.

You'd be suprised
at how much I like eating,
and how little I enjoy it.
May 30, 2007 by Hazel Target
She was my fountain, my muse;
I was full of her lips grazing across mine,
brimming with hips consciously restrained.
She was not a deep well of joy,
but a wild ocean of an angel--
and I was special too,
because I knew.

I drank deep of happiness, for
the keeper of the source never thirsts.
I continued long after she left,
laid off without solace but
to quander my remaining fortune.

Then with poetry I scraped
everything I had left
like jam from a jar,
somehow not realizing
May 30, 2007 by Hazel Target
By this law I have lived:
one cannot be happy with another
if one is not happy with oneself.

But what self-improvement have I pursued
that was not to make myself desirable?
Do I wear chapstick for health,
or on the off chance that I meet someone tonight?

I wonder: could I be happy
alone on a desert island? Even if
I had no one, I could be whole.
Whole, like an amputee with phantom feet.
May 30, 2007 by Hazel Target
I have ridden my memories
like a bicycle one time
too many, and now they are
paint-faded rust-laden
lackluster rubish no
longer solid colors
except for the brick
red of iron oxide.
May 28, 2007 by Hazel Target
We last spoke the eleventh of may.
(Lovers never know the last kiss is the last.)
To us it was just one more day
discussing the drifting vectors of our lives,
comtemplating impending demise.

Loving you made me wish
I'd never loved before;
made me want to diminish
everything that came before you.

But "her" was not always you, my love.
That pronoun was once elsewhere directed,
and left behind the kind of memory
that leaves ghosts when killed.

It isn't fair to forget; after all, ...
May 27, 2007 by Hazel Target
I miss melancholy,
her tender advances
tingling like fingers
drawn across my cheek.

I miss the pang of desire,
her hand circumnavigating
the perimeter of my thigh;
I miss pretending I am
out of control, my stash hidden
just beneath my brain stem.

I miss misery; what a shame
that lost loves do not remain,
but simply fade away.
May 18, 2007 by Hazel Target
To learn to live
knowing we err--
the one meaningful apology.
May 17, 2007 by Hazel Target
Love was a cup of coffee,
hot and bitter and pungent;
it was excitement and relief;
it was our tour guide, our savior.

And we subsisted on it,
happily succumbing to addiction,
laughing when they called us addicts.
Caffeine is but chemical; coffee is more.

Then one day you set it atop the car
and drove off without a thought,
the mug teetering precarious
on every careless corner.

Our love is not waiting, my dear,
though it cools within reach,
every jolt and curve a cut closer
May 11, 2007 by Hazel Target
I used to believe love was a star,
a radiating globe of energy;
of cold blue light and red hot passion
and every spectrum in between.
--That when it expired, whether
in a brilliant apocolype of destruction
or a slow burn to irrelevance
or a permanent implosion,
there was nothing but to search the universe over
for another; for a brighter.

The sun is the brightest star in our sky.
The sun is the closest star to our earth.
The closest star is always the brightest.

But love may not...
May 3, 2007 by Hazel Target
what are tears
to me I do not cry
say cry me a river cry
me an ocean but the
ocean is here and it pounds
into my head relentless
the weakest point a hairline
fracture a single salty drop to
betray the hurricane.