Photo by Polverini Lian on Pexels.com

About the Artist:

Hi everyone, welcome to Hyacinth Hale Poetry! I am a poet who focuses on freeform and narrative poetry. I encourage you to read my poetry aloud to your friends, your family, your lovers, and even yourself. Poetry is meant to be experienced through sight, sound, emotion, through yours and the author’s imagination. Please, browse through my collections of poetry at the top of the page, and scroll down the home page for feature poems. Feel free to discuss the poetry in the comment section. Thank you for coming on my journey and experiencing my poetry with me. Don’t forget to subscribe to the newsletter for the latest posts, poems and content below!

Photo by Emel karku0131n on Pexels.com

The Hyacinth Fields

The wind billows through the hyacinth fields as the bees make their rounds pollinating each and every bud. I arch my back stretching and taking in the view as I sit under a tree, and I feel the wind wisp my hair. I am most alive here. I am most myself. Life flows from the gentle tendrils of the hyacinth as the fog clears and the sun breaks ever so gently through the clouds. The hyacinth mothers nature caressing the hummingbird as it drinks the morning dew.

I am amused by the sheer magnetism of the hyacinth; it attracts, it repels, it dances in the wind, a many colored dervish almost as if in prayerful and careful worship. The wind carries the sweet fragrance of the hyacinth, and it envelopes me. It reminds me of reading books in the shady hyacinth fields, reminds me that even the sweetest most sensuous of life’s bounties can also be poisonous.

When I live, let me live with a hyacinth tucked behind my ear bold and delicate with unabashed beauty. When I love, let me love with hyacinth kisses soft and supple kissed over and over again like the bursting of its blooms in spring. May I never forget that love when winter comes. And when I am laid to waste, let me hold a singular hyacinth in my hands. A reminder that I am not of this world. That my decaying corpse is not the end. Let me live in the hyacinth fields where the wind billows and the fragrance flows and the hyacinth are a plenty!

*1 This poem is inspired in part by T.S. Eliot's poem "The Wasteland" from The poetryfoundation.org, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/47311/the-waste-land.
Photo by Chris F on Pexels.com
  • Advice to Young People (New Graphic Art Version)

  • Broken Vessel (New Graphic Art Poem)

  • As My Body Heals (New Graphic Art Version)

  • The Secrets We Keep (New Graphic Art Version)

  • Free Will (New Graphic Art Version)

  • Your Touch (New Graphic Art Version)

  • I left a Man in the Smokies

    Somewhere in the Smoky Mountains 
    Is a man I left behind years ago,
    Now, with a wife and kids,

    I scroll Facebook startled by the luminous Glow
    Of his happy family displayed before me,
    And I am instantly transported
    Ten years into the past,
    Wondering what the outcome could have been if I was more emotionally fearless,
    And he a little more courageous,
    But we were young, barely adults,
    Still in our early twenties,
    Still sticking to life plans we formed as Children,

    No, we had our chance,
    And we both played chicken,
    Swerving right before the cataclysmic car Crash,

    We both blamed timing,
    But for me, in the end, it was fear,
    I let him go because I was not ready to be a Wife,
    To support him in the way a husband Deserved,
    And I stopped loving him because he could not Make a choice between me and his current Wife,
    And I would never want to question my Partner’s loyalty,

    So, I left the mystic Smokies for the brusk Roar of the ocean, and salty sun kissed skin,
    And set out on my own adventure,

    A thousand miles apart, and ten years have Passed, sitting at my computer desk,
    I do not regret letting him go,
    Nor do I regret the memory of him,
    Nor do I hate his wife and family and their Success,
    I just drink my coffee and let the smoky haze Of the past wash over me like a wave,
    And listen to the roar of the ocean,
    I am grateful for the time we had,
    And the lessons I learned,
    And the life I have now,
    And the life I have yet to lead

    ~ By Hyacinth Hale
  • Strawberry Shortcake

    The waiter comes to our table with a menu        “Dessert?
    We could not possibly!” I say,
    My husband looks intently into my eyes and Says, “Yes! We will take a menu”,
    Years of saving pennies and fad diets are Behind us now,

    We finger the menu together,
    Going line by line, ingredient by ingredient,
    Sitting closely, hair raised on our arms,
    As if we were transported back to the malt Shop where we had our first date,
    No strawberry malts listed on the menu,
    We settled for strawberry shortcake instead,

    The dish came, a slice of cake as big as my Head, strawberries as big as my eyes,
    The cake dripping in sauce the color of my Salivating tongue,
    A playful dollop of whipped cream begs for my Finger to dive into it,
    And a mint leaf spreads it’s foliage over top As garnish,

    My husband nudges the plate toward me,
    Taking pleasure in watching me eat,
    Taking pleasure in me reveling in new Sensations I had never experienced before,
    How quickly we have forgotten to take time For simple pleasures,

    I plunge the fork into the cake,
    Dangling a chunk in front of my husband, Teasing him,
    Inviting him to taste what I have,
    Pulling him closer and closer to me until,
    He succumbs to temptation, kissing the Strawberry I carved out for him,
    I wipe the crumbs from the corner of his Mouth,
    And he playfully wipes a Dollop of whip cream On my nose,
    Then he wipes it away with the same napkin,

    My head found rest on his shoulder,
    The cake found a new home in a to go Container to be eaten later,
    My husband quietly paid the bill,
    Holding me tight with one arm and handling Business with another,
    We made our exit,
    Strawberry short cake in tow,
    To be used at our discretion,
    Whenever we need a reminder of simple Pleasures

    ~ By Hyacinth Hale
  • Weeding is a Thankless Task

    The flower does not thank the weed-eater,
    The one that single-handedly plucks each toxicity from wrapping around it’s stem,
    And choking the life out of it,
    Nor does it thank the weed-eater
    For obliterating the weeds that took root, Stealing its nutrients,
    Sucking the life out from under its feet,
    Giving the illusion of propping it up,

    No, after the weeds are gone,
    The flower is left naked and alone, vulnerable,
    The weed-eater has done it’s job,
    And the flower is left to face the terminal heat, and the harsh drought,
    And on occasion,the deluge of rain,
    And the many, many predators who want it’s nutrients,

    It’s now time, to see if the flower is strong enough to take root or if it so easily withers,
    The flower sways in the wind,
    But does not tumble,
    It takes in the sunshine,
    But is not scorched by its heat seeking rays, The flower drinks its fill,
    But does not drown in the tears of the collected pain of the earth,

    The flower is armed with charm and beauty, And it attracts bees to pollinate, procreate,
    More flowers just like this singular bud bursting forth pedal after pedal proliferate,
    A testament to it strength and desire for survival,

    Though the flower is thriving,
    It never forgets what it took to get there,
    The weeds that tried to suffocate the life before it began to really live,
    And the weed-eater who thanklessly plucked each thorn from its chlorophyll side

    Make no mistake the flower will wither away,
    It will succumb to the harshness of its environment,
    It will be plucked for its beauty, crushed for its poisonous iniquity, or dust the earth with the fragrance of a life lived, crumbled like potpourri as mulch to nurture the essence of life again,

    The dichotomy of the temporality and the eternality of this singular flower,
    a representation of our universal presence and placement in time and space,
    It begs the question why?
    What’s the purpose of a flower?

    There are several in fact,
    Flowers provide clean air to breath,
    They provide sustenance for the birds, the animals,
    Medicine to heal wounds,
    If nothing else, the flower generates beauty,
    But none of it can happen if there is no one to quietly and thanklessly weed what was planted,
    So it can become what it was meant to be

    ~ By Hyacinth Hale
  • Patchwork Quilt

    Photo by olia danilevich on Pexels.com
    I wish I could remember all of you,
    But what I am left are just fragments,
    Some sweet, some bitter, some angry,
    All withstanding the test of time,
    If you asked me to describe you
    From head to toe, I couldn’t.
    I could only describe the furrow
    Of your brow when you felt insecure,
    Or the intensity of your eyes 
    When you desired me,
    Or the gape of your smile at its peak
    When you help others,
    Or the soft strength of your bicep
    As it brushed against my cheek
    When you tucked me into bed once,
    The gentle rise and fall
    Of your chest as you sleep,
    Unassuming, not a care in the world,
    I remember the pattern of your leg hair,
    And how I wanted to run my fingers through it
    From your calves up to your thighs,
    I remember you inside me,
    The feeling, the sound,
    The weight of your body over mine,
    How your body enveloped me,
    And safely cuddled me after,
    I cannot remember every word you said,
    Or full conversations we had,
    I just remember singular sentences 
    Like “never say never”,
    Or the fact that you forced me so hard
    To learn your language without first easing me into it,
    Sometimes, what I remember most
    Is the “uhs” and the “ums”
    That you inserted in between sentences,
    Unsure of your place in the world
    Yet alone our conversation,
    I mainly remember, all the words
    You never told me like “I love you”,
    Even if deep down inside you meant it,
    You never told me,
    I remember those small moments,
    Literally milliseconds, snapshots of who you are
    Because I never had all of you, just a piece,
    You never let me have all of you,
    I still carry the pieces of the men
    That they freely gave me,
    Like a patchwork quilt
    Until a man’s love can cloak my whole heart,
    And give me the warmth and safety I deserve
    ~By Hyacinth Hale

2 thoughts on “Home

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s