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
  • 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
  • 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
  • White Flag

    Photo by Tara Winstead on Pexels.com
    Sometimes the only strength required is raising the white flag and asking for help, but that is the most courageous act a person can take.
    ~By Hyacinth Hale
  • Pillow Fort Fortress

    Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com
    Why is love pain?
    I cut myself open just to heal you,
    But you turn your back,
    And say that you don’t need saving,
    The tears rolling down your face
    Tell a different story,
    And so the story goes
    Until I trip and stumble,
    You try to pick me up, and
    I’m too hard headed and hurt
    To let you, my pride my down fall,
    So pots and pans,
    And plates and glasses,
    And words are tossed; until,
    Arms and legs and lip
    Are entangled in the sheets
    I bought and you hate,
    Under the sheets, 
    Our pillow fort fortress,
    Our entangled peace treaty,
    Where friendly fire is encouraged, 
    Where the world melts away in your arms, 
    And the problems of yesterday 
    Are tomorrow’s problem, 
    All that matters is the smell of your skin, 
    And the heat in your touch, 
    And the taste of your lips, 
    As you recommit your love to me, 
    And we heal what bonds us together
    ~By Hyacinth Hale
  • Left Unanswered

    Photo by cottonbro on Pexels.com
    Sometimes there are no more answers, and you just have to accept what is. No matter how bitter and painful not knowing is.
  • Advice to Young People

    Photo by Tima Miroshnichenko on Pexels.com
    My advice to young people. Ask questions. Ask a lot of questions. Think for yourself. Never forget to be kind to others. Don't be afraid to work hard for your dreams, and when you make it, be humble and gracious. Above all, never forget to praise God; especially, in the hard times because that is when you need Him the most. 
  • Broken Vessel

    Photo by Anna Chaykovskaya on Pexels.com
    I was fractured, and you were supposed to be my healer, 
    Instead, you shattered my existence,
    Lost, broken, I let you go free, 
    So that I would be left somewhat intact, 
    I wanted you gone, but you never left my mind, 
    Always lurking in the back of it, 
    Popping out in the most inconvenient times,
    When someone grabs my shoulder from behind, it’s you,
    When someone whispers next to me, it’s you, 
    Every man that smiles at me, it’s your smile,
    When I close my eyes, I see you,
    I hesitate to wear my favorite lipstick 
    Because you liked it so much,
    There is not an inch of my life that you did not slither into, 
    Wrap yourself around my throat as I scream, 
    Choke what’s left of my dignity out of me, 
    And leave the scars to mark me, 
    I am enslaved to you even as a free woman 
    As you still walk unencumbered,
    A decision I made to keep the peace, 
    But I’m not sure whose peace, 
    Your pieces are still with me, 
    And a piece of my flesh will always be 
    A trophy on your mantle, 
    Something to mount as your victory, your conquest, 
    Even though the rest of me escaped, 
    A small price to pay for the freedom I have now,
    Now, I glue back my broken pieces, 
    And figure out how the pieces you left behind fit in,
    I am no longer whole without you,
    But that does not mean you get to change 
    The tides of the water I carry inside, 
    Though right now it is dark and stormy,
    One day, one day, you will only be a gentle breeze 
    That blows through the cracks,
    Easily remembered, easily forgotten,
    Leaving my life unaffected, 
    and the ability to smile and mean it
    By Hyacinth Hale
  • As My Body Heals

    Photo by SHVETS production on Pexels.com
    My illness is the worst and best thing to ever happen to me. As my body heals, it allows my heart and soul to heal as well.
  • The Secrets We Keep

    The secrets we keep,
    Both juicy and sweet,
    The poison we hold inside,
    Not to infect the naïve and unassuming,
    Some for personal gain,
    Some for others protection,
    We all pay a price,
    Some of worth,
    And others for no reason
    Because the stakes are
    So low if only to keep some
    Small part of your life to yourself,
    Secrets, some were born into them,
     A family filled with skeletons in the closet,
     And webs of lies swaddling innocence,
    Others grow into their secrets as
    They grow ashamed of their true flawed self,
    Some are secret keepers, sin eaters,
    Sharing the burden and lightening the load,
    One thing we know for sure,
    There is a version of ourselves
    That not even our closest friends and family know,
    Sshhhhh! Careful the secrets you keep,
    And those you let loose,
    One wreaks havoc on your insides,
    The other effects those around us,
    And the perception they have of us,
     Though the older I get,
     The more important truth is,
    And the less I care what people think of me,
    Life is funny that way, 
    Still, I will take secrets to the grave,
    Leave my loved ones wondering,
    Spare them the pain I bore for them,
    A painful kindness,
    That I never understood
    In my elder loved ones,
    Until I got older,
    Until life weathered me,
    Until life carved me,
    And gutted me,
    And I had to protect
    Those who could not
    Protect themselves
    Including myself,
    Let my lips curl,
    And my jaw clench,
    And my heart heave,
    Let the knowing smile
    Make people wonder,
    I will take the bile,
    And churn a secret pearl,
    Collect them in a
    Roaring stomach ocean,
    Too many, and they will claw my insides,
    Too many, and some our bound to climb up,
    And spew out my mouth,
    Out of preservation, out of survival,
    Some words, some bile, some pearls,
    All secrets, all secrets I have kept
    And paid the price,
    Some I even swallow again
    The price too great not to keep it under wraps
    To the grave, to the grave, to the grave I say!
    ~ By Hyacinth Hale
  • Free Will

    Photo by Ric Rodrigues on Pexels.com
    The more you pray to see the world as God does. The more you see the joy and pain of free will.

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