Connor’s Song

When his heart stopped

hers stopped too,

no longer beating rhythmically-

erratic, all out of sync.

Tears would not cry

for to cry would be to admit

his precious heart was still,

so she let hers beat more

and all at once

it could bear it no more.

For if she let it pound within,

her chest would surely burst

holding this heart

that tries to beat for two.  


Slowly a rhythm of life

will restore within this cavity

where pounding is now laboured,

calmed only in remembrance

of his musical fetes

echoing throughout the house

when he lay his masterpieces to sheet;

for out they poured,

and out they sang,

from his magical, rhythmical heart

that bears the only music that will accord

a mother’s anguished, out of sync heart;

for she remembers his heart beating within her,

she felt their hearts beating as one –


The rhythmic joys that sing out

in memory of this great song

springing from his poetic soul,

and tunes her heart’s cadence now,

listening to his eternal,

heartfelt song.

 August 2012


What if I removed
All expectation…

Tore down
All walls…

And filled up with
All possibilities…

All doors…

and letting life flow in.

I Must Become

To conquer
the enemy within,
I must become
the warrior without.

How sad it makes me when humankind is reduced to such careless prose:

Recent story:

Little brown-eyed adolescent girl
sitting on the floor, eats rice
from her eight by eight foot
imprisoned life

Dear Mr. “It’s been a part of their culture a thousand years.”:

Tell that to the brown eyes,
peering over a client’s shoulder, dehumanized.
Her life does not span a 1,000 years,
her heart aches here.

You would not last a day in her shoes
with your calloused heart reduced
to telling yourself what you find necessary
in order to dismiss her  dignity.
For if you dared to let the pain
touch your cauterized heart,
its diminished size would burst.

For it could not contain the pain across 1,000 years
enslaved in culture, tradition, or poverty,
it matters not; she remains enslaved for life
while you pose comfortably behind
your anonymous name and gilded life
spew malice enervating humankind.

White-washed sight does not extricate
the rotting decay left to accumulate
Dear Mr. “This is how they want it”:
Where is your human dignity
to defile the thousands in whose memory
now immortalized your right
to your diluted thoughts blindly
imprisoning you in your own mind?

here, now

the future, distant.
yesterday’s  time spent and gone.
here, now, forever.

Alice would be lost
where even dreams multitask
down this rabbit’s hole

Kaleidoscope Spring –
my mind flows with breezes in
beautiful daydreams.

Join in “allaboutlemon’s” Art Game: For the Love of Haiku 3 at:

drink and eat Hope

they are the children

who drink Hope

bathed in dust,

and eat Hope’s

arid whispers,

from dry thunder’s

promised dreams,

in distant clouds

that rain only tears –

onto parchment skin.


A. Hoyt
April 2012