Rusty Confidences
She had the rusty confidence of an older woman
who had fixed her mirror at 23
no later images allowed
as she took in my face
and allowed
those beautiful eyes of hers
to wander down and over me
lingering longer than a lady's eyes should
which made them into bedroom eyes
which she did not seek to conceal
looking up to see me looking into those eyes
having their forbidden views
but she didn't mind that I knew and understood
their meanings and intents
while I could see she could see
me the younger man
learning lessons from her
and she guessed
needed what she had to teach,
if I could get pass her lined face
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Word
If I make a word
it is first sculpted from letters
on the page
a canvass across which
letters skate
from margin to margin transforming
into meanings and sentences
which give us art, science, poetry
and civilization.
This is created from an arbitrary entity,
the scratchings we call letters
which in turn form yet another
mysterious entity we call the alphabet.
What manner of miracle is this?
All of civilization is born from
these scribbly scratchings?
So if each letter is an imaginary entity,
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Silly Musing, Slow Days and Uncle Dan
If everyone lost everything in the depression-
who did they lose it to? Who had money?
If Adam and Eve were the first people
who did the kids marry?
Every time someone says
'Now I am not bragging on my self'
expect some self-bragging is going to be happening soon.
Do fish drink water?
What do you call the top of your foot?
Everyone can't be better than everyone else;
that makes no sense.
Everyone can't be worse that everyone else;
that makes no sense.
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Fiction and Truthiness
He said:
'The best fiction reminds us of what truth ought to be
and simultaneously calls that truth into being
if it doesn't yet exist.
Poetry is heightened awareness of that Fiction-Truth
heightened because we often are blind to truths we need.
Story telling is the art form which reminds us we are in fact
a small band before the fire, holding back the dark. There we invent
stories of hope to get us through the night.
The writer lives inside what-is- not- yet as a hedge against bad times
which may currently exist, and preserves for the future precious meanings murdered sometimes by the present.
Speaking is a capacity of the thorax, writing is the way the soul speaks.
When speech is silenced we only have our imaginations against bad times and this has saved the world time and time again.
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Love Me?
If my actions are blind to me
when others react
that reaction I take as blasphemy
unjustly given and a mystery.
If I am blind and not remember
when I kicked the dog
then the snarling dog
barking at me
seems totally unforeseen.
If often repeated
I apply doggie discipline
not seeing
that in each instance
my unremembered action of kicking the dog
is directly related to the dog
snarling at me.
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Uncle Dan Rides Again
Real men aren't afraid of affection
Real women aren't afraid of sex
Never give a crazy man a gun
just because he asks for it;
don't tell the truth if it will be used to murder someone.
If you want to be beautiful
learn to smile.
It is not enough to be right
especially if you use it against others:
then it is a wrong.
Remember your children
are smarter than you
till they become teens;
then not so much
Be nice to people
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Question Anyone
We have in life
a surfeit
of those who step to the mark
to declare
what should and can be done.
Ideas pour
from their open mouths
enunciating in grave tones
and solemn decrees
making claim
to the Wisdom
of the Knowledge Tree.
Regard these not
or follow those
who claim Secret Lore
and urge 'follow me.'
Hard Truth:
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Jobism-According to Uncle Bob
'Jobism'
he said
'the real disease of the 2Oth century'
Bob was warming up to the topic.
'Now you take my grandfather,
what he wanted was his own piece of land
the ability to run his own life
he didn't work all his life for a job.
He worked for land and the independence
that land meant.
It has been that way for all of history of the human race.
From the cave man marking up the cave walls
to the rancher, the farmer
and the homesteader,
all we have ever wanted was a piece of land
to call our own.
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Who You Calling Shorty
I am the short girl who
is always at the end of the line
looking up at the shoulders of others
and I don't' like that.
All the models are tall and have long legs
me, I'm short and made to feel like a child
especially when standing in line staring at backs.
I am the short girl.
So I stand back when tall people approach
so as to not have to crane my neck looking up
I like shorter men most times for the same reasons and more
I have learned to resent the tall shelves built into my kitchen
and subway straps which stop too short
for me to reach.
Overly tall heels make me look like a stork walking
and hurt my feet;
I am the short girl
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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A Spring Bud
She was without her Spring
seeming born from childhood to only Winter Cold
and I was drawn to her for that reason, it seemed.
I'd hoped for a manufactured Autumn in her
from my own intense desire of it and that
could by mere exposure melt her glacial-ness
and she would then be unable to resist
the Fire I had in-born for her;
that mere proximity was translative to her breasts
to her glassy eyes, her breath in-drawn
by-passing her stony regard
and the challenge she took for anyone to reach
her inside ice-berg which floated on what must
have been the Arctic Seas her Soul sailed.
I drew near, more confused as to my being
prey or preyed and she watched me in her mind's eye
advance my hand slightly to feign to touch her's by mistake,
ready to embrace or withdraw and pretend it was all accident-
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poem by Lonnie Hicks
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