Category Archives: poetry

dead

if i were to talk about my killing
what would i say?
what could i tell that would
alleviate the pain of
my ghost’s
soul?
what song would set me free
and find me flying
finally
to heaven?
what tricky story would wind
its legs around you
and run me far from
the smoking clutches of hell?
if i told you about
the day i was killed
and the way i was killed
truth would leak from this
crafted monastery of deception
and the whole of me
would crumble
and be lost on the
wind.

dead.   by denelle hobbs

*note*  this is NOT the poem i mentioned in a recent blogpost  “This girl might have been lost…”   that poem i am still looking for, but found this one today so thought i’d put this up instead

just me

Today it is me here
lying on my porch
face to the sky as I
listen
to the wind
sweeping through my
neighborhood
and nudging the trees,
encouraging them to
talk to me
once again.
Today it is me here
sharing space with
the world
as I study my trees
which have already begun
to change
into colors so vivid
my crayon box cannot
replicate them.
Today it is me here,
and I’m not vying for
this body
and it is only me for now
and this precious moment
is unique because
of the singularity
of voices
I hear inside.
Today it is me here
and I revel in this day
to myself
in the quietness of
the hour
and the stillness
of my usually
too chatty
soul.

little fella

there’s a demon in my belly

just dying to get out.

well ok

in reality

it’s in my ribcage

pounding against my heart and

throwing itself against my lungs.

sometimes i can feel it’s

long

skritchy nails

stretching up toward my throat

trying to gag me –

to silence me –

to choke the life out of me.

so i drink a gallon of water

to try to drown him out and

flush him away.

little creep.

relentlessly he

comes crawling back to me,

threatening to

assault my body

and invade me again

if i as much as open my mouth

and breathe.

c. 2009 denelle hobbs

 

goddess

Not always easy being me.

People don’t always get me.

Even my own people.

There’s something about me –

something magic –

That makes kitties want to sit on my

lap for a massage

That makes my team score when I cheer

and lose the game if I leave to go pee.

Something that makes the camel in the

zoo laugh at me and come closer to be

near me.

And I can’t change that.

I don’t want to.

Yeah, I’m my father’s daughter.

Yeah, I’m prone to fantasy thinking

and teetering on the border of

reality and insanity.

Yes – I jump in the pool and may

actually drown before I can swim

my way to the oasis.

But this is who I am.

Balls to the wall.

Heart on my sleeve.

Eyes in the sky.

I’m a believer

and a magician

and a lover

and

a

goddess.

I can’t be all that and rational too.

 

 

goddess

fast and furious

 

panic and fear race through my body,

Nascar drivers zipping around

moving too quickly

and smashing into everything i thought

was stable in there.

the littlest thing sets these guys off;

a dropped flag

a blown whistle

a sudden unexpected movement.

and the littlest thing could mean death;

the wrong move

the wrong turn

the wrong reaction to a situation.

and there is no way to stop them

till they have run the full course.

so i sit at the edge of my seat

gritting my teeth

shaking my leg

and wondering when this whole mess

will settle down.

breadcrumbs

 

In the dead of the night

while children are sleeping

I walk the wet grass

on tip-toeing feet.

Deep into the labyrinth

I fly like an angel

guided by starlight,

spurred on by heat.

My hair is a comet

that streams out behind me

The wings that I wear

are a gossamer white.

I chase down your shadow

and run from your memory

I drink to your fortune

and succumb to my plight.

I pour out my heart

and leave it before you

A scattering of breadcrumbs

to show you the way.

I sit in the center

of my dark, empty labyrinth

I call out your name

and bid you to stay.

skeletons in my closet

 

the skin is so tender there,

so soft, so smooth.

i’m surprised at how easily it

opens for me.

like grating cheese

or cutting off a pat of butter.

it just opens up ~

yielding ~

and offers my inner secrets to

the bathroom tile.

and out seep my skeletons,

and cascade to my feet

like a little gothic convention

gathering in the night.

and they

drip. drip. drip.

down to the ground

as though they have jumped from the

highest cliff

headlong

into the sea of grief

and sorrow

which is myself

and my skin.

and my bathroom floor.

which is now collecting these

secretive, skeletal remains

and is busy hiding the secrets

in cracks and

crevices.

a splash here, a splash there,

a little sticky clump on the

sink, even.

it clumps up so fast, into

stringy little ropes, which makes

me wonder ~

are the skeletons trying to

form a rope on purpose?

are they trying to climb back

up

into my head to keep

hiding from the world?

or are they just trying to kill me?

‘cuz i can do that myself.

another cup

 

saturday morning finds me

sitting in my doorway

listening to the pitter pat

of the falling rain,

and soaking up the cool

wind blowing on my face

and skin.

the sky is blanketed

in a quilt of clouds,

all different shades of

gray and silver.

and my bare feet long to

take me to the soft wet

grass

and through the cold

dirty gutters

of my youth.

but my city feet are

too tender now

and i turn back inside

for another cup

of coffee

and a blanket that

i hope will

cover up my sadness.

rightness

 

i’m in the wrong place at the right time.

i’ve never understood that idea or phrase,

thinking always that it meant

to be accidentally at the bank

at the moment it was being robbed

or to be finally sun bathing

in the nude

when a freak and heavy hailstorm hits

and you’ve only just gotten your

nipples pierced.

i didn’t know it meant this.

that i might be here

in this place …

the wrong place.

wrong for me in so many ways and

so many facets

and for so very many reasons a place

that is altogether not right.

yet it is quite the right time for me

to be wrong.

if ever there was a time

well suited for the wrongness

it is now.

and it is right,

this wrongness.

and thus the strange phrase finally

fits snugly inside my brain.

(written summer of 2009.  i think.  or fall.  maybe.)

ghosts and beer

 

God seems like a ghost

from a dream

long ago.

he always wants more

from me.

always asking for

more

and i’m

always having

to give.

sacrifice something.

toss him a bone.

throw in all my own self

own desires

give away all my

own personality

to feed the complex

of a god who says

he is

invincible.

how strong can he

really be

if my little life

breaks him down

and makes him

jealous

angry

vindictive?

little ole me?

am i that much of a threat?

so he yells and

simmers

and

gnashes his teeth

at me

while i go have

a beer

and wait for the

night to come.