House of Heart by Holly Rene Hunter (best life changing books .TXT) 📕

Karlsbad

n secluded thoughts you are standing on a bridge wearing faded jeans.

A jacket of hunter green hangs loosely over a sweat shirt that reads“universität Ludwig”.

A paper bag is in your hand and your eyes are glazed over,

going to or coming from a trip. You don’t bother with declarations.

Your memory stacks in layers like bone and skin.

Words drip like raindrops between open mouth kisses.

I keep the memories, nothing is left behind,

they stream through my mind dripping from my eyes.

Absolution

I choose a dense dress
that covers my ankles.
Forcing down my budding breasts
puts the pastor at ease.


In my mind I am the virgin Mary,
with ribbons, I tie back red-
the root of all evil.
Beneath the river
dark water steals
my breath-
Dying here;
awaiting rebirth.


Yet, the cleansing doesn’t come.
Soaked and solemn in the sun,
I loosen wet ribbons.

In The End

She has given her all,

left with bruises and bones

protruding through her paper skin.

She has given all she has

with nothing left but a raging volcano

that screams out secrets that she meant to keep.

Longing for shelter, she is sinking into mire.

November, deliver her from winter’s cold and the indignity of need.

confession

I hand out confessions like candy. Creating chimera for fun. Secreted fishnet and bustier,  hanging on a hook behind a door. Flying to Paris in a trench coat sans luggage.

the comet 

It was late in the year,

I recall the strung lights along the city streets

loose gemstones encircling palm trees.

I was learning quickly about sickness and death

and that it is  impolite to speak of disease.

At times I conversed with my dog.

His sad eyes bestowed empathy.

Honorably, he  kept our talks confidential.

To divert my reality, I received a pink scooter,

I remember the helmet was too big.

There were nights when he would read to her.

by  the dim light of her  fading comet.

The Monarch

From my swing

I spot the Monarch

sipping from a nectary,

gently I snare him

by his dew drenched wings.

Does he know his fate

lies in my hand?

Clutched between my fingers

imagine how his heart must pound.

The Trunk

In my attic is an old gray military trunk holding memories and useless paraphernalia. It would cross the seas before me, wait for me to happen upon it.

I was excited when I spotted the time capsule. I searched until I found the rusty little key that fit its dead bolt. Struggling with it for a while, I managed to Pull the heavy lid up to be greeted by the scent of eighteen years of mold and mildew.

My physical body departed and looked down on me from beams above, watching as my hands picked gingerly Through items of interest placed in the grey tomb long ago.

A year book filled with signatures, promises to not forget, to stay sweet. Postcards from far away countries, some with messages to friends, mostly blank. The arc de triomphe, the Louvre, and the Grande Place in Brussels. Pictures of a pregnant girl on a bus bench, looking tired and miserable, the Eiffel Tower In her background. That same girl hanging wet clothes in a different attic, her hand on a watermelon belly, smiling as though she owned the world.

Beneath German beer steins with pewter lids and handles, wrapped neatly in musty German newspaper, lay a yellowed envelope. Inside was a rumpled marriage license, folded neatly beneath it, a divorce decree. Memories flooded me and I stood in the waterfall, tears mingling with its white foam. Placing the items into their rightful places, I lingered a moment with a picture of a young girl. She was smiling, her innocent eyes A blank canvas.

Black Bear

Riding the open road on my bike is freedom personified. The solidarity and camaraderie among our band of bikers is a relationship like no other. The danger of damage and loss is real and yet some reasoning defect compels us to take that risk understood only by those afflicted. Following processions for fallen comrades we weep at grave sites as though some natural course has taken place. We then ride on in their honour.

The Black Bear Byway is an extraordinary ride. Its sixty miles of highway through the vast Ocala National Forest is a breath taking experience by any means and particularly on motorcycle. Wildlife flourishes here. Scrub-jays and woodpecker are plentiful. Spotting deer , fox, and countless endangered species a joy. The native flora is a sensory delight. The area is home to the largest population of Black Bear in the United States. Unfortunately they are often found as road kill along this highway. The peril of riding here on motorcycle is not lost on us.

The fragrance of pine surrounds us as we travel. Generally pleasing, the strong scent is at times overwhelming to the senses. The highway lies in shade and chilly November breeze makes for a pleasant ride. Leathers are the rule today as we tour in cadence. Oncoming riders reach an open hand to us, a sign of brotherhood among bikers, reaching out and sharing an experience.

The sunset to our west is splendid. Lilac sky fades to soft blue, resting on blazing orange slices at the horizon. Vibrant flashes of crimson flicker through the pines as though the forest has been set ablaze. This glorious sight reminds us that night is approaching and only the reckless would ride here on two wheels after dark. Reluctantly we depart this exotic habitat. We look forward to riding this extraordinary region again, to renew our spirits in nature’s paradise.

Neon Window
 
 

 my eyes have lost

their sheen...

I am a dead thing.

They whisper and make gestures,

leering punks vie for my attention.

My cigarette, a distraction as

I search among the faces for you.

The traffic is slow,

a few tourists,

mostly looking, not buying.

hard times have taken its toll on carnality.

The snapshot stirs my anger,

there is rent to consider.

I dig in my pocket for your note.

Liar…

Men call all the shots.

Tears well up but remain fixed.

I hate you.

Smiling sweet at the young fellow;

don’t go…come on.

The red lights dim, head lowered

he follows.

I place the euros in my pocket with your note.

Do you like Amsterdam?

Swallowing hard he says I am beautiful.

The light reflects off my face

and burns my eyes.

I fondle the pay in my pocket.

The night is not a total waste.

In A Dark Room

It was my eighth birthday.
She did not come to the table.
I carried cake to her room on a paper plate.
Her beloved tapestry hung heavy
shutting out the light.
She was accustomed to the dark.

I didn’t sit with her those days,
her pain frightened me.
My small shoulders needed her touch
but I could not endure her suffering.
My smile would lift the corners of her lips,
she would then drift away.

In the photograph I am wearing a new dress.
I adored its lacy bodice and satin sash.
He picked it out himself. Later, my grown up eyes
dissolved in the pain of his etched face,
our photo with an empty space,
dying in a darkened room.

The Park

(short story) 

I follow him for some time, fascinated by his shabby sweater, cheap shoes, expensive attaché. At the park he sits down  on a bench, opened  his  brief case and pulled out a sandwich and apple. I sit down next to him, so obvious, I felt sick. He noticed me and offered his apple. I ate it though I was not hungry.  I fought the urge to arrange his unkempt hair.  I had the feeling he knew.  Eventually, he told  me he has not worked in three months. I continued to eat the apple, feeling a bit nauseous.  He said his wife does not know.. He borrowed money unbeknownst to her. I felt miserable, like some kind of prying bitch.  I tell him  I have to go, I’m late for...something. He asks me to come back again. I tell him I can’t,  but then agree to meet him the next day, saying I will bring lunch.I dreamt of him that night.  Waking in a cold  sweat,  I swear and get up for water. Back in bed , I close my eyes, masturbate and cry.At noon the next day I saw him across from my office. I threw my lunch in the trash and strolled over to the park.Part IISince our death I haven't been the same. I took the Xanax but still feel crazy.He is at a loss.  Doing all he can to bring me back,  feeling I may dissipate like card ice. I am lifeless as any corpse when he touches me.

Speaking mainly of his interests he lingers at my ear. His eyes  plead for clues to raise me from the dead.  How angry he would be if he knew of the man in the park.  Revealing intimacies I would never share with anyone, without shame. I must be ashamed; my face feels hot when I think of him.Part III

The earth is barren now that winter has settled in, it will not drift on. Spring has shunned the park of sorrow.  The man tugs at his overcoat, it’s rough threads guard his lifeless heart.His sun reflects on hair like autumn and sets on eyes of green. Had he refused her love, another's she would be.He could accept his empty longing if once again she breathed.

Carswell Pinkerton

At twenty two I landed what I felt was the best job any girl could fall into. Working for the power company, I could wear jeans and t- shirts out in the hot Georgia sun and pass out orders to the macho linemen stringing electricity along Fitzgerald. I enjoyed one fellow in particular, Carswell Pinkerton.

Everyone called him CP. I called him glass jaw because be wanted most to box but was knocked cold in the few matches he had fought so far. This morning we talked and I could smell faint liquor on his breath. He swatted my ass as I walked off, which I felt was out of order but I let him get away with it. I went back to my station for water but soon heard the men gathering and a commotion from the direction of the installation area, I ran that way like every one else.

Hanging between the earth and sky was CP, attached by his belt to an electrical wire strung from the pole he had been working on. They brought him down by ladder and laid him on the dirt. As the only woman there, I felt I should hold him and lifted his head onto my lap, nearly gagging from the smell of smoldering flesh. Stripped bare, They covered him with an old tattered flag that was lying in the back of a truck. I